CHAPTER XIX.
CYNTHIA'S ARRIVAL.
Molly's father was not at home when she returned; and there was noone to give her a welcome. Mrs. Gibson was out paying calls, theservants told Molly. She went upstairs to her own room, meaning tounpack and arrange her borrowed books. Rather to her surprise she sawthe chamber, corresponding to her own, being dusted; water and towelstoo were being carried in.
"Is any one coming?" she asked of the housemaid.
"Missus's daughter from France. Miss Kirkpatrick is comingto-morrow."
Was Cynthia coming at last? Oh, what a pleasure it would be to have acompanion, a girl, a sister of her own age! Molly's depressed spiritssprang up again with bright elasticity. She longed for Mrs. Gibson'sreturn, to ask her all about it: it must be very sudden, for Mr.Gibson had said nothing of it at the Hall the day before. No quietreading now; the books were hardly put away with Molly's usualneatness. She went down into the drawing-room, and could not settleto anything. At last Mrs. Gibson came home, tired out with her walkand her heavy velvet cloak. Until that was taken off, and she hadrested herself for a few minutes, she seemed quite unable to attendto Molly's questions.
"Oh, yes! Cynthia is coming home to-morrow, by the 'Umpire,' whichpasses through at ten o'clock. What an oppressive day it is for thetime of the year! I really am almost ready to faint. Cynthia heard ofsome opportunity, I believe, and was only too glad to leave school afortnight earlier than we planned. She never gave me the chance ofwriting to say I did, or did not, like her coming so much before thetime; and I shall have to pay for her just the same as if she hadstopped. And I meant to have asked her to bring me a French bonnet;and then you could have had one made after mine. But I'm very gladshe's coming, poor dear."
"Is anything the matter with her?" asked Molly.
"Oh, no! Why should there be?"
"You called her 'poor dear,' and it made me afraid lest she might beill."
"Oh, no! It's only a way I got into, when Mr. Kirkpatrick died. Afatherless girl--you know one always does call them 'poor dears.' Oh,no! Cynthia never is ill. She's as strong as a horse. She never wouldhave felt to-day as I have done. Could you get me a glass of wine anda biscuit, my dear? I'm really quite faint."
Mr. Gibson was much more excited about Cynthia's arrival than herown mother was. He anticipated her coming as a great pleasure toMolly, on whom, in spite of his recent marriage and his new wife, hisinterests principally centred. He even found time to run upstairs andsee the bedrooms of the two girls; for the furniture of which he hadpaid a pretty round sum.
"Well, I suppose young ladies like their bedrooms decked out in thisway! It's very pretty certainly, but--"
"I liked my own old room better, papa; but perhaps Cynthia isaccustomed to such decking up."
"Perhaps; at any rate, she'll see we've tried to make it pretty.Yours is like hers. That's right. It might have hurt her, if hers hadbeen smarter than yours. Now, good-night in your fine flimsy bed."
Molly was up betimes--almost before it was light--arranging herpretty Hamley flowers in Cynthia's room. She could hardly eat herbreakfast that morning. She ran upstairs and put on her things,thinking that Mrs. Gibson was quite sure to go down to the "GeorgeInn," where the "Umpire" stopped, to meet her daughter after a twoyears' absence. But, to her surprise, Mrs. Gibson had arrangedherself at her great worsted-work frame, just as usual; and she, inher turn, was astonished at Molly's bonnet and cloak.
"Where are you going so early, child? The fog hasn't cleared awayyet."
"I thought you would go and meet Cynthia; and I wanted to go withyou."
"She will be here in half an hour; and dear papa has told thegardener to take the wheelbarrow down for her luggage. I'm not sureif he is not gone himself."
"Then are not you going?" asked Molly, with a good deal ofdisappointment.
"No, certainly not. She will be here almost directly. And, besides,I don't like to expose my feelings to every passer-by in High Street.You forget I have not seen her for two years, and I hate scenes inthe market-place."
She settled herself to her work again; and Molly, after someconsideration, gave up her own going, and employed herself in lookingout of the downstairs window which commanded the approach from thetown.
"Here she is--here she is!" she cried out at last. Her father waswalking by the side of a tall young lady; William the gardenerwas wheeling along a great cargo of baggage. Molly flew to thefront-door, and had it wide open to admit the new-comer some timebefore she arrived.
"Well! here she is. Molly, this is Cynthia. Cynthia, Molly. You're tobe sisters, you know."
Molly saw the beautiful, tall, swaying figure, against the light ofthe open door, but could not see any of the features that were, forthe moment, in shadow. A sudden gush of shyness had come over herjust at the instant, and quenched the embrace she would have given amoment before. But Cynthia took her in her arms, and kissed her onboth cheeks.
"Here's mamma," she said, looking beyond Molly on to the stairs whereMrs. Gibson stood, wrapped up in a shawl, and shivering in the cold.She ran past Molly and Mr. Gibson, who rather averted their eyes fromthis first greeting between mother and child.
Mrs. Gibson said--
"Why, how you are grown, darling! You look quite a woman."
"And so I am," said Cynthia. "I was before I went away; I've hardlygrown since,--except, it is always to be hoped, in wisdom."
"Yes! That we will hope," said Mrs. Gibson, in rather a meaningway. Indeed there were evidently hidden allusions in their seemingcommonplace speeches. When they all came into the full light andrepose of the drawing-room, Molly was absorbed in the contemplationof Cynthia's beauty. Perhaps her features were not regular; but thechanges in her expressive countenance gave one no time to think ofthat. Her smile was perfect; her pouting charming; the play of theface was in the mouth. Her eyes were beautifully shaped, but theirexpression hardly seemed to vary. In colouring she was not unlikeher mother; only she had not so much of the red-haired tints in hercomplexion and her long-shaped, serious grey eyes were fringed withdark lashes, instead of her mother's insipid flaxen ones. Molly fellin love with her, so to speak, on the instant. She sate there warmingher feet and hands, as much at her ease as if she had been there allher life; not particularly attending to her mother--who, all thetime, was studying either her or her dress--measuring Molly and Mr.Gibson with grave observant looks, as if guessing how she should likethem.
"There's hot breakfast ready for you in the dining-room, when you areready for it," said Mr. Gibson. "I'm sure you must want it after yournight journey." He looked round at his wife, at Cynthia's mother, butshe did not seem inclined to leave the warm room again.
"Molly will take you to your room, darling," said she; "it is nearhers, and she has got her things to take off. I'll come down and sitin the dining-room while you are having your breakfast, but I reallyam afraid of the cold now."
Cynthia rose and followed Molly upstairs.
"I'm so sorry there isn't a fire for you," said Molly, "but--Isuppose it wasn't ordered; and, of course, I don't give any orders.Here is some hot water, though."
"Stop a minute," said Cynthia, getting hold of both Molly's hands,and looking steadily into her face, but in such a manner that she didnot dislike the inspection.
"I think I shall like you. I am so glad! I was afraid I should not.We're all in a very awkward position together, aren't we? I like yourfather's looks, though."
FIRST IMPRESSIONS.]
Molly could not help smiling at the way this was said. Cynthiareplied to her smile.
"Ah, you may laugh. But I don't know that I am easy to get on with;mamma and I didn't suit when we were last together. But perhaps weare each of us wiser now. Now, please leave me for a quarter of anhour. I don't want anything more."
Molly went into her own room, waiting to show Cynthia down to thedining-room. Not that, in the moderate-sized house, there was anydifficulty in finding the way. A very little trouble in conjecturingwould enable a stran
ger to discover any room. But Cynthia hadso captivated Molly, that she wanted to devote herself to thenew-comer's service. Ever since she had heard of the probabilityof her having a sister--(she called her a sister, but whether it wasa Scotch sister, or a sister _a la mode de Bretagne_, would havepuzzled most people)--Molly had allowed her fancy to dwell much onthe idea of Cynthia's coming; and in the short time since they hadmet, Cynthia's unconscious power of fascination had been exercisedupon her. Some people have this power. Of course, its effects areonly manifested in the susceptible. A school-girl may be found inevery school who attracts and influences all the others, not by hervirtues, nor her beauty, nor her sweetness, nor her cleverness, butby something that can neither be described nor reasoned upon. It isthe something alluded to in the old lines:--
Love me not for comely grace, For my pleasing eye and face; No, nor for my constant heart,-- For these may change, and turn to ill, And thus true love may sever. But love me on, and know not why, So hast thou the same reason still To dote upon me ever.
A woman will have this charm, not only over men but over her ownsex; it cannot be defined, or rather it is so delicate a mixtureof many gifts and qualities that it is impossible to decide on theproportions of each. Perhaps it is incompatible with very highprinciple; as its essence seems to consist in the most exquisitepower of adaptation to varying people and still more various moods;"being all things to all men." At any rate, Molly might soon havebeen aware that Cynthia was not remarkable for unflinching morality;but the glamour thrown over her would have prevented Molly from anyattempt at penetrating into and judging her companion's character,even had such processes been the least in accordance with her owndisposition.
Cynthia was very beautiful, and was so well aware of this fact thatshe had forgotten to care about it; no one with such loveliness everappeared so little conscious of it. Molly would watch her perpetuallyas she moved about the room, with the free stately step of some wildanimal of the forest--moving almost, as it were, to the continualsound of music. Her dress, too, though now to our ideas it wouldbe considered ugly and disfiguring, was suited to her complexionand figure, and the fashion of it subdued within due bounds by herexquisite taste. It was inexpensive enough, and the changes in itwere but few. Mrs. Gibson professed herself shocked to find thatCynthia had but four gowns, when she might have stocked herself sowell, and brought over so many useful French patterns, if she had butpatiently waited for her mother's answer to the letter which she hadsent, announcing her return by the opportunity madame had found forher. Molly was hurt for Cynthia at all these speeches; she thoughtthey implied that the pleasure which her mother felt in seeing her afortnight sooner after her two years' absence was inferior to thatwhich she would have received from a bundle of silver-paper patterns.But Cynthia took no apparent notice of the frequent recurrence ofthese small complaints. Indeed, she received much of what her mothersaid with a kind of complete indifference, that made Mrs. Gibson holdher rather in awe; and she was much more communicative to Molly thanto her own child. With regard to dress, however, Cynthia soon showedthat she was her mother's own daughter in the manner in which shecould use her deft and nimble fingers. She was a capital workwoman;and, unlike Molly, who excelled in plain sewing, but had no notion ofdressmaking or millinery, she could repeat the fashions she had onlyseen in passing along the streets of Boulogne, with one or two prettyrapid movements of her hands, as she turned and twisted the ribbonsand gauze her mother furnished her with. So she refurbished Mrs.Gibson's wardrobe; doing it all in a sort of contemptuous manner, thesource of which Molly could not quite make out.
Day after day the course of these small frivolities was broken inupon by the news Mr. Gibson brought of Mrs. Hamley's nearer approachto death. Molly--very often sitting by Cynthia, and surrounded byribbon, and wire, and net--heard the bulletins like the toll of afuneral bell at a marriage feast. Her father sympathized with her. Itwas the loss of a dear friend to him too; but he was so accustomed todeath, that it seemed to him but as it was, the natural end of allthings human. To Molly, the death of some one she had known so welland loved so much, was a sad and gloomy phenomenon. She loathed thesmall vanities with which she was surrounded, and would wander outinto the frosty garden, and pace the walk, which was both shelteredand concealed by evergreens.
At length--and yet it was not so long, not a fortnight since Mollyhad left the Hall--the end came. Mrs. Hamley had sunk out of life asgradually as she had sunk out of consciousness and her place in thisworld. The quiet waves closed over her, and her place knew her nomore.
"They all sent their love to you, Molly," said her father. "Rogersaid he knew how you would feel it."
Mr. Gibson had come in very late, and was having a solitary dinnerin the dining-room. Molly was sitting near him to keep him company.Cynthia and her mother were upstairs. The latter was trying on ahead-dress which Cynthia had made for her.
Molly remained downstairs after her father had gone out afresh onhis final round among his town patients. The fire was growing verylow, and the lights were waning. Cynthia came softly in, and takingMolly's listless hand, that hung down by her side, sat at her feeton the rug, chafing her chilly fingers without speaking. The tenderaction thawed the tears that had been gathering heavily at Molly'sheart, and they came dropping down her cheeks.
"You loved her dearly, did you not, Molly?"
"Yes," sobbed Molly; and then there was a silence.
"Had you known her long?"
"No, not a year. But I had seen a great deal of her. I was almostlike a daughter to her; she said so. Yet I never bid her good-by, oranything. Her mind became weak and confused."
"She had only sons, I think?"
"No; only Mr. Osborne and Mr. Roger Hamley. She had a daughteronce--'Fanny.' Sometimes, in her illness, she used to call me'Fanny.'"
The two girls were silent for some time, both gazing into the fire.Cynthia spoke first:--
"I wish I could love people as you do, Molly!"
"Don't you?" said the other, in surprise.
"No. A good number of people love me, I believe, or at least theythink they do; but I never seem to care much for any one. I dobelieve I love you, little Molly, whom I have only known for tendays, better than any one."
"Not than your mother?" said Molly, in grave astonishment.
"Yes, than my mother!" replied Cynthia, half-smiling. "It's veryshocking, I daresay; but it is so. Now, don't go and condemn me. Idon't think love for one's mother quite comes by nature; and rememberhow much I have been separated from mine! I loved my father, if youwill," she continued, with the force of truth in her tone, and thenshe stopped; "but he died when I was quite a little thing, and no onebelieves that I remember him. I heard mamma say to a caller, not afortnight after his funeral, 'Oh, no, Cynthia is too young; she hasquite forgotten him'--and I bit my lips, to keep from crying out,'Papa! papa! have I?' But it's of no use. Well, then mamma had to goout as a governess; she couldn't help it, poor thing! but she didn'tmuch care for parting with me. I was a trouble, I daresay. So I wassent to school at four years old; first one school, and then another;and in the holidays, mamma went to stay at grand houses, and I wasgenerally left with the schoolmistresses. Once I went to the Towers;and mamma lectured me continually, and yet I was very naughty, Ibelieve. And so I never went again; and I was very glad of it, for itwas a horrid place."
"That it was!" said Molly, who remembered her own day of tribulationthere.
"And once I went to London, to stay with my uncle Kirkpatrick. He isa lawyer, and getting on now; but then he was poor enough, and hadsix or seven children. It was winter-time, and we were all shut up ina small house in Doughty Street. But, after all, that wasn't so bad."
"But then you lived with your mother when she began school atAshcombe. Mr. Preston told me that, when I stayed that day at theManor-house."
"What did he tell you?" asked Cynthia, almost fiercely.
"Nothing but that. Oh, yes! He praised your beauty, and wanted me totell you what h
e had said."
"I should have hated you if you had," said Cynthia.
"Of course I never thought of doing such a thing," replied Molly. "Ididn't like him; and Lady Harriet spoke of him the next day, as if hewasn't a person to be liked."
Cynthia was quite silent. At length she said,--
"I wish I was good!"
"So do I," said Molly, simply. She was thinking again of Mrs.Hamley,--
Only the actions of the just Smell sweet and blossom in the dust,
and "goodness" just then seemed to her to be the only enduring thingin the world.
"Nonsense, Molly! You are good. At least, if you're not good, whatam I? There's a rule-of-three sum for you to do! But it's no usetalking; I am not good, and I never shall be now. Perhaps I might bea heroine still, but I shall never be a good woman, I know."
"Do you think it easier to be a heroine?"
"Yes, as far as one knows of heroines from history. I'm capable of agreat jerk, an effort, and then a relaxation--but steady, every-daygoodness is beyond me. I must be a moral kangaroo!"
Molly could not follow Cynthia's ideas; she could not distractherself from the thoughts of the sorrowing group at the Hall.
"How I should like to see them all! and yet one can do nothing atsuch a time! Papa says the funeral is to be on Tuesday, and that,after that, Roger Hamley is to go back to Cambridge. It will seemas if nothing had happened! I wonder how the squire and Mr. OsborneHamley will get on together."
"He's the eldest son, is he not? Why shouldn't he and his father geton well together?"
"Oh! I don't know. That is to say, I do know, but I think I ought notto tell."
"Don't be so pedantically truthful, Molly. Besides, your manner showswhen you speak truth and when you speak falsehood, without troublingyourself to use words. I knew exactly what your 'I don't know' meant.I never consider myself bound to be truthful, so I beg we may be onequal terms."
Cynthia might well say she did not consider herself bound to betruthful; she literally said what came uppermost, without caring verymuch whether it was accurate or not. But there was no ill-nature,and, in a general way, no attempt at procuring any advantage forherself in all her deviations; and there was often such a latentsense of fun in them that Molly could not help being amused with themin fact, though she condemned them in theory. Cynthia's playfulnessof manner glossed such failings over with a kind of charm; and yet,at times, she was so soft and sympathetic that Molly could not resisther, even when she affirmed the most startling things. The littleaccount she made of her own beauty pleased Mr. Gibson extremely; andher pretty deference to him won his heart. She was restless too, tillshe had attacked Molly's dress, after she had remodelled hermother's.
"Now for you, sweet one," said she as she began upon one of Molly'sgowns. "I've been working as connoisseur until now; now I begin asamateur."
She brought down her pretty artificial flowers, plucked out of herown best bonnet to put into Molly's, saying they would suit hercomplexion, and that a knot of ribbons would do well enough for her.All the time she worked, she sang; she had a sweet voice in singing,as well as in speaking, and used to run up and down her gay French_chansons_ without any difficulty; so flexible in the art was she.Yet she did not seem to care for music. She rarely touched the piano,on which Molly practised with daily conscientiousness. Cynthia wasalways willing to answer questions about her previous life, though,after the first, she rarely alluded to it of herself; but she was amost sympathetic listener to all Molly's innocent confidences of joysand sorrows: sympathizing even to the extent of wondering how shecould endure Mr. Gibson's second marriage, and why she did not takesome active steps of rebellion.
In spite of all this agreeable and pungent variety of companionshipat home, Molly yearned after the Hamleys. If there had been a womanin that family she would probably have received many little notes,and heard numerous details which were now lost to her, or summedup in condensed accounts of her father's visits at the Hall, which,since his dear patient was dead, were only occasional.
"Yes! The Squire is a good deal changed; but he's better than he was.There's an unspoken estrangement between him and Osborne; one cansee it in the silence and constraint of their manners; but outwardlythey are friendly--civil at any rate. The squire will always respectOsborne as his heir, and the future representative of the family.Osborne doesn't look well; he says he wants change. I think he'sweary of the domestic dullness, or domestic dissension. But he feelshis mother's death acutely. It's a wonder that he and his father arenot drawn together by their common loss. Roger's away at Cambridgetoo--examination for the mathematical tripos. Altogether the aspectof both people and place is changed; it is but natural!"
Such is perhaps the summing-up of the news of the Hamleys, ascontained in many bulletins. They always ended in some kind messageto Molly.
Mrs. Gibson generally said, as a comment upon her husband's accountof Osborne's melancholy,--
"My dear! why don't you ask him to dinner here? A little quietdinner, you know. Cook is quite up to it; and we would all of us wearblacks and lilacs; he couldn't consider that as gaiety."
Mr. Gibson took no more notice of these suggestions than by shakinghis head. He had grown accustomed to his wife by this time, andregarded silence on his own part as a great preservative against longinconsequential arguments. But every time that Mrs. Gibson was struckby Cynthia's beauty, she thought it more and more advisable that Mr.Osborne Hamley should be cheered up by a quiet little dinner-party.As yet no one but the ladies of Hollingford and Mr. Ashton, thevicar--that hopeless and impracticable old bachelor--had seenCynthia; and what was the good of having a lovely daughter, if therewere none but old women to admire her?
Cynthia herself appeared extremely indifferent upon the subject,and took very little notice of her mother's constant talk about thegaieties that were possible, and the gaieties that were impossible,in Hollingford. She exerted herself just as much to charm the twoMiss Brownings as she would have done to delight Osborne Hamley,or any other young heir. That is to say, she used no exertion, butsimply followed her own nature, which was to attract every one ofthose she was thrown amongst. The exertion seemed rather to beto refrain from doing so, and to protest, as she often did, byslight words and expressive looks against her mother's words andhumours--alike against her folly and her caresses. Molly was almostsorry for Mrs. Gibson, who seemed so unable to gain influence overher child. One day Cynthia read Molly's thought.
"I'm not good, and I told you so. Somehow, I cannot forgive herfor her neglect of me as a child, when I would have clung to her.Besides, I hardly ever heard from her when I was at school. And Iknow she put a stop to my coming over to her wedding. I saw theletter she wrote to Madame Lefevre. A child should be brought up withits parents, if it is to think them infallible when it grows up."
"But though it may know that there must be faults," replied Molly,"it ought to cover them over and try to forget their existence."
"It ought. But don't you see I have grown up outside the pale ofduty and 'oughts.' Love me as I am, sweet one, for I shall never bebetter."
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