"I must see him again; I must! I must!" she wailed out, as she was
pulling. There he was, running hard to catch the London coach; his
luggage had been left at the George before he came up to wish the
Gibsons good-by. In all his hurry, Molly saw him turn round and shade
his eyes from the level rays of the westering sun, and rake the house
with his glances--in hopes, she knew, of catching one more glimpse of
Cynthia. But apparently he saw no one, not even Molly at the attic
casement; for she had drawn back when he had turned, and kept herself
in shadow; for she had no right to put herself forward as the one to
watch and yearn for farewell signs. None came--another moment--he was
out of sight for years!
She shut the window softly, and shivered all over. She left the attic
and went to her own room; but she did not begin to take off her
out-of-door things till she heard Cynthia's foot on the stairs.
Then she hastily went to the toilet-table, and began to untie her
bonnet-strings; but they were in a knot, and took time to undo.
Cynthia's step stopped at Molly's door; she opened it a little and
said,--"May I come in, Molly?"
"Certainly," said Molly, longing to be able to say "No" all the time.
Molly did not turn to meet her, so Cynthia came up behind her, and
putting her two hands round Molly's waist, peeped over her shoulder,
putting out her lips to be kissed. Molly could not resist the
action--the mute entreaty for a caress. But, in the moment before,
she had caught the reflection of the two faces in the glass; her
own, red-eyed, pale, with lips dyed with blackberry juice, her curls
tangled, her bonnet pulled awry, her gown torn--and contrasted it
with Cynthia's brightness and bloom, and the trim elegance of her
dress. "Oh! it is no wonder!" thought poor Molly, as she turned
round, and put her arms round Cynthia, and laid her head for an
instant on her shoulder--the weary, aching head that sought a loving
pillow in that supreme moment! The next she had raised herself, and
taken Cynthia's two hands, and was holding her off a little, the
better to read her face.
"Cynthia! you do love him dearly, don't you?"
Cynthia winced a little aside from the penetrating steadiness of
those eyes.
"You speak with all the solemnity of an adjuration, Molly!" said she,
laughing a little at first to cover her nervousness, and then looking
up at Molly. "Don't you think I've given a proof of it? But you know
I've often told you I've not the gift of loving; I said pretty much
the same thing to him. I can respect, and I fancy I can admire, and
I can like, but I never feel carried off my feet by love for any one,
not even for you, little Molly, and I'm sure I love you more than--"