"Get out of my way" (kissing her all the same). "If I'm not angry
with you, I ought to be; for you've caused a great deal of worry,
which won't be over yet awhile, I can tell you."
For all Molly's bravery at the time of this conversation, it was she
that suffered more than her father. He kept out of the way of hearing
gossip; but she was perpetually thrown into the small society of the
place. Mrs. Gibson herself had caught cold, and moreover was not
tempted by the quiet old-fashioned visiting which was going on just
about this time, provoked by the visit of two of Mrs. Dawes' pretty
unrefined nieces, who laughed, and chattered, and ate, and would fain
have flirted with Mr. Ashton, the vicar, could he have been brought
by any possibility to understand his share in the business. Mr.
Preston did not accept the invitations to Hollingford tea-drinkings
with the same eager gratitude as he had done a year before: or else
the shadow which hung over Molly would have extended to him, her
co-partner in the clandestine meetings which gave such umbrage to
the feminine virtue of the town. Molly herself was invited, because
it would not do to pass any apparent slight on either Mr. or Mrs.
Gibson; but there was a tacit and underhand protest against her being
received on the old terms. Every one was civil to her, but no one was
cordial; there was a very perceptible film of difference in their
behaviour to her from what it was formerly; nothing that had outlines
and could be defined. But Molly, for all her clear conscience and her
brave heart, felt acutely that she was only tolerated, not welcomed.
She caught the buzzing whispers of the two Miss Oakes's, who, when
they first met the heroine of the prevailing scandal, looked at her
askance, and criticised her pretensions to good looks, with hardly
an attempt at under-tones. Molly tried to be thankful that her
father was not in the mood for visiting. She was even glad that her
stepmother was too much of an invalid to come out, when she felt thus
slighted, and as it were, degraded from her place. Miss Browning
herself, that true old friend, spoke to her with chilling dignity,
and much reserve; for she had never heard a word from Mr. Gibson
since the evening when she had put herself to so much pain to tell
him of the disagreeable rumours affecting his daughter.
Only Miss Phoebe would seek out Molly with even more than her
former tenderness; and this tried Molly's calmness more than all
the slights put together. The soft hand, pressing hers under the
table,--the continual appeals to her, so as to bring her back into
the conversation, touched Molly almost to shedding tears. Sometimes
the poor girl wondered to herself whether this change in the
behaviour of her acquaintances was not a mere fancy of hers; whether,
if she had never had that conversation with her father, in which she
had borne herself so bravely at the time, she should have discovered
the difference in their treatment of her. She never told her father
how she felt these perpetual small slights: she had chosen to bear
the burden of her own free will; nay, more, she had insisted on
being allowed to do so; and it was not for her to grieve him now by
showing that she shrank from the consequences of her own act. So she
never even made an excuse for not going into the small gaieties, or
mingling with the society of Hollingford. Only she suddenly let go
the stretch of restraint she was living in, when one evening her
father told her that he was really anxious about Mrs. Gibson's cough,
and should like Molly to give up a party at Mrs. Goodenough's, to
which they were all three invited, but to which Molly alone was
going. Molly's heart leaped up at the thought of stopping at home,
even though the next moment she had to blame herself for rejoicing at
a reprieve that was purchased by another's suffering. However, the
remedies prescribed by her husband did Mrs. Gibson good; and she was
particularly grateful and caressing to Molly.