"Ah, Molly, you must let my goodness lie fallow for a while!
It has borne such a wonderful crop this year. I have been so
pretty-behaved--if you knew all!" Or, "Really, Molly, my virtue
must come down from the clouds! It was strained to the utmost in
London--and I find it is like a kite--after soaring aloft for some
time, it suddenly comes down, and gets tangled in all sorts of
briars and brambles; which things are an allegory, unless you can
bring yourself to believe in my extraordinary goodness while I was
away--giving me a sort of right to fall foul of all mamma's briars
and brambles now."
But Molly had had some experience of Cynthia's whim of perpetually
hinting at a mystery which she did not mean to reveal in the Mr.
Preston days, and, although she was occasionally piqued into
curiosity, Cynthia's allusions at something more in the background
fell in general on rather deaf ears. One day the mystery burst its
shell, and came out in the shape of an offer made to Cynthia by Mr.
Henderson--and refused. Under all the circumstances, Molly could not
appreciate the heroic goodness so often alluded to. The revelation of
the secret at last took place in this way. Mrs. Gibson breakfasted
in bed: she had done so ever since she had had the influenza;
and, consequently, her own private letters always went up on her
breakfast-tray. One morning she came into the drawing-room earlier
than usual, with an open letter in her hand.
"I've had a letter from aunt Kirkpatrick, Cynthia. She sends me my
dividends,--your uncle is so busy. But what does she mean by this,
Cynthia?" (holding out the letter to her, with a certain paragraph
indicated by her finger). Cynthia put her netting on one side, and
looked at the writing. Suddenly her face turned scarlet, and then
became of a deadly white. She looked at Molly, as if to gain courage
from the strong serene countenance.
"It means--mamma, I may as well tell you at once--Mr. Henderson
offered to me while I was in London, and I refused him."
"Refused him--and you never told me, but let me hear it by chance!
Really, Cynthia, I think you're very unkind. And pray what made you
refuse Mr. Henderson? Such a fine young man,--and such a gentleman!
Your uncle told me he had a very good private fortune besides."
"Mamma, do you forget that I have promised to marry Roger Hamley?"
said Cynthia quietly.
"No! of course I don't--how can I, with Molly always dinning the word
'engagement' into my ears? But really, when one considers all the
uncertainties,--and after all it was not a distinct promise,--he
seemed almost as if he might have looked forward to something of this
sort."