THE STORM BURSTS.
The autumn away through all its seasons. The corn-harvest, the walks through the stubble-fields, and into hazel-copses in search of nuts; the of the apple-orchards of their fruit, the and of children; and the tulip-like of the later time had now come on with the days. There was in the land, for the shots, and the of the as they rose up from the field.
Ever since Miss Browning's unlucky conversation, had been in the Gibsons' house. Cynthia to keep every one out at (mental) arms'-length; and particularly any private talks with Molly. Mrs. Gibson, still a against Miss Browning for her of not looking after Molly, to a most over the girl. It was, "Where have you been, child?" "Who did you see?" "Who was that from?" "Why were you so long out when you had only to go to so-and-so?" just as if Molly had been in on some intercourse. She answered every question asked of her with the of perfect innocence; but the (although she read their motive, and that they from no of her conduct, but only that Mrs. Gibson might be able to say that she looked well after her stepdaughter) her inexpressibly. Very often she did not go out at all, sooner than have to give a plan of her proceedings, when she had no plan at all,—only of out at her own sweet will, and of taking in the of the year. It was a very time for Molly,—zest and life had fled, and left so many of the old of seeming. She it was that her had fled; at nineteen! Cynthia was no longer the same, somehow: and Cynthia's would her in the Roger's opinion. Her almost in with Cynthia's of her heart; Mrs. Gibson her, to be sure, with all these of over her; but in all her other ways, she, at any rate, was the same. Yet Cynthia herself and care-worn, though she would not speak of her to Molly. And then the girl in her would herself for Cynthia's of manner; for as Molly said to herself, "If it is hard work for me to help always after Roger, and where he is, and how he is, what must it be for her?"
One day Mr. Gibson came in, and swift.
"Molly," said he, "where's Cynthia?"
"Gone out to do some errands—"
"Well, it's a pity—but mind. Put on your and as fast as you can. I've had to borrow old Simpson's dog-cart,—there would have been room for you and Cynthia; but as it is, you must walk alone. I'll drive you as 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 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 and command. Her and were on in two minutes, and she was by her father's side, the seat up, and the light weight going and over the stone-paved lanes.
"Oh, this is charming!" said Molly, after a toss-up on her seat from a bump.
"For youth, but not for age," said Mr. Gibson. "My are rheumatic, and would go over streets."
"That's to this view and this pure air, papa. Only I don't you."
"Thank you. As you are so complimentary, I think I shall put you at the 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 range of the Malverns from it, and Dorrimer Hall among the woods; the will want a minute's rest, and then I will without a word."
So she up to the top of the hill; and there they still a minute or two, the view, without much speaking. The were golden; the old house of purple-red brick, with its chimneys, rose up from among them on to green lawns, and a lake; again were the Malvern Hills.
"Now jump down, lassie, and make the best of your way home it dark. You'll the cut over Croston Heath than the road we've come by."
To to Croston Heath, Molly had to go a narrow by trees, with old here and there on the banks; and then there came a small wood, and then there was a to be on a plank-bridge, and up the on the opposite were cut steps in the path; these ended, she was on Croston Heath, a wide-stretching common by labourers' dwellings, past which a near road to Hollingford lay.
The part of the road was the first—the lane, the wood, the little bridge, and the through the fields. But Molly little for loneliness. She along the under the over-arching elm-branches, from which, here and there, a yellow came upon her very dress; past the last where a little child had the bank, and was the accident with cries. Molly to it up, and taking it in her arms in a manner which to take the place of in its little breast, she it up the flag steps the which she to be its home. The mother came in from the garden the house, still the late she had been in her apron; but, on her, the little out its arms to go to her, and she her all about as she took it, and to it as it afresh, her with thanks to Molly. She called her by her name; and on Molly the woman how she came to know it, she that her marriage she had been a of Mrs. Goodenough, and so was "bound to know Dr. Gibson's by sight." After the of two or three more words, Molly ran into the lane, and her way, stopping here and there to a of such as her for their colouring. She entered the wood. As she a in the path, she a voice of distress; and in an she Cynthia's tones. She still and looked around. There were some thick holly-bushes out dark green in the of the and foliage. If any one was there, it must be these thick bushes. So Molly left the path, and straight, through the of and underwood, and the bushes. There Mr. Preston and Cynthia; he her hands tight, each looking as if just in some talk by the of Molly's footsteps.
There Mr. Preston and Cynthia.
There Mr. Preston and Cynthia.
Click to ENLARGE
For an no one spoke. Then Cynthia said,—
"Oh, Molly, Molly, come and judge us!"
Mr. Preston let go Cynthia's hands slowly, with a look that was more of a than a smile; and yet he, too, had been agitated, was the in dispute. Molly came and took Cynthia's arm, her on Mr. Preston's face. It was to see the of her perfect innocence. He not her look, and said to Cynthia,—
"The of our not well admit of a third person's presence. As Miss Gibson to wish for your company now, I must you to some other time and place where we can our discussion."
"I will go if Cynthia me," said Molly.
"No, no; stay—I want you to stay—I want you to it all—I wish I had told you sooner."
"You that you that she has not been aware of our engagement—that you promised long ago to be my wife. Pray that it was you who me promise secrecy, not I you!"
"I don't him, Cynthia. Don't, don't if you can help it; I don't him."
"Cynthia," said he, his to tenderness, "pray, pray do not go on so; you can't think how it me!" He to try and take her hand and her; but she away from him, and the more irrepressibly. She Molly's presence so much to be a protection that now she to let herself go, and to herself by 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 that he did not to her. "Go," said Molly, vehemently, "if it you to see her cry. Don't you see, it's you who are the 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 her hands from her tear-stained face, and to Molly, and than ever; in fact, she hysterical, and though she to speak coherently, no would come.
"Run to that in the trees, and her a cup of water," said Molly. He a little.
"Why don't you go?" said Molly, impatiently.
"I have not done speaking to her; you will not I come back?"
"No. Don't you see she can't move in this state?"
He quickly, if reluctantly.
Cynthia was some time she check her to speak. At length she said,—"Molly, I do him!"
"But what did he by saying you were to him? Don't cry, dear, but tell me; if I can help you I will, but I can't what it all is."
"It's too long a to tell now, and I'm not enough. Look! he's back. As soon as I can, let us home."
"With all my heart," said Molly.
He the water, and Cynthia drank, and was to calmness.
"Now," said Molly, "we had go home as fast as you can manage it; it's dark quickly."
If she to Cynthia off so easily she was mistaken. Mr. Preston was on this point. He said—
"I think since Miss Gibson has herself with this much, we had let her know the whole truth—that you are to me as soon as you are twenty; otherwise your being here with me, and by too, may appear strange—even to her."
"As I know that Cynthia is to—another man, you can me to what you say, Mr. Preston."
"Oh, Molly," said Cynthia, all over, but trying to be calm, "I am not engaged—neither to the person you mean, to Mr. Preston."
Mr. Preston a smile. "I think I have some that would Miss Gibson of the truth of what I have said; and which will Mr. Osborne Hamley, if necessary—I it is to him she is alluding."
"I am puzzled by you both," said Molly. "The only thing I do know is, that we ought not to be 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 to to Mr. Gibson on what terms I in relation to her. If I have not done it sooner, it is I have to her wishes."
"Pray, pray don't. Molly—you don't know all—you don't know anything about it; you well and kindly, I know, but you are only making mischief. I am well to walk, do let us go; I will tell you all about it when we are at home." She took Molly's arm and to 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 that you are my promised wife? Can you that it has only been at your that I have the so long?" He was unwise—Cynthia stopped, and at bay.
"Since you will have it out,—since I must speak here, I own that what you say is true; that when I was a neglected girl of sixteen, you—whom I to be a friend, me money at my need, and me give you a promise of marriage."
"Made you!" said he, an on the word.
Cynthia 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 marriage, I I should have objected. But I know you now; and you have me so of late, that I tell you once for all (as I have told you before, till I am of the very words), that nothing shall make me you. Nothing! I see there's no of and, I daresay, my character, and I know all the friends I have."
"Never me," said Molly, touched by the of that Cynthia was into.
"It is hard," said Mr. Preston. "You may all the you like about me, Cynthia, but I don't think you can my real, passionate, love for you."
"I do it," said Cynthia, out with fresh energy. "Ah! when I think of the self-denying I have seen—I have known—affection that of others itself—"
Mr. Preston in at the pause she made. She was of too much to him.
"You do not call it love which has been to wait for years—to be while was desired—to and to neglect, on the promise of a girl of sixteen—for say flimsy, when that girl 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 me, I'll I'll make you love me in return."
"Oh, I wish—I wish I'd that unlucky money, it was the of it all. Oh, Molly, I have saved and to it, and he won't take it now; I if I but it, it would set me free."
"You to you for twenty pounds," he said. They were nearly on the common now, close to the protection of the cottages, in very of their inmates; if neither of the other two of this, Molly did, and in her mind to call in at one of them, and ask for the labourer's protection home; at any his presence must put a stop to this altercation.
"I did not sell myself; I liked you then. But oh, how I do you now!" Cynthia, unable to her words.
He and back, the staircase. At any that was a relief. Yet the two girls on, as if he was still them. Once, when Molly said something to Cynthia, the replied—
"Molly, if you me—if you love me—don't say anything more just now. We shall have to look as if nothing had when we home. Come to my room when we go to bed, and I'll tell you all. I know you'll me terribly, but I will tell you all."
So Molly did not say another word till they home; and then, at ease, as no one how late was their return to the house, each of the girls up into their rooms, to and themselves for the necessary family at dinner. Molly as if she were so that she not have gone at all, if her own only had been at stake. She by her dressing-table, her in her hands, her unlighted, and the room in soft darkness, trying to still her heart, and to all she had heard, and what would be its on the of those she loved. Roger. Oh, Roger!—far away in of distance—loving as he did (ah, that was love! that was the love to which Cynthia had referred, as of the name!) and the object of his love by another—false to one she must be! How it be? What would he think and if he came to know it? It was of no use trying to his pain—that do no good. What Molly was, to try and Cynthia, if she help her by thought, or advice, or action; not to herself by her into pictures of possible, suffering.
When she into the drawing-room dinner, she Cynthia and her mother by themselves. There were in the room, but they were not lighted, for the wood-fire if fitfully, and they were Mr. Gibson's return, which might be at any minute. Cynthia in the shade, so it was only by her ear that Molly judge of her of composure. Mrs. Gibson was telling some of her day's adventures—whom she had 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 Cynthia's voice and weary, but she all the proper replies, and the proper at the right places, and Molly came to the rescue, in, with an effort, it is true; but Mrs. Gibson was not one to notice or in manner. When Mr. Gibson returned, the relative positions of the parties were altered. It was Cynthia now who herself into liveliness, from a that he would have noticed any depression, and Cynthia was one of those natural coquettes, who, from their to their grave, out all their and in order to well with any man, or old, who may to be present. She to his and with all the sweet of days, till Molly, and wondering, that the Cynthia her was the same girl as she who was and as if her would break, but two hours before. It is true she looked and heavy-eyed, but that was the only she gave of her past trouble, which yet must be a present care, Molly. After dinner, Mr. Gibson out to his town patients; Mrs. Gibson into her arm-chair, a of The Times her, which she took a and lady-like doze. Cynthia had a book in one hand, with the other she her from the light. Molly alone neither read, sleep, work. She in the seat in the bow-window; the was not down, for there was no of their being overlooked. She into the soft darkness, and herself to the of objects—the at the end of the garden—the great beech-tree with the seat it—the wire arches, up which the roses had clambered; each came out and against the of the atmosphere. Presently tea came, and there was the bustle. The table was cleared, Mrs. Gibson herself, and the same about dear papa that she had done at the same hour for past. Cynthia too did not look different from usual. And yet what a did her hide! Molly. At length came bed-time, and the little speeches. Both Molly and Cynthia to their own rooms without a word. When Molly was in hers she had she was to go to Cynthia, or Cynthia to come to her. She took off her and put on her dressing-gown, and and waited, and sat for a minute or two: but Cynthia did not come, so Molly and at the opposite door, which, to her surprise, she shut. When she entered the room Cynthia by her dressing-table, just as she had come up from the drawing-room. She had been her on her arms, and almost to have the she had with Molly, for she looked up as if startled, and her did full of worry and distress; in her she no more exertion, but gave way to of care.
