‘Mr. Osborne Hamley may hear of their contents, though he may be too honourable to read them. Nay, even your father may hear whispers; and if I remember them rightly, Miss Cynthia Kirkpatrick does not always speak in the most respectful terms of the lady who is now Mrs. Gibson. There are—’
‘Stop,’ said Molly. ‘I won’t hear anything out of these letters, written, when she was almost without friends, to you, whom she looked upon as a friend! But I have thought of what I will do next. I give you fair warning. If I had not been foolish, I should have told my father, but Cynthia made me promise that I would not. So I will tell it all, from beginning to end, to Lady Harriet, and ask her to speak to her father. I feel sure that she will do it; and I don’t think you will dare to refuse Lord Cumnor.’
He felt at once that he should not dare; that, clever land-agent as he was, and high up in the earl’s favour on that account, yet that the conduct of which he had been guilty in regard to the letters, and the threats which he had held out respecting them, were just what no gentleman, no honourable man, no manly man, could put up with in any one about him. He knew that much, and he wondered how she, the girl standing before him, had been clever enough to find it out. He forgot himself for an instant in admiration of her. There she stood, frightened, yet brave, not letting go her hold on what she meant to do, even when things seemed most against her; and besides, there was something that struck him most of all perhaps, and which shows the kind of man he was—he perceived that Molly was as unconscious that he was a young man, and she a young woman, as if she had been a pure angel of heaven. Though he felt that he would have to yield, and give up the letters, he was not going to do it at once; and while he was thinking what to say, so as still to evade making any concession till he had had time to think over it, he, with his quick senses all about him, heard the trotting of a horse crunching quickly along over the gravel of the drive. A moment afterwards, Molly’s perception overtook his. He could see the startled look overspread her face; and in an instant she would have run away, but before the first rush was made, Mr. Preston laid his hand firmly on her arm.
‘Keep quiet. You must be seen. You, at any rate, have done nothing to be ashamed of.’
As he spoke, Mr. Sheepshanks came round the bend of the road and was close upon them. Mr. Preston saw, if Molly did not, the sudden look of intelligence that dawned upon the shrewd ruddy face of the old gentleman—saw, but did not much heed. He went forwards and spoke to Mr. Sheepshanks, who made a halt right before them.
‘Miss Gibson! your servant. Rather a blustering day for a young lady to be out—and cold, I should say, for standing still too long; eh, Preston?’ poking his whip at the latter in a knowing manner.
‘Yes,’ said Mr. Preston; ‘and I’m afraid I’ve kept Miss Gibson too long standing.’
Molly did not know what to say or do; so she only bowed a silent farewell, and turned away to go home, feeling very heavy at heart at the non-success of her undertaking. For she did not know how she had conquered, in fact, although Mr. Preston might not as yet acknowledge it even to himself Before she was out of hearing, she heard Mr. Sheepshanks say,—
‘Sorry to have disturbed your tête-à-tête, Preston,’ but though she heard the words, their implied sense did not sink into her mind; she was only feeling how she had gone out glorious and confident, and was coming back to Cynthia defeated.
Cynthia was on the watch for her return, and, rushing downstairs, dragged Molly into the dining-room.
‘Well, Molly? Oh! I see you haven’t got them. After all, I never expected it.’ She sat down, as if she could get over her disappointment better in that position, and Molly stood like a guilty person before her.
‘I am so sorry; I did all I could; we were interrupted at last—Mr. Sheepshanks rode up.’
‘Provoking old man! Do you think you should have persuaded him to give up the letters if you had had more time?’
‘I don’t know. I wish Mr. Sheepshanks hadn’t come up just then. I didn’t like his finding me standing talking to Mr. Preston.’
‘Oh! I dare say he’d never think anything about it. What did he—Mr. Preston—say?’
‘He seemed to think you were fully engaged to him, and that these letters were the only proof he had. I think he loves you in his way.’
‘His way, indeed!’ said Cynthia, scornfully.
‘The more I think of it, the more I see it would be better for papa to speak to him. I did say I would tell it all to Lady Harriet, and get Lord Cumnor to make him give up the letters. But it would be very awkward.’
‘Very!’ said Cynthia, gloomily. ‘But he would see it was only a threat.’
‘But I will do it in a moment, if you like. I meant what I said; only I feel that papa would manage it best of all, and more privately.’
‘I’ll tell you what, Molly, you’re bound by a promise, you know, and cannot tell Mr. Gibson without breaking your solemn word, but it’s just this: I’ll leave Hollingford and never come back again, if ever your father hears of this affair; there!’ Cynthia stood up now, and began to fold up Molly’s shawl, in her nervous excitement.
‘Oh, Cynthia—Roger!’ was all that Molly said.
‘Yes, I know! you need not remind me of him. But I’m not going to live in the house with any one who may be always casting up in his mind the things he had heard against me—things—faults, perhaps—which sound so much worse than they really are. I was so happy when I first came here; you all liked me, and admired me, and thought well of me, and now———Why, Molly, I can see the difference in you already. You carry your thoughts in your face—I have read them there these two days—you’ve been thinking, “How Cynthia must have deceived me; keeping up a correspondence all this time—having half-engagements to two men.” You’ve been more full of that, than of pity for me as a girl who has always been obliged to manage for herself, without any friend to help her and protect her.’
Molly was silent. There was a great deal of truth in what Cynthia was saying: and yet a great deal of falsehood. For, through all this long forty-eight hours, Molly had loved Cynthia dearly; and had been more weighed down by the position the latter was in than Cynthia herself She also knew—but this was a second thought following on the other—that she had suffered much pain in trying to do her best in this interview with Mr. Preston. She had been tried beyond her strength: and the great tears welled up into her eyes, and fell slowly down her cheeks.
‘Oh! what a brute I am!’ said Cynthia, kissing them away. ‘I see—I know it is the truth, and I deserve it—but I need not reproach you.’
‘You did not reproach me!’ said Molly, trying to smile. ‘I have thought something of what you said—but I do love you dearly—dearly, Cynthia—I should have done just the same as you did.’
‘No, you would not. Your grain is different, somehow.’
CHAPTER 45
Confidences
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—