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.’