Wives and Daughters (80 page)

‘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 sat 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 that 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.

‘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 dare say 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 awkward 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 out, 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 Sally, 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 should not go. He sat 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 did not know what to do with it,—should not 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 would not 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 did not want, and so—well, that was the beginning! It doesn’t sound so very wrong, does it, Molly?’

‘No,’ said Molly, hesitatingly. She did not wish to make herself into a hard judge, and yet she did so dislike Mr. Preston. Cynthia went on—

‘Well, what with boots and gloves, and a bonnet and a mantle, and a white muslin gown, which was made for me before I left on Tuesday, and a silk gown that followed to the Donaldsons’, and my journeys and all, there was very little left of the twenty pounds, especially when I found I must get a ball-dress in Worcester, for we were all to go to the Ball. Mrs. Donaldson gave me my ticket, but she looked rather grave at my idea of going to the Ball in my white muslin, which I had already worn two evenings at their house. Oh dear! how pleasant it must be to be rich! You know,’ continued Cynthia, smiling a very little, ‘I can’t help being aware that I’m pretty, and that people admire me very much. I found it out first at the Donaldsons’. I began to think I did look pretty in my fine new clothes, and I saw that other people thought so too. I was certainly the belle of the house, and it was very pleasant to feel my power. The last day or two of that gay week Mr. Preston joined our party. The last time he had seen me was when I was dressed in shabby clothes too small for me, half-crying in my solitude, neglected and penniless. At the Donaldsons’ I was a little queen; and, as I said, fine feathers make fine birds, and all the people were making much of me; and at that ball, which was the first night he came, I had more partners than I knew what to do with. I suppose he really did fall in love with me then. I don’t think he had done so before. And then I began to feel how awkward it was to be in his debt. I could not give myself airs to him as I did to others. Oh! it was so awkward and uncomfortable! But I liked him, and felt him as a friend all the time. The last day I was walking in the garden along with the others, and I thought I could tell him how much I had enjoyed myself, and, how happy I had been, all thanks to his twenty pounds (I was beginning to feel like Cinderella when the clock was striking twelve), and to tell him it should be repaid to him as soon as possible, though I turned sick at the thought of telling mamma, and knew enough of our affairs to understand how very difficult it would be to muster up the money. The end of our talk came very soon; for, almost to my terror, he began to talk violent love to me, and to beg me to promise to marry him. I was so frightened, that I ran away to the others. But that night I got a letter from him, apologizing for startling me, renewing his offer, his entreaties for a promise of marriage, to be fulfilled at any date I would please to name—in fact, a most urgent love-letter, and in it a reference to my unlucky debt, which was to be a debt no longer, only an advance of the money to be hereafter mine if only———You can fancy it all, Molly, better than I can remember it to tell it you.’

‘And what did you say?’ asked Molly, breathless.

‘I did not answer it at all until another letter came, entreating for a reply. By that time mamma had come home, and the old daily pressure and plaint of poverty had come on. Mary Donaldson wrote to me often, singing the praises of Mr. Preston as enthusiastically as if she had been bribed to do it. I had seen him a very popular man in their set, and I liked him well enough, and felt grateful to him. So I wrote and gave him my promise to marry him when I was twenty, but it was to be a secret till then. And I tried to forget I had ever borrowed money of him, but somehow as soon as I felt pledged to him I began to hate him. I couldn’t endure his eagerness of greeting if ever he found me alone; and mamma began to suspect, I think. I cannot tell you all the ins and outs; in fact, I didn’t understand them at the time, and I don’t remember clearly how it all happened now. But I know that Lady Cuxhaven sent mamma some money to be applied to my education, as she called it; and mamma seemed very much put out and in very low spirits, and she and I didn’t get on at all together. So, of course, I never ventured to name the hateful twenty pounds to her, but went on trying to think that if I was to marry Mr. Preston, it need never be paid—very mean and wicked, I dare say; but oh, Molly, I’ve been punished for it, for now I abhor that man.’

‘But why? When did you begin to dislike him? You seem to have taken it very passively all this time.’

‘I don’t know. It was growing upon me before I went to that school at Boulogne. He made me feel as if I was in his power; and by too often reminding me of my engagement to him, he made me critical of his words and ways. There was an insolence in his manner to mamma, too. Ah! you’re thinking that I’m not too respectful a daughter—and perhaps not; but I couldn’t bear his covert sneers at her faults, and I hated his way of showing what he called his “love” for me. Then, after I had been a
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at Mdme. Lefebre’s, a new English girl came—a cousin of his, who knew but little of me. Now, Molly, you must forget as soon as I’ve told you what I’m going to say; and she used to talk so much and perpetually about her cousin Robert—he was the great man of the family, evidently—and how he was so handsome, and every lady of the land in love with him,—a lady of title into the bargain——’

‘Lady Harriet! I dare say,’ said Molly, indignantly.

‘I don’t know,’ said Cynthia, wearily. ‘I didn’t care at the time, and I don’t care now; for she went on to say there was a very pretty widow too, who made desperate love to him. He had often laughed with them at all her little advances, which she thought he didn’t see through. And, oh! and this was the man I had promised to marry, and gone into debt to, and, written love-letters to! So now you understand it all, Molly!’

‘No, I don’t yet. What did you do on hearing how he had spoken about your mother?’

‘There was but one thing to do. I wrote and told him I hated him, and would never, never marry him, and would pay him back his money and the interest on it as soon as ever I could.’

‘Well?’

‘And Mdme. Lefebre brought me back my letter, unopened, I will say; and told me that she didn’t allow letters to gentlemen to be sent by the pupils of her establishment unless she had previously seen their contents. I told her he was a family friend, the agent who managed mamma’s affairs—I really could not stick at the truth; but she wouldn’t let it go; and I had to see her burn it, and to give her my promise I wouldn’t write again, before she would consent not to tell mamma. So I had to calm down and wait till I came home.’

‘But you didn’t see him then; at least, not for some time?’

‘No, but I could write; and I began to try and save up my money to pay him.’

‘What did he say to your letter?’

‘Oh, at first he pretended not to believe I could be in earnest; he thought it was only pique, or a temporary offence to be apologized for and covered over with passionate protestations.’

‘And afterwards?’

‘He condescended to threats; and, what is worse, then I turned coward. I couldn’t bear to have it all known and talked about, and my silly letters shown—oh, such letters! I cannot bear to think of them, beginning, “My dearest Robert,” to that man—’

‘But, oh, Cynthia, how could you go and engage yourself to Roger?’ asked Molly.

‘Why not?’ said Cynthia, sharply turning round upon her. ‘I was free—I am free; it seemed a way of assuring myself that I was quite free; and I did like Roger—it was such a comfort to be brought into contact with people who could be relied upon; and I was not a stock or a stone that I could fail to be touched with his tender, unselfish love, so different to Mr. Preston’s. I know you don’t think me good enough for him; and, of course, if all this comes out, he won’t think me good enough either’ (falling into a plaintive tone very touching to hear); ‘and sometimes I think I’ll give him up, and go off to some fresh life amongst strangers; and once or twice I’ve thought I would marry Mr. Preston out of pure revenge, and have him for ever in my power—only I think I should have the worst of it; for he is cruel in his very soul—tigerish, with his beautiful striped skin and relentless heart. I have so begged and begged him to let me go without exposure.’

‘Never mind the exposure,’ said Molly. ‘It will recoil far more on him than harm you.’

Cynthia went a little paler. ‘But I said things in those letters about mamma. I was quick-eyed enough to all her faults, and hardly understood the force of her temptations; and he says he will show those letters to your father, unless I consent to acknowledge our engagement.’