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 today for the first time to a consultation in London, tomorrow. 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?’
‘Yes,’ said Molly, rather drearily, having something of the ‘Toujours perdrix’ feeling at the moment. If she could but have gone away with her father, just for two days, how pleasant it would have been.
‘To be sure, love, it would be very nice for you and me to go a little journey all by ourselves. You and I. No one else. If it were not such miserable weather we would have gone off on a little impromptu tour. I’ve been longing for something of the kind for some weeks; but we live such a restricted kind of life here! I declare sometimes I get quite sick of the very sight of the chairs and tables that I know so well. And one misses the others too! It seems so flat and deserted without them!’
‘Yes! We are very forlorn to-night; but I think it’s partly owing to the weather!’
‘Nonsense, dear. I can’t have you giving in to the silly fancy of being affected by weather. Poor dear Mr. Kirkpatrick used to say, “a cheerful heart makes its own sunshine.” He wou............