Part 73 (1/2)
”Ah! But that's just the thing. He knows I'm afraid of your father's hearing of it all, more than of any one else.”
”And yet he thinks he loves you!”
”It is his way of loving. He says often enough he doesn't care what he does so 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 Cynthia.
And Molly made reply,--”I am sure we have right on our side; and that makes me certain he must and shall give up the letters.”
”And take the money?” added Cynthia, lifting her head, and looking eagerly into Molly's face. ”He must take the money. Oh, Molly, you can never manage it all without its coming out to your father! And I would far rather go out to Russia as a governess. I almost think I would rather--no, not that,” said she, shuddering away from what she was going to say. ”But he must not know--please, Molly, he must not know. I couldn't bear it. I don't know what I might not do. You'll promise me never to tell him,--or mamma?”
”I never will. You do not think I would for anything short of saving--” She was going to have said, ”saving you and Roger from pain.” But Cynthia broke in,--
”For nothing. No reason whatever must make you tell your father. If you fail, you fail, and I will love you for ever for trying; but I shall be no worse off 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 s.h.i.+vering 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 pa.s.s, 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 an interview with Mr. Preston. How had Cynthia managed? and the letters that had pa.s.sed 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 might be led into the practice. But she would try and walk in a straight path; and if she did wander out of it, it should only be to save pain to those whom she loved.
CHAPTER 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, except when the place is surrounded by trees. Now our house is well drained, high up, gravel-soil, and I'll undertake to doctor her for nothing.”
”It would be charming,” said Mrs. Gibson, rapidly revolving in her mind the changes necessary in her household economy before receiving a young lady accustomed to such a household as Mr.
Kirkpatrick's,--calculating the consequent inconveniences, and weighing them against the probable advantages, even while she spoke.
”Should not you like it, Cynthia? and Molly too? You then, 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 shouldn't 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 bedroom, and the little room opening out of the drawing-room for her sitting-room?” asked Mr.
Gibson.
”The library,” for by this name Mrs. Gibson chose to dignify what had formerly been called the book-closet--”why, it would hardly hold a sofa, besides the books and the writing-table; and there are draughts everywhere. No, my dear, we had better not ask her at all, her own home is comfortable at any rate!”
”Well, well!” said Mr. Gibson, seeing that he was to be worsted, and not caring enough about the matter to show fight. ”Perhaps you're right. It's a case of luxury _versus_ fresh air. Some people suffer more from want of the 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.