James E. Talmage - "The Story of Mormonism"

George MacDonald - "The Seaboard Parish Volume 1"

James Joyce - "Ulysses"

Charlotte M. Yonge - "Young Folks' History of England"

Wives and Daughters

E >> Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell >> Wives and Daughters




His Scotch blood (for that he was of Scotch descent there could be
no manner of doubt) gave him just the kind of thistly dignity which
made every one feel that they must treat him with respect; so on
that head he was assured. The grandeur of being an invited guest to
dinner at the Towers from time to time, gave him but little pleasure
for many years, but it was a form to be gone through in the way of
his profession, without any idea of social gratification.

But when Lord Hollingford returned to make the Towers his home,
affairs were altered. Mr. Gibson really heard and learnt things that
interested him seriously, and that gave a fresh flavour to his
reading. From time to time he met the leaders of the scientific
world; odd-looking, simple-hearted men, very much in earnest about
their own particular subjects, and not having much to say on any
other. Mr. Gibson found himself capable of appreciating such persons,
and also perceived that they valued his appreciation, as it was
honestly and intelligently given. Indeed, by-and-by, he began to
send contributions of his own to the more scientific of the medical
journals, and thus partly in receiving, partly in giving out
information and accurate thought, a new zest was added to his life.
There was not much intercourse between Lord Hollingford and himself;
the one was too silent and shy, the other too busy, to seek each
other's society with the perseverance required to do away with the
social distinction of rank that prevented their frequent meetings.
But each was thoroughly pleased to come into contact with the other.
Each could rely on the other's respect and sympathy with a security
unknown to many who call themselves friends; and this was a source
of happiness to both; to Mr. Gibson the most so, of course; for his
range of intelligent and cultivated society was the smaller. Indeed,
there was no one equal to himself among the men with whom he
associated, and this he had felt as a depressing influence, although
he had never recognized the cause of his depression. There was Mr
Ashton, the vicar, who had succeeded Mr. Browning, a thoroughly good
and kind-hearted man, but one without an original thought in him;
whose habitual courtesy and indolent mind led him to agree to every
opinion, not palpably heterodox, and to utter platitudes in the most
gentlemanly manner. Mr. Gibson had once or twice amused himself, by
leading the vicar on in his agreeable admissions of arguments 'as
perfectly convincing,' and of statements as 'curious but undoubted,'
till he had planted the poor clergyman in a bog of heretical
bewilderment. But then Mr. Ashton's pain and suffering at suddenly
finding out into what a theological predicament he had been brought,
his real self-reproach at his previous admissions, were so great
that Mr. Gibson lost all sense of fun, and hastened back to the
Thirty-nine Articles with all the good-will in life, as the only
means of soothing the vicar's conscience. On any other subject,
except that of orthodoxy, Mr. Gibson could lead him any lengths; but
then his ignorance on most of them prevented bland acquiescence from
arriving at any results which could startle him. He had some private
fortune, and was not married, and lived the life of an indolent and
refined bachelor; but though he himself was no very active visitor
among his poorer parishioners, he was always willing to relieve
their wants in the most liberal, and, considering his habits,
occasionally in the most self-denying manner, whenever Mr. Gibson, or
any one else, made them clearly known to him. 'Use my purse as
freely as if it was your own, Gibson,' he was wont to say. 'I'm such
a bad one at going about and making talk to poor folk--I dare say I
don't do enough in that way--but I am most willing to give you
anything for any one you may consider in want.'

'Thank you; I come upon you pretty often, I believe, and make very
little scruple about it; but if you'll allow me to suggest, it is,
that you should not try to make talk when you go into the cottages;
but just talk.'

'I don't see the difference,' said the vicar, a little querulously;
'but I dare say there is a difference, and I have no doubt what you
say is quite true. I should not make talk, but talk; and as both are
equally difficult to me, you must let me purchase the privilege of
silence by this ten-pound note.'

'Thank you. It is not so satisfactory to me; and, I should think,
not to yourself. But probably the Joneses and Greens will prefer
it.'

Mr. Ashton would look with plaintive inquiry into Mr. Gibson's face
after some such speech, as if asking if a sarcasm was intended. On
the whole they went on in the most amicable way; only beyond the
gregarious feeling common to most men, they had very little actual
pleasure in each other's society. Perhaps the man of all others to
whom Mr. Gibson took the most kindly--at least, until Lord
Hollingford came into the neighbourhood--was a certain Squire
Hamley. He and his ancestors had been called squire as long back as
local tradition extended. But there was many a greater landowner in
the county, for Squire Hamley's estate was not more than eight
hundred acres or so. But his family had been in possession of it
long before the Earls of Cumnor had been heard of; before the
Hely-Harrisons had bought Coldstone Park; no one in Hollingford knew
the time when the Hamleys had not lived at Hamley. 'Ever since the
Heptarchy,' said the vicar. 'Nay,' said Miss Browning, 'I have heard
that there were Hamleys of Hamley before the Romans.' The vicar was
preparing a polite assent, when Mrs. Goodenough came in with a still
more startling assertion. 'I have always heerd,' said she, with all
the slow authority of an oldest inhabitant, 'that there was Hamleys
of Hamley afore the time of the pagans.' Mr. Ashton could only bow,
and say, 'Possibly, very possibly, madam.' But he said it in so
courteous a manner that Mrs. Goodenough looked round in a gratified
manner, as much as to say, 'The Church confirms my words; who now
will dare dispute them?' At any rate, the Hamleys were a very old
family, if not aborigines. They had not increased their estate for
centuries; they had held their own, if even with an effort, and had
not sold a rood of it for the last hundred years or so. But they
were not an adventurous race. They never traded, or speculated, or
tried agricultural improvements of any kind. They had no capital in
any bank; nor what perhaps would have been more in character, hoards
of gold in any stocking. Their mode of life was simple, and more
like that of yeomen than squires. Indeed Squire Hamley, by
continuing the primitive manners and customs of his forefathers, the
squires of the eighteenth century, did live more as a yeoman, when
such a class existed, than as a squire of this generation. There was
a dignity in this quiet conservatism that gained him an immense
amount of respect both from high and low; and he might have visited
at every house in the county had he so chosen. But he was very
indifferent to the charms of society; and perhaps this was owing to
the fact that the squire, Roger Hamley, who at present lived and
reigned at Hamley, had not received so good an education as he ought
to have done. His father, Squire Stephen, had been plucked at
Oxford, and, with stubborn pride, he had refused to go up again.
Nay, more! he had sworn a great oath, as men did in those days, that
none of his children to come should ever know either university by
becoming a member of it. He had only one child, the present squire,
and he was brought up according to his father's word; he was sent to
a petty provincial school, where he saw much that he hated, and then
turned loose upon the estate as its heir. Such a bringing up did not
do him all the harm that might have been anticipated. He was
imperfectly educated, and ignorant on many points; but he was aware
of his deficiency, and regretted it in theory. He was awkward and
ungainly in society, and so kept out of it as much as possible; and
he was obstinate, violent-tempered, and dictatorial in his own
immediate circle. On the other side, he was generous, and true as
steel; the very soul of honour in fact. He had so much natural
shrewdness, that his conversation was always worth listening to,
although he was apt to start by assuming entirely false premisses,
which he considered as incontrovertible as if they had been
mathematically proved; but, given the correctness of his premisses,
nobody could bring more natural wit and sense to bear upon the
arguments based upon them.

He had married a delicate fine London lady; it was one of those
perplexing marriages of which one cannot understand the reasons. Yet
they were very happy, though possibly Mrs. Hamley would not have sunk
into the condition of a chronic invalid, if her husband had cared a
little more for her various tastes, or allowed her the companionship
of those who did. After his marriage he was wont to say he had got
all that was worth having out of that crowd of houses they called
London. It was a compliment to his wife which he repeated until the
year of her death; it charmed her at first, it pleased her up to the
last time of her hearing it; but, for all that, she used sometimes
to wish that he would recognize the fact that there might still be
something worth hearing and seeing in the great city. But he never
went there again, and though he did not prohibit her going, yet he
showed so little sympathy with her when she came back full of what
she had done on her visit that she ceased caring to go. Not but what
he was kind and willing in giving his consent, and in furnishing her
amply with money. 'There, there, my little woman, take that! Dress
yourself up as fine as any on 'em, and buy what you like, for the
credit of Hamley of Hamley; and go to the park and the play, and
show off with the best on 'em. I shall be glad to see thee back
again, I know; but have thy fling while thou art about it.' Then
when she came back it was, 'Well, well, it has pleased thee, I
suppose, so that's all right. But the very talking about it tires
me, I know, and I can't think how you have stood it all. Come out
and see how pretty the flowers are looking in the south garden. I've
made them sow all the seeds you like; and I went over to Hollingford
nursery to buy the cuttings of the plants you admired last year. A
breath of fresh air will clear my brain after listening to all this
talk about the whirl of London, which is like to have turned me
giddy.'

Mrs. Hamley was a great reader, and had considerable literary taste.
She was gentle and sentimental; tender and good. She gave up her
visits to London; she gave up her sociable pleasure in the company
of her fellows in education and position. Her husband, owing to the
deficiencies of his early years, disliked associating with those to
whom he ought to have been an equal; he was too proud to mingle with
his inferiors. He loved his wife all the more dearly for her
sacrifices for him; but, deprived of all her strong interests, she
sank into ill-health; nothing definite; only she never was well.
Perhaps if she had had a daughter it would have been better for her;
but her two children were boys, and their father, anxious to give
them the advantages of which he himself had suffered the
deprivation, sent the lads very early to a preparatory school. They
were to go on to Rugby and Cambridge; the idea of Oxford was
hereditarily distasteful in the Hamley family. Osborne, the
eldest--so called after his mother's maiden name--was full of
tastes, and had some talent. His appearance had all the grace and
refinement of his mother's. He was sweet-tempered and affectionate,
almost as demonstrative as a girl. He did well at school, carrying
away many prizes; and was, in a word, the pride and delight of both
father and mother; the confidential friend of the latter, in default
of any other. Roger was two years younger than Osborne; clumsy and
heavily built, like his father; his face was square, and the
expression grave, and rather immobile. He was good, but dull, his
schoolmasters said. He won no prizes, but brought home a favourable
report of his conduct. When he caressed his mother, she used
laughingly to allude to the fable of the lap-dog and the donkey; so
thereafter he left off all personal demonstration of affection. It
was a great question as to whether he was to follow his brother to
college after he left Rugby. Mrs. Hamley thought it would be rather a
throwing away of money, as he was so little likely to distinguish
himself in intellectual pursuits; anything practical--such as a
civil engineer--would be more the line of life for him. She thought
that it would be too mortifying for him to go to the same college
and university as his brother, who was sure to distinguish
himself--and, to be repeatedly plucked, to come away wooden-spoon at
last. But his father persevered doggedly, as was his wont, in his
intention of giving both his sons the same education; they should
both have the advantages of which he had been deprived. If Roger did
not do well at Cambridge it would be his own fault. If his father
did not send him thither, some day or other he might be regretting
the omission, as Squire Roger had done himself for many a year. So
Roger followed his brother Osborne to Trinity,' and Mrs. Hamley was
again left alone, after the year of indecision as to Roger's
destination, which had been brought on by her urgency. She had not
been able for many years to walk beyond her garden; the greater part
of her life was spent on a sofa, wheeled to the window in summer, to
the fireside in winter. The room which she inhabited was large and
pleasant; four tall windows looked out upon a lawn dotted over with
flower-beds, and melting away into a small wood, in the centre of
which there was a pond, filled with water-lilies. About this unseen
pond in the deep shade Mrs. Hamley had written many a pretty
four-versed poem since she lay on her sofa, alternately reading and
composing poetry. She had a small table by her side on which there
were the newest works of poetry and fiction; a pencil and
blotting-book, with loose sheets of blank paper; a vase of flowers
always of her husband's gathering; winter and summer, she had a
sweet fresh nosegay every day. Her maid brought her a draught of
medicine every three hours, with a glass of clear water and a
biscuit; her husband came to her as often as his love for the open
air and his labours out-of-doors permitted; but the event of her
day, when her boys were absent, was Mr. Gibson's frequent
professional visits.

He knew there was real secret harm going on all this time that
people spoke of her as a merely fanciful invalid; and that one or
two accused him of humouring her fancies. But he only smiled at such
accusations. He felt that his visits were a real pleasure and
lightening of her growing and indescribable discomfort; he knew that
Squire Hamley would have been only too glad if he had come every
day; and he was conscious that by careful watching of her symptoms
he might mitigate her bodily pain. Besides all these reasons, he
took great pleasure in the squire's society. Mr. Gibson enjoyed the
other's unreasonableness; his quaintness; his strong conservatism in
religion, politics, and morals. Mrs. Hamley tried sometimes to
apologize for, or to soften away, opinions which she fancied were
offensive to the doctor, or contradictions which she thought too
abrupt; but at such times her husband would lay his great hand
almost caressingly on Mr. Gibson's shoulder, and soothe his wife's
anxiety, by saying, 'Let us alone, little woman. We understand each
other, don't we, doctor? Why, bless your life, he gives me better
than he gets many a time; only, you see, he sugars it over, and says
a sharp thing, and pretends it's all civility and humility; but I
can tell when he's giving me a pill.'

One of Mrs. Hamley's often-expressed wishes had been, that Molly
might come and pay her a visit. Mr. Gibson always refused this
request of hers, though he could hardly have given his reasons for
these refusals. He did not want to lose the companionship of his
child, in fact; but he put it to himself in quite a different way.
He thought her lessons and her regular course of employment would be
interrupted. The life in Mrs. Hamley's heated and scented room would
not be good for the girl; Osborne and Roger Hamley would be at home,
and he did not wish Molly to be thrown too exclusively upon them for
young society; or they would not be at home, and it would be rather
dull and depressing for his girl to be all the day long with a
nervous invalid.

But at length the day came when Mr. Gibson rode over, and volunteered
a visit from Molly; an offer which Mrs. Hamley received with the
'open arms of her heart,' as she expressed it; and of which the
duration was unspecified. And the cause for this change in Mr
Gibson's wishes was as follows:--It has been mentioned that he took
pupils, rather against his inclination, it is true; but there they
were, a Mr. Wynne and Mr. Coxe, 'the young gentlemen,' as they were
called in the household; 'Mr. Gibson's young gentlemen,' as they were
termed in the town. Mr. Wynne was the elder, the more experienced
one, who could occasionally take his master's place, and who gained
experience by visiting the poor, and the 'chronic cases.' Mr. Gibson
used to talk over his practice with Mr. Wynne, and try and elicit his
opinions in the vain hope that, some day or another, Mr. Wynne might
start an original thought. The young man was cautious and slow; he
would never do any harm by his rashness, but at the same time he
would always be a little behind his day. Still Mr. Gibson remembered
that he had had far worse 'young gentlemen' to deal with; and was
content with, if not thankful for, such an elder pupil as Mr. Wynne.
Mr. Coxe was a boy of nineteen or so, with brilliant red hair, and a
tolerably red face, of both of which he was very conscious and much
ashamed. He was the son of an Indian officer, an old acquaintance of
Mr. Gibson's. Major Coxe was at some unpronounceable station in the
Punjaub, at the present time; but the year before he had been in
England, and had repeatedly expressed his great satisfaction at
having placed his only child as a pupil to his old friend, and had
in fact almost charged Mr. Gibson with the guardianship as well as
the instruction of his boy, giving him many injunctions which he
thought were special in this case; but which Mr. Gibson with a touch
of annoyance assured the major were always attended to in every
case, with every pupil. But when the poor major ventured to beg that
his boy might be considered as one of the family, and that he might
spend his evenings in the drawing-room instead of the surgery, Mr
Gibson turned upon him with a direct refusal.

'He must live like the others. I can't have the pestle and mortar
carried into the drawing-room, and the place smelling of aloes.'

'Must my boy make pills himself, then?' asked the major, ruefully.

'To be sure. The youngest apprentice always does. It's not hard
work. He'll have the comfort of thinking he won't have to swallow
them himself. And he'll have the run of the pomfret cakes, and the
conserve of hips, and on Sundays he shall have a taste of tamarinds
to reward him for his weekly labour at pill-making.'

Major Coxe was not quite sure whether Mr. Gibson was not laughing at
him in his sleeve; but things were so far arranged, and the real
advantages were so great that he thought it was best to take no
notice, but even to submit to the indignity of pill-making. He was
consoled for all these rubs by Mr. Gibson's manner at last when the
supreme moment of final parting arrived. The doctor did not say
much; but there was something of real sympathy in his manner that
spoke straight to the father's heart, and an implied 'you have
trusted me with your boy, and I have accepted the trust in full,' in
each of the last few words.

Mr. Gibson knew his business and human nature too well to distinguish
young Coxe by any overt marks of favouritism; but he could not help
showing the lad occasionally that he regarded him with especial
interest as the son of a friend. Besides this claim upon his regard,
there was something about the young man himself that pleased Mr
Gibson. He was rash and impulsive, apt to speak, hitting the nail on
the head sometimes with unconscious cleverness, at other times
making gross and startling blunders. Mr. Gibson used to tell him that
his motto would always be 'kill or cure,' and to this Mr. Coxe once
made answer that he thought it was the best motto a doctor could
have; for if he could not cure the patient, it was surely best to
get him out of his misery quietly, and at once. Mr. Wynne looked up
in surprise, and observed that he should be afraid that such putting
out of misery might be looked upon as homicide by some people. Mr
Gibson said in a dry tone, that for his part he should not mind the
imputation of homicide, but that it would not do to make away with
profitable patients in so speedy a manner; and that he thought that
as long as they were willing and able to pay two-and-sixpence for
the doctor's visit, it was his duty to keep them alive; of course,
when they became paupers the case was different. Mr. Wynne pondered
over this speech; Mr. Coxe only laughed. At last Mr. Wynne said,--

'But you go every morning, sir, before breakfast to see old Nancy
Grant, and you've ordered her this medicine, sir, which is about the
most costly in Corbyn's bill?'

'Have you not found out how difficult it is for men to live up to
their precepts? You've a great deal to learn yet, Mr. Wynne!' said Mr
Gibson, leaving the surgery as he spoke.

'I never can make the governor out,' said Mr. Wynne, in a tone of
utter despair. 'What are you laughing at, Coxey?'

'Oh! I'm thinking how blest you are in having parents who have
instilled moral principles into your youthful bosom. You'd go and be
poisoning all the paupers off, if you hadn't been told that murder
was a crime by your mother; you'd be thinking you were doing as you
were bid, and quote old Gibson's words when you came to be tried.
"Please, my lord judge, they were not able to pay for my visits, and
so I followed the rules of the profession as taught me by Mr. Gibson,
the great surgeon at Hollingford, and poisoned the paupers." '

'I can't bear that scoffing way of his.'

'And I like it. If it wasn't for the governor's fun, and the
tamarinds, and something else that I know of, I would run off to
India. I hate stifling rooms, and sick people, and the smell of
drugs, and the stink of pills on my hands;--faugh!'


CHAPTER V


CALF-LOVE


One day, for some reason or other, Mr. Gibson came home unexpectedly.
He was crossing the hall, having come in by the garden-door--the
garden communicated with the stable-yard, where he had left his
horse--when the kitchen door opened, and the girl who was underling
in the establishment, came quickly into the hall with a note in her
hand, and made as if she was taking it upstairs; but on seeing her
master she gave a little start, and turned back as if to hide
herself in the kitchen. If she had not made this movement, so
conscious of guilt, Mr. Gibson, who was anything but suspicious,
would never have taken any notice of her. As it was, he stepped
quickly forwards, opened the kitchen door, and called out, 'Bethia'
so sharply that she could not delay coming forwards.

'Give me that note,' he said. She hesitated a little.

'It's for Miss Molly,' she stammered out.

'Give it to me!' he repeated more quietly than before. She looked as
if she would cry; but still she kept the note tight held behind her
back.

'He said as I was to give it into her own hands; and I promised as I
would, faithful.'

'Cook, go and find Miss Molly. Tell her to come here at once.'

He fixed Bethia with his eyes. It was of no use trying to escape:
she might have thrown it into the fire, but she had not presence of
mind enough. She stood immovable, only her eyes looked any way
rather than encounter her master's steady gaze. 'Molly, my dear!'

'Papa! I did not know you were at home,' said innocent, wondering
Molly.

'Bethia, keep your word. Here is Miss Molly; give her the note.'

'Indeed, Miss, I couldn't help it!'

Molly took the note, but before she could open it, her father
said,--'That's all, my dear; you need not read it. Give it to me.
Tell those who sent you, Bethia, that all letters for Miss Molly
must pass through my hands. Now be off with you, goosey, and go back
to where you came from.'

'Papa, I shall make you tell me who my correspondent is.'

'We'll see about that, by-and-by.'

She went a little reluctantly, with ungratified curiosity, upstairs
to Miss Eyre, who was still her daily companion, if not her
governess. He turned into the empty dining-room, shut the door,
broke the seal of the note, and began to read it. It was a flaming
love-letter from Mr. Coxe; who professed himself unable to go on
seeing her day after day without speaking to her of the passion she
had inspired--an 'eternal passion,' he called it; on reading which
Mr. Gibson laughed a little. Would she not look kindly at him? would
she not think of him whose only thought was of her? and so on, with
a very proper admixture of violent compliments to her beauty. She
was fair, not pale; her eyes were loadstars, her dimples marks of
Cupid's finger, &c.

Copyright (c) 2007. topbookz.net. All rights reserved.