‘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, 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 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 connexions 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. I don’t despair of making her love me as much as ever she did, according to her letters, at least, when we are married.’
‘She will never marry you,’ said Molly, firmly.
‘Then if she ever honours any one else with her preference, he shall be allowed the perusal of her letters to me.’
Molly almost could have laughed, she was so secure and certain that Roger would never read letters offered to him under these circumstances; but then she thought that he would feel such pain at the whole affair, and at the contact with Mr. Preston, especially if he had not heard of it from Cynthia first; and if she, Molly, could save him pain she would. Before she could settle what to say, Mr. Preston spoke again.
‘You said the other day that Cynthia was engaged. May I ask whom to?’
‘No,’ said Molly, ‘you may not. You heard her say it was not an engagement. It is not exactly; and if it were a full engagement, do you think, after what you last said, I should tell you to whom? But you may be sure of this, he would never read a line of your letters. He is too———No! I won’t speak of him before you. You could never understand him.’
‘It seems to me that this mysterious “he” is a very fortunate person to have such a warm defender in Miss Gibson, to whom he is not at all engaged,’ said Mr. Preston, with so disagreeable a look on his face that Molly suddenly found herself on the point of bursting into tears. But she rallied herself, and worked on—for Cynthia first, and for Roger as well.
‘No honourable man or woman will read your letters, and if any people do read them, they will be so much ashamed of it that they won’t dare to speak of them. What use can they be of to you?’
‘They contain Cynthia’s reiterated promises of marriage,’ replied he.
‘She says she would rather leave Hollingford for ever, and go out to earn her bread, than marry you.’
His face fell a little. He looked so bitterly mortified, that Molly was almost sorry for him.
‘Does she say that to you in cold blood? Do you know you are telling me very hard truths, Miss Gibson? If they are truths, that is to say,’ he continued, recovering himself a little. ‘Young ladies are very fond of the words “hate” and “detest.” I’ve known many who have applied them to men whom they were all the time hoping to marry.’
‘I cannot tell about other people,’ said Molly; ‘I only know that Cynthia does—’ Here she hesitated for a moment; she felt for his pain, and so she hesitated; but then she brought it out—‘does as nearly hate you as anybody like her ever does hate.’
‘Like her?’ said he, repeating the words almost unconsciously, seizing on anything to try and hide his mortification.
‘I mean, I should hate worse,’ said Molly, in a low voice.
But he did not attend much to her answer. He was working the point of his stick into the turf, and his eyes were bent on it.
‘So now would you mind sending her back the letters by me? I do assure you that you cannot make her marry you.’
‘You are very simple, Miss Gibson,’ said he, suddenly lifting up his head. ‘I suppose you don’t know that there is any other feeling that can be gratified, excepting love. Have you never heard of revenge? Cynthia has cajoled me with promises, and little as you or she may believe me—well, it’s no use speaking of that. I don’t mean to let her go unpunished. You may tell her that. I shall keep the letters, and make use of them as I see fit when the occasion arises.’
Molly was miserably angry with herself for her mismanagement of the affair. She had hoped to succeed: she had only made matters worse. What new argument could she use? Meanwhile he went on, lashing himself up as he thought how the two girls must have talked him over, bringing in wounded vanity to add to the rage of disappointed love.