'As far as I can judge of London,' said Miss Browning, sententiously continuing her tirade against the place, 'it's no better than a pickpocket and a robber dressed up in the spoils of honest folk. I should like to know where my Lord Hollingford was bred, and Mr. Roger Hamley. Your good husband lent me that report of the meeting, Mrs Gibson, where so much was said about them both, and he was as proud of their praises as if he had been akin to them, and Phoebe read it aloud to me, for the print was too small for my eyes; she was a good deal perplexed with all the new names of places, but I said she had better skip them all, for we had never heard of them before and probably should never hear of them again, but she read out the fine things they said of my lord, and Mr. Roger, and I put it to you, where were they born and bred? Why, within eight miles of Hollingford; it might have been Molly there or me; it's all a chance; and then they go and talk about the pleasures of intellectual society in London, and the distinguished people up there that it is such an advantage to know, and all the time I know it's only shops and the play that's the real attraction. But that's neither here nor there. We all put our best foot foremost, and if we have a reason to give that looks sensible we speak it out like men, and never say anything about the silliness we are hugging to our hearts. But I ask you again, where does this fine society come from, and these wise men, and these distinguished travellers? Why, out of country parishes like this! London picks 'em all up, and decks herself with them, and then calls out loud to the folks she's robbed, and says, "Come and see how fine I am." Fine, indeed! I've no patience with London: Cynthia is much better out of it; and I'm not sure, if I were you, Mrs. Gibson, if I would not stop up those London letters: they'll only be unsettling her.'

'But perhaps she may live in London some of these days, Miss Browning,' simpered Mrs. Gibson.

'Time enough then to be thinking of London. I wish her an honest country husband with enough to live upon, and a little to lay by, and a good character to boot. Mind that, Molly,' said she, firing round upon the startled Molly, 'I wish Cynthia a husband with a good character; but she's got a mother to look after her; you've none and when your mother was alive she was a dear friend of mine: so I'm not going to let you throw yourself away upon any one whose life is not clear and above- board, you may depend upon it.'

This last speech fell like a bomb into the quiet little drawing-room, it was delivered with such vehemence. Miss Browning, in her secret heart, meant it as a warning against the intimacy she believed that Molly had formed with Mr. Preston; but as it happened that Molly had never dreamed of any such intimacy, the girl could not imagine why such severity of speech should be addressed to her. Mrs. Gibson, who always took up the points of every word or action where they touched her own self (and called it sensitiveness), broke the silence that followed Miss Browning's speech by saying, plaintively,—

'I'm sure, Miss Browning, you are very much mistaken if you think that any mother could take more care of Molly than I do. I don't—I can't think there is any need for any one to interfere to protect her, and I have not an idea why you have been talking in this way, just as if we were all wrong, and you were all right. It hurts my feelings, indeed it does; for Molly can tell you there is not a thing or a favour that Cynthia has, that she has not. And as for not taking care of her, why, if she were to go up to London to-morrow, I should make a point of going with her to see after her; and I never did it for Cynthia when she was at school in France; and her bedroom is furnished just like Cynthia's; and I let her wear my red shawl whenever she likes, she might have it oftener if she would. I can't think what you mean, Miss Browning.'

'I did not mean to offend you, but I meant just to give Molly a hint. She understands what I mean.'

'I'm sure I do not,' said Molly, boldly. 'I have not a notion what you meant, if you were alluding to anything more than you said straight out; that you do not wish me to marry any one who has not a good character, and that, as you were a friend of mamma's, you would prevent my marrying a man with a bad character, by every means in your power. I'm not thinking of marrying; I don't want to marry anybody at all; but if I did, and he were not a good man, I should thank you for coming and warning me of it.'

'I shall not stand on warning you, Molly. I shall forbid the banns in church, if need be,' said Miss Browning, half convinced of the clear transparent truth of what Molly had said; blushing all over, it is true, but with her steady eyes fixed on Miss Browning's face while she spoke.

'Do!' said Molly.

'Well, well, I won't say any more. Perhaps I was mistaken, We won't say any more about it. But remember what I have said, Molly, there's no harm in that, at any rate. I'm sorry I hurt your feelings, Mrs Gibson. As stepmothers go, I think you try and do your duty. Good morning. Good-by to you both, and God bless you.'

If Miss Browning thought that her final blessing would secure peace in the room she was leaving, she was very much mistaken; Mrs. Gibson burst out with,—

'Try and do my duty, indeed! I should be much obliged to you, Molly, if you would take care not to behave in such a manner as to bring down upon me such impertinence as I have just been receiving from Miss Browning.'

'But I don't know what made her talk as she did, mamma,' said Molly.

'I'm sure I don't know, and I don't care either. But I know that I never was spoken to as if I was trying to do my duty before,—"trying" indeed! everybody always knew that I did it, without talking about it before my face in that rude manner. I've that deep feeling about duty that I think it ought only to be talked about in church, and in such sacred places as that; not to have a common caller startling one with it, even though she was an early friend of your mother's. And as if I did not look after you quite as much as I look after Cynthia! Why, it was only yesterday I went up into Cynthia's room and found her reading a letter that she put away in a hurry as soon as I came in, and I did not even ask her who it was from, and I am sure I should have made you tell me.'

Very likely. Mrs. Gibson shrank from any conflicts with Cynthia, pretty sure that she would be worsted in the end; while Molly generally submitted, sooner than have any struggle for her own will.

Just then Cynthia came in.

'What's the matter?' said she quickly, seeing that something was wrong.

'Why, Molly has been doing something which has set that impertinent Miss Browning off into lecturing me on trying to do my duty! If your poor father had but lived, Cynthia, I should never have been spoken to as I have been. "A stepmother trying to do her duty", indeed. That was Miss Browning's expression.'

Any allusion to her father took from Cynthia all desire of irony. She came forwards, and again asked Molly what was the matter.

Molly, herself ruffled, made answer,—

'Miss Browning seemed to think I was likely to marry some one whose character was objectionable—'

'You, Molly?' said Cynthia.

'Yes—she once before spoke to me,—I suspect she has got some notion about Mr. Preston in her head—'

Cynthia sate down quite suddenly. Molly went on,—'and she spoke as if mamma did not look enough after me,—I think she was rather provoking—'

'Not rather, but very—very impertinent,' said Mrs. Gibson, a little soothed by Molly's recognition of her grievance.

'What could have put it into her head?' said Cynthia, very quietly, taking up her sewing as she spoke.

'I don't know,' said her mother, replying to the question after her own fashion. 'I'm sure I don't always approve of Mr. Preston; but even if it was him she was thinking about, he's far more agreeable than she is; and I had much rather have him coming to call than an old maid like her any day.'

'I don't know that it was Mr. Preston she was thinking about,' said Molly. 'It was only a guess. When you were both in London she spoke about him,—I thought she had heard something about you and him, Cynthia.' Unseen by her mother Cynthia looked up at Molly, her eyes full of prohibition, her cheeks full of angry colour. Molly stopped short suddenly. After that look she was surprised at the quietness with which Cynthia said, almost immediately,—

'Well, after all it is only your fancy that she was alluding to Mr Preston, so perhaps we had better not say any more about him; and as for her advice to mamma to look after you better, Miss Molly, I'll stand bail for your good behaviour; for both mamma and I know you're the last person to do any foolish things in that way. And now don't let us talk any more about it. I was coming to tell you that Hannah Brand's little boy has been badly burnt, and his sister is downstairs asking for old linen.'

Mrs. Gibson was always kind to poor people, and she immediately got up and went to her stores to search for the article wanted.

Cynthia turned quietly round to Molly.

'Molly, pray don't ever allude to anything between me and Mr Preston,— not to mamma, nor to any one. Never do! I've a reason for it,—don't say anything more about it, ever.'

Mrs. Gibson came back at this moment, and Molly had to stop short again on the brink of Cynthia's confidence; uncertain indeed this time, if she would have been told anything more, and only sure that she had annoyed Cynthia a good deal.

But the time was approaching when she would know all.



CHAPTER XLII

THE STORM BURSTS

The autumn drifted away through all its seasons; the golden corn- harvest, the walks through the stubble fields, and rambles into hazel- copses in search of nuts; the stripping of the apple-orchards of their ruddy fruit, amid the joyous cries and shouts of watching children; and the gorgeous tulip-like colouring of the later time had now come on with the shortening days. There was comparative silence in the land, excepting for the distant shots and the whirr of the partridges as they rose up from the field.

Ever since Miss Browning's unlucky conversation things had been ajar in the Gibsons' house. Cynthia seemed to keep every one out at (mental) arm's-length; and particularly avoided any private talks with Molly. Mrs. Gibson, still cherishing a grudge against Miss Browning for her implied accusation of not looking enough after Molly, chose to exercise a most wearying supervision over the poor girl. It was, 'Where have you been, child?' 'Who did you see?' 'Who was that letter from?' 'Why were you so long out when you had only to go to so-and-so?' just as if Molly had really been detected in carrying on some underhand intercourse. She answered every question asked of her with the simple truthfulness of perfect innocence; but the inquiries (although she read their motive, and knew that they arose from no especial suspicion of her conduct, but only that Mrs Gibson might be able to say that she looked well after her stepdaughter), chafed her inexpressibly. Very often she did not go out at all, sooner than have to give a plan of her intended proceedings, when perhaps she had no plan at all, only thought of wandering out at her own sweet will, and of taking pleasure in the bright solemn fading of the year. It was a very heavy time for Molly,— zest and life had fled; and left so many of the old delights mere shells of seeming. She thought it was that her youth had fled; at nineteen! Cynthia was no longer the same, somehow; and perhaps Cynthia's change would injure her in the distant Roger's opinion. Her stepmother seemed almost kind in comparison with Cynthia's withdrawal of her heart; Mrs. Gibson worried her to be sure, with all these forms of watching over her; but in all her other ways, she, at any rate, was the same. Yet Cynthia herself, seemed anxious and care-worn, though she would not speak of her anxieties to Molly. And then the poor girl in her goodness would blame herself for feeling Cynthia's change of manner; for as Molly said to herself, 'If it is hard work for me to help always fretting after Roger, and wondering where he is, and how he 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 as fast as you can. I've had to borrow old Simpson's dogcart,—there would have been room both for you and Cynthia; but as it is, you must walk 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, I may be kept there for hours.'

Mrs. Gibson was out of the room; out of the house it might be, for all Molly cared, now she had her father's leave and command. Her bonnet and cloak were on in two minutes, and she was sitting by her father's side, the back scat shut up, and the light weight going swiftly and merrily bumping over the stone-paved lanes.

'Oh, this is charming,' said Molly, after a toss-up on her seat from a tremendous bump.

'For youth, but not for crabbed age,' said Mr. Gibson. 'My bones are getting rheumatic, and would rather go smoothly over macadamized streets.'

'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 down at the foot of this hill; we have passed the second milestone from Hollingford.'

'Oh, let me just go up to the top! I know we can see the blue range of the Malverns from it, and Dorrimer Hall among the woods; the horse will 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 a minute or two, enjoying the view, without much speaking. The woods were golden, the old house of purple-red brick, with its twisted chimneys, rose up from among them facing on to green lawns, and a placid lake; beyond again were the Malvern Hills!

'Now jump down, lassie, and make the best of your way home before it gets dark. You'll find the cut over Croston Heath shorter than the road we've come by.'

To get to Croston Heath, Molly had to go down a narrow lane overshadowed by trees, with picturesque old cottages dotted here and there 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 up the steeper fields on the opposite side were cut steps in the turfy path, which ended, she was on Croston Heath, a wide-stretching common skirted by labourers' dwellings, past which a near road to Hollingford lay.

The loneliest part of the road was the first—the lane, the wood, the little bridge, and the clambering through the upland fields. But Molly cared little for loneliness. She went along the lane under the over- arching elm-branches, from which, here and there, a yellow leaf came floating down upon her very dress; past the last cottage where a little child had tumbled down the sloping bank, and was publishing the accident with frightened cries. Molly stooped to pick it up, and taking it in her arms in a manner which caused intense surprise to take the place of alarm in its little breast, she carried it up the rough flag steps towards the cottage which she supposed to be its home. The mother came running in from the garden behind the house, still holding the late damsons she had been gathering in her apron; but, on seeing her, the little creature held out its arms to go to her, and she dropped her damsons all about as she took it, and began to soothe it as it cried afresh, interspersing her lulling with thanks to Molly. She called her by her name; and on Molly asking the woman how she came to know it, she replied that she had been a servant of Mrs. Goodenough before her marriage, and so was 'bound to know Dr Gibson's daughter by sight.' After the exchange of two or three more words, Molly ran down into the lane, and pursued her way, stopping here and there to gather a nosegay of such leaves as struck her for their brilliant colouring. She entered the wood. As she turned a corner in the lonely path, she heard a passionate voice of distress; and in an instant she recognized Cynthia's tones. She stood still and looked around. There were some holly bushes shining out dark green in the midst of the amber and scarlet foliage. If any one was there, it must be behind these thick bushes. So Molly left the path, and went straight, plunging through the brown tangled growth of ferns and underwood, and turned the holly bushes. There stood Mr. Preston and Cynthia; he holding her hands tight, each looking as if just silenced in some vehement talk by the rustle of Molly's footsteps.

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 more of a sneer than a smile; and yet he, too, had been strongly agitated, whatever was the subject in dispute. Molly came forwards and took Cynthia's arm, her eyes steadily fixed on Mr. Preston's face. It was fine to see the fearlessness of her perfect innocence. He could not bear her look, and said to Cynthia,—

'The subject of our conversation does not well admit of a third person'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 finish our 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 wish I had told you sooner.'

'You mean that you regret that she has not been made aware of our engagement—that you promised long ago to be my wife. Pray remember that 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 forwards to try and take her hand and soothe her; but she shrank away from him, and sobbed the more irrepressibly. She felt Molly's presence so much to be a protection that now she dared to let 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 he did not stir; he was looking at Cynthia so intently that he did not seem even to hear her. 'Go,' said Molly, vehemently, 'if it really distresses you to see her cry. Don't you see, it's you who are the cause of it?'

'I will go if Cynthia tells me,' said he at length.

'Oh, Molly, I do not know what to do,' said Cynthia, taking down her hands from her tear-stained face, and appealing to Molly, and sobbing worse than ever; in fact, she became hysterical, and though she tried to 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 come back?'

'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 to speak. 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 what it all really is.'

'It is too long a story to tell now, and I'm not strong enough. Look! he is 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 to calmness.

'Now,' said Molly, 'we had better go home as fast as you can manage it; it is 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 this much, we had better let her know the whole truth—that you are engaged to marry me as soon as you are twenty; otherwise your being here with me, and by appointment too, may appear strange, even equivocal to her.'

'As I know that Cynthia is engaged to—another man, you can hardly expect me to believe what you say, Mr. Preston.'

'Oh, Molly,' said Cynthia, trembling all over, but trying to be calm, '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 would convince Miss Gibson of the truth of what I have said; and which will convince Mr. Osborne Hamley, if necessary—I conclude it is to him she is alluding.'

'I am quite puzzled by you both,' said Molly. 'The only thing I do know is, that we ought not to be standing here at this time of evening, and that Cynthia and I shall go home directly. If you want to talk to Miss Kirkpatrick, Mr. Preston, why don't you come to my father's house, and ask to see her openly, and like a gentleman.'

'I am perfectly willing,' said he; 'I shall only be too glad to explain to Mr. Gibson on what terms I stand in relation to her. If I have 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 anything about it; you mean well and kindly, I know, but you are only making mischief. I am quite well enough to walk, do let us go; I will tell you all about it when we are at home.' She took Molly's arm and tried to hasten her away; but Mr. Preston followed, talking as he walked by their side.

'I do not know what you will say at home; but can you deny that you are my promised wife? Can you deny that it has only been at your earnest request that I have kept the engagement secret so long?' He was unwise —Cynthia stopped, and turned at bay.

'Since you will have it out, since I must speak here, I own that what you say is literally true; that when I was a neglected girl of sixteen, you—whom I believed to be a friend, lent me money at my need, 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 had been a question of immediate marriage, I dare say I should never have objected. But I know you better now; and you have persecuted me so of late, that I tell you once for all (as I have told you before, till I am sick of the very words), that nothing shall ever make me marry you. Nothing. I see there's no chance of escaping exposure and, I dare say, losing my character, and I know losing all the few friends I have.'

'Never me,' said Molly, touched by the wailing tone of despair that Cynthia was falling into.

'It is hard,' said Mr. Preston. 'You may believe all the bad things you 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 have known— affection that thought of others before itself—'

Mr. Preston broke in at the pause she made. She was afraid of revealing too much to him.

'You do not call it love which has been willing to wait for years—to be silent while silence was desired—to suffer jealousy and to bear neglect, relying on the solemn promise of a girl of sixteen—for "solemn" say "flimsy," when that girl grows older. Cynthia, I have loved you, and I do love you, and I won't give you up. If you will but keep your 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 the beginning of it all. Oh, Molly, I have saved and scrimped to repay it, and he won't take it now; I thought if I could but repay it, it would 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 the cottages, in very hearing of their inmates; if neither of the other two thought of this Molly did, and resolved in her mind to call in at one of them, and ask for the labourer's protection home; at any rate 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 you now!' 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, as if he was still pursuing them. Once, when Molly said something to Cynthia, the latter replied,—

'Molly, if you pity me—if you love me—don't say anything more just now. We shall have to look as if nothing had happened when we get home. Come to my room when we go upstairs to bed, and I will tell you all. I know you will 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 was their return to the house, each of the girls went up into their separate rooms, to rest and calm themselves before dressing for the necessary family gathering at dinner. Molly felt as if she were 'so miserably shaken that she could not have gone down at all, if her own interests only were at stake. She sate by her dressing-table, holding her head in her hands, her candles unlighted, and the room in soft darkness, trying to still her beating heart, and to recall all she had heard, and what would be its bearing on the lives of those whom she loved. Roger. Oh, Roger!—far away in mysterious darkness of distance—loving as he did (ah, that was love! That was the love to which Cynthia had referred, as worthy of the name!) and the object of his love claimed by another— false to one she must be! How could it be? What would he think and feel if ever he came to know it? It was of no use trying to imagine his pain—that could do no good. What lay before Molly was to try and extricate Cynthia, if she could help her by thought, or advice, or action; not to weaken herself by letting her fancy run into pictures of possible, probable suffering.

When she went into the drawing-room before dinner, she found Cynthia and her mother tete-a-tete. There were candles in the room, but they were not lighted, for the wood-fire blazed merrily if fitfully, and they were awaiting Mr. Gibson's return, which might be expected at any minute. Cynthia sate in the shade, so it was only by her sensitive ear that Molly could judge of her state of composure. Mrs. Gibson was telling some of her day's adventures—whom she had found at home in the calls she had been making; who had been out; and the small pieces of news she had heard. To Molly's quick sympathy Cynthia's voice sounded languid and weary, but she made all the proper replies, and expressed the proper interest at the right places, and Molly came to the rescue, chiming in, with an effort, it is true; but Mrs. Gibson was not one to notice slight shades or differences in manner. When Mr. Gibson returned, the relative positions of the parties were altered. It was Cynthia now who raised herself into liveliness, partly from a consciousness that he would have noticed any depression, and partly because, from her cradle to her grave, Cynthia was one of those natural coquettes, who instinctively bring out all their prettiest airs and graces in order to stand well with any man, young or old, who may happen to be present. She listened to his remarks and stories with all the sweet intentness of happier days, till Molly, silent and wondering, could hardly believe that the Cynthia before her was the same girl as she who was sobbing and crying as if her heart would break not two hours before. It is true she looked pale and heavy-eyed, but that was the only sign she gave of her past trouble, which yet must be a present care, thought Molly. After dinner, Mr. Gibson went out to his town patients; Mrs. Gibson subsided into her arm-chair, holding a sheet of The Times before her, behind which she took a quiet and lady-like doze. Cynthia had a book in one hand, with the other she shaded her eyes from the light. Molly alone could neither read, nor sleep, nor work. She sate in the seat in the bow-window; the blind was not drawn down, for there was no danger of their being overlooked. She gazed into the soft outer darkness, and found herself striving to discern the outlines of objects—the cottage at the end of the garden—the great beech-tree with the seat round it—the wire arches, up which the summer roses had clambered; each came out faint and dim against the dusky velvet of the atmosphere. Presently tea came, and there was the usual nightly bustle. The table was cleared, Mrs. Gibson roused herself, and made the same remark about dear papa that she had done at the same hour for weeks past. Cynthia too did not look different to usual. And yet what a hidden mystery did her calmness hide, thought Molly. At length came bed-time, and the accustomary little speeches. Both Molly and Cynthia went to their own rooms without exchanging a word. When Molly was in hers she had forgotten if she was to go to Cynthia, or Cynthia to come to her. She took off her gown and put on her dressing-gown, and stood and waited, and even sate down for a minute or two; but Cynthia did not come, so Molly went and knocked at the opposite door, which, to her surprise, she found shut. When she entered the room Cynthia sate by her dressing-table, just as she came up from the drawing-room. She had been leaning her head on her arms, and seemed almost to have forgotten the tryst she had made with Molly, for she looked up as if startled, and her face did seem full of worry and distress; in her solitude she made no more exertion, but gave way to thoughts of care.



CHAPTER XLIII

CYNTHIA'S CONFESSION

'You said I might come,' said Molly, 'and that you would tell me all.'

'You know all, I think,' said Cynthia heavily. 'Perhaps you don't know what excuses I have, but at any rate you know what a scrape I am in.'

'I've been thinking a great deal,' said Molly timidly and doubtfully. '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. And you know I have not another place to go to—without warning I mean. I dare say my uncle would take me in, he's a relation, and would be bound to stand by me in whatever disgrace I might be; or perhaps I might get a governess's situation; a pretty governess I should be!'

'Pray, please, Cynthia, don't go off into such wild talking. I don't believe you've done so very wrong. You say you have not, and I believe you. That horrid man has managed to get you involved in some way; but I'm sure papa could set it to rights, if you would only make a friend of him and tell him all—'

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

'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 you promise me that? quite a sacred promise?—for it would be such a comfort to me to tell you all, now you know so much.'

'Yes! I'll promise not to tell. You should not have doubted me,' said Molly, 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 wretched Mr Coxe; how severe he was, and how long I was in disgrace, if indeed I'm out of it now? I am one of those people, as mamma says sometimes—I cannot live with persons who don't think well of me. It may be a weakness, or a sin, I am sure I don't know and I don't care; but I really cannot be happy in the same house with any one who knows my faults, and thinks that they are greater than my merits. Now you 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 could not bear it—if he were to know he would be so angry with me—he would never get over it, and I have so liked him! I do so like him.'

'Well, never mind, dear; he shall not know,' said Molly, for Cynthia was again becoming hysterical,—'at least we'll say no more about it now.'

'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 help you. Lie down on the bed, and I will sit by you, and let us talk it over.'

But Cypthia sate 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 to myself. It was the holidays, and mamma was away visiting, and the Donaldsons asked me to go with them to the Worcester Festival. You can't fancy how pleasant it all sounded, especially to me. I had been shut up in that great dreary house at Ashcombe, where mamma had her school; it belonged to Lord Cumnor, and Mr. Preston as his agent had to see it all painted and papered; but besides that he was very intimate with us: I believe mamma thought—no, I'm not sure about that, and I have enough blame to lay at her door, to prevent my telling you anything that may be only fancy—'

Then she paused, and sate still for a minute or two, recalling the past. Molly was struck by the aged and careworn expression which had taken temporary hold of the brilliant and beautiful face; she could see from that how much Cynthia must have suffered from this hidden trouble of hers.

'Well! at any, rate we were intimate with him, and he came a great deal 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 that in order that you may understand how natural it was for me to answer his questions when he came one day and found me, not crying, for you know I'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 I might go with the Donaldsons, she had never said how I was to get any money for the journey, much less for anything of dress, and I had outgrown all my last year's frocks, and as for gloves and boots—in short, I really had hardly clothes decent enough for church—'

'Why did not you write to her and tell her all this?' said Molly, half afraid of appearing to cast blame by her very natural question.

'I wish I had her letter to show you; you must have seen some of mamma's letters, though; don't you know how she always seems to leave out just the important point of every fact? In this case she descanted largely on the enjoyment she was having, and the kindness she was receiving, and her wish that I could have been with her, and her gladness that I too was going to have some pleasure, but the only thing that would have been of real use to me she left out, and that was where she was going to next. She mentioned that she was leaving the house she was stopping at the day after she wrote, and that she should be at home by a certain date; but I got the letter on a Saturday, and the festival began on the next Tuesday—'

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

'Ah!' said Cynthia, sighing. 'How easy it is to judge rightly after one sees what evil comes from judging wrongly: I was only a young girl, hardly more than a child, and he was a friend to us then; excepting mamma, the only friend I knew; the Donaldsons were only 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 of my life. We might not say we were poor, it would have injured the school, but I would have stinted and starved if mamma and I had got on as happily together as we might have done—as you and Mr. Gibson do. It was not the poverty; it was that she never seemed to care to have me with her. As soon as the holidays came round, she was off to some great house or another, and I dare say I was at a very awkward age to have me lounging about in her drawing-room when callers came. Girls at the age I was then are so terribly keen at scenting out motives, and putting in their awkward questions as to the little twistings and twirlings and vanishings of conversation; they've no distinct notion of what are the truths and falsehoods of polite life. 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 him for kind words and sympathetic looks— crumbs of kindness which would have dropped under your table unnoticed. So this day, when he came to see how the workmen were getting on, he found me in the deserted schoolroom, looking at my faded summer bonnet and some old ribbons I had been sponging out, and half-worn-out gloves —a sort of rag-fair spread out on the deal table. I was in a regular passion with only looking at that shabbiness. He said he was so glad to hear I was going 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 a pet, and said I should not go. He sate down on the table, and little by little he made me tell him all my troubles. I do sometimes think he was very nice in those days. Somehow I never felt as if it was wrong or foolish or anything to accept his offer of money at the time. He had twenty pounds in his pocket, he said, and really did not know what to do with it, should not want it for months; I could repay it, or rather mamma could, when it suited her. She must have known I should want money, and most likely thought I should apply to him. Twenty pounds would not be too much, I must take it all, and so on. I knew, at least I thought I knew, that I should never spend twenty pounds; but I thought I could give him back what I did not want, and so—well, that was the beginning! It does not sound so very wrong, does it, Molly?'

'No,' said Molly, hesitatingly. She did not wish to make herself into a hard judge, and yet she did so dislike Mr. Preston. Cynthia went on,—

'Well, what with boots and gloves, and a bonnet and a mantle, and a white muslin gown, which was made for me before I left on the Tuesday, and a silk gown that followed to the Donaldsons', and my journeys, and all, there was very little left of the twenty pounds, especially when I found I must get a ball-dress in Worcester, for we were all to go to the Ball. Mrs. Donaldson gave me my ticket, but she rather looked 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! how pleasant it must be to be rich! You know,' continued Cynthia, smiling a very little, 'I can't help being aware that I am pretty, and that people 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 saw that other people thought so too. I was certainly the belle of the house, and it was very pleasant to feel my power. The last day or two of that gay week Mr. Preston joined our party. The last time he had seen me was when I was dressed in shabby clothes too small for me, half-crying in my solitude, neglected and penniless. At the Donaldsons' I was a little queen; and as I said, fine feathers make fine birds, all the people were making much of me; and at that ball, which was the first night he came, I had more partners than I knew what to do with. I suppose he really did fall in love with me then. I don't think he had done so before. And then I began to feel how awkward it was to be in his debt. I could not give myself airs to him as I did to others. Oh! it was so awkward and uncomfortable! But I liked him, and felt him as a friend all the time. The last day I was walking in the garden along with the others, and I thought I would tell him how much I had enjoyed myself, and how happy I had been, all thanks to his twenty pounds (I was beginning to feel like Cinderella when the clock was striking twelve), and to tell him it should be repaid to him as soon as possible, though I turned sick at the thought of telling mamma, and knew enough of our affairs to understand how very difficult it would be to muster up the money. The end of our talk came very soon, for almost to my terror he began to talk violent love to me, and to beg me to promise to marry him. I was so frightened, that I ran away to the others. But that night I got a letter from him, apologizing for startling me, renewing his offer, his entreaties for a promise of marriage, to be fulfilled at any date I would please to name—in fact a most urgent love-letter, and in it 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 can fancy 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 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 could not 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 did not 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 did not 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 how 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 could not 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 semestre at Madame Lefevre'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 have told you what I am going to say—and she used to talk 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 did not 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 of it as soon as ever I could.'

'Well?'

'And Madame Lefevre brought me back my letter,—unopened, I will say; and told me that she did not 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 would not let it go; and I had to see her burn it, and to give her my promise I would not write again before she would consent not to tell mamma. So I had to calm down, and wait till I came home.'

'But you did not 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 could not 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 will give him up, and go off to some fresh life amongst strangers; and once or twice I have 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 does not care what he does so that 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 Cynthia were a little child.

'Oh, it is such a comfort to have told you all!' murmured she. 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 could not 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 fervour was over, she saw the difficulties clearly; and the foremost of all was how she was to manage to have a tete-a-tete 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 great 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 would 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 XLIV

MOLLY GIBSON TO THE RESCUE

It seemed curious 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 indifferent things, while Molly sate 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, excepting 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, and calculating the consequent inconveniences in her own mind, 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 meals 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 bed-room, 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 are 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; our 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 Helen's illness, or from 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 have 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 did venture 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 should 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 over 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.

'Is Cynthia unable to come?' asked he, perceiving that she expected him.

'I did not know you thought that you should meet her,' said Molly, a little surprised. In her simplicity she had believed that Cynthia had named that it was she, Molly Gibson, who would meet Mr. Preston at a given time and place; but Cynthia had been too worldly-wise for that, and had decoyed him thither by a vaguely worded note, which, while avoiding actual falsehood, had led him to believe that she herself would give him the meeting.

'She said she should be here,' said Mr. Preston, extremely annoyed at being entrapped as he now felt that he had been, into an interview with Miss Gibson. Molly hesitated a little before she spoke. He was determined not to break the silence; as she had intruded herself into the affair, she should find her situation as awkward as possible.

'At any rate she sent me here to meet you,' said Molly. 'She has told me exactly how matters stand between you and her.'

'Has she?' sneered he. 'She is not always the most open or reliable person in the world!'

Molly reddened. She perceived the impertinence of the tone; and her temper was none of the coolest. But she mastered herself and gained courage by so doing.

'You should not speak so of the person you profess to wish to have for your wife. But putting all that aside, you have some letters of hers that she wishes to have back again.'

'I dare say.'

'And that you have no right to keep.'

'No legal, or no moral right? which do you mean?'

'I do not know; simply you have no right at all, as a gentleman, to keep a girl's letters when she asks for them back again, much less to hold them over her as a threat.'

'I see you do know all, Miss Gibson,' said he, changing his manner to one of more respect. 'At least she has told you her story from her point of view, her side; now you must hear mine. She promised me as solemnly as ever woman—'

'She was not a woman, she was only a girl, barely sixteen.'

'Old enough to know what she was doing; but I'll call her a girl if you like. She promised me solemnly to be my wife, making the one stipulation of secrecy, and a certain period of waiting; she wrote me letters repeating this promise, and confidential enough to prove that she considered herself bound to me by such an implied relation. I don't give in to humbug—I don't set myself up as a saint—and in most ways I can look after my own interests pretty keenly; you know enough of her position as a penniless girl, and at that time, with no influential connections to take the place of wealth, and help me on in the world, it was as sincere and unworldly a passion as ever man felt; she must say so herself. I might have married two or three girls with plenty of money; one of them was handsome enough, and not at all reluctant.'

Molly interrupted him; she was chafed at the conceit of his manner. 'I beg your pardon, but I do not want to hear accounts of young ladies whom you might have married; I come here simply on behalf of Cynthia, who does not like you, and who does not wish to marry you.'

'Well, then I must make her "like" me, as you call it. She did "like" me once, and made promises which she will find it requires the consent of two people to break. I don't despair of making her love me as much as ever she did, according to her letters, at least, when we are married.'

'She will never marry you,' said Molly, firmly.

'Then if she ever honours any one else with her preference, he shall be allowed the perusal of her letters to me.'

Molly almost could have laughed; she was so secure and certain that Roger would never read letters offered to him under these circumstances; but then she thought that he would feel such pain at the whole affair, and at the contact with Mr. Preston, especially if he had not heard of it from Cynthia first, and if she, Molly, could save him pain she would. Before she could settle what to say, Mr Preston spoke again.

'You said the other day that Cynthia was engaged. May I ask whom to?'

'No,' said Molly, 'you may not. You heard her say it was not an engagement. It is not exactly; and if it were a full engagement, do you think, after what you last said, I should tell you to whom? But you may be sure of this, he would never read a line of your letters. He is too—No! I won't speak of him before you. You could never understand him.'

'It seems to me that this mysterious "he" is a very fortunate person to have such a warm defender in Miss Gibson, to whom he is not at all engaged,' said Mr. Preston, with so disagreeable a look on his face that Molly suddenly found herself on the point of bursting into tears. But she rallied herself, and worked on—for Cynthia first, and for Roger as well.

'No honourable man or woman will read your letters, and if any people do read them, they will be so much ashamed of it that they won't dare to speak of them. What use can they be of to you?'

'They contain Cynthia's reiterated promises of marriage,' replied he.

'She says she would rather leave Hollingford for ever, and go out to earn her bread, than marry you.'

His face fell a little. He looked so bitterly mortified that Molly was almost sorry for him.

'Does she say that to you in cold blood? Do you know you are telling me very hard truths, Miss Gibson?—if they are truths, that is to say,' he continued, recovering himself a little. 'Young ladies are very fond of the words "hate" and "detest." I have known many who have applied them to men whom they were all the time hoping to marry.'

'I cannot tell about other people,' said Molly, 'I only know that Cynthia does—' Here she hesitated for a moment; she fell for his pain, and so she hesitated; but then she brought it out,—'does as nearly hate you as anybody like her ever does hate.'

'Like her?' said he, repeating the words almost unconsciously, seizing on anything to try and hide his mortification.

'I mean, I should hate worse,' said Molly in a low voice.

But he did not attend much to her answer. He was working the point of his stick into the turf, and his eyes were bent on it.

'So now would you mind sending her back the letters by me? I do assure you that you cannot make her marry you.'

'You are very simple, Miss Gibson,' said he, suddenly lifting up his head. 'I suppose that you don't know that there is any other feeling that can be gratified, excepting love. Have you never heard of revenge? Cynthia had cajoled me with promises, and little as you or she may believe me—well, it's of no use speaking of that. I don't mean to let her go unpunished. You may tell her that. I shall keep the letters, and make use of them as I see fit when the occasion arises.'

Molly was miserably angry with herself for her mismanagement of the affair. She had hoped to succeed: she had only made matters worse. What new argument could she use? Meanwhile he went on, lashing himself up as he thought how the two girls must have talked him over, bringing in wounded vanity to add to the rage of disappointed love.

'Mr. Osborne Hamley may hear of their contents, though he may be too honourable to read them. Nay, even your father may hear whispers; and if I remember them rightly, Miss Cynthia Kirkpatrick does not always speak in the most respectful terms of the lady who is now Mrs Gibson. There are—'

'Stop,' said Molly. 'I won't hear anything out of these letters, written, when she was almost without friends, to you whom she looked upon as a friend! But I have thought of what I will do next. I give you fair warning. If I had not been foolish I should have told my father, but Cynthia made me promise that I would not. So I will tell it all, from beginning to end, to Lady Harriet, and ask her to speak to her father. I feel sure that she will do it; and I don't think you will dare to refuse Lord Cumnor.'

He felt at once that he should not dare; that, clever land-agent as he was, and high up in the earl's favour on that account, yet that the conduct of which he had been guilty about these letters, and the threats which he had held out about them, were just what no gentleman, no honourable man, no manly man, could put up with in any one about him. He knew that much, and he wondered how she, the girl standing before him, had been clever enough to find it out. He forgot himself for an instant in admiration of her. There she stood, frightened, yet brave, not letting go her hold on what she meant to do, even when things seemed most against her; and besides, there was something that struck him most of all perhaps, and which shows the kind of man he was—he perceived that Molly was as unconscious that he was a young man, and she a young woman, as if she had been a pure angel of heaven. Though he felt that he would have to yield, and give up the letters, he was not going to do it at once; and while he was thinking what to say so as still to evade making any concession till he had had time to think over it, he, with his quick senses all about him, heard the trotting of a horse cranching quickly along over the gravel of the drive. A moment afterwards, Molly's perception overtook his. He could see the startled look overspread her face; and in an instant she would have run away, but before the first rush was made, Mr. Preston laid his hand firmly on her arm.

'Keep quiet. You must be seen. You, at any rate, have done nothing to be ashamed of.'

As he spoke Mr. Sheepshanks came round the bend of the road and was close upon them. Mr. Preston saw, if Molly did not, the sudden look of intelligence that dawned upon the shrewd ruddy face of the old gentleman—saw, but did not much heed. He went forwards and spoke to Mr. Sheepshanks, who made a halt right before them.

'Miss Gibson! your servant! Rather a blustering day for a young lady to be out, and cold, I should say, for standing still too long; eh, Preston?' poking his whip at the latter in a knowing manner.

'Yes,' said Mr. Preston; 'and I'm afraid I have kept Miss Gibson too long standing.'

Molly did not know what to say or do; so she only bowed a silent farewell, and turned away to go home, feeling very heavy at heart at the non-success of her undertaking. For she did not know how she had conquered, in fact, although Mr. Preston might not as yet acknowledge it even to himself. Before she was out of hearing, she heard Mr Sheepshanks say,—

'Sorry to have disturbed your tete-a-tete, Preston,' but though she heard the words, their implied sense did not sink into her mind; she was only feeling how she had gone out glorious and confident, and was coming back to Cynthia defeated.

Cynthia was on the watch for her return, and, rushing downstairs, dragged Molly into the dining-room.

'Well, Molly? Oh! I see you have not got them. After all, I never expected it.' She sate down, as if she could get over her disappointment better in that position, and Molly stood like a guilty person before her.

'I am so sorry; I did all I could; we were interrupted at last—Mr Sheepshanks rode up.'

'Provoking old man! Do you think you should have persuaded him to give up the letters if you had had more time?'

'I don't know. I wish Mr. Sheepshanks had not come just then. I did not like his finding me standing talking to Mr. Preston.'

'Oh! I daresay he would never think anything about it. What did he—Mr. Preston—say?'

'He seemed to think you were fully engaged to him, and that these letters were the only proof he had. I think he loves you in his way.'

'His way, indeed!' said Cynthia, scornfully.

'The more I think of it, the more I see it would be better for papa to speak to him. I did say I would tell it all to Lady Harriet, and get Lord Cumnor to make him give up the letters. But it would be very awkward.'

'Very!' said Cynthia, gloomily. 'But he would see it was only a threat.'

'But I will do it in a moment, if you like. I meant what I said; only I feel that papa would manage it best of all, and more privately.'

'I'll tell you what, Molly; you're bound by a promise, you know, and cannot tell Mr. Gibson without breaking your solemn word; but it's just this. I'll leave Hollingford and never come back again, if ever your father hears of this affair; there!' Cynthia stood up now, and began to fold up Molly's shawl, in her nervous excitement.

'Oh, Cynthia—Roger!' was all that Molly said.

'Yes, I know! you need not remind me of him. But I'm not going to live in the house with any one who may be always casting up in his mind the things he had heard against me—things—faults, perhaps—which sound so much worse than they really are. I was so happy when I first came here: you all liked me, and admired me, and thought well of me, and now—Why, Molly, I can see the difference in you already. You carry your thoughts in your face—I have read them there these two days—you've been thinking, "How Cynthia must have deceived me; keeping up a correspondence all this time—having half-engagements to two men." You've been more full of that than of pity for me as a girl who has always been obliged to manage for herself, without any friend to help her and protect her.'

Molly was silent. There was a great deal of truth in what Cynthia was saying; and yet a great deal of falsehood. For, through all this long forty-eight hours, Molly had loved Cynthia dearly; and had been more weighed down by the position the latter was in than Cynthia herself. She also knew—but this was a second thought following on the other— that she had suffered much pain in trying to do her best in this interview with Mr. Preston. She had been tried beyond her strength; and the great tears welled up into her eyes, and fell slowly down her cheeks.

'Oh! what a brute I am,' said Cynthia, kissing them away. 'I see—I know it is the truth, and I deserve it—but I need not reproach you.'

'You did not reproach me!' said Molly, trying to smile. 'I have thought some of what you said—but I do love you dearly—dearly, Cynthia—I should have done just the same as you did.'

'No, you would not. Your grain is different, somehow.'



CHAPTER XLV

CONFIDENCES

All the rest of that day Molly was depressed and not well. Having anything to conceal was so unusual—almost so unprecedented a circumstance with her that it preyed upon her in every way.

It was a nightmare that she could not shake off; she did so wish to forget it all, and yet every little occurrence seemed to remind her of it. The next morning's post brought several letters; one from Roger for Cynthia, and Molly, letterless herself, looked at Cynthia as she read it, with wistful sadness; it appeared to Molly as though Cynthia should have no satisfaction in these letters, until she had told him what was her exact position with Mr. Preston; yet Cynthia was colouring and dimpling up as she always did at any pretty words of praise, or admiration, or love. But Molly's thoughts and Cynthia's reading were both interrupted by a little triumphant sound from Mrs. Gibson, as she pushed a letter she had just received to her husband, with a,—

'There! I must say I expected that!' Then, turning to Cynthia, she explained,—'It is a letter from uncle Kirkpatrick, love. So kind, wishing you to go and stay with them, and help them to cheer up Helen; poor Helen! I am afraid she is very far from well. But we could not have had her here, without disturbing dear papa in his consulting-room; and, though I could have relinquished my dressing-room—he—well! so I said in my letter how you were grieved—you above all of us, because you are such a friend of Helen's, you know—and how you longed to be of use,—as I am sure you do—and so now they want you to go up directly, for Helen has quite set her heart upon it.'

Cynthia's eyes sparkled. 'I shall like going,' said she,—'all but leaving you, Molly,' she added, in a lower tone, as if suddenly smitten with some compunction.

'Can you be ready to go up by the "Bang-up" to-night?' said Mr Gibson, 'for, curiously enough, after more than twenty years of quiet practice at Hollingford, I am summoned up to-day for the first time to a consultation in London, to-morrow. I am afraid Lady Cumnor is worse, my dear.'

'You don't say so? Poor dear lady! What a shock it is to me. I'm so glad I've had some breakfast. I could not have eaten anything.'

'Nay, I only say she is worse. With her complaint, being worse may be only a preliminary to being better. Don't take my words for more than their literal meaning.'

'Thank you. How kind and reassuring dear papa always is. About your gowns, Cynthia?'

'Oh, they are all right, mamma, thank you. I shall be quite ready by four o'clock. Molly, will you come with me and help me to pack? I wanted to speak to you, dear,' said she, as soon as they had gone upstairs. 'It is such a relief to get away from a place haunted by that man; but I'm afraid you thought I was glad to leave you; and indeed I am not.' There was a little flavour of 'protesting too much' about this; but Molly did not perceive it. She only said, 'Indeed I did not. I know from my own feelings how you must dislike meeting a man in public in a different manner from what you have done in private. I shall try not to see Mr. Preston again for a long, long time, I'm sure. And Helen Kirkpatrick—But Cynthia, you have not told me one word out of Roger's letter. Please how is he? Has he quite got over his attack of fever?'

'Yes, quite. He writes in very good spirits. A great deal about birds and beasts, as usual, and habits of natives, and things of that kind. You may read from there'—indicating a place in the letter—'to there, if you can; and I'll tell you what, I'll trust you with it, Molly, while I pack (and that shows my sense of your honour, not but what you might read it all, only you'd find the love-making dull); but make a little account of where he is, and what he is doing, date, and that sort of thing, and send it to his father.'

Molly took the letter down without a word, and began to copy it at the writing-table; often reading over what she was allowed to read; often pausing, her cheek on her hand, her eyes on the letter, and letting her imagination rove to the writer, and all the scenes in which she had either seen him herself, or in which her fancy had painted him. She was startled from her meditations by Cynthia's sudden entrance into the drawing-room, looking the picture of glowing delight. 'No one here! What a blessing! Ah, Miss Molly, you are more eloquent than you believe yourself. Look here!' holding up a large full envelope, and then quickly replacing it in her pocket, as if she was afraid of being seen. 'What's the matter, sweet one?' coming up and caressing Molly. 'Is it worrying itself over that letter? Why, don't you see these are my very own horrible letters, that I am going to burn directly, that Mr. Preston has had the grace to send me, thanks to you, little Molly— cuishla ma chree, pulse of my heart,—the letters that have been hanging over my head like somebody's sword for these two years?'

'Oh, I am so glad!' said Molly, rousing up a little. 'I never thought he would have sent them. He is better than I believed him. And now it is all over. I am so glad. You quite think he means to give up all claim over you by this, don't you, Cynthia?'

'He may claim, but I won't be claimed; and he has no proofs now. It is the most charming relief; and I owe it all to you, you precious little lady! Now there is only one thing more to be done; and if you would but do it for me—?' (coaxing and caressing while she asked the question).

'Oh, Cynthia, don't ask me; I cannot do any more. You don't know how sick I go when I think of yesterday, and Mr. Sheepshanks' look.'

'It is only a very little thing. I won't burden your conscience with telling you how I get my letters, but it is not through a person I can trust with money; and I must force him to take back his twenty-three pounds odd shillings. I have put it together at the rate of five per cent., and it's sealed up. Oh, Molly, I should go off with such a light heart if you would only try to get it safely to him. It's the last thing; there would be no immediate hurry, you know. You might meet him by chance in a shop, in the street, even at a party—and if you only had it with you in your pocket, there would be nothing so easy.'

Molly was silent. 'Papa would give it to him. There would be no harm in that. I would tell him he must ask no questions as to what it was.'

'Very well,' said Cynthia, 'have it your own way. I think my way is the best; for if any of this affair comes out—But you've done a great deal for me already, and I won't blame you now for declining to do any more!'

'I do so dislike having these underhand dealings with him,' pleaded Molly.

'Underhand! just simply giving him a letter from me! If I left a note for Miss Browning, should you dislike giving it to her?'

'You know that's very different. I could do it openly.'

'And yet there might be writing in that; and there would not be a line with the money. It would only be the winding-up—the honourable, honest winding-up of an affair which has worried me for years! But do as you like!'

'Give it me!' said Molly. 'I will try.'

'There's a darling! You can but try; and if you can't give it to him in private, without getting yourself into a scrape, why, keep it till I come back again. He shall have it then, whether he will or no!'

Molly looked forward to her tete-a-tete two days with Mrs. Gibson with very different anticipations to those with which she had welcomed the similar intercourse with her father. In the first place, there was no accompanying the travellers to the inn from which the coach started; leave-taking in the market-place was quite out of the bounds of Mrs. Gibson's sense of propriety. Besides this, it was a gloomy, rainy evening, and candles had to be brought in at an unusually early hour. There would be no break for six hours—no music, no reading; but the two ladies would sit at their worsted work, pattering away at small- talk, with not even the usual break of dinner; for, to suit the requirements of those who were leaving, they had already dined early. But Mrs. Gibson really meant to make Molly happy, and tried to be an agreeable companion, only Molly was not well, and uneasy about many apprehended cares and troubles—and at such hours of indisposition as she was then passing through, apprehensions take the shape of certainties, lying await in our paths. Molly would have given a good deal to have shaken off all these feelings, unusual enough to her; but the very house and furniture, and rain-blurred outer landscape, seemed steeped with unpleasant associations, most of them dating from the last few days.

'You and I must go on the next journey, I think, my dear,' said Mrs Gibson, almost chiming in with Molly's wish that she could get away from Hollingford into some new air and life, for a week or two. 'We have been stay-at-homes for a long time, and variety of scene is so desirable for the young! But I think the travellers will be wishing themselves at home by this nice bright fireside. "There's no place like home," as the poet says.' "Mid pleasures and palaces although I may roam," it begins, and it's both very pretty and very true. It's a great blessing to have such a dear little home as this, is not it, Molly?'