'Is this true? I had heard something of it before - not much; but there is scandal enough about to make it desirable that you should have some protector - some friend who knows the whole truth.'
No answer.At last she said, 'Molly knows it all.'
Mrs Gibson, too, had been awed into silence by her husband's grave manner, and she did not like to give vent to the jealous thought in her mind that Molly had known the secret of which she was ignorant.Mr Gibson replied to Cynthia with some sternness, -'Yes! I know that Molly knows it all, and that she has had to bear slander and ill words for your sake, Cynthia.But she refused to tell me more.'
'She told you that much, did she?' said Cynthia, aggrieved.
'I could not help it,' said Molly.
'She did not name your name,' said Mr Gibson.'At the time I believe she thought she had concealed it - but there was no mistaking who it was.'
'Why did she speak about it at all?' said Cynthia, with some bitterness.
Her tone - her question stirred up Mr Gibson's passion.
'It was necessary for her to justify herself to me - I heard my daughter's reputation attacked for the private meetings she had given to Mr Preston - I came to her for an explanation.There is no need to be ungenerous, Cynthia, because you have been a flirt and a jilt even to the degree of dragging Molly's name down into the same mire.'
Cynthia lifted her bowed-down head, and looked at him.
'You say that of me, Mr Gibson.Not knowing what the circumstances are, you say that!'
He had spoken too strongly: he knew it.But he could not bring himself to own it just at that moment.The thought of his sweet innocent Molly, who had borne so much patiently, prevented any retractation of his words at the time.
'Yes!' he said, 'I do say it.You cannot tell what evil constructions are put upon actions ever so slightly beyond the bounds of maidenly propriety.
I do say that Molly has had a great deal to bear, in consequence of this clandestine engagement of yours, Cynthia - there may be extenuating circumstances, I acknowledge - but you will need to remember them all to excuse your conduct to Roger Hamley, when he comes home.I asked you to tell me the full truth, in order that until he comes, and has a legal right to protect you, I may do so.' No answer.'It certainly requires explanation,' continued he.'Here are you, - engaged to two men at once to all appearances!' Still no answer.
'To be sure, the gossips of the town have not yet picked out the fact of Roger Hamley's being your accepted lover; but scandal has been resting on Molly, and ought to have rested on you, Cynthia - for a concealed engagement to Mr Preston - necessitating meetings in all sorts of places unknown to your friends.'
'Papa,' said Molly, 'if you knew all you would not speak so to Cynthia.
I wish she would tell you herself all that she has told me.'
'I am ready to hear whatever she has to say,' said he.But Cynthia said, -'No! you have prejudged me; you have spoken to me as you had no right to speak.I refuse to give you my confidence, or accept your help.People are very cruel to me' - her voice trembled for a moment, - 'I did not think you would have been.But I can bear it.'
And then, in spite of Molly, who would have detained her by force, she tore herself away, and hastily left the room.
'Oh, papa!' said Molly, crying, and clinging to him, 'do let me tell you all.' And then she suddenly recollected the awkwardness of telling some of the details of the story before Mrs Gibson, and stopped short.
'I think, Mr Gibson, you have been very very unkind to my poor fatherless child,' said Mrs Gibson, emerging from behind her pocket-handkerchief.
'I only wish her poor father had been alive, and all this would never have happened.'
'Very probably.Still I cannot see of what either she or you have to complain.Inasmuch as we could, I and mine have sheltered her; I have loved her; I do love her almost as if she were my own child - as well as Molly, I do not pretend to do.'
'That's it, Mr Gibson! you do not treat her like your own child.' But in the midst of this wrangle Molly stole out, and went in search of Cynthia.
She thought she bore an olive-branch of healing in the sound of her father's just spoken words: 'I do love her almost as if she were my own child.'
But Cynthia was locked into her room, and refused to open the' door.
'Open to me, please,' pleaded Molly.'I have something to say to you - I want to see you - do open!'
'No!' said Cynthia.'Not now.I am busy.Leave me alone.I don't want to hear what you have got to say.I do not want to see you.By-and-by we shall meet, and then -- ' Molly stood quite quietly, wondering what new words of more persuasion she could use.In a minute or two Cynthia called out, 'Are you there still, Molly?' and when Molly answered 'Yes,' and hoped for a relenting, the same hard metallic voice, telling of resolution and repression, spoke out, 'Go away.I cannot bear the feeling of your being there - waiting and listening.Go downstairs - out of the house - anywhere away.It is the most you can do for me, now.'