CHAPTER 43
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 scrape 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 dare say 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.’
‘Yes! I’ll promise not to tell. You should not have doubted me,’ said Molly, still a little sorrowfully.
‘Very well. I trust to you. I know I may.’
‘But do you think of telling papa, and getting him to help you,’ persevered Molly.
‘Never,’ said Cynthia, resolutely, but more quietly than before. ‘Do you think I forget what he said at the time of that wretched Mr. Coxe; how severe he was, and how long I was in disgrace, if indeed I’m out of it now? I am one of those people, as mamma says sometimes—I cannot live with persons who don’t think well of me. It may be a weakness, or a sin—I’m sure I don’t know, and I don’t care; but I really cannot be happy in the same house with any one who knows my faults, and thinks they are greater than my merits. Now you know your father would do that. I have often told you that he (and you too, Molly) had a higher standard than I had ever known. Oh, I could not bear it; if he were to know he would be so angry with me—he would never get over it, and I have so liked him! I do so like him!’
‘Well, never mind, dear; he shall not know,’ said Molly, for Cynthia was again becoming hysterical—‘at least, we’ll say no more about it now.’
‘And you’ll never say any more—never—promise me,’ said Cynthia, taking her hand eagerly.
‘Never till you give me leave. Now do let me see if I cannot help you. Lie down on the bed, and I’ll sit by you, and let us talk it over.’
But Cynthia sat down again in the chair by the dressing-table.
‘When did it all begin?’ said Molly, after a long pause of silence.
‘Long ago—four or five years. I was such a child to be left all to myself It was the holidays, and mamma was away visiting, and the Donaldsons asked me to go with them to the Worcester Festival. You can’t fancy how pleasant it all sounded, especially to me. I had been shut up in that great dreary house at Ashcombe, where mamma had her school; it belonged to Lord Cumnor, and Mr. Preston as his agent had to see it all painted and papered; but, besides that, he was very intimate with us; I believe mamma thought—no, I’m not sure about that, and I have enough blame to lay at her door to prevent my telling you anything that may be only fancy—’
Then she paused and sat still for a minute or two, recalling the past. Molly was struck by the aged and careworn expression which had taken temporary hold of the brilliant and beautiful face; she could see from that how much Cynthia must have suffered from this hidden trouble of hers.
‘Well! at any rate we were intimate with him, and he came a great deal about the house, and knew as much as any one of mamma’s affairs, and all the ins and outs of her life. I’m telling you that in order that you may understand how natural it was for me to answer his questions, when he came one day and found me, not crying, for you know I’m not much given to that, in spite of to-day’s exposure of myself; but fretting and fuming because, though mamma had written word I might go with the Donaldsons, she had never said how I was to get any money for the journey, much less for anything of dress, and I had outgrown all my last year’s frocks, and as for gloves and boots—in short, I really had hardly clothes decent enough for church—’