"I thought harpstrings required a pretty strong finger to make them
sound," said Molly.
"My dear child, you've no more poetry in you than your father. And as
for your hair! it's worse than ever. Can't you drench it in water to
take those untidy twists and twirls out of it?"
"It only makes it curl more and more when it gets dry," said Molly,
sudden tears coming into her eyes as a recollection came before her
like a picture seen long ago and forgotten for years--a young mother
washing and dressing her little girl; placing the half-naked darling
on her knee, and twining the wet rings of dark hair fondly round her
fingers, and then, in an ecstasy of fondness, kissing the little
curly head.
The receipt of Cynthia's letters made very agreeable events. She
did not write often, but her letters were tolerably long when they
did come, and very sprightly in tone. There was constant mention
made of many new names, which conveyed no idea to Molly, though Mrs.
Gibson would try and enlighten her by running commentaries like the
following:--
"Mrs. Green! ah, that's Mr. Jones's pretty cousin, who lives in
Russell Square with the fat husband. They keep their carriage; but
I'm not sure if it is not Mr. Green who is Mrs. Jones's cousin. We
can ask Cynthia when she comes home. Mr. Henderson! to be sure--a
young man with black whiskers, a pupil of Mr. Kirkpatrick's
formerly,--or was he a pupil of Mr. Murray's? I know they said he had
read law with somebody. Ah, yes! they are the people who called the
day after Mr. Rawson's ball, and who admired Cynthia so much, without
knowing I was her mother. She was very handsomely dressed indeed, in
black satin; and the son had a glass eye, but he was a young man of
good property. Coleman! yes, that was the name."
No more news of Roger until some time after Cynthia had returned from
her London visit. She came back looking fresher and prettier than
ever, beautifully dressed, thanks to her own good taste, and her
cousin's generosity, full of amusing details of the gay life she had
been enjoying, yet not at all out of spirits at having left it behind
her. She brought home all sorts of pretty and dainty devices for
Molly; a neck-ribbon made up in the newest fashion, a pattern for a
tippet, a delicate pair of light gloves, embroidered as Molly had
never seen gloves embroidered before, and many another little sign of
remembrance during her absence. Yet somehow or other, Molly felt that
Cynthia was changed in her relation to her. Molly was aware that she
had never had Cynthia's full confidence, for with all her apparent
frankness and _naïveté_ of manner, Cynthia was extremely reserved and
reticent. She knew this much of herself, and had often laughed about
it to Molly, and the latter had by this time found out the truth of
her friend's assertion. But Molly did not trouble herself much about
it. She too knew that there were many thoughts and feelings that
flitted through her mind which she should never think of telling
to any one, except perhaps--if they were ever very much thrown
together--to her father. She knew that Cynthia withheld from her more
than thoughts and feelings--that she withheld facts. But then, as
Molly reflected, these facts might involve details of struggle and
suffering--might relate to her mother's neglect--and altogether be of
so painful a character, that it would be well if Cynthia could forget
her childhood altogether, instead of fixing it in her mind by the
relation of her grievances and troubles. So it was not now by any
want of confidence that Molly felt distanced as it were. It was
because Cynthia rather avoided than sought her companionship; because
her eyes shunned the straight, serious, loving look of Molly's;
because there were certain subjects on which she evidently disliked
speaking, not particularly interesting things as far as Molly could
perceive, but it almost seemed as if they lay on the road to points
to be avoided. Molly felt a sort of sighing pleasure in noticing
Cynthia's changed manner of talking about Roger. She spoke of him
tenderly now; "poor Roger," as she called him; and Molly thought
that she must be referring to the illness which he had mentioned
in his last letter. One morning in the first week after Cynthia's
return home, just as he was going out, Mr. Gibson ran up into the
drawing-room, hat on, booted and spurred, and hastily laid an open
pamphlet down before her; pointing out a particular passage with
his finger, but not speaking a word before he rapidly quitted the
room. His eyes were sparkling, and had an amused as well as pleased
expression. All this Molly noticed, as well as Cynthia's flush of
colour as she read what was thus pointed out to her. Then she pushed
it a little on one side, not closing the book, however, and went on
with her work.