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. ............