But Molly had had some experience of Cynthia’s whim of perpetually hinting at a mystery which she did not mean to reveal, in the Mr. Preston days, and, although she was occasionally piqued into curiosity, Cynthia’s allusions at something more in the background fell in general on rather deaf ears. One day the mystery burst its shell, and came out in the shape of an offer made to Cynthia by Mr. Henderson—and refused. Under all the circumstances, Molly could not appreciate the heroic goodness so often alluded to. The revelation of the secret at last took place in this way. Mrs. Gibson breakfasted in bed; she had done so ever since she had had the influenza; and, consequently, her own private letters always went up on her breakfast-tray. One morning she came into the drawing-room earlier than usual, with an open letter in her hand.
‘I’ve had a letter from aunt Kirkpatrick, Cynthia. She sends me my dividends, 1—your uncle is so busy. But what does she mean by this, Cynthia?’ (holding out the letter to her, with a certain paragraph indicated by her finger.) Cynthia put her netting on one side, and looked at the writing. Suddenly her face turned scarlet, and then became of a deadly white. She looked at Molly, as if to gain courage from the strong serene countenance.
‘It means—mamma, I may as well tell you at once—Mr. Henderson offered to me while I was in London, and I refused him.’
‘Refused him—and you never told me, but let me hear it by chance! Really, Cynthia, I think you’re very unkind. And pray what made you refuse Mr. Henderson? Such a fine young man—and such a gentleman! Your uncle told me he had a very good private fortune besides.’
‘Mamma, do you forget that I have promised to marry Roger Hamley?’ said Cynthia quietly.
‘No! of course I don’t—how can I, with Molly always dinning the word “engagement” into my ears? But really, when one considers all the uncertainties,—and after all it was not a distinct promise, —he seemed almost as if he might have looked forward to something of this sort.’
‘Of what sort, mamma?’ said Cynthia sharply.
‘Why, of a more eligible offer. He must have known you might change your mind, and meet with some one you liked better: so little as you had seen of the world.’ Cynthia made an impatient movement, as if to stop her mother.
‘I never said I liked him better,—how can you talk so, mamma? I’m going to marry Roger, and there’s an end of it. I will not be spoken to about it again.’ She got up and left the room.
‘Going to marry Roger! That’s all very fine. But who is to guarantee his coming back alive! And if he does, what have they to marry upon, I should like to know? I don’t wish her to have accepted Mr. Henderson, though I am sure she liked him; and true love ought to have its course, and not be thwarted; but she need not have quite finally refused him until—well, until we had seen how matters turn out. Such an invalid as I am, too! It has given me quite a palpitation at the heart. I do call it quite unfeeling of Cynthia.’
‘Certainly,’—began Molly; but then she remembered that her stepmother was far from strong, and unable to bear a protest in favour of the right course without irritation. So she changed her speech into a suggestion of remedies for palpitation; and curbed her impatience to speak out her indignation at the contemplated falsehood to Roger. But when they were alone, and Cynthia began upon the subject, Molly was less merciful. Cynthia said,—
‘Well, Molly, and now you know all! I’ve been longing to tell you—and yet somehow I could not.’
‘I suppose it was a repetition of Mr. Coxe?’ said Molly, gravely. ‘You were agreeable,—and he took it for something more.’
‘I don’t know,’ sighed Cynthia. ‘I mean I don’t know if I was agreeable or not. He was very kind—very pleasant—but I didn’t expect it all to end as it did. However, it’s of no use thinking of it.’
‘No!’ said Molly, simply; for to her mind the pleasantest and kindest person in the world put in comparison with Roger was as nothing; he stood by himself Cynthia’s next words—and they did not come very soon—were on quite a different subject, and spoken in rather a pettish tone. Nor did she allude again in jesting sadness to her late efforts at virtue.
In a little while Mrs. Gibson was able to accept the often-repeated invitation from the Towers to go and stay there for a day or two. Lady Harriet told her that it would be a kindness to Lady Cumnor, to come and bear her company in the life of seclusion the latter was still compelled to lead; and Mrs. Gibson was flattered and gratified with a dim unconscious sense of being really wanted, not merely deluding herself into a pleasing fiction. Lady Cumnor was in that state of convalescence common to many invalids. The spring of life had begun again to flow, and with the flow returned the old desires and projects and plans, which had all become mere matters of indifference during the worst part of her illness. But as yet her bodily strength was not sufficient to be an agent to her energetic mind, and the difficulty of driving the ill-matched pair of body and will—the one weak and languid, the other strong and stern,—made her ladyship often very irritable. Mrs. Gibson herself was not quite strong enough for a ‘souffre-douleur’;dy and the visit to the Towers was not, on the whole, quite so happy a one as she had anticipated. Lady Cuxhaven and Lady Harriet, each aware of their mother’s state of health and temper, but only alluding to it as slightly as was absolutely necessary in their conversations with each other, took care not to leave ‘Clare’ too long with Lady Cumnor; but several times when one or the other went to relieve guard they found Clare in tears, and Lady Cumnor holding forth on some point on which she had been meditating during the silent hours of her illness, and on which she seemed to consider herself born to set the world to rights. Mrs. Gibson was always apt to consider these remarks as addressed with a personal direction at some error of her own, and defended the fault in question with a sense of property in it, whatever it might happen to be. The second and the last day of her stay at the Towers, Lady Harriet came in, and found her mother haranguing in an excited tone of voice, and Clare looking submissive and miserable and oppressed.
‘What’s the matter, dear mamma? Are not you tiring yourself with talking?’
‘No, not at all! I was only speaking of the folly of people dressing above their station. I began by telling Clare of the fashions of my grandmother’s days, when every class had a sort of costume of its own—and servants did not ape tradespeople, nor tradespeople professional men, and so on,—and what must the foolish woman do but begin to justify her own dress, as if I had been accusing her, or even thinking about her at all. Such nonsense! Really, Clare, your husband has spoilt you sadly, if you can’t listen to any one without thinking they are alluding to you. People may flatter themselves just as much by thinking that their faults are always present to other people’s minds as if they believe that the world is always contemplating their individual charms and virtues.’
‘I was told, Lady Cumnor, that this silk was reduced in price. I bought it at Waterloo House after the season was over,’ said Mrs. Gibson, touching the very handsome gown she wore, in deprecation of Lady Cumnor’s angry voice, and blundering on to the very source of irritation.
‘Again, Clare! How often must I tell you I had no thought of you or your gowns, or whether they cost much or little; your husband has to pay for them, and it is his concern if you spend more on your dress than you ought to do.’
‘It was only five guineas for the whole dress,’ pleaded Mrs. Gibson.
‘And very pretty it is,’ said Lady Harriet, stooping to examine it, and so hoping to soothe the poor aggrieved woman. But Lady Cumnor went on:
‘No! you ought to have known me better by this time. When I think a thing I say it out. I don’t beat about the bush. I use straightforward language. I will tell you where I think you have been in fault, Clare, if you like to know.’ Like it or not, the plain-speaking was coming now. ‘You have spoilt that girl of yours till she does not know her own mind. She has behaved abominably to Mr. Preston; and it is all in consequence of the faults in her education. You have much to answer for.’