Cynthia might well say she did not consider herself bound to be
truthful; she literally said what came uppermost, without caring very
much whether it was accurate or not. But there was no ill-nature,
and, in a general way, no attempt at procuring any advantage for
herself in all her deviations; and there was often such a latent
sense of fun in them that Molly could not help being amused with them
in fact, though she condemned them in theory. Cynthia's playfulness
of manner glossed such failings over with a kind of charm; and yet,
at times, she was so soft and sympathetic that Molly could not resist
her, even when she affirmed the most startling things. The little
account she made of her own beauty pleased Mr. Gibson extremely; and
her pretty deference to him won his heart. She was restless too, till
she had attacked Molly's dress, after she had remodelled her
mother's.
"Now for you, sweet one," said she as she began upon one of Molly's
gowns. "I've been working as connoisseur until now; now I begin as
amateur."
She brought down her pretty artificial flowers, plucked out of her
own best bonnet to put into Molly's, saying they would suit her
complexion, and that a knot of ribbons would do well enough for her.
All the time she worked, she sang; she had a sweet voice in singing,
as well as in speaking, and used to run up and down her gay French
_chansons_ without any difficulty; so flexible in the art was she.
Yet she did not seem to care for music. She rarely touched the piano,
on which Molly practised with daily conscientiousness. Cynthia was
always willing to answer questions about her previous life, though,
after the first, she rarely alluded to it of herself; but she was a
most sympathetic listener to all Molly's innocent confidences of joys
and sorrows: sympathizing even to the extent of wondering how she
could endure Mr. Gibson's second marriage, and why she did not take
some active steps of rebellion.
In spite of all this agreeable and pungent variety of companionship
at home, Molly yearned after the Hamleys. If there had been a woman
in that family she would probably have received many little notes,
and heard numerous details which were now lost to her, or summed
up in condensed accounts of her father's visits at the Hall, which,
since his dear patient was dead, were only occasional.
"Yes! The Squire is a good deal changed; but he's better than he was.
There's an unspoken estrangement between him and Osborne; one can
see it in the silence and constraint of their manners; but outwardly
they are friendly--civil at any rate. The squire will always respect
Osborne as his heir, and the future representative of the family.
Osborne doesn't look well; he says he wants change. I think he's
weary of the domestic dullness, or domestic dissension. But he feels
his mother's death acutely. It's a wonder that he and his father are
not drawn together by their common loss. Roger's away at Cambridge
too--examination for the mathematical tripos. Altogether the aspect
of both people and place is changed; it is but natural!"