CHAPTER XLII.
THE STORM BURSTS.
The autumn drifted away through all its seasons. The goldencorn-harvest, the walks through the stubble-fields, and rambles intohazel-copses in search of nuts; the stripping of the apple-orchardsof their ruddy fruit, amid the joyous cries and shouts of watchingchildren; and the gorgeous tulip-like colouring of the later time hadnow come on with the shortening days. There was comparative silencein the land, excepting for the distant shots, and the whirr of thepartridges as they rose up from the field.
Ever since Miss Browning's unlucky conversation, things had beenajar in the Gibsons' house. Cynthia seemed to keep every one out at(mental) arms'-length; and particularly avoided any private talkswith Molly. Mrs. Gibson, still cherishing a grudge against MissBrowning for her implied accusation of not looking enough afterMolly, chose to exercise a most wearying supervision over the poorgirl. It was, "Where have you been, child?" "Who did you see?" "Whowas that letter from?" "Why were you so long out when you had onlyto go to so-and-so?" just as if Molly had really been detected incarrying on some underhand intercourse. She answered every questionasked of her with the simple truthfulness of perfect innocence;but the inquiries (although she read their motive, and knew thatthey arose from no especial suspicion of her conduct, but only thatMrs. Gibson might be able to say that she looked well after herstepdaughter) chafed her inexpressibly. Very often she did not go outat all, sooner than have to give a plan of her intended proceedings,when perhaps she had no plan at all,--only thought of wandering outat her own sweet will, and of taking pleasure in the bright solemnfading of the year. It was a very heavy time for Molly,--zest andlife had fled, and left so many of the old delights mere shells ofseeming. She thought it was that her youth had fled; at nineteen!Cynthia was no longer the same, somehow: and perhaps Cynthia's changewould injure her in the distant Roger's opinion. Her stepmotherseemed almost kind in comparison with Cynthia's withdrawal of herheart; Mrs. Gibson worried her, to be sure, with all these forms ofwatching over her; but in all her other ways, she, at any rate, wasthe same. Yet Cynthia herself seemed anxious and care-worn, thoughshe would not speak of her anxieties to Molly. And then the poor girlin her goodness would blame herself for feeling Cynthia's change ofmanner; for as Molly said to herself, "If it is hard work for me tohelp always fretting after Roger, and wondering where he is, and howhe is, what must it be for her?"
One day Mr. Gibson came in, bright and swift.
"Molly," said he, "where's Cynthia?"
"Gone out to do some errands--"
"Well, it's a pity--but never mind. Put on your bonnet and cloak asfast as you can. I've had to borrow old Simpson's dog-cart,--therewould have been room both for you and Cynthia; but as it is, you mustwalk back alone. I'll drive you as far on the Barford Road as I can,and then you must jump down. I can't take you on to Broadhurst's, Imay be kept there for hours."
Mrs. Gibson was out of the room; out of the house it might be, forall Molly cared, now she had her father's leave and command. Herbonnet and cloak were on in two minutes, and she was sitting by herfather's side, the back seat shut up, and the light weight goingswiftly and merrily bumping over the stone-paved lanes.
"Oh, this is charming!" said Molly, after a toss-up on her seat froma tremendous bump.
"For youth, but not for crabbed age," said Mr. Gibson. "My bones aregetting rheumatic, and would rather go smoothly over macadamizedstreets."
"That's treason to this lovely view and this fine pure air, papa.Only I don't believe you."
"Thank you. As you are so complimentary, I think I shall put you downat the foot of this hill; we've passed the second mile-stone fromHollingford."
"Oh, let me just go up to the top! I know we can see the blue rangeof the Malverns from it, and Dorrimer Hall among the woods; the horsewill want a minute's rest, and then I will get down without a word."
So she went up to the top of the hill; and there they sate still aminute or two, enjoying the view, without much speaking. The woodswere golden; the old house of purple-red brick, with its twistedchimneys, rose up from among them facing on to green lawns, and aplacid lake; beyond again were the Malvern Hills.
"Now jump down, lassie, and make the best of your way home before itgets dark. You'll find the cut over Croston Heath shorter than theroad we've come by."
To get to Croston Heath, Molly had to go down a narrow laneovershadowed by trees, with picturesque old cottages dotted here andthere on the steep sandy banks; and then there came a small wood,and then there was a brook to be crossed on a plank-bridge, and upthe steeper fields on the opposite side were cut steps in the turfypath; these ended, she was on Croston Heath, a wide-stretchingcommon skirted by labourers' dwellings, past which a near road toHollingford lay.
The loneliest part of the road was the first--the lane, the wood,the little bridge, and the clambering through the upland fields. ButMolly cared little for loneliness. She went along the lane under theover-arching elm-branches, from which, here and there, a yellow leafcame floating down upon her very dress; past the last cottage wherea little child had tumbled down the sloping bank, and was publishingthe accident with frightened cries. Molly stooped to pick it up, andtaking it in her arms in a manner which caused intense surprise totake the place of alarm in its little breast, she carried it up therough flag steps towards the cottage which she supposed to be itshome. The mother came running in from the garden behind the house,still holding the late damsons she had been gathering in her apronbut, on seeing her, the little creature held out its arms to go toher, and she dropped her damsons all about as she took it, and beganto soothe it as it cried afresh, interspersing her lulling withthanks to Molly. She called her by her name; and on Molly asking thewoman how she came to know it, she replied that before her marriageshe had been a servant of Mrs. Goodenough, and so was "bound toknow Dr. Gibson's daughter by sight." After the exchange of two orthree more words, Molly ran down into the lane, and pursued her way,stopping here and there to gather a nosegay of such leaves as struckher for their brilliant colouring. She entered the wood. As sheturned a corner in the lonely path, she heard a passionate voice ofdistress; and in an instant she recognized Cynthia's tones. She stoodstill and looked around. There were some thick holly-bushes shiningout dark green in the midst of the amber and scarlet foliage. Ifany one was there, it must be behind these thick bushes. So Mollyleft the path, and went straight, plunging through the brown tangledgrowth of ferns and underwood, and turned the holly bushes. Therestood Mr. Preston and Cynthia; he holding her hands tight, eachlooking as if just silenced in some vehement talk by the rustle ofMolly's footsteps.
THERE STOOD MR. PRESTON AND CYNTHIA.]
For an instant no one spoke. Then Cynthia said,--
"Oh, Molly, Molly, come and judge between us!"
Mr. Preston let go Cynthia's hands slowly, with a look that was moreof a sneer than a smile; and yet he, too, had been strongly agitated,whatever was the subject in dispute. Molly came forward and tookCynthia's arm, her eyes steadily fixed on Mr. Preston's face. It wasfine to see the fearlessness of her perfect innocence. He could notbear her look, and said to Cynthia,--
"The subject of our conversation does not well admit of a thirdperson's presence. As Miss Gibson seems to wish for your company now,I must beg you to fix some other time and place where we can finishour discussion."
"I will go if Cynthia wishes me," said Molly.
"No, no; stay--I want you to stay--I want you to hear it all--I wishI had told you sooner."
"You mean that you regret that she has not been made aware of ourengagement--that you promised long ago to be my wife. Pray rememberthat it was you who made me promise secrecy, not I you!"
"I don't believe him, Cynthia. Don't, don't cry if you can help it;I don't believe him."
"Cynthia," said he, suddenly changing his tone to fervid tenderness,"pray, pray do not go on so; you can't think how it distresses me!"He stepped forward to try and take her hand and soothe her; but sheshrank away from him, and
sobbed the more irrepressibly. She feltMolly's presence so much to be a protection that now she dared tolet herself go, and to weaken herself by giving way to her emotion.
"Go away!" said Molly. "Don't you see you make her worse?" But hedid not stir; he was looking at Cynthia so intently that he did notseem even to hear her. "Go," said Molly, vehemently, "if it reallydistresses you to see her cry. Don't you see, it's you who are thecause of it?"
"I will go if Cynthia tells me," said he at length.
"Oh, Molly, I don't know what to do," said Cynthia, taking down herhands from her tear-stained face, and appealing to Molly, and sobbingworse than ever; in fact, she became hysterical, and though she triedto speak coherently, no intelligible words would come.
"Run to that cottage in the trees, and fetch her a cup of water,"said Molly. He hesitated a little.
"Why don't you go?" said Molly, impatiently.
"I have not done speaking to her; you will not leave before I comeback?"
"No. Don't you see she can't move in this state?"
He went quickly, if reluctantly.
Cynthia was some time before she could check her sobs enough tospeak. At length she said,--"Molly, I do hate him!"
"But what did he mean by saying you were engaged to him? Don't cry,dear, but tell me; if I can help you I will, but I can't imagine whatit all really is."
"It's too long a story to tell now, and I'm not strong enough. Look!he's coming back. As soon as I can, let us get home."
"With all my heart," said Molly.
He brought the water, and Cynthia drank, and was restored tocalmness.
"Now," said Molly, "we had better go home as fast as you can manageit; it's getting dark quickly."
If she hoped to carry Cynthia off so easily she was mistaken. Mr.Preston was resolute on this point. He said--
"I think since Miss Gibson has made herself acquainted with thismuch, we had better let her know the whole truth--that you areengaged to marry me as soon as you are twenty; otherwise your beinghere with me, and by appointment too, may appear strange--evenequivocal to her."
"As I know that Cynthia is engaged to--another man, you can hardlyexpect me to believe what you say, Mr. Preston."
"Oh, Molly," said Cynthia, trembling all over, but trying to becalm, "I am not engaged--neither to the person you mean, nor to Mr.Preston."
Mr. Preston forced a smile. "I think I have some letters that wouldconvince Miss Gibson of the truth of what I have said; and which willconvince Mr. Osborne Hamley, if necessary--I conclude it is to himshe is alluding."
"I am quite puzzled by you both," said Molly. "The only thing Ido know is, that we ought not to be standing here at this time ofevening, and that Cynthia and I shall go home directly. If you wantto talk to Miss Kirkpatrick, Mr. Preston, why don't you come to myfather's house, and ask to see her openly, and like a gentleman?"
"I am perfectly willing," said he; "I shall only be too glad toexplain to Mr. Gibson on what terms I stand in relation to her. If Ihave not done it sooner, it is because I have yielded to her wishes."
"Pray, pray don't. Molly--you don't know all--you don't know anythingabout it; you mean well and kindly, I know, but you are only makingmischief. I am quite well enough to walk, do let us go; I will tellyou all about it when we are at home." She took Molly's arm and triedto hasten her away; but Mr. Preston followed, talking as he walked bytheir side.
"I do not know what you will say at home; but can you deny that youare my promised wife? Can you deny that it has only been at yourearnest request that I have kept the engagement secret so long?" Hewas unwise--Cynthia stopped, and turned at bay.
"Since you will have it out,--since I must speak here, I own thatwhat you say is literally true; that when I was a neglected girl ofsixteen, you--whom I believed to be a friend, lent me money at myneed, and made me give you a promise of marriage."
"Made you!" said he, laying an emphasis on the first word.
Cynthia turned scarlet. "'Made' is not the right word, I confess.I liked you then--you were almost my only friend--and, if it hadbeen a question of immediate marriage, I daresay I should never haveobjected. But I know you better now; and you have persecuted me so oflate, that I tell you once for all (as I have told you before, tillI am sick of the very words), that nothing shall ever make me marryyou. Nothing! I see there's no chance of escaping exposure and, Idaresay, losing my character, and I know losing all the few friendsI have."
"Never me," said Molly, touched by the wailing tone of despair thatCynthia was falling into.
"It is hard," said Mr. Preston. "You may believe all the bad thingsyou like about me, Cynthia, but I don't think you can doubt my real,passionate, disinterested love for you."
"I do doubt it," said Cynthia, breaking out with fresh energy. "Ah!when I think of the self-denying affection I have seen--I haveknown--affection that thought of others before itself--"
Mr. Preston broke in at the pause she made. She was afraid ofrevealing too much to him.
"You do not call it love which has been willing to wait for years--tobe silent while silence was desired--to suffer jealousy and to bearneglect, relying on the solemn promise of a girl of sixteen--forsolemn say flimsy, when that girl grows older. Cynthia, I have lovedyou, and I do love you, and I won't give you up. If you will but keepyour word, and marry me, I'll swear I'll make you love me in return."
"Oh, I wish--I wish I'd never borrowed that unlucky money, it was thebeginning of it all. Oh, Molly, I have saved and scrimped to repayit, and he won't take it now; I thought if I could but repay it, itwould set me free."
"You seem to imply you sold yourself for twenty pounds," he said.They were nearly on the common now, close to the protection of thecottages, in very hearing of their inmates; if neither of the othertwo thought of this, Molly did, and resolved in her mind to call inat one of them, and ask for the labourer's protection home; at anyrate his presence must put a stop to this miserable altercation.
"I did not sell myself; I liked you then. But oh, how I do hate younow!" cried Cynthia, unable to contain her words.
He bowed and turned back, vanishing rapidly down the field staircase.At any rate that was a relief. Yet the two girls hastened on, asif he was still pursuing them. Once, when Molly said something toCynthia, the latter replied--
"Molly, if you pity me--if you love me--don't say anything more justnow. We shall have to look as if nothing had happened when we gethome. Come to my room when we go upstairs to bed, and I'll tell youall. I know you'll blame me terribly, but I will tell you all."
So Molly did not say another word till they reached home; and then,comparatively at ease, inasmuch as no one perceived how late wastheir return to the house, each of the girls went up into theirseparate rooms, to rest and calm themselves before dressing for thenecessary family gathering at dinner. Molly felt as if she were somiserably shaken that she could not have gone down at all, if her owninterests only had been at stake. She sate by her dressing-table,holding her head in her hands, her candles unlighted, and the room insoft darkness, trying to still her beating heart, and to recall allshe had heard, and what would be its bearing on the lives of thosewhom she loved. Roger. Oh, Roger!--far away in mysterious darkness ofdistance--loving as he did (ah, that was love! that was the love towhich Cynthia had referred, as worthy of the name!) and the object ofhis love claimed by another--false to one she must be! How could itbe? What would he think and feel if ever he came to know it? It wasof no use trying to imagine his pain--that could do no good. What laybefore Molly was, to try and extricate Cynthia, if she could help herby thought, or advice, or action not to weaken herself by lettingher fancy run into pictures of possible, probable suffering.
When she went into the drawing-room before dinner, she found Cynthiaand her mother by themselves. There were candles in the room, butthey were not lighted, for the wood-fire blazed merrily if fitfully,and they were awaiting Mr. Gibson's return, which might be expectedat any minute. Cynthia sate in the shade, so it was only by hersensitive ea
r that Molly could judge of her state of composure. Mrs.Gibson was telling some of her day's adventures--whom she had foundat home in the calls she had been making; who had been out; andthe small pieces of news she had heard. To Molly's quick sympathyCynthia's voice sounded languid and weary, but she made all theproper replies, and expressed the proper interest at the rightplaces, and Molly came to the rescue, chiming in, with an effort,it is true; but Mrs. Gibson was not one to notice slight shadesor differences in manner. When Mr. Gibson returned, the relativepositions of the parties were altered. It was Cynthia now who raisedherself into liveliness, partly from a consciousness that he wouldhave noticed any depression, and partly because Cynthia was oneof those natural coquettes, who, from their cradle to their grave,instinctively bring out all their prettiest airs and graces in orderto stand well with any man, young or old, who may happen to bepresent. She listened to his remarks and stories with all the sweetintentness of happier days, till Molly, silent and wondering, couldhardly believe that the Cynthia before her was the same girl as shewho was sobbing and crying as if her heart would break, but two hoursbefore. It is true she looked pale and heavy-eyed, but that was theonly sign she gave of her past trouble, which yet must be a presentcare, thought Molly. After dinner, Mr. Gibson went out to his townpatients; Mrs. Gibson subsided into her arm-chair, holding a sheet of_The Times_ before her, behind which she took a quiet and lady-likedoze. Cynthia had a book in one hand, with the other she shaded hereyes from the light. Molly alone could neither read, nor sleep, norwork. She sate in the seat in the bow-window; the blind was not drawndown, for there was no danger of their being overlooked. She gazedinto the soft outer darkness, and found herself striving to discernthe outlines of objects--the cottage at the end of the garden--thegreat beech-tree with the seat round it--the wire arches, up whichthe summer roses had clambered; each came out faint and dim againstthe dusky velvet of the atmosphere. Presently tea came, and there wasthe usual nightly bustle. The table was cleared, Mrs. Gibson rousedherself, and made the same remark about dear papa that she had doneat the same hour for weeks past. Cynthia too did not look differentfrom usual. And yet what a hidden mystery did her calmness hide!thought Molly. At length came bed-time, and the customary littlespeeches. Both Molly and Cynthia went to their own rooms withoutexchanging a word. When Molly was in hers she had forgotten whethershe was to go to Cynthia, or Cynthia to come to her. She took off hergown and put on her dressing-gown, and stood and waited, and even satdown for a minute or two: but Cynthia did not come, so Molly went andknocked at the opposite door, which, to her surprise, she found shut.When she entered the room Cynthia sate by her dressing-table, just asshe had come up from the drawing-room. She had been leaning her headon her arms, and seemed almost to have forgotten the tryst she hadmade with Molly, for she looked up as if startled, and her face didseem full of worry and distress; in her solitude she made no moreexertion, but gave way to thoughts of care.
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