"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.