Wives and Daughters

by Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell

  CHAPTER XLIII.

  CYNTHIA'S CONFESSION.

  "You said I might come," said Molly, "and that you would tell meall."

  "You know all, I think," said Cynthia, heavily. "Perhaps you don'tknow what excuses I have, but at any rate you know what a scrape I amin."

  "I've been thinking a great deal," said Molly, timidly anddoubtfully. "And I can't help fancying if you told papa--"

  Before she could go on, Cynthia had stood up.

  "No!" said she. "That I won't. Unless I'm to leave here at once. Andyou know I have not another place to go to--without warning, I mean.I daresay my uncle would take me in; he's a relation, and would bebound to stand by me in whatever disgrace I might be; or perhaps Imight get a governess's situation--a pretty governess I should be!"

  "Pray, please, Cynthia, don't go off into such wild talking. I don'tbelieve you've done so very wrong. You say you have not, and Ibelieve you. That horrid man has managed to get you involved in someway; but I am sure papa could set it to rights, if you would onlymake a friend of him, and tell him all--"

  "No, Molly," said Cynthia, "I can't, and there's an end of it. Youmay if you like, only let me leave the house first; give me that muchtime."

  "You know I would never tell anything you wished me not to tell,Cynthia," said Molly, deeply hurt.

  "Would you not, darling?" said Cynthia, taking her hand. "Will youpromise me that? quite a sacred promise?--for it would be such acomfort to me to tell you all, now you know so much."

  "Yes! I'll promise not to tell. You should not have doubted me," saidMolly, still a little sorrowfully.

  "Very well. I trust to you. I know I may."

  "But do think of telling papa, and getting him to help you,"persevered Molly.

  "Never," said Cynthia, resolutely, but more quietly than before."Do you think I forget what he said at the time of that wretchedMr. Coxe; how severe he was, and how long I was in disgrace, ifindeed I'm out of it now? I am one of those people, as mamma sayssometimes--I cannot live with persons who don't think well of me.It may be a weakness, or a sin,--I'm sure I don't know, and I don'tcare; but I really cannot be happy in the same house with any one whoknows my faults, and thinks that they are greater than my merits. Nowyou know your father would do that. I have often told you that he(and you too, Molly,) had a higher standard than I had ever known.Oh, I couldn't bear it; if he were to know he would be so angry withme--he would never get over it, and I have so liked him! I do so likehim!"

  "Well, never mind, dear; he shall not know," said Molly, for Cynthiawas again becoming hysterical,--"at least, we'll say no more about itnow."

  "And you'll never say any more--never--promise me," said Cynthia,taking her hand eagerly.

  "Never till you give me leave. Now do let me see if I cannot helpyou. Lie down on the bed, and I'll sit by you, and let us talk itover."

  But Cynthia sat down again in the chair by the dressing-table.

  "When did it all begin?" said Molly, after a long pause of silence.

  "Long ago--four or five years. I was such a child to be left all tomyself. It was the holidays, and mamma was away visiting, and theDonaldsons asked me to go with them to the Worcester Festival. Youcan't fancy how pleasant it all sounded, especially to me. I had beenshut up in that great dreary house at Ashcombe, where mamma had herschool; it belonged to Lord Cumnor, and Mr. Preston as his agent hadto see it all painted and papered; but, besides that, he was veryintimate with us; I believe mamma thought--no, I'm not sure aboutthat, and I have enough blame to lay at her door, to prevent mytelling you anything that may be only fancy--"

  Then she paused and sate still for a minute or two, recalling thepast. Molly was struck by the aged and careworn expression which hadtaken temporary hold of the brilliant and beautiful face; she couldsee from that how much Cynthia must have suffered from this hiddentrouble of hers.

  "Well! at any rate we were intimate with him, and he came a greatdeal about the house, and knew as much as any one of mamma's affairs,and all the ins and outs of her life. I'm telling you this in orderthat you may understand how natural it was for me to answer hisquestions when he came one day and found me, not crying, for you knowI'm not much given to that, in spite of to-day's exposure of myself;but fretting and fuming because, though mamma had written word Imight go with the Donaldsons, she had never said how I was to get anymoney for the journey, much less for anything of dress, and I hadoutgrown all my last year's frocks, and as for gloves and boots--inshort, I really had hardly clothes decent enough for church--"

  "Why didn't you write to her and tell her all this?" said Molly, halfafraid of appearing to cast blame by her very natural question.

  "I wish I had her letter to show you; you must have seen some ofmamma's letters, though; don't you know how she always seems toleave out just the important point of every fact? In this case shedescanted largely on the enjoyment she was having, and the kindnessshe was receiving, and her wish that I could have been with her, andher gladness that I too was going to have some pleasure; but the onlything that would have been of real use to me she left out, and thatwas where she was going to next. She mentioned that she was leavingthe house she was stopping at the day after she wrote, and thatshe should be at home by a certain date; but I got the letter on aSaturday, and the festival began the next Tuesday--"

  "Poor Cynthia!" said Molly. "Still, if you had written, your lettermight have been forwarded. I don't mean to be hard, only I do sodislike the thought of your ever having made a friend of that man."

  "Ah!" said Cynthia, sighing. "How easy it is to judge rightlyafter one sees what evil comes from judging wrongly! I was only ayoung girl, hardly more than a child, and he was a friend to usthen--excepting mamma, the only friend I knew; the Donaldsons wereonly kind and good-natured acquaintances."

  "I am sorry," said Molly, humbly, "I have been so happy with papa.I hardly can understand how different it must have been with you."

  "Different! I should think so. The worry about money made me sick ofmy life. We might not say we were poor, it would have injured theschool; but I would have stinted and starved if mamma and I had goton as happily together as we might have done--as you and Mr. Gibsondo. It was not the poverty; it was that she never seemed to care tohave me with her. As soon as the holidays came round she was off tosome great house or another; and I daresay I was at a very awkwardage to have me lounging about in the drawing-room when callers came.Girls at the age I was then are so terribly keen at scenting outmotives, and putting in their disagreeable questions as to the littletwistings and twirlings and vanishings of conversation they've nodistinct notion of what are the truths and falsehoods of politelife. At any rate, I was very much in mamma's way, and I felt it. Mr.Preston seemed to feel it too for me; and I was very grateful to himfor kind words and sympathetic looks--crumbs of kindness which wouldhave dropped under your table unnoticed. So this day, when he cameto see how the workmen were getting on, he found me in the desertedschoolroom, looking at my faded summer bonnet and some old ribbonsI had been sponging, and half-worn-out gloves--a sort of rag-fairspread out on the deal table. I was in a regular passion with onlylooking at that shabbiness. He said he was so glad to hear I wasgoing to this festival with the Donaldsons; old Betty, our servant,had told him the news, I believe. But I was so perplexed about money,and my vanity was so put out about my shabby dress, that I was in apet, and said I shouldn't go. He sate down on the table, and littleby little he made me tell him all my troubles. I do sometimes thinkhe was very nice in those days. Somehow I never felt as if it waswrong or foolish or anything to accept his offer of money at thetime. He had twenty pounds in his pocket, he said, and really didn'tknow what to do with it,--shouldn't want it for months; I could repayit, or rather mamma could, when it suited her. She must have knownI should want money, and most likely thought I should apply to him.Twenty pounds wouldn't be too much, I must take it all, and so on.I knew--at least I thought I knew--that I should never spend twentypounds; but I thought I could give him back what I d
idn't want, andso--well, that was the beginning! It doesn't sound so very wrong,does it, Molly?"

  "No," said Molly, hesitatingly. She did not wish to make herself intoa hard judge, and yet she did so dislike Mr. Preston. Cynthia wenton,--

  "Well, what with boots and gloves, and a bonnet and a mantle, and awhite muslin gown, which was made for me before I left on Tuesday,and a silk gown that followed to the Donaldsons', and my journeys,and all, there was very little left of the twenty pounds, especiallywhen I found I must get a ball-dress in Worcester, for we were allto go to the Ball. Mrs. Donaldson gave me my ticket, but she ratherlooked grave at my idea of going to the Ball in my white muslin,which I had already worn two evenings at their house. Oh dear! howpleasant it must be to be rich! You know," continued Cynthia, smilinga very little, "I can't help being aware that I'm pretty, and thatpeople admire me very much. I found it out first at the Donaldsons'.I began to think I did look pretty in my fine new clothes, and I sawthat other people thought so too. I was certainly the belle of thehouse, and it was very pleasant to feel my power. The last day ortwo of that gay week Mr. Preston joined our party. The last time hehad seen me was when I was dressed in shabby clothes too small forme, half-crying in my solitude, neglected and penniless. At theDonaldsons' I was a little queen; and as I said, fine feathers makefine birds, and all the people were making much of me; and at thatBall, which was the first night he came, I had more partners than Iknew what to do with. I suppose he really did fall in love with methen. I don't think he had done so before. And then I began to feelhow awkward it was to be in his debt. I couldn't give myself airs tohim as I did to others. Oh! it was so awkward and uncomfortable! ButI liked him, and felt him as a friend all the time. The last day Iwas walking in the garden along with the others, and I thought Iwould tell him how much I had enjoyed myself, and how happy I hadbeen, all thanks to his twenty pounds (I was beginning to feel likeCinderella when the clock was striking twelve), and to tell him itshould be repaid to him as soon as possible, though I turned sickat the thought of telling mamma, and knew enough of our affairs tounderstand how very difficult it would be to muster up the money. Theend of our talk came very soon for, almost to my terror, he began totalk violent love to me, and to beg me to promise to marry him. I wasso frightened, that I ran away to the others. But that night I gota letter from him, apologizing for startling me, renewing his offer,his entreaties for a promise of marriage, to be fulfilled at any dateI would please to name--in fact, a most urgent love-letter, and init a reference to my unlucky debt, which was to be a debt no longer,only an advance of the money to be hereafter mine if only-- You canfancy it all, Molly, better than I can remember it to tell it you."

  "And what did you say?" asked Molly, breathless.

  "I did not answer it at all until another letter came, entreating fora reply. By that time mamma had come home, and the old daily pressureand plaint of poverty had come on. Mary Donaldson wrote to me often,singing the praises of Mr. Preston as enthusiastically as if she hadbeen 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 andgave him my promise to marry him when I was twenty, but it was to bea secret till then. And I tried to forget I had ever borrowed moneyof him, but somehow as soon as I felt pledged to him I began to hatehim. I couldn't endure his eagerness of greeting if ever he found mealone; and mamma began to suspect, I think. I cannot tell you all theins and outs; in fact, I didn't understand them at the time, and Idon't remember clearly how it all happened now. But I know that LadyCuxhaven sent mamma some money to be applied to my education, asshe called it; and mamma seemed very much put out and in very lowspirits, 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 wenton trying to think that if I was to marry Mr. Preston, it need neverbe paid--very mean and wicked, I daresay; but oh, Molly, I've beenpunished for it, for how I abhor that man."

  "But why? When did you begin to dislike him? You seem to have takenit very passively all this time."

  "I don't know. It was growing upon me before I went to that schoolat Boulogne. He made me feel as if I was in his power; and by toooften reminding me of my engagement to him, he made me critical ofhis 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--andperhaps not; but I couldn't bear his covert sneers at her faults, andI hated his way of showing what he called his 'love' for me. Then,after I had been a _semestre_ at Mdme. Lefevre's, a new English girlcame--a cousin of his, who knew but little of me. Now, Molly, youmust forget as soon as I've told you what I'm going to say; and sheused to talk so much and perpetually about her cousin Robert--he wasthe 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 intothe bargain."

  "Lady Harriet! I daresay," 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 prettywidow too, who made desperate love to him. He had often laughed withthem at all her little advances, which she thought he didn't seethrough. And, oh! and this was the man I had promised to marry, andgone into debt to, and written love-letters to! So now you understandit all, Molly."

  "No, I don't yet. What did you do on hearing how he had spoken aboutyour mother?"

  "There was but one thing to do. I wrote and told him I hated him, andwould never, never marry him, and would pay him back his money andthe interest on it as soon as ever I could."

  "Well?"

  "And Mdme. Lefevre brought me back my letter,--unopened, I will say;and told me that she didn't allow letters to gentlemen to be sent bythe pupils of her establishment unless she had previously seen theircontents. I told her he was a family friend, the agent who managedmamma's affairs--I really could not stick at the truth; but shewouldn't let it go; and I had to see her burn it, and to give her mypromise I wouldn't write again before she would consent not to tellmamma. 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 topay him."

  "What did he say to your letter?"

  "Oh, at first he pretended not to believe I could be in earnest; hethought it was only pique, or a temporary offence to be apologizedfor and covered over with passionate protestations."

  "And afterwards?"

  "He condescended to threats; and, what is worse, then I turnedcoward. I couldn't bear to have it all known and talked about, andmy silly letters shown--oh, such letters! I cannot bear to think ofthem, 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 wasfree--I am free; it seemed a way of assuring myself that I was quitefree; and I did like Roger--it was such a comfort to be brought intocontact with people who could be relied upon and I was not a stockor a stone that I could fail to be touched with his tender, unselfishlove, so different to Mr. Preston's. I know you don't think me goodenough for him; and, of course, if all this comes out, he won't thinkme good enough either" (falling into a plaintive tone very touchingto hear); "and sometimes I think I'll give him up, and go off to somefresh life amongst strangers; and once or twice I've thought I wouldmarry Mr. Preston out of pure revenge, and have him for ever in mypower--only I think I should have the worst of it; for he is cruelin his very soul--tigerish, with his beautiful striped skin andrelentless heart. I have so begged and begged him to let me gowithout exposure."

  "Never mind the exposure," said Molly. "It will recoil far more onhim than harm you."

  Cynthia went a little paler. "But I said things in those lettersabout mamma. I was quick-eyed enough to all her faults, and hardlyunderstood the force of her temptations; and he says he will showthose letters to your father, unless I consent to ackn
owledge ourengagement."

  "He shall not!" said Molly, rising up in her indignation, andstanding before Cynthia almost as resolutely fierce as if she werein the very presence of Mr. Preston himself. "I am not afraid of him.He dare not insult me, or if he does I don't care. I will ask him forthose letters, and see if he will dare to refuse me."

  "You don't know him," said Cynthia, shaking her head. "He has mademany an appointment with me, just as if he would take back themoney--which has been sealed up ready for him this four months; or asif he would give me back my letters. Poor, poor Roger! How little hethinks of all this! When I want to write words of love to him I pullmyself up, for I have written words as affectionate to that otherman. 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 asmuch pain as he could with those unlucky letters--written when I wasnot sixteen, Molly,--only seven of them! They are like a mine undermy feet, which may blow up any day; and down will come father andmother and all." She ended bitterly enough, though her words were solight.

  "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'shearing 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 whathe does so that he gets me to be his wife; and that after that he issure he can make me love him." Cynthia began to cry, out of wearinessof 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 owncheek upon it, and hushed her up with lulling words, just as ifCynthia 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 thatmakes me certain he must and shall give up the letters."

  "And take the money?" added Cynthia, lifting her head, and lookingeagerly into Molly's face. "He must take the money. Oh, Molly, youcan never manage it all without its coming out to your father! And Iwould far rather go out to Russia as a governess. I almost think Iwould rather--no, not that," said she, shuddering away from what shewas going to say. "But he must not know--please, Molly, he must notknow. I couldn't bear it. I don't know what I might not do. You'llpromise me never to tell him,--or mamma?"

  "I never will. You do not think I would for anything short ofsaving--" She was going to have said, "saving you and Roger frompain." But Cynthia broke in,--

  "For nothing. No reason whatever must make you tell your father. Ifyou fail, you fail, and I will love you for ever for trying; but Ishall be no worse off than before. Better, indeed; for I shall havethe comfort of your sympathy. But promise me not to tell Mr. Gibson."

  "I have promised once," said Molly, "but I promise again; so now dogo 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 herroom 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 Rogerever heard of it all by any chance, she felt how it would disturb hislove for Cynthia. And yet was it right to conceal it from him? Shemust try and persuade Cynthia to tell it all straight out to him assoon as he returned to England. A full confession on her part wouldwonderfully lessen any pain he might have on first hearing of it.She lost herself in thoughts of Roger--how he would feel, what hewould say, how that meeting would come to pass, where he was at thatvery time, and so on, till she suddenly plucked herself up, andrecollected what she herself had offered and promised to do. Now thatthe first fervour was over, she saw the difficulties clearly; and theforemost of all was how she was to manage to have an interview withMr. Preston. How had Cynthia managed? and the letters that had passedbetween them too? Unwillingly, Molly was compelled to perceive thatthere must have been a great deal of underhand work going on beneathCynthia's apparent openness of behaviour; and still more unwillinglyshe began to be afraid that she herself might be led into thepractice. But she would try and walk in a straight path; and if shedid wander out of it, it should only be to save pain to those whomshe loved.