Mrs. Gibson reddened a little, and hesitated,--
"Yes; certainly. My daughter will be with us next winter, I believe;
and I daresay she will go out with us."
"Why can't she say at once that Cynthia is here now?" asked Molly of
herself, yet glad that Mr. Preston's curiosity was baffled.
He still smiled; but this time he looked up at Mrs. Gibson, as he
asked,--"You have good news from her, I hope?"
"Yes; very. By the way, how are our old friends the Robinsons? How
often I think of their kindness to me at Ashcombe! Dear good people,
I wish I could see them again."
"I will certainly tell them of your kind inquiries. They are very
well, I believe."
Just at this moment, Molly heard the familiar sound of the click
and opening of the front door. She knew it must be Cynthia; and,
conscious of some mysterious reason which made Mrs. Gibson wish to
conceal her daughter's whereabouts from Mr. Preston, and maliciously
desirous to baffle him, she rose to leave the room, and meet Cynthia
on the stairs; but one of the lost crewels of worsted had entangled
itself in her gown and feet, and before she had freed herself of the
encumbrance, Cynthia had opened the drawing-room door, and stood
in it, looking at her mother, at Molly, at Mr. Preston, but not
advancing one step. Her colour, which had been brilliant the first
moment of her entrance, faded away as she gazed; but her eyes--her
beautiful eyes--usually so soft and grave, seemed to fill with fire,
and her brows to contract, as she took the resolution to come forward
and take her place among the three, who were all looking at her with
different emotions. She moved calmly and slowly forwards; Mr. Preston
went a step or two to meet her, his hand held out, and the whole
expression of his face that of eager delight.
But she took no notice of the outstretched hand, nor of the chair
that he offered her. She sate down on a little sofa in one of the
windows, and called Molly to her.
"Look at my purchases," said she. "This green ribbon was
fourteen-pence a yard, this silk three shillings," and so she went
on, forcing herself to speak about these trifles as if they were
all the world to her, and she had no attention to throw away on her
mother and her mother's visitor.
Mr. Preston took his cue from her. He, too, talked of the news of
the day, the local gossip--but Molly, who glanced up at him from
time to time, was almost alarmed by the bad expression of suppressed
anger, almost amounting to vindictiveness, which entirely marred his
handsome looks. She did not wish to look again; and tried rather to
back up Cynthia's efforts at maintaining a separate conversation. Yet
she could not help overhearing Mrs. Gibson's strain after increased
civility, as if to make up for Cynthia's rudeness, and, if possible,
to deprecate his anger. She talked perpetually, as though her object
were to detain him; whereas, previous to Cynthia's return, she had
allowed frequent pauses in the conversation, as though to give him
the opportunity to take his leave.