Wives and Daughters | Page 9

Their talking aroused

Molly, who sate up on the bed, and tried to push back the hair from her
hot forehead, and to remember where she was. She dropped down on
her feet by the side of the bed, to the astonishment of the women, and
said,--'Please, how soon are we going away?'
'Bless us and save us! who'd ha' thought of any one being in the bed?
Are you one of the Hollingford ladies, my dear? They are all gone this
hour or more!'
'Oh, dear, what shall I do? That lady they call Clare promised to waken
me in time. Papa will so wonder where I am, and I don't know what
Betty will say.'
The child began to cry, and the housemaids looked at each other in
some dismay and much sympathy. Just then, they heard Mrs
Kirkpatrick's step along the passages, approaching. She was singing
some little Italian air in a low musical voice, coming to her bedroom to
dress for dinner. One housemaid said to the other, with a knowing look,
'Best leave it to her;' and they passed on to their work in the other
rooms.
Mrs. Kirkpatrick opened the door, and stood aghast at the sight of
Molly.
'Why, I quite forgot you!' she said at length. 'Nay, don't cry; you'll
make yourself not fit to be seen. Of course I must take the
consequences of your over-sleeping yourself, and if I can't manage to
get you back to Hollingford to-night, you shall sleep with me, and we'll
do our best to send you home to-morrow morning.'
'But papa!' sobbed out Molly. 'He always wants me to make tea for him;
and I have no night-things.'
'Well, don't go and make a piece of work about what can't be helped
now. I'll lend you night-things, and your papa must do without your
making tea for him to-night. And another time don't over-sleep yourself
in a strange house; you may not always find yourself among such
hospitable people as they are here. Why now, if you don't cry and make

a figure of yourself, I'll ask if you may come in to dessert with Master
Smythe and the little ladies. You shall go into the nursery, and have
some tea with them; and then you must come back here and brush your
hair and make yourself tidy. I think it is a very fine thing for you to be
stopping in such a grand house as this; many a little girl would like
nothing better.'
During this speech she was arranging her toilette for dinner--taking off
her black morning gown; putting on her dressing-gown; shaking her
long soft auburn hair over her shoulders, and glancing about the room
in search of various articles of her dress,--a running flow of easy talk
came babbling out all the time.
'I have a little girl of my own, dear! I don't know what she would not
give to be staying here at Lord Cumnor's with me; but, instead of that,
she has to spend her holidays at school; and yet you are looking as
miserable as can be at the thought of stopping for just one night. I
really have been as busy as can be with those tiresome--those good
ladies, I mean, from Hollingford--and one can't think of everything at a
time.'
Molly--only child as she was--had stopped her tears at the mention of
that little girl of Mrs. Kirkpatrick's, and now she ventured to say,--
'Are you married, ma'am; I thought she called you Clare?'
In high good humour Mrs. Kirkpatrick made reply:--'I don't look as if I
was married, do I? Every one is surprised. And yet I have been a
widow for seven months now: and not a grey hair on my head, though
Lady Cuxhaven, who is younger than I, has ever so many.'
'Why do they call you "Clare"?' continued Molly, finding her so affable
and communicative.
'Because I lived with them when I was Miss Clare. It is a pretty name,
isn't it? I married a Mr. Kirkpatrick; he was only a curate, poor fellow;
but he was of a very good family, and if three of his relations had died
without children I should have been a baronet's wife. But Providence

did not see fit to permit it; and we must always resign ourselves to what
is decreed. Two of his cousins married, and had large families; and
poor dear Kirkpatrick died, leaving me a widow.'
'But you have a little girl?' asked Molly.
'Yes; darling Cynthia! I wish you could see her; she is my only comfort
now. If I have time I will show you her picture when we come up to
bed; but I must go now. It does not do to keep Lady Cumnor waiting a
moment, and