"What is it? What is it?" said the Squire, trembling with excitement. "Don't keep it from me. I can bear it. Roger—"
They both thought he was going to faint; he had risen up and come close to Molly; suspense would be worse than anything.
"Mrs. Osborne Hamley is here," said Molly. "I wrote to tell her her husband was very ill, and she has come."
"She does not know what has happened, seemingly," said Robinson.
"I can't see her—I can't see her," said the Squire, shrinking away into a corner. "You will go, Molly, won't you? You'll go."
Molly stood for a moment or two, irresolute. She, too, shrank from the interview. Robinson put in his word: "She looks but a weakly thing, and has carried a big baby, choose how far, I didn't stop to ask."
At this instant the door softly opened, and right into the midst of them came the little figure in grey, looking ready to fall with the weight of her child.
"You are Molly," said she, not seeing the Squire at once. "The lady who wrote the letter; he spoke of you sometimes. You will let me go to him."
Molly did not answer, except that at such moments the eyes speak solemnly and comprehensively. Aimée read their meaning. All she said was,—"He is not—oh, my husband—my husband!" Her arms relaxed, her figure swayed, the child screamed and held out his arms for help. That help was given him by his grandfather, just before Aimée fell senseless on the floor.
"Maman, maman!" cried the little fellow, now striving and fighting to get back to her, where she lay; he fought so lustily that the Squire had to put him down, and he crawled to the poor inanimate body, behind which sat Molly, holding the head; whilst Robinson rushed away for water, wine, and more womankind.