Cynthia was always the same with Molly: kind, sweet-tempered, ready
to help, professing a great deal of love for her, and probably
feeling as much as she did for any one in the world. But Molly had
reached to this superficial depth of affection and intimacy in the
first few weeks of Cynthia's residence in her father's house; and if
she had been of a nature prone to analyse the character of one whom
she loved dearly, she might have perceived that, with all Cynthia's
apparent frankness, there were certain limits beyond which her
confidence did not go; where her reserve began, and her real self was
shrouded in mystery. For instance, her relations with Mr. Preston
were often very puzzling to Molly. She was sure that there had been a
much greater intimacy between them formerly at Ashcombe, and that the
remembrance of this was often very galling and irritating to Cynthia,
who was as evidently desirous of forgetting it as he was anxious
to make her remember it. But why this intimacy had ceased, why
Cynthia disliked him so extremely now, and many other unexplained
circumstances connected with these two facts, were Cynthia's secrets;
and she effectually baffled all Molly's innocent attempts during
the first glow of her friendship for Cynthia, to learn the girlish
antecedents of her companion's life. Every now and then Molly came
to a dead wall, beyond which she could not pass--at least with the
delicate instruments which were all she chose to use. Perhaps Cynthia
might have told all there was to tell to a more forcible curiosity,
which knew how to improve every slip of the tongue and every fit of
temper to its own gratification. But Molly's was the interest of
affection, not the coarser desire of knowing everything for a little
excitement; and as soon as she saw that Cynthia did not wish to tell
her anything about that period of her life, Molly left off referring
to it. But if Cynthia had preserved a sweet tranquillity of manner
and an unvarying kindness for Molly during the winter of which there
is question, at present she was the only person to whom the beauty's
ways were unchanged. Mr. Gibson's influence had been good for her as
long as she saw that he liked her; she had tried to keep as high a
place in his good opinion as she could, and had curbed many a little
sarcasm against her mother, and many a twisting of the absolute
truth when he was by. Now there was a constant uneasiness about her
which made her more cowardly than before; and even her partisan,
Molly, could not help being aware of the distinct equivocations she
occasionally used when anything in Mr. Gibson's words or behaviour
pressed her too hard. Her repartees to her mother were less frequent
than they had been, but there was often the unusual phenomenon
of pettishness in her behaviour to her. These changes in humour
and disposition, here described all at once, were in themselves a
series of delicate alterations of relative conduct spread over many
months--many winter months of long evenings and bad weather, which
bring out discords of character, as a dash of cold water brings out
the fading colours of an old fresco.