Part 71 (2/2)
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, vanis.h.i.+ng 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'll tell you all. I know you'll blame me terribly, but I will tell you all.”
So Molly did not say another word till they reached home; and then, comparatively at ease, inasmuch as no one perceived how late 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 had been 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 by themselves. 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 Cynthia was one of those natural coquettes, who, from their cradle to their grave, 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, but 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 from usual. And yet what a hidden mystery did her calmness hide!
thought Molly. At length came bed-time, and the customary little speeches. Both Molly and Cynthia went to their own rooms without exchanging a word. When Molly was in hers she had forgotten whether 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 sat 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 had come 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 sc.r.a.pe 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 daresay 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 am 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.”
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