Wives and Daughters (82 page)

‘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.

‘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.’

A
ll 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 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 to-morrow. I’m afraid Lady Cumnor is worse, my dear.’