"Mr. Sheepshanks' duty to Miss Browning and her sister" (to Mrs.
Goodenough, or to others, as the case might be). "Business of
importance prevents him from availing himself of their polite
invitation; for which he begs to return his best thanks."
But now that Mr. Preston had succeeded, and come to live in
Hollingford, things were changed.
He accepted every civility right and left, and won golden opinions
accordingly. Parties were made in his honour, "just as if he had been
a bride," Miss Phoebe Browning said; and to all of them he went.
"What's the man after?" said Mr. Sheepshanks to himself, when he
heard of his successor's affability, and sociability, and amiability,
and a variety of other agreeable "ilities," from the friends whom the
old steward still retained at Hollingford. "Preston's not a man to
put himself out for nothing. He's deep. He'll be after something
solider than popularity."
The sagacious old bachelor was right. Mr. Preston was "after"
something more than mere popularity. He went wherever he had a chance
of meeting Cynthia Kirkpatrick.
It might be that Molly's spirits were more depressed at this time
than they were in general; or that Cynthia was exultant, unawares to
herself, in the amount of attention and admiration she was receiving
from Roger by day, from Mr. Preston in the evening, but the two girls
seemed to have parted company in cheerfulness. Molly was always
gentle, but very grave and silent. Cynthia, on the contrary, was
merry, full of pretty mockeries, and hardly ever silent. When first
she came to Hollingford one of her great charms had been that she
was such a gracious listener; now her excitement, by whatever caused,
made her too restless to hold her tongue; yet what she said was too
pretty, too witty, not to be a winning and sparkling interruption,
eagerly welcomed by those who were under her sway. Mr. Gibson was
the only one who observed this change, and reasoned upon it. "She's
in a mental fever of some kind," thought he to himself. "She's very
fascinating, but I don't quite understand her."
If Molly had not been so entirely loyal to her friend, she might have
thought this constant brilliancy a little tiresome when brought into
every-day life; it was not the sunshiny rest of a placid lake, it was
rather the glitter of the pieces of a broken mirror, which confuses
and bewilders. Cynthia would not talk quietly about anything now;
subjects of thought or conversation seemed to have lost their
relative value. There were exceptions to this mood of hers, when she
sank into deep fits of silence, that would have been gloomy had it
not been for the never varying sweetness of her temper. If there was
a little kindness to be done to either Mr. Gibson or Molly, Cynthia
was just as ready as ever to do it; nor did she refuse to do anything
her mother wished, however fidgety might be the humour that prompted
the wish. But in this latter case Cynthia's eyes were not quickened
by her heart.