"Take care, Cynthia. Look how you are cutting that gooseberry tart,"
said Mrs. Gibson, with sharp annoyance; not provoked by Cynthia's
present action, although it gave excuse for a little vent of temper.
"I can't think how you could come off in this sudden kind of way; I
am sure it must have annoyed your uncle and aunt. I daresay they'll
never ask you again."
"On the contrary, I am to go back there as soon as ever I can be easy
to leave Molly."
"'Easy to leave Molly.' Now that really is nonsense, and rather
uncomplimentary to me, I must say: nursing her as I have been doing,
daily, and almost nightly; for I have been wakened times out of
number by Mr. Gibson getting up, and going to see if she had had her
medicine properly."
"I'm afraid she has been very ill?" asked Cynthia.
"Yes, she has, in one way; but not in another. It was what I call
more a tedious, than an interesting illness. There was no immediate
danger, but she lay much in the same state from day to day."
"I wish I had known!" sighed Cynthia. "Do you think I might go and
see her now?"
"I'll go and prepare her. You'll find her a good deal better than
she has been. Ah; here's Mr. Gibson!" He came into the dining-room,
hearing voices. Cynthia thought that he looked much older.
"You here!" said he, coming forward to shake hands. "Why, how did you
come?"
"By the 'Umpire.' I never knew Molly had been so ill, or I would have
come directly." Her eyes were full of tears. Mr. Gibson was touched;
he shook her hand again, and murmured, "You're a good girl, Cynthia."
"She's heard one of dear Lady Harriet's exaggerated accounts," said
Mrs. Gibson, "and come straight off. I tell her it's very foolish,
for Molly is a great deal better now."
"Very foolish," said Mr. Gibson, echoing his wife's words, but
smiling at Cynthia. "But sometimes one likes foolish people for their
folly, better than wise people for their wisdom."
"I am afraid folly always annoys me," said his wife. "However,
Cynthia is here, and what is done, is done."
"Very true, my dear. And now I'll run up and see my little girl,
and tell her the good news. You'd better follow me in a couple of
minutes." This to Cynthia.
Molly's delight at seeing her showed itself first in a few happy
tears; and then in soft caresses and inarticulate sounds of love.
Once or twice she began, "It is such a pleasure," and there she
stopped short. But the eloquence of these five words sank deep into
Cynthia's heart. She had returned just at the right time, when Molly
wanted the gentle fillip of the society of a fresh and yet a familiar
person. Cynthia's tact made her talkative or silent, gay or grave,
as the varying humour of Molly required. She listened, too, with the
semblance, if not the reality, of unwearied interest, to Molly's
continual recurrence to all the time of distress and sorrow at Hamley
Hall, and to the scenes which had then so deeply impressed themselves
upon her susceptible nature. Cynthia instinctively knew that the
repetition of all these painful recollections would ease the
oppressed memory, which refused to dwell on anything but what had
occurred at a time of feverish disturbance of health. So she never
interrupted Molly, as Mrs. Gibson had so frequently done, with--"You
told me all that before, my dear. Let us talk of something else;" or,
"Really I cannot allow you to be always dwelling on painful thoughts.
Try and be a little more cheerful. Youth is gay. You are young,
and therefore you ought to be gay. That is put in a famous form of
speech; I forget exactly what it is called."