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Wives and Daughters

E >> Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell >> Wives and Daughters




She was startled from her slumbers after a time, and jumped to her
feet. Two ladies were standing by her, talking about her. They were
perfect strangers to her, and with a vague conviction that she had
done something wrong, and also because she was worn-out with hunger,
fatigue, and the morning's excitement, she began to cry.

'Poor little woman! She has lost herself; she belongs to some of the
people from Hollingford, I have no doubt,' said the oldest-looking
of the two ladies; she who appeared to be about forty, although she
did not really number more than thirty years. She was
plain-featured, and had rather a severe expression on her face; her
dress was as rich as any morning dress could be; her voice deep and
unmodulated,--what in a lower rank of life would have been called
gruff; but that was not a word to apply to Lady Cuxhaven, the eldest
daughter of the earl and countess. The other lady looked much
younger, but she was in fact some years the elder; at first sight
Molly thought she was the most beautiful person she had ever seen,
and she was certainly a very lovely woman. Her voice, too, was soft
and plaintive, as she replied to Lady Cuxhaven,--

'Poor little darling! she is overcome by the heat, I have no
doubt--such a heavy straw bonnet, too. Let me untie it for you, my
dear.'

Molly now found voice to say,--'I am Molly Gibson, please. I came
here with the Miss Brownings;' for her great fear was that she
should be taken for an unauthorized intruder.

'The Miss Brownings?' said Lady Cuxhaven to her companion, as if
inquiringly.

'I think they were the two tall large young women that Lady Agnes
was taking about.'

'Oh, I dare say. I saw she had a number of people in tow;' then
looking again at Molly, she said, 'Have you had anything to cat,
child, since you came? You look a very white little thing; or is it
the heat?'

'I have had nothing to eat,' said Molly, rather piteously; for,
indeed, before she fell asleep she had been very hungry.

The two ladies spoke to each other in a low voice; then the elder
said in a voice of authority, which, indeed, she had always used in
speaking to the other, 'Sit still here, my dear; we are going to the
house, and Clare shall bring you something to eat before you try to
walk back; it must be a quarter of a mile at least.' So they went
away, and Molly sate upright, waiting for the promised messenger.
She did not know who Clare might be, and she did not care much for
food now; but she felt as if she could not walk without some help.
At length she saw the pretty lady coming back, followed by a footman
with a small tray.

'Look how kind Lady Cuxhaven is,' said she who was called Clare.
'She chose out this little lunch herself; and now you must try and
eat it, and you'll be quite right when you've had some food,
darling--You need not stop, Edwards; I will bring the tray back with
me.'

There was some bread, and some cold chicken, and some jelly, and a
glass of wine, and a bottle of sparkling water, and a bunch of
grapes; Molly put out her trembling little hand for the water; but
she was too faint to hold it. Clare put it to her mouth, and she
took a long draught and was refreshed. But she could not eat; she
tried, but she could not; her headache was too bad. Clare looked
bewildered. 'Take some grapes, they will be the best for you; you
must try and eat something, or I don't know how I shall get you to
the house.'

'My head aches so,' said Molly, lifting her heavy eyes wistfully.

'Oh, dear, how tiresome!' said Clare, still in her sweet gentle
voice, not at all as if she was angry, only expressing an obvious
truth. Molly felt very guilty and very unhappy. Clare went on, with
a shade of asperity in her tone: 'You see, I don't know what to do
with you here if you don't eat enough to enable you to walk home.
And I've been out for these three hours trapesing about the grounds
till I'm as tired as can be, and missed my lunch and all.' Then, as
if a new idea had struck her, she said,--'You lie back in that seat
for a few minutes, and try to eat the bunch of grapes, and I'll wait
for you, and just be eating a mouthful meanwhile. You are sure you
don't want this chicken?'

Molly did as she was bid, and leant back, picking languidly at the
grapes, and watching the good appetite with which the lady ate up
the chicken and jelly, and drank the glass of wine. She was so
pretty and so graceful in her deep mourning, that even her hurry in
eating, as if she was afraid of some one coming to surprise her in
the act, did not keep her little observer from admiring her in all
she did.

'And now, darling, are you ready to go?' said she, when she had
eaten up everything on the tray. 'Oh, come; you have nearly finished
your grapes; that's a good girl. Now, if you will come with me to
the side entrance, I will take you up to my own room, and you shall
lie down on the bed for an hour or two; and if you have a good nap
your headache will be quite gone.'

So they set off, Clare carrying the empty tray, rather to Molly's
shame; but the child had enough work to drag herself along, and was
afraid of offering to do anything more. The 'side entrance' was a
flight of steps leading up from a private flower-garden into a
private matted hall, or ante-room, out of which many doors opened,
and in which were deposited the light garden-tools and the bows and
arrows of the young ladies of the house. Lady Cuxhaven must have
seen their approach, for she met them in this hall as soon as they
came in.

'How is she now?' she asked; then glancing at the plates and
glasses, she added, 'Come, I think there can't be much amiss! You're
a good old Clare, but you should have let one of the men fetch that
tray in; life in such weather as this is trouble enough of itself.'

Molly could not help wishing that her pretty companion would have
told Lady Cuxhaven that she herself had helped to finish up the
ample luncheon; but no such idea seemed to come into her mind. She
only said,--'Poor dear! she is not quite the thing yet; has got a
headache, she says. I am going to put her down on my bed, to see if
she can get a little sleep.'

Molly saw Lady Cuxhaven say something in a half-laughing manner to
'Clare,' as she passed her; and the child could not keep from
tormenting herself by fancying that the words spoken sounded
wonderfully like 'Over-eaten herself, I suspect.' However, she felt
too poorly to worry herself long; the little white bed in the cool
and pretty room had too many attractions for her aching head. The
muslin curtains flapped softly from time to time in the scented air
that came through the open windows. Clare covered her up with a
light shawl, and darkened the room. As she was going away Molly
roused herself to say, 'Please, ma'am, don't let them go away
without me. Please ask somebody to waken me if I go to sleep. I am
to go back with the Miss Brownings.'

'Don't trouble yourself about it, dear; I'll take care,' said Clare,
turning round at the door, and kissing her hand to little anxious
Molly. And then she went away, and thought no more about it. The
carriages came round at half-past four, hurried a little by Lady
Cumnor, who had suddenly become tired of the business of
entertaining, and annoyed at the repetition of indiscriminating
admiration.

'Why not have both carriages out, mamma, and get rid of them all at
once?' said Lady Cuxhaven. 'This going by instalments is the most
tiresome thing that could be imagined.' So at last there had been a
great hurry and an unmethodical way of packing off every one at
once. Miss Browning had gone in the chariot (or 'chawyot,' as Lady
Cumnor called it;--it rhymed to her daughter, Lady Hawyot--or
Harriet, as the name was spelt in the ~Peerage~), and Miss Phoebe
had been speeded along with several other guests, away in a great
roomy family conveyance, of the kind which we should now call an
'omnibus.' Each thought that Molly Gibson was with the other, and
the truth was, that she lay fast asleep on Mrs. Kirkpatrick's
bed--Mrs. Kirkpatrick ~nee~ Clare.

The housemaids came in to arrange the room. Their talking aroused
Molly, who sate up on the bed, and tried to push back the hair from
her hot forehead, and to remember where she was. She dropped down on
her feet by the side of the bed, to the astonishment of the women,
and said,--'Please, how soon are we going away?'

'Bless us and save us! who'd ha' thought of any one being in the
bed? Are you one of the Hollingford ladies, my dear? They are all
gone this hour or more!'

'Oh, dear, what shall I do? That lady they call Clare promised to
waken me in time. Papa will so wonder where I am, and I don't know
what Betty will say.'

The child began to cry, and the housemaids looked at each other in
some dismay and much sympathy. Just then, they heard Mrs
Kirkpatrick's step along the passages, approaching. She was singing
some little Italian air in a low musical voice, coming to her
bedroom to dress for dinner. One housemaid said to the other, with a
knowing look, 'Best leave it to her;' and they passed on to their
work in the other rooms.

Mrs. Kirkpatrick opened the door, and stood aghast at the sight of
Molly.

'Why, I quite forgot you!' she said at length. 'Nay, don't cry;
you'll make yourself not fit to be seen. Of course I must take the
consequences of your over-sleeping yourself, and if I can't manage
to get you back to Hollingford to-night, you shall sleep with me,
and we'll do our best to send you home to-morrow morning.'

'But papa!' sobbed out Molly. 'He always wants me to make tea for
him; and I have no night-things.'

'Well, don't go and make a piece of work about what can't be helped
now. I'll lend you night-things, and your papa must do without your
making tea for him to-night. And another time don't over-sleep
yourself in a strange house; you may not always find yourself among
such hospitable people as they are here. Why now, if you don't cry
and make a figure of yourself, I'll ask if you may come in to
dessert with Master Smythe and the little ladies. You shall go into
the nursery, and have some tea with them; and then you must come
back here and brush your hair and make yourself tidy. I think it is
a very fine thing for you to be stopping in such a grand house as
this; many a little girl would like nothing better.'

During this speech she was arranging her ~toilette~ for dinner--
taking off her black morning gown; putting on her dressing-gown;
shaking her long soft auburn hair over her shoulders, and glancing
about the room in search of various articles of her dress,--a
running flow of easy talk came babbling out all the time.

'I have a little girl of my own, dear! I don't know what she would
not give to be staying here at Lord Cumnor's with me; but, instead
of that, she has to spend her holidays at school; and yet you are
looking as miserable as can be at the thought of stopping for just
one night. I really have been as busy as can be with those
tiresome--those good ladies, I mean, from Hollingford--and one can't
think of everything at a time.'

Molly--only child as she was--had stopped her tears at the mention
of that little girl of Mrs. Kirkpatrick's, and now she ventured to
say,--

'Are you married, ma'am; I thought she called you Clare?'

In high good humour Mrs. Kirkpatrick made reply:--'I don't look as if
I was married, do I? Every one is surprised. And yet I have been a
widow for seven months now: and not a grey hair on my head, though
Lady Cuxhaven, who is younger than I, has ever so many.'

'Why do they call you "Clare"?' continued Molly, finding her so
affable and communicative.

'Because I lived with them when I was Miss Clare. It is a pretty
name, isn't it? I married a Mr. Kirkpatrick; he was only a curate,
poor fellow; but he was of a very good family, and if three of his
relations had died without children I should have been a baronet's
wife. But Providence did not see fit to permit it; and we must
always resign ourselves to what is decreed. Two of his cousins
married, and had large families; and poor dear Kirkpatrick died,
leaving me a widow.'

'But you have a little girl?' asked Molly.

'Yes; darling Cynthia! I wish you could see her; she is my only
comfort now. If I have time I will show you her picture when we come
up to bed; but I must go now. It does not do to keep Lady Cumnor
waiting a moment, and she asked me to be down early, to help with
some of the people in the house. Now I shall ring this bell, and
when the housemaid comes, ask her to take you into the nursery, and
to tell Lady Cuxhaven's nurse who you are. And then you'll have tea
with the little ladies, and come in with them to dessert. There! I'm
sorry you've overslept yourself, and are left here; but give me a
kiss, and don't cry--you really are rather a pretty child, though
you've not got Cynthia's colouring! Oh, Nanny, would you be so very
kind as to take this young lady--(what's your name, my dear?
Gibson?),--Miss Gibson, to Mrs. Dyson, in the nursery, and ask her to
allow her to drink tea with the young ladies there; and to send her
in with them to dessert. I'll explain it all to my lady.'

Nanny's face brightened out of its gloom when she heard the name
Gibson; and, having ascertained from Molly that she was 'the
doctor's' child, she showed more willingness to comply with Mrs
Kirkpatrick's request than was usual with her.

Molly was an obliging girl, and fond of children; so, as long as she
was in the nursery, she got on pretty well, being obedient to the
wishes of the supreme power, and even very useful to Mrs. Dyson, by
playing at bricks, and thus keeping a little one quiet while its
brothers and sisters were being arrayed in gay attire,--lace and
muslin, and velvet, and brilliant broad ribbons.

'Now, miss,' said Mrs. Dyson, when her own especial charge were all
ready, 'what can I do for you? You have not got another frock here,
have you?' No, indeed, she had not; nor if she had had one, would it
have been of a smarter nature than her present thick white dimity.
So she could only wash her face and hands, and submit to the nurse's
brushing and perfuming her hair. She thought she would rather have
stayed in the park all night long, and slept under the beautiful
quiet cedar, than have to undergo the unknown ordeal of 'going down
to dessert,' which was evidently regarded both by children and
nurses as the event of the day. At length there was a summons from a
footman, and Mrs. Dyson, in a rustling silk gown, marshalled her
convoy, and set sail for the dining-room door.

There was a large party of gentlemen and ladies sitting round the
decked table, in the brilliantly lighted room. Each dainty little
child ran up to its mother, or aunt, or particular friend; but Molly
had no one to go to.

'Who is that tall girl in the thick white frock? Not one of the
children of the house, I think?'

The lady addressed put up her glass, gazed at Molly, and dropped it
in an instant. 'A French girl, I should imagine. I know Lady
Cuxhaven was inquiring for one to bring up with her little girls,
that they might get a good accent early. Poor little woman, she
looks wild and strange!' And the speaker, who sate next to Lord
Cumnor, made a little sign to Molly to come to her; Molly crept up
to her as to the first shelter; but when the lady began talking to
her in French, she blushed violently, and said, in a very low
voice,--

'I don't understand French. I'm only Molly Gibson, ma'am.'

'Molly Gibson!' said the lady, out loud; as if that was not much of
an explanation.

Lord Cumnor caught the words and the tone.

'Oh, ho!' said he. 'Are you the little girl who has been sleeping in
my bed?'

He imitated the deep voice of the fabulous bear, who asks this
question of the little child in the story; but Molly had never read
the 'Three Bears,' and fancied that his anger was real; she trembled
a little, and drew nearer to the kind lady who had beckoned her as
to a refuge. Lord Cumnor was very fond of getting hold of what he
fancied was a joke, and working his idea threadbare; so all the time
the ladies were in the room he kept on his running fire at Molly,
alluding to the Sleeping Beauty, the Seven Sleepers, and any other
famous sleeper that came into his head. He had no idea of the misery
his jokes were to the sensitive girl, who already thought herself a
miserable sinner, for having slept on, when she ought to have been
awake. If Molly had been in the habit of putting two and two
together, she might have found an excuse for herself, by remembering
that Mrs. Kirkpatrick had promised faithfully to awaken her in time;
but all the girl thought of was, how little they wanted her in this
grand house; how she must seem like a careless intruder who had no
business there. Once or twice she wondered where her father was, and
whether he was missing her; but the thought of the familiar
happiness of home brought such a choking in her throat, that she
felt she must not give way to it, for fear of bursting out crying;
and she had instinct enough to feel that, as she was left at the
Towers, the less trouble she gave, the more she kept herself out of
observation, the better.

She followed the ladies out of the dining-room, almost hoping that
no one would see her. But that was impossible, and she immediately
became the subject of conversation between the awful Lady Cumnor and
her kind neighbour at dinner.

'Do you know, I thought this young lady was French when I first saw
her? she has got the black hair and eyelashes, and grey eyes, and
colourless complexion which one meets with in some parts of France,
and I knew Lady Cuxhaven was trying to find a well-educated girl who
would be a pleasant companion to her children.'

'No!' said Lady Cumnor, looking very stern, as Molly thought. 'She
is the daughter of our medical man at Hollingford; she came with the
school visitors this morning, and she was overcome by the heat and
fell asleep in Clare's room, and somehow managed to oversleep
herself, and did not waken up till all the carriages were gone. We
will send her home to-morrow morning, but for to-night she must stay
here, and Clare is kind enough to say she may sleep with her.'

There was an implied blame running through this speech, that Molly
felt like needle-points all over her. Lady Cuxhaven came up at this
moment. Her tone was as deep, her manner of speaking as abrupt and
authoritative, as her mother's, but Molly felt the kinder nature
underneath.

'How are you now, my dear? You look better than you did under the
cedar-tree. So you're to stop here to-night? Clare, don't you think
we could find some of those books of engravings that would interest
Miss Gibson.'

Mrs. Kirkpatrick came gliding up to the place where Molly stood; and
began petting her with pretty words and actions, while Lady Cuxhaven
turned over heavy volumes in search of one that might interest the
girl.

'Poor darling! I saw you come into the dining-room, looking so shy;
and I wanted you to come near me, but I could not make a sign to
you, because Lord Cuxhaven was speaking to me at the time, telling
me about his travels. Ah, here is a nice book--~Lodge's Portraits~;
now I'll sit by you and tell you who they all are, and all about
them. Don't trouble yourself any more, dear Lady Cuxhaven; I'll take
charge of her; pray leave her to me!'

Molly grew hotter and hotter as these last words met her car. If
they would only leave her alone, and not labour at being kind to
her; would 'not trouble themselves' about her! These words of Mrs
Kirkpatrick's seemed to quench the gratitude she was feeling to Lady
Cuxhaven for looking for something to amuse her. But, of course, it
was a trouble, and she ought never to have been there.

By-and-by, Mrs. Kirkpatrick was called away to accompany Lady Agnes'
song; and then Molly really had a few minutes' enjoyment. She could
look round the room, unobserved, and, sure, never was any place out
of a king's house so grand and magnificent. Large mirrors, velvet
curtains, pictures in their gilded frames, a multitude of dazzling
lights decorated the vast saloon, and the floor was studded with
groups of ladies and gentlemen, all dressed in gorgeous attire.
Suddenly Molly bethought her of the children whom she had
accompanied into the dining-room, and to whose ranks she had
appeared to belong,--where were they? Gone to bed an hour before, at
some quiet signal from their mother. Molly wondered if she might go,
too--if she could ever find her way back to the haven of Mrs
Kirkpatrick's bedroom. But she was at some distance from the door; a
long way from Mrs. Kirkpatrick, to whom she felt herself to belong
more than to any one else. Far, too, from Lady Cuxhaven, and the
terrible Lady Cumnor, and her jocose and good-natured lord. So Molly
sate on, turning over pictures which she did not see; her heart
growing heavier and heavier in the desolation of all this grandeur.
Presently a footman entered the room, and after a moment's looking
about him, he went up to Mrs. Kirkpatrick, where she sate at the
piano, the centre of the musical portion of the company, ready to
accompany any singer, and smiling pleasantly as she willingly
acceded to all requests. She came now towards Molly, in her corner,
and said to her,--

'Do you know, darling, your papa has come for you, and brought your
pony for you to ride home; so I shall lose my little bedfellow, for
I suppose you must go.'

Go! was there a question of it in Molly's mind, as she stood up
quivering, sparkling, almost crying out loud. She was brought to her
senses, though, by Mrs. Kirkpatrick's next words,

'You must go and wish Lady Cumnor good-night, you know, my dear, and
thank her ladyship for her kindness to you, She is there, near that
statue, talking to Mr. Courtenay.'

Yes! she was there--forty feet away--a hundred miles away! All that
blank space had to be crossed; and then a speech to be made!

'Must I go?' asked Molly, in the most pitiful and pleading voice
possible.

'Yes; make haste about it; there is nothing so formidable in it, is
there?' replied Mrs. Kirkpatrick, in a sharper voice than before,
aware that they were wanting her at the piano, and anxious to get
the business in hand done as soon as possible.

Molly stood still for a minute, then, looking up, she said,
softly,--

'Would you mind coming with me, please?'

'No! not I!' said Mrs. Kirkpatrick, seeing that her compliance was
likely to be the most speedy way of getting through the affair; so
she took Molly's hand, and, on the way, in passing the group at the
piano, she said, smiling, in her pretty genteel manner,--

'Our little friend here is shy and modest, and wants me to accompany
her to Lady Cumnor to wish good-night; her father has come for her,
and she is going away.'

Molly did not know how it was afterwards, but she pulled her hand
out of Mrs. Kirkpatrick's on hearing these words, and going a step or
two in advance came up to Lady Cumnor, grand in purple velvet, and
dropping a curtsey, almost after the fashion of the school-children,
she said,--

'My lady, papa is come, and I am going away; and, my lady, I wish
you good-night, and thank you for your kindness. Your ladyship's
kindness, I mean,' she said, correcting herself as she remembered
Miss Browning's particular instructions as to the etiquette to be
observed to earls and countesses, and their honourable progeny, as
they were given this morning on the road to the Towers.

She got out of the saloon somehow; she believed afterwards, on
thinking about it, that she had never bidden good-by to Lady
Cuxhaven, or Mrs. Kirkpatrick, or 'all the rest of them,' as she
irreverently styled them in her thoughts.

Mr. Gibson was in the housekeeper's room, when Molly ran in, rather
to the stately Mrs. Brown's discomfiture. She threw her arms round
her father's neck. 'Oh, papa, papa, papa! I am so glad you have
come;' and then she burst out crying, stroking his face almost
hysterically as if to make sure he was there.

'Why, what a noodle you are, Molly! Did you think I was going to
give up my little girl to live at the Towers all the rest of her
life? You make as much work about my coming for you, as if you
thought I had. Make haste now, and get on your bonnet. Mrs. Brown,
may I ask you for a shawl, or a plaid, or a wrap of some kind to pin
about her for a petticoat?'

He did not mention that he had come home from a long round not half
an hour before, a round from which he had returned dinnerless and
hungry; but, on finding that Molly had not returned from the Towers,
he had ridden his tired horse round by Miss Brownings', and found
them in self-reproachful, helpless dismay. He would not wait to
listen to their tearful apologies; he galloped home, had a fresh
horse and Molly's pony saddled, and though Berry called after him
with a riding-skirt for the child, when he was not ten yards from
his own stable-door, he had refused to turn back for it, but gone
off, as Dick the stableman said, 'muttering to himself awful.'

Mrs. Brown had her bottle of wine out, and her plate of cake, before
Molly came back from her long expedition to Mrs. Kirkpatrick's room,
'pretty nigh on to a quarter of a mile off,' as the housekeeper
informed the impatient father, as he waited for his child to come
down arrayed in her morning's finery with the gloss of newness worn
off. Mr. Gibson was a favourite in all the Towers' household, as
family doctors generally are; bringing hopes of relief at times of
anxiety and distress; and Mrs. Brown, who was subject to gout,
especially delighted in petting him whenever he would allow her. She
even went out into the stable-yard to pin Molly up in the shawl, as
she sate upon the rough-coated pony, and hazarded the somewhat safe
conjecture,--

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