‘And what did you say?’ asked Molly, breathless.
‘I did not answer it at all until another letter came, entreating for a reply. By that time mamma had come home, and the old daily pressure and plaint of poverty had come on. Mary Donaldson wrote to me often, singing the praises of Mr. Preston as enthusiastically as if she had been bribed to do it. I had seen him a very popular man in their set, and I liked him well enough, and felt grateful to him. So I wrote and gave him my promise to marry him when I was twenty, but it was to be a secret till then. And I tried to forget I had ever borrowed money of him, but somehow as soon as I felt pledged to him I began to hate him. I couldn’t endure his eagerness of greeting if ever he found me alone; and mamma began to suspect, I think. I cannot tell you all the ins and outs; in fact, I didn’t understand them at the time, and I don’t remember clearly how it all happened now. But I know that Lady Cuxhaven sent mamma some money to be applied to my education, as she called it; and mamma seemed very much put out and in very low spirits, and she and I didn’t get on at all together. So, of course, I never ventured to name the hateful twenty pounds to her, but went on trying to think that if I was to marry Mr. Preston, it need never be paid—very mean and wicked, I dare say; but oh, Molly, I’ve been punished for it, for now I abhor that man.’
‘But why? When did you begin to dislike him? You seem to have taken it very passively all this time.’
‘I don’t know. It was growing upon me before I went to that school at Boulogne. He made me feel as if I was in his power; and by too often reminding me of my engagement to him, he made me critical of his words and ways. There was an insolence in his manner to mamma, too. Ah! you’re thinking that I’m not too respectful a daughter—and perhaps not; but I couldn’t bear his covert sneers at her faults, and I hated his way of showing what he called his “love” for me. Then, after I had been a semestredn at Mdme. Lefebre’s, a new English girl came—a cousin of his, who knew but little of me. Now, Molly, you must forget as soon as I’ve told you what I’m going to say; and she used to talk so much and perpetually about her cousin Robert—he was the great man of the family, evidently—and how he was so handsome, and every lady of the land in love with him,—a lady of title into the bargain——’
‘Lady Harriet! I dare say,’ said Molly, indignantly.
‘I don’t know,’ said Cynthia, wearily. ‘I didn’t care at the time, and I don’t care now; for she went on to say there was a very pretty widow too, who made desperate love to him. He had often laughed with them at all her little advances, which she thought he didn’t see through. And, oh! and this was the man I had promised to marry, and gone into debt to, and, written love-letters to! So now you understand it all, Molly!’
‘No, I don’t yet. What did you do on hearing how he had spoken about your mother?’
‘There was but one thing to do. I wrote and told him I hated him, and would never, never marry him, and would pay him back his money and the interest on it as soon as ever I could.’
‘Well?’
‘And Mdme. Lefebre brought me back my letter, unopened, I will say; and told me that she didn’t allow letters to gentlemen to be sent by the pupils of her establishment unless she had previously seen their contents. I told her he was a family friend, the agent who managed mamma’s affairs—I really could not stick at the truth; but she wouldn’t let it go; and I had to see her burn it, and to give her my promise I wouldn’t write again, before she would consent not to tell mamma. So I had to calm down and wait till I came home.’
‘But you didn’t see him then; at least, not for some time?’
‘No, but I could write; and I began to try and save up my money to pay him.’
‘What did he say to your letter?’
‘Oh, at first he pretended not to believe I could be in earnest; he thought it was only pique, or a temporary offence to be apologized for and covered over with passionate protestations.’
‘And afterwards?’
‘He condescended to threats; and, what is worse, then I turned coward. I couldn’t bear to have it all known and talked about, and my silly letters shown—oh, such letters! I cannot bear to think of them, beginning, “My dearest Robert,” to that man—’
‘But, oh, Cynthia, how could you go and engage yourself to Roger?’ asked Molly.
‘Why not?’ said Cynthia, sharply turning round upon her. ‘I was free—I am free; it seemed a way of assuring myself that I was quite free; and I did like Roger—it was such a comfort to be brought into contact with people who could be relied upon; and I was not a stock or a stone that I could fail to be touched with his tender, unselfish love, so different to Mr. Preston’s. I know you don’t think me good enough for him; and, of course, if all this comes out, he won’t think me good enough either’ (falling into a plaintive tone very touching to hear); ‘and sometimes I think I’ll give him up, and go off to some fresh life amongst strangers; and once or twice I’ve thought I would marry Mr. Preston out of pure revenge, and have him for ever in my power—only I think I should have the worst of it; for he is cruel in his very soul—tigerish, with his beautiful striped skin and relentless heart. I have so begged and begged him to let me go without exposure.’
‘Never mind the exposure,’ said Molly. ‘It will recoil far more on him than harm you.’
Cynthia went a little paler. ‘But I said things in those letters about mamma. I was quick-eyed enough to all her faults, and hardly understood the force of her temptations; and he says he will show those letters to your father, unless I consent to acknowledge our engagement.’
‘He shall not!’ said Molly, rising up in her indignation, and standing before Cynthia almost as resolutely fierce as if she were in the very presence of Mr. Preston himself ‘I am not afraid of him. He dare not insult me, or if he does I do not care. I will ask him for those letters, and see if he will dare to refuse me.’
‘You don’t know him,’ said Cynthia, shaking her head. ‘He has made many an appointment with me, just as if he would take back the money—which has been sealed up ready for him this four months; or as if he would give me back my letters. Poor, poor Roger! How little he thinks of all this. When I want to write words of love to him I pull myself up, for I have written words as affectionate to that other man. And if Mr. Preston ever guessed that Roger and I were engaged, he would manage to be revenged on both him and me, by giving us as much pain as he could with those unlucky letters—written when I was not sixteen, Molly,—only seven of them! They are like a mine under my feet, which may blow up any day; and down will come father and mother and all.’ She ended bitterly enough, though her words were so light.
‘How can I get them?’ said Molly, thinking: ‘for get them I will. With papa to back me, he dare not refuse.’
‘Ah! But that’s just the thing. He knows I’m afraid of your father’s hearing of it all, more than of any one else.’
‘And yet he thinks he loves you!’
‘It is his way of loving. He says often enough, he doesn’t care what he does so he gets me to be his wife; and that after that he is sure he can make me love him.’ Cynthia began to cry, out of weariness of body and despair of mind. Molly’s arms were round her in a minute, and she pressed the beautiful head to her bosom, and laid her own cheek upon it, and hushed her up with lulling words, just as if she were a little child.
‘Oh, it is such a comfort to have told you all!’ murmured Cynthia. And Molly made reply,—‘I am sure we have right on our side; and that makes me certain he must and shall give up the letters.’
‘And take the money?’ added Cynthia, lifting her head, and looking eagerly into Molly’s face. ‘He must take the money. Oh, Molly, you can never manage it all without its coming out to your father! And I would far rather go out to Russia as a governess. I almost think I would rather—no, not that,’ said she, shuddering away from what she was going to say. ‘But he must not know—please, Molly, he must not know. I couldn’t bear it. I don’t know what I might not do. You’ll
promise me never to tell him—or mamma?’
‘I never will. You do not think I would for anything short of saving—’ She was going to have said, ‘saving you and Roger from pain.’ But Cynthia broke in—
‘For nothing. No reason whatever must make you tell your father. If you fail, you fail, and I will love you for ever for trying; but I shall be no worse than before. Better, indeed; for I shall have the comfort of your sympathy. But promise me not to tell Mr. Gibson.’
‘I have promised once,’ said Molly, ‘but I promise again; so now do go to bed, and try and rest. You are looking as white as a sheet; you’ll be ill if you don’t get some rest; and it’s past two o’clock, and you’re shivering with cold.’
So they wished each other good-night. But when Molly got into her room all her spirit left her; and she threw herself down on her bed, dressed as she was, for she had no heart left for anything. If Roger ever heard of it all by any chance, she felt how it would disturb his love for Cynthia. And yet was it right to conceal it from him? She must try and persuade Cynthia to tell it all straight out to him as soon as he returned to England. A full confession on her part would wonderfully lessen any pain he might have on first hearing of it. She lost herself in thoughts of Roger—how he would feel, what he would say, how that meeting would come to pass, where he was at that very time, and so on, till she suddenly plucked herself up, and recollected what she herself had offered and promised to do. Now that the first furor was over, she saw the difficulties clearly; and the foremost of all was how she was to manage to have an interview with Mr. Preston. How had Cynthia managed? and the letters that had passed between them too? Unwillingly, Molly was compelled to perceive that there must have been a good deal of underhand work going on beneath Cynthia’s apparent openness of behaviour; and still more unwillingly she began to be afraid that she herself might be led into the practice. But she would try and walk in a straight path; and if she did wander out of it, it should only be to save pain to those whom she loved.
CHAPTER 44
Molly Gibson to the Rescue
It seemed strange enough, after the storms of the night, to meet in smooth tranquillity at breakfast. Cynthia was pale; but she talked as quietly as usual about all manner of different things, while Molly sat silent, watching and wondering, and becoming convinced that Cynthia must have gone through a long experience of concealing her real thoughts and secret troubles before she could have been able to put on such a semblance of composure. Among the letters that came in that morning was one from the London Kirkpatricks; but not from Helen, Cynthia’s own particular correspondent. Her sister wrote to apologize for Helen, who was not well, she said: had had the influenza, which had left her very weak and poorly.
‘Let her come down here for change of air,’ said Mr. Gibson. ‘The country at this time of the year is better than London, except when the place is surrounded by trees. Now our house is well drained, high up, gravel soil, and I’ll undertake to doctor her for nothing.’
‘It would be charming,’ said Mrs. Gibson, rapidly revolving in her mind the changes necessary in her household economy before receiving a young lady accustomed to such a household as Mr. Kirkpatrick’s —calculating the consequent inconveniences, and weighing them against the probable advantages, even while she spoke.
‘Should not you like it, Cynthia? and Molly too? You, too, dear, would become acquainted with one of the girls, and I have no doubt you would be asked back again, which would be so very nice!’
‘And I should not let her go,’ said Mr. Gibson, who had acquired an unfortunate facility of reading his wife’s thoughts.
‘Dear Helen!’ went on Mrs. Gibson, ‘I should so like to nurse her! We would make your consulting-room into her own private sitting-room, my dear.’—(It is hardly necessary to say that the scales had been weighed down by the inconveniences of having a person behind the scenes for several weeks.)—‘For with an invalid so much depends on tranquillity. In the drawing-room, for instance, she might constantly be disturbed by callers; and the dining-room is so—so what shall I call it? so dinnery—the smell of meat never seems to leave it; it would have been different if dear papa had allowed me to throw out that window—’
‘Why can’t she have the dressing-room for her bedroom, and the little room opening out of the drawing-room for her sitting-room?’ asked Mr. Gibson.
‘The library,’ for by this name Mrs. Gibson chose to dignify what had formerly been called the book-closet—‘why, it would hardly hold a sofa, besides the books and the writing-table; and there are draughts everywhere. No, my dear, we had better not ask her at all; her own home is comfortable at any rate!’
‘Well, well!’ said Mr. Gibson, seeing that he was to be worsted, and not caring enough about the matter to show fight. ‘Perhaps you’re right. It’s a case of luxury versus fresh air. Some people suffer more from the want of one than from want of the other. You know I shall be glad to see her if she likes to come, and take us as we are, but I can’t give up the consulting-room. It’s a necessity and daily bread!’
‘I’ll write and tell them how kind Mr. Gibson is,’ said his wife in high contentment, as her husband left the room. ‘They’ll be just as much obliged to him as if she had come!’
Whether it was from Helen’s illness or some other cause, after breakfast Cynthia became very flat and absent, and this lasted all day long. Molly understood now why her moods had been so changeable for many months, and was tender and forbearing with her accordingly. Towards evening, when the two girls were left alone, Cynthia came and stood over Molly, so that her face could not be seen.
‘Molly,’ said she, ‘will you do it? Will you do what you said last night? I’ve been thinking of it all day, and sometimes I believe he would give you back the letters if you asked him; he might fancy—at any rate it’s worth trying, if you don’t very much dislike it.’
Now it so happened that, with every thought she had given to it, Molly disliked the idea of the proposed interview with Mr. Preston more and more; but it was, after all, her own offer, and she neither could nor would draw back from it; it might do good; she did not see how it could possibly do harm. So she gave her consent; and tried to conceal her distaste, which grew upon her more and more as Cynthia hastily arranged the details.
‘You shall meet him in the avenue leading from the park lodge up to the Towers. He can come in one way from the Towers, where he has often business—he has pass-keys everywhere—you can go in as we have often done by the lodge—you need not go far.’
It did strike Molly that Cynthia must have had some experience in making all these arrangements; and she ventured to ask how he was to be informed of all this. Cynthia only reddened and replied, ‘Oh! never mind! He will only be too glad to come; you heard him say he wished to discuss the affair more; it is the first time the appointment has come from my side. If I can but once be free—oh, Molly, I will love you, and be grateful to you all my life!’
Molly thought of Roger, and that thought prompted her next speech.
‘It must be horrible—I think I’m very brave—but I don’t think I could have—could have accepted even Roger, with a half-cancelled engagement hanging over me.’ She blushed as she spoke.
‘You forget how I detest Mr. Preston!’ said Cynthia. ‘It was that, more than any excess of love for Roger, that made me thankful to be at least as securely pledged to some one else. He did not want to call it an engagement, but I did; because it gave me the feeling of assurance that I was free from Mr. Preston. And so I am! all but these letters. Oh! if you can but make him take back his abominable money, and get me my letters! Then we would bury it all in oblivion, and he could marry somebody else, and I would marry Roger, and no one would be the wiser. After all, it was only what people call “youthful folly.” And you may tell Mr. Preston that as soon as he makes my letters public, shows them to your father or anything, I’ll go away from Hollingford, and never come back.’
Loaded with many such messages, which she felt
that she would never deliver, not really knowing what she should say, hating the errand, not satisfied with Cynthia’s manner of speaking about her relations to Roger, oppressed with shame and complicity in conduct which appeared to her deceitful, yet willing to bear all and brave all, if she could once set Cynthia in a straight path—in a clear space, and almost more pitiful to her friend’s great distress and possible disgrace, than able to give her that love which involves perfect sympathy, Molly set out on her walk towards the appointed place. It was a cloudy, blustering day, and the noise of the blowing wind among the nearly leafless branches of the great trees filled her ears, as she passed through the park-gates and entered the avenue. She walked quickly, instinctively wishing to get her blood up, and have no time for thought. But there was a bend in the avenue about a quarter of a mile from the lodge; after that bend it was a straight line up to the great house, now emptied of its inhabitants. Molly did not like going quite out of sight of the lodge, and she stood facing it, close by the trunk of one of the trees. Presently she heard a step coming on the grass. It was Mr. Preston. He saw a woman’s figure, half-behind the trunk of a tree, and made no doubt that it was Cynthia. But when he came nearer, almost close, the figure turned round, and, instead of the brilliantly coloured face of Cynthia, he met the pale resolved look of Molly. She did not speak to greet him; but though he felt sure from the general aspect of pallor and timidity that she was afraid of him, her steady grey eyes met his with courageous innocence.
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