So Molly and the woman lifted her up and carried her away, and laid
her on the bed, in the best bed-chamber in the house, and darkened
the already shaded light. She was like an unconscious corpse herself,
in that she offered neither assistance nor resistance to all that
they were doing. But just before Molly was leaving the room to take
up her watch outside the door, she felt rather than heard that Aimée
spoke to her.
"Food--bread and milk for baby." But when they brought her food
herself, she only shrank away and turned her face to the wall without
a word. In the hurry, the child had been left with Robinson and
the Squire. For some unknown, but most fortunate reason, he took a
dislike to Robinson's red face and hoarse voice, and showed a most
decided preference for his grandfather. When Molly came down she
found the Squire feeding the child, with more of peace upon his face
than there had been for all these days. The boy was every now and
then leaving off taking his bread and milk to show his dislike to
Robinson by word and gesture: a proceeding which only amused the old
servant, while it highly delighted the more favoured Squire.
"She is lying very still, but she will neither speak nor eat. I don't
even think she is crying," said Molly, volunteering this account, for
the Squire was for the moment too much absorbed in his grandson to
ask many questions.
Robinson put in his word: "Dick Hayward, he's Boots at the Hamley
Arms, says the coach she come by started at five this morning from
London, and the passengers said she'd been crying a deal on the road,
when she thought folks were not noticing; and she never came in to
meals with the rest, but stopped feeding her child."
"She'll be tired out; we must let her rest," said the Squire. "And I
do believe this little chap is going to sleep in my arms. God bless
him."
But Molly stole out, and sent off a lad to Hollingford with a note to
her father. Her heart had warmed towards the poor stranger, and she
felt uncertain as to what ought to be the course pursued in her case.
She went up from time to time to look at the girl, scarce older than
herself, who lay there with her eyes open, but as motionless as
death. She softly covered her over, and let her feel the sympathetic
presence from time to time; and that was all she was allowed to do.
The Squire was curiously absorbed in the child, but Molly's supreme
tenderness was for the mother. Not but what she admired the sturdy,
gallant, healthy little fellow, whose every limb, and square inch of
clothing, showed the tender and thrifty care that had been taken of
him. By-and-by the Squire said in a whisper,--