’You should have an opening fast enough.  There’ll be more money coming in, in a year or two, please God.  And as for your health, why, what’s to make you well, if you cower over the fire all day, and shudder away from a good honest tankard as if it were poison?’

‘So it is to me,’ said Osborne, languidly, playing with his book as if he wanted to end the conversation and take it up again.  The squire saw the movements, and understood them.

‘Well,’ said he, ’I’ll go and have a talk with Will about poor old Black Bess.  It’s Sunday work enough, asking after a dumb animal’s aches and pains.’

But after his father had left the room Osborne did not take up his book again.  He laid it down on the table by him, leant back in his chair, and covered his eyes with his hand.  He was in a state of health which made him despondent about many things, though, least of all, about what was most in danger.  The long concealment of his marriage from his father made the disclosure of it far far more difficult than it would have been at first.  Unsupported by Roger, how could he explain it all to one so passionate as the squire? how tell of the temptation, the stolen marriage, the consequent happiness, and alas! the consequent suffering?—­for Osborne had suffered, and did suffer, greatly in the untoward circumstances in which he had placed himself.  He saw no way out of it all, excepting by the one strong stroke of which he felt himself incapable.  So with a heavy heart he addressed himself to his book again.  Everything seemed to come in his way, and he was not strong enough in character to overcome obstacles.  The only overt step he took in consequence of what he had heard from his father, was to ride over to Hollingford the first fine day after he had received the news, and go to see Cynthia and the Gibsons.  He had not been there for a long time; bad weather and languor combined had prevented him.  He found them full of preparations and discussions about Cynthia’s visit to London; and she herself not at all in the sentimental mood proper to respond to his delicate intimations of how glad he was in his brother’s joy.  Indeed, it was so long after the time, that Cynthia scarcely perceived that to him the intelligence was recent, and that the first bloom of his emotions had not yet passed away.  With her head a little on one side, she was contemplating the effect of a knot of ribbons, when he began, in a low whisper, and leaning forward towards her as he spoke,—­ ’Cynthia—­I may call you Cynthia now, mayn’t I?—­I am so glad of this news; I’ve only just heard of it, but I’m so glad!’

‘What news do you mean?’ She had her suspicions; but she was annoyed to think that from one person her secret was passing to another, and another, till, in fact, it was becoming no secret at all.  Still, Cynthia could always conceal her annoyance when she chose.  ’Why are you to begin calling me Cynthia now?’ she went on, smiling.  ’The terrible word has slipped out from between your lips before, do you know?’