Even then and there Cynthia could not resist the temptation of
saying,--"Mamma, I will promise you I won't put on weeds, whatever
reports come of Mr. Roger Hamley."
"Roger, please!" he put in, in a tender whisper.
"And you will all be witnesses that he has professed to think of me,
if he is tempted afterwards to deny the fact. But at the same time I
wish it to be kept a secret until his return--and I am sure you will
all be so kind as to attend to my wish. Please, _Roger!_ Please,
Molly! Mamma, I must especially beg it of you!"
Roger would have granted anything when she asked him by that name,
and in that tone. He took her hand in silent pledge of his reply.
Molly felt as if she could never bring herself to name the affair
as a common piece of news. So it was only Mrs. Gibson that answered
aloud,--
"My dear child! why 'especially' to poor me? You know I'm the most
trustworthy person alive!"
The little pendule on the chimney-piece struck the half-hour.
"I must go!" said Roger, in dismay. "I had no idea it was so late. I
shall write from Paris. The coach will be at the George by this time,
and will only stay five minutes. Dearest Cynthia--" he took her hand,
and then, as if the temptation was irresistible, he drew her to him
and kissed her. "Only remember you are free!" said he, as he released
her and passed on to Mrs. Gibson.
"If I had considered myself free," said Cynthia, blushing a little,
but ready with her repartee to the last,--"if I had thought myself
free, do you think I would have allowed that?"
Then Molly's turn came, and the old brotherly tenderness came back
into his look, his voice, his bearing.
"Molly! you won't forget me, I know; I shall never forget you, nor
your goodness to--her." His voice began to quiver, and it was best
to be gone. Mrs. Gibson was pouring out, unheard and unheeded, words
of farewell; Cynthia was re-arranging some flowers in a vase on the
table, the defects in which had caught her artistic eye, without
the consciousness penetrating to her mind. Molly stood, numb to the
heart; neither glad nor sorry, nor anything but stunned. She felt the
slackened touch of the warm grasping hand; she looked up--for till
now her eyes had been downcast, as if there were heavy weights to
their lids--and the place was empty where he had been; his quick
step was heard on the stair, the front door was opened and shut;
and then as quick as lightning Molly ran up to the front attic--the
lumber-room, whose window commanded the street down which he
must pass. The window-clasp was unused and stiff, Molly tugged at
it--unless it was open, and her head put out, that last chance would
be gone.