"Oh, they're all right, mamma, thank you. I shall be quite ready by
four o'clock. Molly, will you come with me and help me to pack? I
wanted to speak to you, dear," said she, as soon as they had gone
upstairs. "It is such a relief to get away from a place haunted by
that man; but I'm afraid you thought I was glad to leave you; and
indeed I am not." There was a little flavour of "protesting too much"
about this; but Molly did not perceive it. She only said, "Indeed
I did not. I know from my own feelings how you must dislike meeting
a man in public in a different manner from what you have done in
private. I shall try not to see Mr. Preston again for a long, long
time, I'm sure. But, Cynthia, you haven't told me one word out of
Roger's letter. Please, how is he? Has he quite got over his attack
of fever?"
"Yes, quite. He writes in very good spirits. A great deal about birds
and beasts, as usual, habits of natives, and things of that kind. You
may read from there" (indicating a place in the letter) "to there, if
you can. And I'll tell you what, I'll trust you with it, Molly, while
I pack; and that shows my sense of your honour--not but what you
might read it all, only you'd find the love-making dull; but make a
little account of where he is, and what he is doing, date, and that
sort of thing, and send it to his father."
Molly took the letter down without a word, and began to copy it at
the writing-table; often reading over what she was allowed to read;
often pausing, her cheek on her hand, her eyes on the letter, and
letting her imagination rove to the writer, and all the scenes in
which she had either seen him herself, or in which her fancy had
painted him. She was startled from her meditations by Cynthia's
sudden entrance into the drawing-room, looking the picture of glowing
delight. "No one here? What a blessing! Ah, Miss Molly, you are more
eloquent than you believe yourself. Look here!" holding up a large
full envelope, and then quickly replacing it in her pocket, as if
she was afraid of being seen. "What's the matter, sweet one?" coming
up and caressing Molly. "Is it worrying itself over that letter?
Why, don't you see these are my very own horrible letters, that I
am going to burn directly, that Mr. Preston has had the grace to
send me, thanks to you, little Molly--cuishla ma chree, pulse of
my heart,--the letters that have been hanging over my head like
somebody's sword for these two years?"