"Molly Gibson. My real name is Mary."
"Molly is a nice, soft-sounding name. People in the last century
weren't afraid of homely names; now we are all so smart and fine: no
more 'Lady Bettys' now. I almost wonder they haven't re-christened
all the worsted and knitting-cotton that bears her name. Fancy Lady
Constantia's cotton, or Lady Anna-Maria's worsted."
"I didn't know there was a Lady Betty's cotton," said Molly.
"That proves you don't do fancy-work! You'll find Clare will set
you to it, though. She used to set me at piece after piece: knights
kneeling to ladies; impossible flowers. But I must do her the justice
to add that when I got tired of them she finished them herself. I
wonder how you'll get on together?"
"So do I!" sighed out Molly, under her breath.
"I used to think I managed her, till one day an uncomfortable
suspicion arose that all the time she had been managing me. Still
it's easy work to let oneself be managed; at any rate till one wakens
up to the consciousness of the process, and then it may become
amusing, if one takes it in that light."
"I should hate to be managed," said Molly, indignantly. "I'll try and
do what she wishes for papa's sake, if she'll only tell me outright;
but I should dislike to be trapped into anything."
"Now I," said Lady Harriet, "am too lazy to avoid traps; and I rather
like to remark the cleverness with which they're set. But then,
of course, I know that if I choose to exert myself, I can break
through the withes of green flax with which they try to bind me. Now,
perhaps, you won't be able."
"I don't quite understand what you mean," said Molly.
"Oh, well--never mind; I daresay it's as well for you that you
shouldn't. The moral of all I have been saying is, 'Be a good girl,
and suffer yourself to be led, and you'll find your new stepmother
the sweetest creature imaginable.' You'll get on capitally with her,
I make no doubt. How you'll get on with her daughter is another
affair; but I daresay very well. Now we'll ring for tea; for I
suppose that heavy breakfast is to stand for our lunch."
Mr. Preston came into the room just at this time, and Molly was a
little surprised at Lady Harriet's cool manner of dismissing him,
remembering as she did how Mr. Preston had implied his intimacy with
her ladyship the evening before at dinner-time.
"I cannot bear that sort of person," said Lady Harriet, almost before
he was out of hearing; "giving himself airs of gallantry towards
one to whom his simple respect is all his duty. I can talk to one
of my father's labourers with pleasure, while with a man like that
underbred fop I am all over thorns and nettles. What is it the Irish
call that style of creature? They've some capital word for it, I
know. What is it?"