'One guess is just as wrong as the other,' said Molly, smiling, and trying to look perfectly indifferent, but going extremely red from annoyance at the mention of Mr Preston's name.It was very difficult for her to keep up any conversation, for her heart was full of Osborne - his changed appearance, his melancholy words of foreboding, and his confidences about his wife - French, Catholic, servant.Molly could not help trying to piece these strange facts together by imaginations of her own, and found it very hard work to attend to kind Miss Phoebe's unceasing patter.She came up to the point, however, when the voice ceased; and could recall, in a mechanical manner, the echo of the last words, which from both Miss Phoebe's look, and the dying accent that lingered in Molly's ear, she perceived to be a question.Miss Phoebe was asking her if she would go out with her? She was going to Grinstead's, the bookseller of Hollingford; who, in addition to his regular business, was the agent for the Hollingford Book Society, received their subscriptions, kept their accounts, ordered their books from London, and, on payment of a small salary, allowed the Society to keep their volumes on shelves in his shop.It was the centre of news and gossip, the club, as it were, of the little town.Everybody who pretended to gentility in the place belonged to it, It was a test of gentility, indeed, rather than of education or a love of literature.No shopkeeper would have thought of offering himself as a member, however great his general intelligence and love of reading; while it boasted upon the list of subscribers most of the county families in the neighbourhood, some of whom subscribed to the Hollingford Book Society as a sort of duty belonging to their station, without often using their privilege of reading the books: while there were residents in the little town, such as Mrs Goodenough, who privately thought reading a great waste of time, that might be much better employed in sewing, and knitting, and pastry-making, but who nevertheless belonged to it as a mark of station, just as these good, motherly women would have thought it a terrible come-down in the world if they had not had a pretty young servant-maid to fetch them home from the tea-parties at night.At any rate, Grinstead's was a very convenient place for a lounge.In that view of the Book Society every one agreed.Molly went upstairs to get ready to accompany Miss Phoebe; and on opening one of her drawers she saw Cynthia's envelope, containing the notes she owed to Mr Preston, carefully sealed up like a letter.This was what Molly had so unwillingly promised to deliver - the last final stroke to the affair.Molly took it up, hating it.For a time she had forgotten it; and now it was here, facing her, and she must try and get rid of it.She put it into her pocket for the chances of the walk and the day, and fortune for once seemed to befriend her; for, on their entering Grinstead's shop, in which two or three people were now, as always, congregated, making play of examining the books, or business of writing down the titles of new works in the order-book, there was Mr Preston.He bowed as they came in.He could not help that; but, at the sight of Molly, he looked as ill-tempered and out of humour as a man well could do.She was connected in his mind with defeat and mortification; and besides, the sight of her called up what he desired now above all things to forget;namely, the deep conviction received through Molly's simple earnestness, of Cynthia's dislike to him, If Miss Phoebe had seen the scowl upon his handsome face, she might have undeceived her sister in her suppositions about him and Molly.But Miss Phoebe, who did not consider it quite maidenly to go and stand close to Mr Preston, and survey the shelves of books in such close proximity to a gentleman, found herself an errand at the other end of the shop, and occupied herself in buying writing-paper.Molly fingered her valuable letter, as it lay in her pocket; did she dare to cross over to Mr Preston, and give it to him, or not? While she was still undecided, shrinking always just at the moment when she thought she had got her courage up for action, Miss Phoebe, having finished her purchase, turned round, and after looking a little pathetically at Mr Preston's back, said to Molly in a whisper, - 'I think we'll go to Johnson's now, and come back for the books in a little while.' So across the street to Johnson's they went;but no sooner had they entered the draper's shop, than Molly's conscience smote her for her cowardice, and loss of a good opportunity.'I'll be back directly,' said she, as soon as Miss Phoebe was engaged with her purchases;and Molly ran across to Grinstead's, without looking either to the right or the left; she had been watching the door, and she knew that no Mr Preston had issued forth.She ran in; he was at the counter now, talking to Grinstead himself, Molly put the letter into his hand, to his surprise, and almost against his will, and turned round to go back to Miss Phoebe.At the door of the shop stood Mrs Goodenough, arrested in the act of entering, staring, with her round eyes, made still rounder and more owl-like by spectacles, to see Molly Gibson giving Mr Preston a letter, which he, conscious of being watched, and favouring underhand practices habitually, put quickly into his pocket, unopened.Perhaps, if he had had time for reflection he would not have scrupled to put Molly to open shame, by rejecting what she so eagerly forced upon him.
