Wives and Daughters: An Every-Day Story - Page 225/572

"They are talking about France," said Roger, in answer to Molly's

unspoken question. "Osborne knows it well, and Miss Kirkpatrick has

been at school there, you know. It sounds very interesting; shall we

go nearer and hear what they are saying?"

It was all very well to ask this civilly, but Molly thought it would

have been better to wait for her answer. Instead of waiting, however,

Roger went to the piano, and, leaning on it, appeared to join in the

light merry talk, while he feasted his eyes as much as he dared by

looking at Cynthia. Molly suddenly felt as if she could scarcely keep

from crying--a minute ago he had been so near to her, and talking so

pleasantly and confidentially; and now he almost seemed as if he had

forgotten her existence. She thought that all this was wrong; and

she exaggerated its wrongness to herself; "mean," and "envious of

Cynthia," and "ill-natured," and "selfish," were the terms she kept

applying to herself; but it did no good, she was just as naughty at

the last as at the first.

Mrs. Gibson broke into the state of things which Molly thought was to

endure for ever. Her work had been intricate up to this time, and had

required a great deal of counting; so she had had no time to attend

to her duties, one of which she always took to be to show herself to

the world as an impartial stepmother. Cynthia had played and sung,

and now she must give Molly her turn of exhibition. Cynthia's singing

and playing was light and graceful, but anything but correct; but

she herself was so charming, that it was only fanatics for music who

cared for false chords and omitted notes. Molly, on the contrary, had

an excellent ear, if she had ever been well taught; and both from

inclination and conscientious perseverance of disposition, she would

go over an incorrect passage for twenty times. But she was very shy

of playing in company; and when forced to do it, she went through her

performance heavily, and hated her handiwork more than any one.

"Now, you must play a little, Molly," said Mrs. Gibson; "play us that

beautiful piece of Kalkbrenner's, my dear."

Molly looked up at her stepmother with beseeching eyes; but it only

brought out another form of request, still more like a command.

"Go at once, my dear. You may not play it quite rightly; and I know

you are very nervous; but you're quite amongst friends."

So there was a disturbance made in the little group at the piano, and

Molly sate down to her martyrdom.