"I wish I had her letter to show you; you must have seen some of
mamma's letters, though; don't you know how she always seems to
leave out just the important point of every fact? In this case she
descanted largely on the enjoyment she was having, and the kindness
she was receiving, and her wish that I could have been with her, and
her gladness that I too was going to have some pleasure; but the only
thing that would have been of real use to me she left out, and that
was where she was going to next. She mentioned that she was leaving
the house she was stopping at the day after she wrote, and that
she should be at home by a certain date; but I got the letter on a
Saturday, and the festival began the next Tuesday--"
"Poor Cynthia!" said Molly. "Still, if you had written, your letter
might have been forwarded. I don't mean to be hard, only I do so
dislike the thought of your ever having made a friend of that man."
"Ah!" said Cynthia, sighing. "How easy it is to judge rightly
after one sees what evil comes from judging wrongly! I was only a
young girl, hardly more than a child, and he was a friend to us
then--excepting mamma, the only friend I knew; the Donaldsons were
only kind and good-natured acquaintances."
"I am sorry," said Molly, humbly, "I have been so happy with papa.
I hardly can understand how different it must have been with you."
"Different! I should think so. The worry about money made me sick of
my life. We might not say we were poor, it would have injured the
school; but I would have stinted and starved if mamma and I had got
on as happily together as we might have done--as you and Mr. Gibson
do. It was not the poverty; it was that she never seemed to care to
have me with her. As soon as the holidays came round she was off to
some great house or another; and I daresay I was at a very awkward
age to have me lounging about in the drawing-room when callers came.
Girls at the age I was then are so terribly keen at scenting out
motives, and putting in their disagreeable questions as to the little
twistings and twirlings and vanishings of conversation; they've no
distinct notion of what are the truths and falsehoods of polite
life. At any rate, I was very much in mamma's way, and I felt it. Mr.
Preston seemed to feel it too for me; and I was very grateful to him
for kind words and sympathetic looks--crumbs of kindness which would
have dropped under your table unnoticed. So this day, when he came
to see how the workmen were getting on, he found me in the deserted
schoolroom, looking at my faded summer bonnet and some old ribbons
I had been sponging, and half-worn-out gloves--a sort of rag-fair
spread out on the deal table. I was in a regular passion with only
looking at that shabbiness. He said he was so glad to hear I was
going to this festival with the Donaldsons; old Betty, our servant,
had told him the news, I believe. But I was so perplexed about money,
and my vanity was so put out about my shabby dress, that I was in a
pet, and said I shouldn't go. He sate down on the table, and little
by little he made me tell him all my troubles. I do sometimes think
he was very nice in those days. Somehow I never felt as if it was
wrong or foolish or anything to accept his offer of money at the
time. He had twenty pounds in his pocket, he said, and really didn't
know what to do with it,--shouldn't want it for months; I could repay
it, or rather mamma could, when it suited her. She must have known
I should want money, and most likely thought I should apply to him.
Twenty pounds wouldn't be too much, I must take it all, and so on.
I knew--at least I thought I knew--that I should never spend twenty
pounds; but I thought I could give him back what I didn't want, and
so--well, that was the beginning! It doesn't sound so very wrong,
does it, Molly?"