"Well, never mind, dear; he shall not know," said Molly, for Cynthia
was again becoming hysterical,--"at least, we'll say no more about it
now."
"And you'll never say any more--never--promise me," said Cynthia,
taking her hand eagerly.
"Never till you give me leave. Now do let me see if I cannot help
you. Lie down on the bed, and I'll sit by you, and let us talk it
over."
But Cynthia sat down again in the chair by the dressing-table.
"When did it all begin?" said Molly, after a long pause of silence.
"Long ago--four or five years. I was such a child to be left all to
myself. It was the holidays, and mamma was away visiting, and the
Donaldsons asked me to go with them to the Worcester Festival. You
can't fancy how pleasant it all sounded, especially to me. I had been
shut up in that great dreary house at Ashcombe, where mamma had her
school; it belonged to Lord Cumnor, and Mr. Preston as his agent had
to see it all painted and papered; but, besides that, he was very
intimate with us; I believe mamma thought--no, I'm not sure about
that, and I have enough blame to lay at her door, to prevent my
telling you anything that may be only fancy--"
Then she paused and sate still for a minute or two, recalling the
past. Molly was struck by the aged and careworn expression which had
taken temporary hold of the brilliant and beautiful face; she could
see from that how much Cynthia must have suffered from this hidden
trouble of hers.
"Well! at any rate we were intimate with him, and he came a great
deal about the house, and knew as much as any one of mamma's affairs,
and all the ins and outs of her life. I'm telling you this in order
that you may understand how natural it was for me to answer his
questions when he came one day and found me, not crying, for you know
I'm not much given to that, in spite of to-day's exposure of myself;
but fretting and fuming because, though mamma had written word I
might go with the Donaldsons, she had never said how I was to get any
money for the journey, much less for anything of dress, and I had
outgrown all my last year's frocks, and as for gloves and boots--in
short, I really had hardly clothes decent enough for church--"
"Why didn't you write to her and tell her all this?" said Molly, half
afraid of appearing to cast blame by her very natural question.