THE STORM BURSTS.
The autumn drifted away through all its seasons. The golden
corn-harvest, the walks through the stubble-fields, and rambles into
hazel-copses in search of nuts; the stripping of the apple-orchards
of their ruddy fruit, amid the joyous cries and shouts of watching
children; and the gorgeous tulip-like colouring of the later time had
now come on with the shortening days. There was comparative silence
in the land, excepting for the distant shots, and the whirr of the
partridges as they rose up from the field.
Ever since Miss Browning's unlucky conversation, things had been
ajar in the Gibsons' house. Cynthia seemed to keep every one out at
(mental) arms'-length; and particularly avoided any private talks
with Molly. Mrs. Gibson, still cherishing a grudge against Miss
Browning for her implied accusation of not looking enough after
Molly, chose to exercise a most wearying supervision over the poor
girl. It was, "Where have you been, child?" "Who did you see?" "Who
was that letter from?" "Why were you so long out when you had only
to go to so-and-so?" just as if Molly had really been detected in
carrying on some underhand intercourse. She answered every question
asked of her with the simple truthfulness of perfect innocence;
but the inquiries (although she read their motive, and knew that
they arose from no especial suspicion of her conduct, but only that
Mrs. Gibson might be able to say that she looked well after her
stepdaughter) chafed her inexpressibly. Very often she did not go out
at all, sooner than have to give a plan of her intended proceedings,
when perhaps she had no plan at all,--only thought of wandering out
at her own sweet will, and of taking pleasure in the bright solemn
fading of the year. It was a very heavy time for Molly,--zest and
life had fled, and left so many of the old delights mere shells of
seeming. She thought it was that her youth had fled; at nineteen!
Cynthia was no longer the same, somehow: and perhaps Cynthia's change
would injure her in the distant Roger's opinion. Her stepmother
seemed almost kind in comparison with Cynthia's withdrawal of her
heart; Mrs. Gibson worried her, to be sure, with all these forms of
watching over her; but in all her other ways, she, at any rate, was
the same. Yet Cynthia herself seemed anxious and care-worn, though
she would not speak of her anxieties to Molly. And then the poor girl
in her goodness would blame herself for feeling Cynthia's change of
manner; for as Molly said to herself, "If it is hard work for me to
help always fretting after Roger, and wondering where he is, and how
he is, what must it be for her?"
One day Mr. Gibson came in, bright and swift.
"Molly," said he, "where's Cynthia?"
"Gone out to do some errands--"
"Well, it's a pity--but never mind. Put on your bonnet and cloak as
fast as you can. I've had to borrow old Simpson's dog-cart,--there
would have been room both for you and Cynthia; but as it is, you must
walk back alone. I'll drive you as far on the Barford Road as I can,
and then you must jump down. I can't take you on to Broadhurst's, I
may be kept there for hours."
Mrs. Gibson was out of the room; out of the house it might be, for
all Molly cared, now she had her father's leave and command. Her
bonnet and cloak were on in two minutes, and she was sitting by her
father's side, the back seat shut up, and the light weight going
swiftly and merrily bumping over the stone-paved lanes.
"Oh, this is charming!" said Molly, after a toss-up on her seat from
a tremendous bump.
"For youth, but not for crabbed age," said Mr. Gibson. "My bones are
getting rheumatic, and would rather go smoothly over macadamized
streets."
"That's treason to this lovely view and this fine pure air, papa.
Only I don't believe you."
"Thank you. As you are so complimentary, I think I shall put you down
at the foot of this hill; we've passed the second mile-stone from
Hollingford."
"Oh, let me just go up to the top! I know we can see the blue range
of the Malverns from it, and Dorrimer Hall among the woods; the horse
will want a minute's rest, and then I will get down without a word."
So she went up to the top of the hill; and there they sate still a
minute or two, enjoying the view, without much speaking. The woods
were golden; the old house of purple-red brick, with its twisted
chimneys, rose up from among them facing on to green lawns, and a
placid lake; beyond again were the Malvern Hills.
"Now jump down, lassie, and make the best of your way home before it
gets dark. You'll find the cut over Croston Heath shorter than the
road we've come by."
To get to Croston Heath, Molly had to go down a narrow lane
overshadowed by trees, with picturesque old cottages dotted here and
there on the steep sandy banks; and then there came a small wood,
and then there was a brook to be crossed on a plank-bridge, and up
the steeper fields on the opposite side were cut steps in the turfy
path; these ended, she was on Croston Heath, a wide-stretching
common skirted by labourers' dwellings, past which a near road to
Hollingford lay.
The loneliest part of the road was the first--the lane, the wood,
the little bridge, and the clambering through the upland fields. But
Molly cared little for loneliness. She went along the lane under the
over-arching elm-branches, from which, here and there, a yellow leaf
came floating down upon her very dress; past the last cottage where
a little child had tumbled down the sloping bank, and was publishing
the accident with frightened cries. Molly stooped to pick it up, and
taking it in her arms in a manner which caused intense surprise to
take the place of alarm in its little breast, she carried it up the
rough flag steps towards the cottage which she supposed to be its
home. The mother came running in from the garden behind the house,
still holding the late damsons she had been gathering in her apron;
but, on seeing her, the little creature held out its arms to go to
her, and she dropped her damsons all about as she took it, and began
to soothe it as it cried afresh, interspersing her lulling with
thanks to Molly. She called her by her name; and on Molly asking the
woman how she came to know it, she replied that before her marriage
she had been a servant of Mrs. Goodenough, and so was "bound to
know Dr. Gibson's daughter by sight." After the exchange of two or
three more words, Molly ran down into the lane, and pursued her way,
stopping here and there to gather a nosegay of such leaves as struck
her for their brilliant colouring. She entered the wood. As she
turned a corner in the lonely path, she heard a passionate voice of
distress; and in an instant she recognized Cynthia's tones. She stood
still and looked around. There were some thick holly-bushes shining
out dark green in the midst of the amber and scarlet foliage. If
any one was there, it must be behind these thick bushes. So Molly
left the path, and went straight, plunging through the brown tangled
growth of ferns and underwood, and turned the holly bushes. There
stood Mr. Preston and Cynthia; he holding her hands tight, each
looking as if just silenced in some vehement talk by the rustle of
Molly's footsteps.
[Illustration: THERE STOOD MR. PRESTON AND CYNTHIA.]
For an instant no one spoke. Then Cynthia said,--
"Oh, Molly, Molly, come and judge between us!"
Mr. Preston let go Cynthia's hands slowly, with a look that was more
of a sneer than a smile; and yet he, too, had been strongly agitated,
whatever was the subject in dispute. Molly came forward and took
Cynthia's arm, her eyes steadily fixed on Mr. Preston's face. It was
fine to see the fearlessness of her perfect innocence. He could not
bear her look, and said to Cynthia,--
"The subject of our conversation does not well admit of a third
person's presence. As Miss Gibson seems to wish for your company now,
I must beg you to fix some other time and place where we can finish
our discussion."
"I will go if Cynthia wishes me," said Molly.
"No, no; stay--I want you to stay--I want you to hear it all--I wish
I had told you sooner."
"You mean that you regret that she has not been made aware of our
engagement--that you promised long ago to be my wife. Pray remember
that it was you who made me promise secrecy, not I you!"
"I don't believe him, Cynthia. Don't, don't cry if you can help it;
I don't believe him."
"Cynthia," said he, suddenly changing his tone to fervid tenderness,
"pray, pray do not go on so; you can't think how it distresses me!"
He stepped forward to try and take her hand and soothe her; but she
shrank away from him, and sobbed the more irrepressibly. She felt
Molly's presence so much to be a protection that now she dared to
let herself go, and to weaken herself by giving way to her emotion.
"Go away!" said Molly. "Don't you see you make her worse?" But he
did not stir; he was looking at Cynthia so intently that he did not
seem even to hear her. "Go," said Molly, vehemently, "if it really
distresses you to see her cry. Don't you see, it's you who are the
cause of it?"
"I will go if Cynthia tells me," said he at length.
"Oh, Molly, I don't know what to do," said Cynthia, taking down her
hands from her tear-stained face, and appealing to Molly, and sobbing
worse than ever; in fact, she became hysterical, and though she tried
to speak coherently, no intelligible words would come.
"Run to that cottage in the trees, and fetch her a cup of water,"
said Molly. He hesitated a little.
"Why don't you go?" said Molly, impatiently.
"I have not done speaking to her; you will not leave before I come
back?"
"No. Don't you see she can't move in this state?"
He went quickly, if reluctantly.
Cynthia was some time before she could check her sobs enough to
speak. At length she said,--"Molly, I do hate him!"
"But what did he mean by saying you were engaged to him? Don't cry,
dear, but tell me; if I can help you I will, but I can't imagine what
it all really is."
"It's too long a story to tell now, and I'm not strong enough. Look!
he's coming back. As soon as I can, let us get home."
"With all my heart," said Molly.
He brought the water, and Cynthia drank, and was restored to
calmness.
"Now," said Molly, "we had better go home as fast as you can manage
it; it's getting dark quickly."
If she hoped to carry Cynthia off so easily she was mistaken. Mr.
Preston was resolute on this point. He said--
"I think since Miss Gibson has made herself acquainted with this
much, we had better let her know the whole truth--that you are
engaged to marry me as soon as you are twenty; otherwise your being
here with me, and by appointment too, may appear strange--even
equivocal to her."
"As I know that Cynthia is engaged to--another man, you can hardly
expect me to believe what you say, Mr. Preston."
"Oh, Molly," said Cynthia, trembling all over, but trying to be
calm, "I am not engaged--neither to the person you mean, nor to Mr.
Preston."
Mr. Preston forced a smile. "I think I have some letters that would
convince Miss Gibson of the truth of what I have said; and which will
convince Mr. Osborne Hamley, if necessary--I conclude it is to him
she is alluding."
"I am quite puzzled by you both," said Molly. "The only thing I
do know is, that we ought not to be standing here at this time of
evening, and that Cynthia and I shall go home directly. If you want
to talk to Miss Kirkpatrick, Mr. Preston, why don't you come to my
father's house, and ask to see her openly, and like a gentleman?"
"I am perfectly willing," said he; "I shall only be too glad to
explain to Mr. Gibson on what terms I stand in relation to her. If I
have not done it sooner, it is because I have yielded to her wishes."
"Pray, pray don't. Molly--you don't know all--you don't know anything
about it; you mean well and kindly, I know, but you are only making
mischief. I am quite well enough to walk, do let us go; I will tell
you all about it when we are at home." She took Molly's arm and tried
to hasten her away; but Mr. Preston followed, talking as he walked by
their side.
"I do not know what you will say at home; but can you deny that you
are my promised wife? Can you deny that it has only been at your
earnest request that I have kept the engagement secret so long?" He
was unwise--Cynthia stopped, and turned at bay.
"Since you will have it out,--since I must speak here, I own that
what you say is literally true; that when I was a neglected girl of
sixteen, you--whom I believed to be a friend, lent me money at my
need, and made me give you a promise of marriage."
"Made you!" said he, laying an emphasis on the first word.
Cynthia turned scarlet. "'Made' is not the right word, I confess.
I liked you then--you were almost my only friend--and, if it had
been a question of immediate marriage, I daresay I should never have
objected. But I know you better now; and you have persecuted me so of
late, that I tell you once for all (as I have told you before, till
I am sick of the very words), that nothing shall ever make me marry
you. Nothing! I see there's no chance of escaping exposure and, I
daresay, losing my character, and I know losing all the few friends
I have."
"Never me," said Molly, touched by the wailing tone of despair that
Cynthia was falling into.
"It is hard," said Mr. Preston. "You may believe all the bad things
you like about me, Cynthia, but I don't think you can doubt my real,
passionate, disinterested love for you."
"I do doubt it," said Cynthia, breaking out with fresh energy. "Ah!
when I think of the self-denying affection I have seen--I have
known--affection that thought of others before itself--"
Mr. Preston broke in at the pause she made. She was afraid of
revealing too much to him.
"You do not call it love which has been willing to wait for years--to
be silent while silence was desired--to suffer jealousy and to bear
neglect, relying on the solemn promise of a girl of sixteen--for
solemn say flimsy, when that girl grows older. Cynthia, I have loved
you, and I do love you, and I won't give you up. If you will but keep
your word, and marry me, I'll swear I'll make you love me in return."
"Oh, I wish--I wish I'd never borrowed that unlucky money, it was the
beginning of it all. Oh, Molly, I have saved and scrimped to repay
it, and he won't take it now; I thought if I could but repay it, it
would set me free."
"You seem to imply you sold yourself for twenty pounds," he said.
They were nearly on the common now, close to the protection of the
cottages, in very hearing of their inmates; if neither of the other
two thought of this, Molly did, and resolved in her mind to call in
at one of them, and ask for the labourer's protection home; at any
rate his presence must put a stop to this miserable altercation.
"I did not sell myself; I liked you then. But oh, how I do hate you
now!" cried Cynthia, unable to contain her words.
He bowed and turned back, vanishing rapidly down the field staircase.
At any rate that was a relief. Yet the two girls hastened on, as
if he was still pursuing them. Once, when Molly said something to
Cynthia, the latter replied--
"Molly, if you pity me--if you love me--don't say anything more just
now. We shall have to look as if nothing had happened when we get
home. Come to my room when we go upstairs to bed, and I'll tell you
all. I know you'll blame me terribly, but I will tell you all."
So Molly did not say another word till they reached home; and then,
comparatively at ease, inasmuch as no one perceived how late was
their return to the house, each of the girls went up into their
separate rooms, to rest and calm themselves before dressing for the
necessary family gathering at dinner. Molly felt as if she were so
miserably shaken that she could not have gone down at all, if her own
interests only had been at stake. She sate by her dressing-table,
holding her head in her hands, her candles unlighted, and the room in
soft darkness, trying to still her beating heart, and to recall all
she had heard, and what would be its bearing on the lives of those
whom she loved. Roger. Oh, Roger!--far away in mysterious darkness of
distance--loving as he did (ah, that was love! that was the love to
which Cynthia had referred, as worthy of the name!) and the object of
his love claimed by another--false to one she must be! How could it
be? What would he think and feel if ever he came to know it? It was
of no use trying to imagine his pain--that could do no good. What lay
before Molly was, to try and extricate Cynthia, if she could help her
by thought, or advice, or action; not to weaken herself by letting
her fancy run into pictures of possible, probable suffering.
When she went into the drawing-room before dinner, she found Cynthia
and her mother by themselves. There were candles in the room, but
they were not lighted, for the wood-fire blazed merrily if fitfully,
and they were awaiting Mr. Gibson's return, which might be expected
at any minute. Cynthia sate in the shade, so it was only by her
sensitive ear that Molly could judge of her state of composure. Mrs.
Gibson was telling some of her day's adventures--whom she had found
at home in the calls she had been making; who had been out; and
the small pieces of news she had heard. To Molly's quick sympathy
Cynthia's voice sounded languid and weary, but she made all the
proper replies, and expressed the proper interest at the right
places, and Molly came to the rescue, chiming in, with an effort,
it is true; but Mrs. Gibson was not one to notice slight shades
or differences in manner. When Mr. Gibson returned, the relative
positions of the parties were altered. It was Cynthia now who raised
herself into liveliness, partly from a consciousness that he would
have noticed any depression, and partly because Cynthia was one
of those natural coquettes, who, from their cradle to their grave,
instinctively bring out all their prettiest airs and graces in order
to stand well with any man, young or old, who may happen to be
present. She listened to his remarks and stories with all the sweet
intentness of happier days, till Molly, silent and wondering, could
hardly believe that the Cynthia before her was the same girl as she
who was sobbing and crying as if her heart would break, but two hours
before. It is true she looked pale and heavy-eyed, but that was the
only sign she gave of her past trouble, which yet must be a present
care, thought Molly. After dinner, Mr. Gibson went out to his town
patients; Mrs. Gibson subsided into her arm-chair, holding a sheet of
_The Times_ before her, behind which she took a quiet and lady-like
doze. Cynthia had a book in one hand, with the other she shaded her
eyes from the light. Molly alone could neither read, nor sleep, nor
work. She sate in the seat in the bow-window; the blind was not drawn
down, for there was no danger of their being overlooked. She gazed
into the soft outer darkness, and found herself striving to discern
the outlines of objects--the cottage at the end of the garden--the
great beech-tree with the seat round it--the wire arches, up which
the summer roses had clambered; each came out faint and dim against
the dusky velvet of the atmosphere. Presently tea came, and there was
the usual nightly bustle. The table was cleared, Mrs. Gibson roused
herself, and made the same remark about dear papa that she had done
at the same hour for weeks past. Cynthia too did not look different
from usual. And yet what a hidden mystery did her calmness hide!
thought Molly. At length came bed-time, and the customary little
speeches. Both Molly and Cynthia went to their own rooms without
exchanging a word. When Molly was in hers she had forgotten whether
she was to go to Cynthia, or Cynthia to come to her. She took off her
gown and put on her dressing-gown, and stood and waited, and even sat
down for a minute or two: but Cynthia did not come, so Molly went and
knocked at the opposite door, which, to her surprise, she found shut.
When she entered the room Cynthia sate by her dressing-table, just as
she had come up from the drawing-room. She had been leaning her head
on her arms, and seemed almost to have forgotten the tryst she had
made with Molly, for she looked up as if startled, and her face did
seem full of worry and distress; in her solitude she made no more
exertion, but gave way to thoughts of care.