"I think dear papa seems a little put out to-day; we must see that he
has a dinner that he likes when he comes home. I have often perceived
that everything depends on making a man comfortable in his own
house."
And thus she went on, groping about to find the means of reinstating
herself in his good graces--really trying, according to her lights,
till Molly was often compelled to pity her in spite of herself, and
although she saw that her stepmother was the cause of her father's
increased astringency of disposition. For, indeed, he had got into
that kind of exaggerated susceptibility with regard to his wife's
faults, which may be best typified by the state of bodily irritation
that is produced by the constant recurrence of any particular noise:
those who are brought within hearing of it, are apt to be always on
the watch for the repetition, if they are once made to notice it, and
are in an irritable state of nerves.
So that poor Molly had not passed a cheerful winter, independently of
any private sorrows that she might have in her own heart. She did not
look well, either: she was gradually falling into low health, rather
than bad health. Her heart beat more feebly and slower; the vivifying
stimulant of hope--even unacknowledged hope--was gone out of her
life. It seemed as if there was not, and never could be in this
world, any help for the dumb discordancy between her father and his
wife. Day after day, month after month, year after year, would Molly
have to sympathize with her father, and pity her stepmother, feeling
acutely for both, and certainly more than Mrs. Gibson felt for
herself. Molly could not imagine how she had at one time wished for
her father's eyes to be opened, and how she could ever have fancied
that if they were, he would be able to change things in Mrs. Gibson's
character. It was all hopeless, and the only attempt at a remedy was
to think about it as little as possible. Then Cynthia's ways and
manners about Roger gave Molly a great deal of uneasiness. She did
not believe that Cynthia cared enough for him; at any rate, not with
the sort of love that she herself would have bestowed, if she had
been so happy--no, that was not it--if she had been in Cynthia's
place. She felt as if she should have gone to him both hands held
out, full and brimming over with tenderness, and been grateful for
every word of precious confidence bestowed on her. Yet Cynthia
received his letters with a kind of carelessness, and read them with
a strange indifference, while Molly sat at her feet, so to speak,
looking up with eyes as wistful as a dog's waiting for crumbs, and
such chance beneficences.