MAKING FRIENDSHIP.
Mr. Gibson that Cynthia Kirkpatrick was to return to England to be present at her mother's wedding; but Mrs. Kirkpatrick had no such intention. She was not what is called a woman of determination; but somehow what she she avoided, and what she liked she to do, or to have. So although in the conversation, which she had already to, as to the when and the how she was to be married, she had to Mr. Gibson's that Molly and Cynthia should be the two bridesmaids, still she had how it would be to her to have her out her by the of the bride, her mother; and as the for the wedding more definite, she saw in her own mind for Cynthia's at her at Boulogne.
Mrs. Kirkpatrick had gone to that night of her to Mr. Gibson, a marriage. She looked to it as a from the of school—keeping an school, with to pay for house rent and taxes, food, washing, and the masters. She saw no for going to Ashcombe, to wind up her affairs, and to pack up her clothes. She that Mr. Gibson's would be such that he would press on the marriage, and her to her drudgery, but to it now and for ever. She up a very pretty, very speech for him in her own mind; to upon her, and to the which she she ought to have, at telling the of her that she did not to school, and that they must another place of education for their daughters, in the last week but one of the holidays.
It was like a of cold water on Mrs. Kirkpatrick's plans, when the next at Lady Cumnor to decide upon the and of the two middle-aged lovers.
"Of you can't give up your all at once, Clare. The wedding can't be Christmas, but that will do very well. We shall all be at the Towers; and it will be a for the children to go over to Ashcombe, and see you married."
"I think—I am afraid—I don't Mr. Gibson will like waiting so long; men are so under these circumstances."
"Oh, nonsense! Lord Cumnor has you to his tenants, and I'm sure he wouldn't like them to be put to any inconvenience. Mr. Gibson will see that in a moment. He's a man of sense, or else he wouldn't be our family doctor. Now, what are you going to do about your little girl? Have you yet?"
"No. Yesterday there so little time, and when one is it is so difficult to think of anything. Cynthia is nearly eighteen, old to go out as a governess, if he it, but I don't think he will. He is so and kind."
"Well! I must give you time to settle some of your to-day. Don't waste it in sentiment, you're too old for that. Come to a clear with each other; it will be for your in the long run."
So they did come to a clear about one or two things. To Mrs. Kirkpatrick's dismay, she that Mr. Gibson had no more idea than Lady Cumnor of her with the of her pupils. Though he was at a as to what was to of Molly till she be under the protection of his new wife at her own home, and though his him more and more every day, he was too to think of Mrs. Kirkpatrick to give up a week sooner than was right for his sake. He did not how easy the of would be; with all her she lead him to for the wedding to take place at Michaelmas.
"I can tell you what a and it will be to me, Hyacinth, when you are once my wife—the of my home—poor little Molly's mother and protector; but I wouldn't with your previous for the world. It wouldn't be right."
"Thank you, my own love. How good you are! So many men would think only of their own and interests! I'm sure the of my dear will you—will be at your for their interests."
"Don't tell them, then. I being admired. Why shouldn't you say it is your wish to keep on your till they've had time to look out for another?"
"Because it isn't," said she, all. "I long to be making you happy; I want to make your home a place of and to you; and I do so wish to your sweet Molly, as I to do, when I come to be her mother. I can't take to myself which doesn't to me. If I have to speak for myself, I shall say, 'Good people, a for your by Michaelmas,—for after that time I must go and make the of others.' I can't to think of your long in November—coming home wet at night with no one to take of you. Oh! if you it to me, I shall the to take their away from the of one will be absent. Though I couldn't to any time Michaelmas—that wouldn't be or right, and I'm sure you wouldn't me—you are too good."
"Well, if you think that they will we have by them, let it be Michaelmas with all my heart. What Lady Cumnor say?"
"Oh! I told her I was you wouldn't like waiting, of your with your servants, and of Molly—it would be so to enter on the new relationship with her as soon as possible."
"To be sure; so it would. Poor child! I'm the of my has her."
"Cynthia will it deeply, too," said Mrs. Kirkpatrick, to let her be Mr. Gibson's in and affection.
"We will have her over to the wedding! She and Molly shall be bridesmaids," said Mr. Gibson, in the of his heart.
This plan did not Mrs. Kirkpatrick: but she it best not to oppose it, until she had a to give, and also some would naturally out of circumstances; so at this time she only smiled, and pressed the hand she in hers.
It is a question Mrs. Kirkpatrick or Molly the most for the day to be over which they were to together at the Towers. Mrs. Kirkpatrick was of girls as a class. All the of her life were with girls in some way. She was very when she a governess, and had been in her with her pupils, in the place she to. Her of and manner, and her accomplishments, more than her and acquirements, had it for her than for most to obtain good "situations;" and she had been in some; but still she was or stubborn, or over-conscientious, or severe-judging, or and girls. And again, Cynthia was born, she had for a boy, it possible that if some three or four relations died, he might come to be a baronet; and of a son, lo and it was a daughter! Nevertheless, with all her to girls in the as "the of her life" (and her was not by the of her having a for "young ladies" at Ashcombe), she meant to be as as she be to her new step-daughter, she as a black-haired, child, in she had read of herself. Mrs. Kirkpatrick Mr. Gibson she was of the of earning her own livelihood; but she liked him personally—nay, she loved him in her way, and she to be good to his daughter, though she as if it would have been for her to have been good to his son.
Molly was herself up in her way too. "I will be like Harriet. I will think of others. I won't think of myself," she all the way to the Towers. But there was no selfishness in that the day was come to an end, and that she did very heartily. Mrs. Hamley sent her in the carriage, which was to wait and her at night. Mrs. Hamley wanted Molly to make a impression, and she sent for her to come and herself she set out.
"Don't put on your gown—your white will look the nicest, my dear."
"Not my silk? it is new! I had it to come here."
"Still, I think your white you the best." "Anything but that silk" was the in Mrs. Hamley's mind; and, thanks to her, Molly set off for the Towers, looking a little quaint, it is true, but lady-like, if she was old-fashioned. Her father was to meet her there; but he had been detained, and she had to Mrs. Kirkpatrick by herself, the of her last day of at the Towers fresh in her mind as if it had been yesterday. Mrs. Kirkpatrick was as as be. She Molly's hand in hers, as they together in the library, after the were over. She it from time to time, and out of satisfaction, as she in the face.
The New Mamma.
The New Mamma.
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"What eyes! so like your dear father's! How we shall love each other—shan't we, darling? For his sake!"
"I'll try," said Molly, bravely; and then she not her sentence.
"And you've just got the same black hair!" said Mrs. Kirkpatrick, one of Molly's from off her white temple.
"Papa's is grey," said Molly.
"Is it? I see it. I shall see it. He will always be to me the of men."
Mr. Gibson was a very man, and Molly was pleased with the compliment; but she not help saying,—
"Still he will old, and his will grey. I think he will be just as handsome, but it won't be as a man."
"Ah! that's just it, love. He'll always be handsome; some people always are. And he is so of you, dear." Molly's colour into her face. She did not want an of her own father's love from this woman. She not help being angry; all she do was to keep silent. "You don't know how he speaks of you; 'his little treasure,' as he calls you. I'm almost sometimes."
Molly took her hand away, and her to harden; these speeches were so to her. But she set her teeth together, and "tried to be good."
"We must make him so happy. I'm he has had a great to him at home; but we will do away with all that now. You must tell me," the cloud in Molly's eyes, "what he and dislikes, for of you will know."
Molly's a little; of she did know. She had not and loved him so long without that she him than any one else: though how he had come to like Mrs. Kirkpatrick to wish to her, was an problem that she put as inexplicable. Mrs. Kirkpatrick on,—"All men have their and antipathies, the wisest. I have some measure by the trifles; a door open, or tea in their saucers, or a put on. Why," she, her voice, "I know of a house to which Lord Hollingford will be asked again he didn't his shoes on the in the hall! Now you must tell me what your dear father most in these ways, and I shall take to avoid it. You must be my little friend and in him. It will be such a to me to to his fancies. About my dress, too—what he like best? I want to do in my power with a view to his approval."
Molly was by all this, and to think that really, after all, her father had done well for himself; and that if she help his new happiness, she ought to do it. So she very to think over Mr. Gibson's and ways; to over what him the most in his household.
"I think," said she, "papa isn't particular about many things; but I think our not having the dinner punctual—quite for him when he comes in, him more than anything. You see, he has often had a long ride, and there is another long to come, and he has only half-an-hour—sometimes only a quarter—to eat his dinner in."
"Thank you, my own love. Punctuality! Yes; it's a great thing in a household. It's what I've had to with my ladies at Ashcombe. No wonder dear Mr. Gibson has been at his dinner not being ready, and he so hard-worked!"
"Papa doesn't what he has, if it's only ready. He would take bread-and-cheese, if cook would only send it in of dinner."
"Bread-and-cheese! Does Mr. Gibson eat cheese?"
"Yes; he's very of it," said Molly, innocently. "I've him eat when he has been too to anything else."
"Oh! but, my dear, we must all that. I shouldn't like to think of your father cheese; it's such a strong-smelling, of thing. We must him a cook who can him up an omelette, or something elegant. Cheese is only fit for the kitchen."
"Papa is very of it," Molly.
"Oh! but we will him of that. I couldn't the of cheese; and I'm sure he would be sorry to me."
Molly was silent; it did not do, she found, to be too minute in telling about her father's or dislikes. She had them for Mrs. Kirkpatrick to out for herself. It was an pause; each was trying to something to say. Molly spoke at length. "Please! I should so like to know something about Cynthia—your daughter."
"Yes, call her Cynthia. It's a name, isn't it? Cynthia Kirkpatrick. Not so pretty, though, as my old name, Hyacinth Clare. People used to say it me so well. I must you an that a gentleman—he was a in the 53rd—made upon it. Oh! we shall have a great to say to each other, I foresee!"
"But about Cynthia?"
"Oh, yes! about dear Cynthia. What do you want to know, my dear?"
"Papa said she was to live with us! When will she come?"
"Oh, was it not sweet of your father? I of nothing else but Cynthia's going out as a when she had her education; she has been up for it, and has had great advantages. But good dear Mr. Gibson wouldn't of it. He said yesterday that she must come and live with us when she left school."
"When will she school?"
"She for two years. I don't think I must let her next summer. She teaches English as well as learning French. Next she shall come home, and then shan't we be a happy little quartette?"
"I so," said Molly. "But she is to come to the wedding, isn't she?" she on timidly, not how Mrs. Kirkpatrick would like the to her marriage.
"Your father has for her to come; but we must think about it a little more it. The is a great expense!"
"Is she like you? I do so want to see her."
"She is very handsome, people say. In the bright-coloured style,—perhaps something like what I was. But I like the dark-haired of best—just now," Molly's hair, and looking at her with an of remembrance.
"Does Cynthia—is she very and accomplished?" asked Molly, a little the answer should remove Miss Kirkpatrick at too great a from her.
"She ought to be; I've paid so much money to have her by the best masters. But you will see her long, and I'm we must go now to Lady Cumnor. It has been very having you all to myself, but I know Lady Cumnor will be us now, and she was very to see you,—my daughter, as she calls you."
Molly Mrs. Kirkpatrick into the morning-room, where Lady Cumnor was sitting—a little annoyed, because, having her than usual, Clare had not been aware by of the fact, and so had not Molly Gibson for a of an hour before. Every small is an event in the day of a invalid, and a little while ago Molly would have met with appreciation, where now she had to criticism. Of Lady Cumnor's as an she nothing; she only she was going to see and be by a live countess; nay, more, by "the countess" of Hollingford.
Mrs. Kirkpatrick her into Lady Cumnor's presence by the hand, and in her, said,—"My dear little daughter, Lady Cumnor!"
"Now, Clare, don't let me have nonsense. She is not your yet, and may be,—I that one-third of the I have of, have come to marriages. Miss Gibson, I am very to see you, for your father's sake; when I know you better, I it will be for your own."
Molly very that she might be any by the stern-looking lady who so in the easy chair, prepared for lounging, and which therefore gave all the more to the attitude. Lady Cumnor took Molly's for humility, and on speaking after a little pause of inspection.
"Yes, yes, I like her looks, Clare. You may make something of her. It will be a great to you, my dear, to have a lady who has up people of quality always about you just at the time when you are up. I'll tell you what, Clare!"—a her,—"you and she must acquainted—you know nothing of each other at present; you are not to be married till Christmas, and what be than that she should go with you to Ashcombe! She would be with you constantly, and have the of the of your people, which would be a good thing for an only child! It's a plan; I'm very I of it!"
Now it would be difficult to say which of Lady Cumnor's two was the most at the idea which had taken of her. Mrs. Kirkpatrick had no for being with a step-daughter her time. If Molly came to be an of her house, to many little economies, and a still more to many little indulgences, that were in themselves, but which Mrs. Kirkpatrick's life had her to look upon as to be concealed: the dirty dog's-eared from the Ashcombe library, the of which she over with a pair of scissors; the lounging-chair which she had for use at her own home, and as she now in Lady Cumnor's presence; the morsel, and small, to which she herself for her own supper,—all these and many other would have to be if Molly came to be her pupil, parlour-boarder, or visitor, as Lady Cumnor was planning. One—two Clare was upon: to be married at Michaelmas, and not to have Molly at Ashcombe. But she as as if the plan was the most project in the world, while all the time her were about in every for the or of which she should make use at some time. Molly, however, saved her all this trouble. It was a question which of the three was the most by the which out of her lips. She did not to speak, but her was very full, and almost she was aware of her she herself saying,—
"I don't think it would be at all. I mean, my lady, that I should it very much; it would be taking me away from papa just these very last months. I will like you," she on, her full of tears; and, to Mrs. Kirkpatrick, she put her hand into her stepmother's with the and most action. "I will try hard to love you, and to do all I can to make you happy; but you must not take me away from papa just this very last of time that I shall have him."
Mrs. Kirkpatrick the hand thus in hers, and was to the girl for her opposition to Lady Cumnor's plan. Clare was, however, to up Molly by any of her own until Lady Cumnor had spoken and the cue. But there was something in Molly's little speech, or in her manner, that of Lady Cumnor in her present mood. Perhaps she was of the with which she had been up for so many days.
She put up her glasses, and looked at them speaking. Then she said—"Upon my word, lady! Why, Clare, you've got your work you! Not but what there is a good of truth in what she says. It must be very to a girl of her age to have a in her father and herself, may be the to her in the long run."
Molly almost as if she make a friend of the old countess, for her of as to the plan being a trial; but she was afraid, in her new-born of for others, of Mrs. Kirkpatrick being hurt. She need not have as as went, for the was still on that lady's lips, and the soft of her hand stopped. Lady Cumnor was more in Molly the more she looked at her; and her was through her gold-rimmed eye-glasses. She a of catechism; a of very questions, such as any lady under the rank of might have to ask, but which were not meant.
"You are sixteen, are you not?"
"No; I am seventeen. My birthday was three ago."
"Very much the same thing, I should think. Have you been to school?"
"No, never! Miss Eyre has me I know."
"Umph! Miss Eyre was your governess, I suppose? I should not have your father have to keep a governess. But of he must know his own best."
"Certainly, my lady," Molly, a little as to any on her father's wisdom.
"You say 'certainly!' as if it was a of that every one should know their own best. You are very young, Miss Gibson—very. You'll know you come to my age. And I you've been music, and the use of globes, and French, and all the accomplishments, since you have had a governess? I of such nonsense!" she on, herself up. "An only daughter! If there had been half-a-dozen, there might have been some in it."
Molly did not speak, but it was by a that she silence. Mrs. Kirkpatrick her hand more than ever, thus to a amount of to prevent her from saying anything injudicious. But the had to Molly, and only her nerves. She took her hand out of Mrs. Kirkpatrick's, with a of impatience.
It was, perhaps, for the peace that just at this moment Mr. Gibson was announced. It is odd to see how the entrance of a person of the opposite into an of either men or the little and the of mood. It was the case now; at Mr. Gibson's entrance my lady took off her glasses, and her brow; Mrs. Kirkpatrick managed to up a very blush, and as for Molly, her with delight, and the white teeth and came out like on a landscape.
Of course, after the greeting, my lady had to have a private with her doctor; and Molly and her about in the gardens with their arms each other's waists, or hand in hand, like two in the wood; Mrs. Kirkpatrick active in such endearments, Molly passive, and herself very and strange; for she had that particular of which makes any one at from a person the not go with an welcome.
Then came the early dinner; Lady Cumnor having hers in the of her own room, to which she was still a prisoner. Once or twice the meal, the idea Molly's mind that her father his position as a middle-aged lover being so to the men in waiting as it was by Mrs. Kirkpatrick's speeches and innuendos. He to every of pink from the conversation, and to it to of fact; and when Mrs. Kirkpatrick would in to such as had a on the relationship of the parties, he upon them in the most matter-of-fact way; and this after the men had left the room. An old Molly had Betty use, would keep in her and making her uneasy,—
Two is company,
Three is trumpery.
But where she go to in that house? What ought she to do? She was from this fit of wonder and by her father's saying—"What do you think of this plan of Lady Cumnor's? She says she was you to have Molly as a visitor at Ashcombe until we are married."
Mrs. Kirkpatrick's fell. If only Molly would be so good as to again, as she had done Lady Cumnor! But if the was by her father, it would come to his from a different than it had done from a lady, be she so great. Molly did not say anything; she only looked pale, and wistful, and anxious. Mrs. Kirkpatrick had to speak for herself.
"It would be a plan, only—Well! we know why we would not have it, don't we, love? And we won't tell papa, for of making him vain. No! I think I must her with you, dear Mr. Gibson, to have you all to herself for these last weeks. It would be to take her away."
"But you know, my dear, I told you of the why it not do to have Molly at home just at present," said Mr. Gibson, eagerly. For the more he of his wife, the more he it necessary to that, with all her foibles, she would be able to Molly and any such as that which had with Mr. Coxe; so that one of the good for the step he had taken was always present to him, while it had off the surface of Mrs. Kirkpatrick's mirror-like mind without any impression. She now it, on Mr. Gibson's face.
But what were Molly's at these last of her father's? She had been sent from home for some reason, a from her, but told to this woman. Was there to be perfect these two, and she to be for out? Was she, and what her—though how she did not know—to be them for the future, and she to be in the dark? A of her heart-sick. She might as well go to Ashcombe, or else, now. Thinking more of others' than of her own was very fine; but did it not up her very individuality, all the warm love, the true desires, that her herself? Yet in this her only comfort; or so it seemed. Wandering in such mazes, she how the on; a third was "trumpery," where there was entire the two who were company, from which the other was out. She was positively unhappy, and her father did not appear to see it; he was with his new plans and his new wife that was to be. But he did notice it; and was sorry for his little girl: only he that there was a for the of the household, if he did not lead Molly to her present by them into words. It was his plan to by not the he felt. Yet, when he had to leave, he took Molly's hand in his, and it there, in such a different manner to that in which Mrs. Kirkpatrick had done; and his voice to his child as he her good-by, and added the (most to him), "God you, child!"
Molly had up all the day bravely; she had not anger, or repugnance, or annoyance, or regret; but when once more by herself in the Hamley carriage, she into a of tears, and her till she the village of Hamley. Then she in to her into smiles, and do away with the other of her grief. She only she to her own room without notice, and her in cold water she was seen. But at the Hall-door she was by the and Roger in from an after-dinner in the garden, and to help her to alight. Roger saw the of in an instant, and saying,—
"My mother has been looking for you to come for this last hour," he the way to the drawing-room. But Mrs. Hamley was not there; the Squire had stopped to speak to the about one of the horses; they two were alone. Roger said,—
"I'm you've had a very trying day. I have of you times, for I know how these new relations are."
"Thank you," said she, her trembling, and on the point of again. "I did try to what you said, and to think more of others, but it is so difficult sometimes; you know it is, don't you?"
"Yes," said he, gravely. He was by her of having his of in mind, and to act up to them. He was but a very man, and he was flattered; this him on to offer more advice, and this time it was with sympathy. He did not want to out her confidence, which he might very easily be done with such a girl; but he to help her by her a of the on which he had learnt to rely. "It is difficult," he on, "but by-and-by you will be so much for it."
"No, I shan't!" said Molly, her head. "It will be very when I shall have killed myself, as it were, and live only in trying to do, and to be, as other people like. I don't see any end to it. I might as well have lived. And as for the you speak of, I shall be happy again."
There was an in what she said, that Roger did not know how to answer at the moment; it was to address himself to the of the girl of seventeen, that she should be happy again.
"Nonsense: in ten years' time you will be looking on this trial as a very light one—who knows?"
"I it foolish; all our will appear to us after a while; they so now to angels. But we are ourselves, you know, and this is now, not some time to come, a long, long way off. And we are not angels, to be by the ends for which is sent."
She had spoken so long a to him before; and when she had said it, though she did not take her away from his, as they looking at each other, she a little; she not have told why. Nor did he tell himself why a came over him as he at her face—and for a moment the of what she was saying, in the of for her sad earnestness. In an more he was himself again. Only it is to the wisest, most of one or two and twenty to himself looked up to as a Mentor by a girl of seventeen.
"I know, I understand. Yes: it is now we have to do with. Don't let us go into metaphysics." Molly opened her wide at this. Had she been talking without it? "One looks to a of trials, which will only have to be one by one, little by little. Oh, here is my mother! she will tell you than I can."
And the tête-à-tête was in a trio. Mrs. Hamley down; she had not been well all day—she had missed Molly, she said,—and now she wanted to of all the that had to the girl at the Towers. Molly on a close to the of the sofa, and Roger, though at he took up a book and to read that he might be no restraint, soon his reading all a pretence: it was so to to Molly's little narrative, and, besides, if he give her any help in her time of need, was it not his to make himself with all the of her case?
And so they on all the time of Molly's at Hamley. Mrs. Hamley sympathized, and liked to details; as the French say, her was en détail, the Squire's en gros. He was very sorry for her grief, and almost guilty, as if he had had a in it about, by the mention he had of the possibility of Mr. Gibson's marrying again, when Molly came on her visit to them. He said to his wife more than once,—
"'Pon my word, now, I wish I'd spoken those unlucky that day at dinner. Do you how she took them up? It was like a of what was to come, now, wasn't it? And she looked from that day, and I don't think she has her food since. I must take more what I say for the future. Not but what Gibson is doing the very best thing, for himself and her, that he can do. I told him so only yesterday. But I'm very sorry for the little girl, though. I wish I'd spoken about it, that I do! but it was like a prophecy, wasn't it?"
Roger hard to out a and right method of comfort, for he, too, in his way, was sorry for the girl, who to be cheerful, in of her own private grief, for his mother's sake. He as if high and ought to perform an work. But they do not, for there is always the unknown quantity of and feeling, which offer a resistance, the amount by another, to all good and high decree. But the the Mentor and his Telemachus every day. He to lead her out of into in other than personal things; and, naturally enough, his own objects of came to hand. She that he did her good, she did not know why or how; but after a talk with him, she always that she had got the to and peace, befell.
