CYNTHIA'S ARRIVAL.
Molly's father was not at home when she returned; and there was no one to give her a welcome. Mrs. Gibson was out paying calls, the told Molly. She to her own room, meaning to and her books. Rather to her she saw the chamber, to her own, being dusted; water and too were being in.
"Is any one coming?" she asked of the housemaid.
"Missus's from France. Miss Kirkpatrick is to-morrow."
Was Cynthia at last? Oh, what a it would be to have a companion, a girl, a sister of her own age! Molly's up again with elasticity. She for Mrs. Gibson's return, 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 reading now; the books were put away with Molly's neatness. She into the drawing-room, and not settle to anything. At last Mrs. Gibson came home, out with her walk and her cloak. Until that was taken off, and she had rested herself for a minutes, she unable to to Molly's questions.
"Oh, yes! Cynthia is home to-morrow, by the 'Umpire,' which through at ten o'clock. What an day it is for the time of the year! I am almost to faint. Cynthia of some opportunity, I believe, and was only too to a than we planned. She gave me the of to say I did, or did not, like her so much the time; and I shall have to pay for her just the same as if she had stopped. And I meant to have asked her to me a French bonnet; and then you have had one after mine. But I'm very she's coming, dear."
"Is anything the with her?" asked Molly.
"Oh, no! Why should there be?"
"You called her 'poor dear,' and it me she might be ill."
"Oh, no! It's only a way I got into, when Mr. Kirkpatrick died. A girl—you know one always call them 'poor dears.' Oh, no! Cynthia is ill. She's as as a horse. She would have to-day as I have done. Could you me a of and a biscuit, my dear? I'm faint."
Mr. Gibson was much more about Cynthia's than her own mother was. He her as a great to Molly, on whom, in of his marriage and his new wife, his centred. He time to and see the of the two girls; for the of which he had paid a sum.
"Well, I ladies like their out in this way! It's very certainly, but—"
"I liked my own old room better, papa; but Cynthia is to such up."
"Perhaps; at any rate, she'll see we've to make it pretty. Yours is like hers. That's right. It might have her, if hers had been than yours. Now, good-night in your bed."
Molly was up betimes—almost it was light—arranging her Hamley flowers in Cynthia's room. She eat her that morning. She ran and put on her things, that Mrs. Gibson was sure to go to the "George Inn," where the "Umpire" stopped, to meet her after a two years' absence. But, to her surprise, Mrs. Gibson had herself at her great worsted-work frame, just as usual; and she, in her turn, was at Molly's and cloak.
"Where are you going so early, child? The hasn't away yet."
"I you would go and meet Cynthia; and I wanted to go with you."
"She will be here in an hour; and dear papa has told the to take the for her luggage. I'm not sure if he is not gone himself."
"Then are not you going?" asked Molly, with a good of disappointment.
"No, not. She will be here almost directly. And, besides, I don't like to my to every passer-by in High Street. You I have not her for two years, and I in the market-place."
She settled herself to her work again; and Molly, after some consideration, gave up her own going, and herself in looking out of the window which the approach from the town.
"Here she is—here she is!" she out at last. Her father was walking by the of a tall lady; William the was along a great of baggage. Molly to the front-door, and had it wide open to admit the new-comer some time she arrived.
"Well! here she is. Molly, this is Cynthia. Cynthia, Molly. You're to be sisters, you know."
Molly saw the beautiful, tall, figure, against the light of the open door, but not see any of the that were, for the moment, in shadow. A of had come over her just at the instant, and the she would have a moment before. But Cynthia took her in her arms, and her on cheeks.
"Here's mamma," she said, looking Molly on to the stairs where Mrs. Gibson stood, up in a shawl, and in the cold. She ran past Molly and Mr. Gibson, who their from this mother and child.
Mrs. Gibson said—
"Why, how you are grown, darling! You look a woman."
"And so I am," said Cynthia. "I was I away; I've since,—except, it is always to be hoped, in wisdom."
"Yes! That we will hope," said Mrs. Gibson, in a meaning way. Indeed there were in their speeches. When they all came into the full light and of the drawing-room, Molly was in the of Cynthia's beauty. Perhaps her were not regular; but the in her gave one no time to think of that. Her was perfect; her charming; the play of the was in the mouth. Her were shaped, but their to vary. In she was not her mother; only she had not so much of the red-haired in her complexion; and her long-shaped, were with dark lashes, of her mother's ones. Molly in love with her, so to speak, on the instant. She there her and hands, as much at her as if she had been there all her life; not particularly to her mother—who, all the time, was studying either her or her dress—measuring Molly and Mr. Gibson with looks, as if how she should like them.
"There's for you in the dining-room, when you are for it," said Mr. Gibson. "I'm sure you must want it after your night journey." He looked at his wife, at Cynthia's mother, but she did not to the warm room again.
"Molly will take you to your room, darling," said she; "it is near hers, and she has got her to take off. I'll come and in the dining-room while you are having your breakfast, but I am of the cold now."
Cynthia rose and Molly upstairs.
"I'm so sorry there isn't a fire for you," said Molly, "but—I it wasn't ordered; and, of course, I don't give any orders. Here is some water, though."
"Stop a minute," said Cynthia, of Molly's hands, and looking into her face, but in such a manner that she did not the inspection.
"I think I shall like you. I am so glad! I was I should not. We're all in a very position together, aren't we? I like your father's looks, though."
First Impressions.
First Impressions.
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Molly not help at the way this was said. Cynthia to her smile.
"Ah, you may laugh. But I don't know that I am easy to on with; and I didn't when we were last together. But we are each of us now. Now, me for a of an hour. I don't want anything more."
Molly into her own room, waiting to Cynthia to the dining-room. Not that, in the moderate-sized house, there was any in the way. A very little trouble in would a to any room. But Cynthia had so Molly, that she wanted to herself to the new-comer's service. Ever since she had of the of her having a sister—(she called her a sister, but it was a Scotch sister, or a sister à la mode de Brétagne, would have puzzled most people)—Molly had allowed her to much on the idea of Cynthia's coming; and in the time since they had met, Cynthia's power of had been upon her. Some people have this power. Of course, its are only in the susceptible. A school-girl may be in every who and all the others, not by her virtues, her beauty, her sweetness, her cleverness, but by something that can neither be upon. It is the something to in the old lines:—
Love me not for grace,
For my and face;
No, for my heart,—
For these may change, and turn to ill,
And thus true love may sever.
But love me on, and know not why,
So the same still
To upon me ever.
A woman will have this charm, not only over men but over her own sex; it cannot be defined, or it is so a mixture of many gifts and that it is to decide on the of each. Perhaps it is with very high principle; as its to in the most power of to people and still more moods; "being all to all men." At any rate, Molly might soon have been aware that Cynthia was not for morality; but the over her would have Molly from any attempt at into and her companion's character, had such been the least in with her own disposition.
Cynthia was very beautiful, and was so well aware of this that she had to about it; no one with such appeared so little of it. Molly would watch her as she moved about the room, with the free step of some wild animal of the forest—moving almost, as it were, to the of music. Her dress, too, though now to our ideas it would be and disfiguring, was to her and figure, and the fashion of it by her taste. It was enough, and the in it were but few. Mrs. Gibson herself to that Cynthia had but four gowns, when she might have herself so well, and over so many useful French patterns, if she had but waited for her mother's answer to the which she had sent, announcing her return by the opportunity had for her. Molly was for Cynthia at all these speeches; she they that the which her mother in her a sooner after her two years' was to that which she would have from a of silver-paper patterns. But Cynthia took no notice of the of these small complaints. Indeed, she much of what her mother said with a of complete indifference, that Mrs. Gibson her in awe; and she was much more to Molly than to her own child. With to dress, however, Cynthia soon that she was her mother's own in the manner in which she use her and fingers. She was a workwoman; and, Molly, who in plain sewing, but had no of or millinery, she repeat the fashions she had only in along the of Boulogne, with one or two movements of her hands, as she and the and her mother her with. So she Mrs. Gibson's wardrobe; doing it all in a of manner, the of which Molly not make out.
Day after day the of these small was in upon by the news Mr. Gibson of Mrs. Hamley's nearer approach to death. Molly—very often by Cynthia, and by ribbon, and wire, and net—heard the like the of a at a marriage feast. Her father with her. It was the of a dear friend to him too; but he was so to death, that it to him but as it was, the natural end of all human. To Molly, the death of some one she had so well and loved so much, was a sad and phenomenon. She the small with which she was surrounded, and would out into the garden, and the walk, which was and by evergreens.
At length—and yet it was not so long, not a since Molly had left the Hall—the end came. Mrs. Hamley had out of life as as she had out of and her place in this world. The closed over her, and her place her no more.
"They all sent their love to you, Molly," said her father. "Roger said he how you would it."
Mr. Gibson had come in very late, and was having a dinner in the dining-room. Molly was near him to keep him company. Cynthia and her mother were upstairs. The was trying on a head-dress which Cynthia had for her.
Molly after her father had gone out on his final among his town patients. The fire was very low, and the lights were waning. Cynthia came in, and taking Molly's hand, that by her side, sat at her on the rug, her without speaking. The action the that had been at Molly's heart, and they came her cheeks.
"You loved her dearly, did you not, Molly?"
"Yes," Molly; and then there was a silence.
"Had you her long?"
"No, not a year. But I had a great of her. I was almost like a to her; she said so. Yet I her good-by, or anything. Her mind weak and confused."
"She had only sons, I think?"
"No; only Mr. Osborne and Mr. Roger Hamley. She had a once—'Fanny.' Sometimes, in her illness, she used to call me 'Fanny.'"
The two girls were for some time, into the fire. Cynthia spoke first:—
"I wish I 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 they think they do; but I to much for any one. I do I love you, little Molly, I have only for ten days, than any one."
"Not than your mother?" said Molly, in astonishment.
"Yes, than my mother!" Cynthia, half-smiling. "It's very shocking, I daresay; but it is so. Now, don't go and me. I don't think love for one's mother comes by nature; and how much I have been from mine! I loved my father, if you will," she continued, with the of truth in her tone, and then she stopped; "but he died when I was a little thing, and no one that I him. I say to a caller, not a after his funeral, 'Oh, no, Cynthia is too young; she has him'—and I my lips, to keep from out, 'Papa! papa! have I?' But it's of no use. Well, then had to go out as a governess; she couldn't help it, thing! but she didn't much for with me. I was a trouble, I daresay. So I was sent to at four years old; one school, and then another; and in the holidays, to at houses, and I was left with the schoolmistresses. Once I to the Towers; and me continually, and yet I was very naughty, I believe. And so I again; and I was very of it, for it was a place."
"That it was!" said Molly, who her own day of there.
"And once I to London, to with my uncle Kirkpatrick. He is a lawyer, and on now; but then he was enough, and had six or seven children. It was winter-time, and we were all up in a small house in Doughty Street. But, after all, that wasn't so bad."
"But then you with your mother when she at Ashcombe. Mr. Preston told me that, when I that day at the Manor-house."
"What did he tell you?" asked Cynthia, almost fiercely.
"Nothing but that. Oh, yes! He your beauty, and wanted me to tell you what he had said."
"I should have you if you had," said Cynthia.
"Of I of doing such a thing," Molly. "I didn't like him; and Lady Harriet spoke of him the next day, as if he wasn't a person to be liked."
Cynthia was silent. At length she said,—
"I wish I was good!"
"So do I," said Molly, simply. She was again of Mrs. Hamley,—
Only the of the just
Smell sweet and in the dust,
and "goodness" just then to her to be the only thing in the world.
"Nonsense, Molly! You are good. At least, if you're not good, what am I? There's a rule-of-three for you to do! But it's no use talking; I am not good, and I shall be now. Perhaps I might be a still, but I shall be a good woman, I know."
"Do you think it to be a heroine?"
"Yes, as as one of from history. I'm of a great jerk, an effort, and then a relaxation—but steady, every-day is me. I must be a kangaroo!"
Molly not Cynthia's ideas; she not herself from the of the group at the Hall.
"How I should like to see them all! and yet one can do nothing at such a time! Papa says the is to be on Tuesday, and that, after that, Roger Hamley is to go to Cambridge. It will as if nothing had happened! I wonder how the and Mr. Osborne Hamley will on together."
"He's the son, is he not? Why shouldn't he and his father on well together?"
"Oh! I don't know. That is to say, I do know, but I think I ought not to tell."
"Don't be so truthful, Molly. Besides, your manner when you speak truth and when you speak falsehood, without to use words. I what your 'I don't know' meant. I myself to be truthful, so I we may be on equal terms."
Cynthia might well say she did not herself to be truthful; she said what came uppermost, without very much it was or not. But there was no ill-nature, and, in a way, no attempt at any for herself in all her deviations; and there was often such a of fun in them that Molly not help being with them in fact, though she them in theory. Cynthia's of manner such over with a of charm; and yet, at times, she was so soft and that Molly not her, when she the most things. The little account she of her own pleased Mr. Gibson extremely; and her to him his heart. She was too, till she had Molly's dress, after she had her mother's.
"Now for you, sweet one," said she as she upon one of Molly's gowns. "I've been as until now; now I as amateur."
She her flowers, out of her own best to put into Molly's, saying they would her complexion, and that a of would do well for her. All the time she worked, she sang; she had a sweet voice in singing, as well as in speaking, and used to up and her French without any difficulty; so in the art was she. Yet she did not to for music. She touched the piano, on which Molly with daily conscientiousness. Cynthia was always to answer questions about her previous life, though, after the first, she to it of herself; but she was a most to all Molly's of and sorrows: to the of how she Mr. Gibson's second marriage, and why she did not take some active steps of rebellion.
In of all this and of at home, Molly after the Hamleys. If there had been a woman in that family she would have many little notes, and which were now to her, or up in of her father's visits at the Hall, which, since his dear patient was dead, were only occasional.
"Yes! The Squire is a good changed; but he's than he was. There's an him and Osborne; one can see it in the and of their manners; but they are friendly—civil at any rate. The will always respect Osborne as his heir, and the of the family. Osborne doesn't look well; he says he wants change. I think he's of the dullness, or dissension. But he his mother's death acutely. It's a wonder that he and his father are not together by their common loss. Roger's away at Cambridge too—examination for the mathematical tripos. Altogether the of people and place is changed; it is but natural!"
Such is the summing-up of the news of the Hamleys, as in many bulletins. They always ended in some message to Molly.
Mrs. Gibson said, as a upon her husband's account of Osborne's melancholy,—
"My dear! why don't you ask him to dinner here? A little dinner, you know. Cook is up to it; and we would all of us wear blacks and lilacs; he couldn't that as gaiety."
Mr. Gibson took no more notice of these than by his head. He had to his wife by this time, and on his own part as a great against long arguments. But every time that Mrs. Gibson was by Cynthia's beauty, she it more and more that Mr. Osborne Hamley should be up by a little dinner-party. As yet no one but the ladies of Hollingford and Mr. Ashton, the vicar—that and old bachelor—had Cynthia; and what was the good of having a daughter, if there were none but old to her?
Cynthia herself appeared upon the subject, and took very little notice of her mother's talk about the that were possible, and the that were impossible, in Hollingford. She herself just as much to the two Miss Brownings as she would have done to Osborne Hamley, or any other heir. That is to say, she used no exertion, but her own nature, which was to every one of those she was amongst. The to be to from doing so, and to protest, as she often did, by and looks against her mother's and humours—alike against her and her caresses. Molly was almost sorry for Mrs. Gibson, who so unable to over her child. One day Cynthia read Molly's thought.
"I'm not good, and I told you so. Somehow, I cannot her for her neglect of me as a child, when I would have to her. Besides, I from her when I was at school. And I know she put a stop to my over to her wedding. I saw the she to Madame Lefevre. A child should be up with its parents, if it is to think them when it up."
"But though it may know that there must be faults," Molly, "it ought to them over and try to their existence."
"It ought. But don't you see I have up the of and 'oughts.' Love me as I am, sweet one, for I shall be better."
