Molly thought of Roger, and that thought prompted her next speech.
"It must be horrible--I think I'm very brave--but I don't think I
could have--could have accepted even Roger, with a half-cancelled
engagement hanging over me." She blushed as she spoke.
"You forget how I detest Mr. Preston!" said Cynthia. "It was that,
more than any excess of love for Roger, that made me thankful to be
at least as securely pledged to some one else. He did not want to
call it an engagement, but I did; because it gave me the feeling of
assurance that I was free from Mr. Preston. And so I am! all but
these letters. Oh! if you can but make him take back his abominable
money, and get me my letters! Then we would bury it all in oblivion,
and he could marry somebody else, and I would marry Roger, and no one
would be the wiser. After all, it was only what people call 'youthful
folly.' And you may tell Mr. Preston that as soon as he makes my
letters public, shows them to your father or anything, I'll go away
from Hollingford, and never come back."
Loaded with many such messages, which she felt that she should never
deliver, not really knowing what she should say, hating the errand,
not satisfied with Cynthia's manner of speaking about her relations
to Roger, oppressed with shame and complicity in conduct which
appeared to her deceitful, yet willing to bear all and brave all,
if she could once set Cynthia in a straight path--in a clear space,
and almost more pitiful to her friend's great distress and possible
disgrace, than able to give her that love which involves perfect
sympathy, Molly set out on her walk towards the appointed place. It
was a cloudy, blustering day, and the noise of the blowing wind among
the nearly leafless branches of the great trees filled her ears, as
she passed through the park-gates and entered the avenue. She walked
quickly, instinctively wishing to get her blood up, and have no time
for thought. But there was a bend in the avenue about a quarter of a
mile from the lodge; after that bend it was a straight line up to the
great house, now emptied of its inhabitants. Molly did not like going
quite out of sight of the lodge, and she stood facing it, close by
the trunk of one of the trees. Presently she heard a step coming over
the grass. It was Mr. Preston. He saw a woman's figure, half-behind
the trunk of a tree, and made no doubt that it was Cynthia. But
when he came nearer, almost close, the figure turned round, and,
instead of the brilliantly coloured face of Cynthia, he met the pale
resolved look of Molly. She did not speak to greet him; but though
he felt sure from the general aspect of pallor and timidity that
she was afraid of him, her steady gray eyes met his with courageous
innocence.