"She's not like a Frenchwoman, is she, Molly?"
"I don't know. I don't know what Frenchwomen are like. People say
Cynthia is French."
"And she didn't look like a servant? We won't speak of Cynthia since
she's served my Roger so. Why, I began to think, as soon as I could
think after _that_, how I would make Roger and her happy, and have
them married at once; and then came that letter! I never wanted her
for a daughter-in-law, not I. But he did, it seems; and he wasn't one
for wanting many things for himself. But it's all over now; only we
won't talk of her; and maybe, as you say, she was more French than
English. This poor thing looks like a gentlewoman, I think. I hope
she's got friends who'll take care of her,--she can't be above
twenty. I thought she must be older than my poor lad!"
"She's a gentle, pretty creature," said Molly. "But--but I sometimes
think it has killed her; she lies like one dead." And Molly could not
keep from crying softly at the thought.
"Nay, nay!" said the Squire. "It's not so easy to break one's heart.
Sometimes I've wished it were. But one has to go on living--'all
the appointed days,' as it says in the Bible. But we'll do our best
for her. We'll not think of letting her go away till she's fit to
travel."
Molly wondered in her heart about this going away, on which the
Squire seemed fully resolved. She was sure that he intended to keep
the child; perhaps he had a legal right to do so;--but would the
mother ever part from it? Her father, however, would solve the
difficulty,--her father, whom she always looked to as so clear-seeing
and experienced. She watched and waited for his coming. The February
evening drew on; the child lay asleep in the Squire's arms till his
grandfather grew tired, and laid him down on the sofa: the large
square-cornered yellow sofa upon which Mrs. Hamley used to sit,
supported by pillows in a half-reclining position. Since her time it
had been placed against the wall, and had served merely as a piece
of furniture to fill up the room. But once again a human figure was
lying upon it; a little human creature, like a cherub in some old
Italian picture. The Squire remembered his wife as he put the child
down. He thought of her as he said to Molly,--
"How pleased she would have been!" But Molly thought of the poor
young widow upstairs. Aimée was her "she" at the first moment.
Presently,--but it seemed a long long time first,--she heard the
quick prompt sounds which told of her father's arrival. In he
came--to the room as yet only lighted by the fitful blaze of the
fire.