The day but one after this letter was dispatched, Cynthia walked into the drawing-room at home with as much apparent composure as if she had left it not an hour before. Mrs. Gibson was dozing, but believing herself to be reading; she had been with Molly the greater part of the morning, and now after her lunch, and the invalid’s pretence of early dinner, she considered herself entitled to some repose. She started up as Cynthia came in:
‘Cynthia! Dear child, where have you come from? Why in the world have you come? My poor nerves! My heart is quite fluttering; but, to be sure, it’s no wonder with all this anxiety I have to undergo. Why have you come back?’
‘Because of the anxiety you speak of, mamma. I never knew—you never told me how ill Molly was.’
‘Nonsense! I beg your pardon, my dear, but it’s really nonsense. Molly’s illness is only nervous, Mr. Gibson says. A nervous fever; but you must remember nerves are mere fancy, and she’s getting better. Such a pity for you to have left your uncle’s. Who told you about Molly?’
‘Lady Harriet. She wrote about some wool—’
‘I know—I know. But you might have known she always exaggerates things. Not but what I have been almost worn out with nursing. Perhaps, after all, it is a very good thing you have come, my dear; and now you shall come down into the dining-room and have some lunch, and tell me all the Hyde Park Street news—into my room,—don’t go into yours yet—Molly is so sensitive to noise!’
While Cynthia ate her lunch, Mrs. Gibson went on questioning. ‘And your aunt, how is her cold? And Helen, quite strong again? Margaretta as pretty as ever? The boys are at Harrow, I suppose? And my old favourite, Mr. Henderson?’ She could not manage to slip in this last inquiry naturally; in spite of herself, there was a change of tone, an accent of eagerness. Cynthia did not reply on the instant; she poured herself out some water with great deliberation, and then said,—
‘My aunt is quite well; Helen is as strong as she ever is, and Margaretta very pretty. The boys are at Harrow, and I conclude that Mr. Henderson is enjoying his usual health, for he was to dine at my uncle’s to-day.’
‘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 dare say 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.’
So Molly’s health and spirits improved rapidly after Cynthia’s return: and although she was likely to retain many of her invalid habits during the summer, she was able to take drives, and enjoy the fine weather; it was only her as yet tender spirits that required a little management. All the Hollingford people forgot that they had ever thought of her except as a darling of the town; and each in his or her way showed kind interest in her father’s child. Miss Browning and Miss Phoebe considered it quite a privilege that they were allowed to see her a fortnight or three weeks before any one else; Mrs. Goodenough, spectacles on nose, stirred dainty messes in a silver saucepan for Molly’s benefit; the Towers sent books, and forced fruit, and new caricatures, and strange and delicate poultry; humble patients of ‘ the doctor,’ as Mr. Gibson was usually termed, left the earliest cauliflowers they could grow in their cottage gardens, with ‘their duty for Miss.’
The last of all, though strongest in regard, most piteously eager in interest, came Squire Hamley himself. When she was at the worst, he rode over every day to hear the smallest detail, facing even Mrs. Gibson (his abomination), if her husband was not at home, to ask and hear, and ask and hear, till the tears were unconsciously stealing down his cheeks. Every resource of his heart, or his house, or his lands were searched and tried, if it could bring a moment’s pleasure to her; and whatever it might be that came from him, at her very worst time, it brought out a dim smile upon her face.
CHAPTER 55
An Absent Lover Returns
And now it was late June; and to Molly’s and her father’s extreme urgency in pushing, and Mr. and Mrs. Kirkpatrick’s affectionate persistency in pulling, Cynthia had yielded, and had gone back to finish her interrupted visit in London, but not before the bruit of her previous sudden return to nurse Molly had told strongly in her favour in the fluctuating opinion of the little town. Her affair with Mr. Preston was thrust into the shade; while every one was speaking of her warm heart. Under the gleam of Molly’s recovery everything assumed a rosy hue, as indeed became the time when actual roses were fully in bloom.