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 mid-day 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, that 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 in a broken voice—
“Oh, papa, papa! if you would but come back!”
For a minute or two, he thought it would be kinder to leave her fancying herself unobserved; he had even made a retrograde step or two, on tip-toe; but then he heard the miserable sobbing again. It was farther than his mother could walk; or else, be the sorrow what it would, she was the natural comforter of this girl, her visitor. However, whether it was right or wrong, delicate or obtrusive, when he heard the sad voice talking again, in such tones of uncomforted, lonely misery, he turned back, and went to the green tent under the ash-tree. She started up, when he came thus close to her; she tried to check her sobs, and instinctively smoothed her wet, tangled hair back with her hands.
He looked down upon her with grave, kind sympathy, but he did not know exactly what to say.
“Is it lunch-time?” said she, trying to believe that he did not see the traces of her tears and the disturbance of her features—that he had not seen her lying, sobbing her heart out there.
“I don’t know. I was going home to lunch. But—you must let me say it—I couldn’t go on when I saw your distress. Has anything happened?—anything in which I can help you, I mean; for, of course, I’ve no right to make the inquiry, if it is any private sorrow, in which I can be of no use.”
She had exhausted herself so much with crying, that she felt as if she could neither stand nor walk just yet. She sate down on the seat, and sighed, and turned so pale, that he thought she was going to faint.
“Wait a moment,” said he—quite unnecessarily, for she could not have stirred—and he was off like a shot to some spring of water that he knew of in the wood; and in a minute or two he returned with careful steps, bringing a little in a broad green leaf, turned into an impromptu cup. Little as it was, it did her good.
“Thank you!” she said: “I can walk back now, in a short time. Don’t stop.”
“You must let me,” said he; “my mother wouldn’t like me to leave you to come home alone, while you are so faint.”