Wives and Daughters: An Every-Day Story

Molly had her out-of-door things on, and she crept away as she was

bidden. She lifted her heavy weight of heart and body along till

she came to a field, not so very far off,--where she had sought the

comfort of loneliness ever since she was a child; and there, under

the hedge-bank, she sate down, burying her face in her hands, and

quivering all over as she thought of Cynthia's misery, which she

might not try to touch or assuage. She never knew how long she sate

there, but it was long past lunch-time when once again she stole

up to her room. The door opposite was open wide,--Cynthia had

quitted the chamber. Molly arranged her dress and went down into the

drawing-room. Cynthia and her mother sate there in the stern repose

of an armed neutrality. Cynthia's face looked made of stone, for

colour and rigidity; but she was netting away as if nothing unusual

had occurred. Not so Mrs. Gibson; her face bore evident marks of

tears, and she looked up and greeted Molly's entrance with a faint

smiling notice. Cynthia went on as though she had never heard the

opening of the door, or felt the approaching sweep of Molly's dress.

Molly took up a book,--not to read, but to have the semblance of some

employment which should not necessitate conversation.

There was no measuring the duration of the silence that ensued. Molly

grew to fancy it was some old enchantment that weighed upon their

tongues and kept them still. At length Cynthia spoke, but she had to

begin again before her words came clear.

"I wish you both to know that henceforward all is at an end between

me and Roger Hamley."

Molly's book went down upon her knees; with open eyes and lips she

strove to draw in Cynthia's meaning. Mrs. Gibson spoke querulously,

as if injured,--

"I could have understood this if it had happened three months

ago,--when you were in London; but now it's just nonsense, Cynthia,

and you know you don't mean it!"

Cynthia did not reply; nor did the resolute look on her face change

when Molly spoke at last,--

"Cynthia--think of him! It will break his heart!"

"No!" said Cynthia, "it will not. But even if it did I cannot help

it."

"All this talk will soon pass away!" said Molly; "and when he knows

the truth from your own self--"

"From my own self he shall never hear it. I do not love him well

enough to go through the shame of having to excuse myself,--to

plead that he will reinstate me in his good opinion. Confession may

be--well! I can never believe it pleasant--but it may be an ease of

mind if one makes it to some people,--to some person,--and it may not

be a mortification to sue for forgiveness. I cannot tell. All I know

is,--and I know it clearly, and will act upon it inflexibly--that--"

And here she stopped short.