"I think I've grown careless; I've often felt so weary and ill that it was all I could do to keep up a brave face before my father."
"Why did you not come and see papa?" said Molly; "or write to him?"
"I cannot tell. I drifted on, sometimes better, and sometimes worse, till to-day I mustered up pluck, and came to hear what your father has got to tell me: and all for no use it seems."
"I am very sorry. But it is only for two days. He shall go and see you as soon as ever he returns."
"He must not alarm my father, remember, Molly," said Osborne, lifting himself by the arms of his chair into an upright position and speaking eagerly for the moment. "I wish to God Roger was at home!" said he, falling back into the old posture.
"I can't help understanding you," said Molly. "You think yourself very ill; but isn't it that you are tired just now?" She was not sure if she ought to have understood what was passing in his mind; but as she did, she could not help speaking a true reply.
"Well, sometimes I do think I'm very ill; and then, again, I think it's only the moping life sets me fancying and exaggerating." He was silent for some time. Then, as if he had taken a sudden resolution, he spoke again. "You see, there are others depending upon me—upon my health. You haven't forgotten what you heard that day in the library at home? No, I know you haven't. I have seen the thought of it in your eyes often since then. I didn't know you at that time. I think I do now."
"Don't go on talking so fast," said Molly. "Rest. No one will interrupt us; I will go on with my sewing; when you want to say anything more I shall be listening." For she was alarmed at the strange pallor that had come over his face.
"Thank you." After a time he roused himself, and began to speak very quietly, as if on an indifferent matter of fact.
"The name of my wife is Aimée. Aimée Hamley, of course. She lives at Bishopsfield, a village near Winchester. Write it down, but keep it to yourself. She is a Frenchwoman, a Roman Catholic, and was a servant. She is a thoroughly good woman. I must not say how dear she is to me. I dare not. I meant once to have told Cynthia, but she didn't seem quite to consider me as a brother. Perhaps she was shy of a new relation; but you'll give my love to her, all the same. It is a relief to think that some one else has my secret; and you are like one of us, Molly. I can trust you almost as I can trust Roger. I feel better already, now I feel that some one else knows the whereabouts of my wife and child."