"He hasn't read Cynthia's letter yet. Oh, do let me bring it home
unopened," said Molly. "Send another letter to Roger--now--at once;
it will reach him at the same time; he will get both when he arrives
at the Cape, and make him understand which is the last--the real one.
Think! he will hear of Osborne's death at the same time--two such sad
things! Do, Cynthia!"
"No, my dear," said Mrs. Gibson. "I could not allow that, even if
Cynthia felt inclined for it. Asking to be re-engaged to him! At
any rate, she must wait now until he proposes again, and we see how
things turn out."
But Molly kept her pleading eyes fixed on Cynthia.
"No!" said Cynthia firmly, but not without consideration. "It cannot
be. I've felt more content this last night than I've done for weeks
past. I'm glad to be free. I dreaded Roger's goodness, and learning,
and all that. It was not in my way, and I don't believe I should
have ever married him, even without knowing of all these ill-natured
stories that are circulating about me, and which he would hear of,
and expect me to explain, and be sorry for, and penitent and humble.
I know he could not have made me happy, and I don't believe he would
have been happy with me. It must stay as it is. I would rather be a
governess than married to him. I should get weary of him every day of
my life."
"Weary of Roger!" said Molly to herself. "It is best as it is, I
see," she answered aloud. "Only I'm very sorry for him, very. He did
love you so. You will never get any one to love you like him!"
"Very well. I must take my chance. And too much love is rather
oppressive to me, I believe. I like a great deal, widely spread
about; not all confined to one individual lover."
"I don't believe you," said Molly. "But don't let us talk any more
about it. It is best as it is. I thought--I almost felt sure you
would be sorry this morning. But we will leave it alone now." She
sate silently looking out of the window, her heart sorely stirred,
she scarcely knew how or why. But she could not have spoken. Most
likely she would have begun to cry if she had spoken. Cynthia stole
softly up to her after a while.
"You are vexed with me, Molly," she began in a low voice. But Molly
turned sharply round:
"I! I have no business at all in the affair. It is for you to judge.
Do what you think right. I believe you have done right. Only I don't
want to discuss it, and paw it over with talk. I'm very much tired,
dear"--gently now she spoke--"and I hardly know what I say. If I
speak crossly, don't mind it." Cynthia did not reply at once. Then
she said,--