When she had once got to the seat she broke out with suppressed
passion of grief. She did not care to analyze the sources of her
tears and sobs--her father was going to be married again--her father
was angry with her; she had done very wrong--he had gone away
displeased; she had lost his love; he was going to be married--away
from her--away from his child--his little daughter--forgetting her
own dear, dear mother. So she thought in a tumultuous kind of way,
sobbing till she was wearied out, and had to gain strength by being
quiet for a time, to break forth into her passion of tears afresh.
She had cast herself on the ground--that natural throne for violent
sorrow--and leant up against the old moss-grown seat; sometimes
burying her face in her hands; sometimes clasping them together, as
if by the tight painful grasp of her fingers she could deaden mental
suffering.
She did not see Roger Hamley returning from the meadows, nor hear the
click of the little white gate. He had been out dredging in ponds and
ditches, and had his wet sling-net, with its imprisoned treasures of
nastiness, over his shoulder. He was coming home to lunch, having
always a fine midday appetite, though he pretended to despise the
meal in theory. But he knew that his mother liked his companionship
then; she depended much upon her luncheon, and was seldom downstairs
and visible to her family much before the time. So he overcame his
theory, for the sake of his mother, and had his reward in the hearty
relish with which he kept her company in eating.
He did not see Molly as he crossed the terrace-walk on his way
homewards. He had gone about twenty yards along the small wood-path
at right angles to the terrace, when, looking among the grass and
wild plants under the trees, he spied out one which was rare, one
which he had been long wishing to find in flower, and saw it at last,
with those bright keen eyes of his. Down went his net, skilfully
twisted so as to retain its contents, while it lay amid the herbage,
and he himself went with light and well-planted footsteps in search
of the treasure. He was so great a lover of nature that, without any
thought, but habitually, he always avoided treading unnecessarily on
any plant; who knew what long-sought growth or insect might develop
itself in that which now appeared but insignificant?
His steps led him in the direction of the ash-tree seat, much less
screened from observation on this side than on the terrace. He
stopped; he saw a light-coloured dress on the ground--somebody
half-lying on the seat, so still just then, he wondered if the
person, whoever it was, had fallen ill or fainted. He paused to
watch. In a minute or two the sobs broke out again--the words. It was
Miss Gibson crying out in a broken voice,--