Molly dreaded the squire’s anger when she gave him her father’s message.  She had seen quite enough of the domestic relations of the Hamley family to understand that, underneath his old-fashioned courtesy, and the pleasant hospitality he showed to her as a guest, there was a strong will, and a vehement passionate temper, along with that degree of obstinacy in prejudices (or ‘opinions,’ as he would have called them) so common to those who have, neither in youth nor in manhood, mixed largely with their kind.  She had listened, day after day, to Mrs. Hamley’s plaintive murmurs as to the deep disgrace in which Osborne was being held by his father—­the prohibition of his coming home; and she hardly knew how to begin to tell him that the letter summoning Osborne had already been sent off.

Their dinners were tete-a-tete.  The squire tried to make them pleasant to Molly, feeling deeply grateful to her for the soothing comfort she was to his wife.  He made merry speeches, which sank away into silence, and at which they each forgot to smile.  He ordered up rare wines, which she did not care for, but tasted out of complaisance.  He noticed that one day she had eaten some brown buerre pears as if she liked them; and as his trees had not produced many this year, he gave directions that this particular kind should be sought for through the neighbourhood.  Molly felt that, in many ways, he was full of good-will towards her; but it did not diminish her dread of touching on the one sore point in the family.  However, it had to be done, and that without delay.

The great log was placed on the after-dinner fire, the hearth swept up, the ponderous candles snuffed, and then the door was shut, and Molly and the squire were left to their dessert.  She sate at the side of the table in her old place.  That at the head was vacant; yet as no orders had been given to the contrary, the plate and glasses and napkin were always arranged as regularly and methodically as if Mrs. Hamley would come in as usual.  Indeed, sometimes, when the door by which she used to enter was opened by any chance, Molly caught herself looking round as if she expected to see the tall, languid figure in the elegant draperies of rich silk and soft lace, which Mrs. Hamley was wont to wear of an evening.

This evening, it struck her, as a new thought of pain, that into that room she would come no more.  She had fixed to give her father’s message at this very point of time; but something in her throat choked her, and she hardly knew how to govern her voice.  The squire got up and went to the broad fire-place, to strike into the middle of the great log, and split it up into blazing, sparkling pieces.  His back was towards her.  Molly began, ’When papa was here to-day, he bade me tell you he had written to Mr. Roger Hamley to say that—­that he thought he had better come home; and he enclosed a letter to Mr. Osborne Hamley to say the same thing.’

The squire put down the poker, but he still kept his back to Molly.