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Wives and Daughters

E >> Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell >> Wives and Daughters




'Why did she speak about it at all?' said Cynthia, with some
bitterness. Her tone--her question stirred up Mr. Gibson's passion.

'It was necessary for her to justify herself to me--I heard my
daughter's reputation attacked for the private meetings she had
given to Mr. Preston--I came to her for an explanation. There is no
need to be ungenerous, Cynthia, because you have been a flirt and a
jilt even to the degree of dragging Molly's name down into the same
mire.'

Cynthia lifted her bowed-down head, and looked at him.

'You say that of me, Mr. Gibson. Not knowing what the circumstances
are, you say that!'

He had spoken too strongly: he knew it. But he could not bring
himself to own it just at that moment. The thought of his sweet
innocent Molly, who had borne so much patiently, prevented any
retractation of his words at the time.

'Yes!' he said, 'I do say it. You cannot tell what evil
constructions are put upon actions ever so slightly beyond the
bounds of maidenly propriety. I do say that Molly has had a great
deal to bear, in consequence of this clandestine engagement of
yours, Cynthia--there may be extenuating circumstances, I
acknowledge--but you will need to remember them all to excuse your
conduct to Roger Hamley, when he comes home. I asked you to tell me
the full truth, in order that until he comes, and has a legal right
to protect you, I may do so.' No answer. 'It certainly requires
explanation,' continued he. 'Here are you,--engaged to two men at
once to all appearances!' Still no answer. 'To be sure, the gossips
of the town have not yet picked out the fact of Roger Hamley's being
your accepted lover; but scandal has been resting on Molly, and
ought to have rested on you, Cynthia--for a concealed engagement to
Mr. Preston--necessitating meetings in all sorts of places unknown to
your friends.'

'Papa,' said Molly, 'if you knew all you would not speak so to
Cynthia. I wish she would tell you herself all that she has told
me.'

'I am ready to hear whatever she has to say,' said he. But Cynthia
said,--

'No! you have prejudged me; you have spoken to me as you had no
right to speak. I refuse to give you my confidence, or accept your
help. People are very cruel to me'--her voice trembled for a
moment,--'I did not think you would have been. But I can bear it.'

And then, in spite of Molly, who would have detained her by force,
she tore herself away, and hastily left the room.

'Oh, papa!' said Molly, crying, and clinging to him, 'do let me tell
you all.' And then she suddenly recollected the awkwardness of
telling some of the details of the story before Mrs. Gibson, and
stopped short.

'I think, Mr. Gibson, you have been very very unkind to my poor
fatherless child,' said Mrs. Gibson, emerging from behind her
pocket-handkerchief. 'I only wish her poor father had been alive,
and all this would never have happened.'

'Very probably. Still I cannot see of what either she or you have to
complain. Inasmuch as we could, I and mine have sheltered her; I
have loved her; I do love her almost as if she were my own child--
as well as Molly, I do not pretend to do.'

'That's it, Mr. Gibson! you do not treat her like your own child.'
But in the midst of this wrangle Molly stole out, and went in search
of Cynthia. She thought she bore an olive-branch of healing in the
sound of her father's just spoken words: 'I do love her almost as if
she were my own child.' But Cynthia was locked into her room, and
refused to open the' door.

'Open to me, please,' pleaded Molly. 'I have something to say to
you--I want to see you--do open!'

'No!' said Cynthia. 'Not now. I am busy. Leave me alone. I don't
want to hear what you have got to say. I do not want to see you.
By-and-by we shall meet, and then--' Molly stood quite quietly,
wondering what new words of more persuasion she could use. In a
minute or two Cynthia called out, 'Are you there still, Molly?' and
when Molly answered 'Yes,' and hoped for a relenting, the same hard
metallic voice, telling of resolution and repression, spoke out, 'Go
away. I cannot bear the feeling of your being there--waiting and
listening. Go downstairs--out of the house--anywhere away. It is the
most you can do for me, now.'


CHAPTER LI


'TROUBLES NEVER COME ALONE'


Molly had her out-of-door things on, and she crept away as she was
bidden; she lifted her heavy weight of heart and body along till she
came to a field, not so very far off,--where she had sought the
comfort of loneliness ever since she was a child; and there, under
the hedge-bank, she sate down, burying her face in her hands, and
quivering all over as she thought of Cynthia's misery, that she
might not try to touch or assuage. She never knew how long she sate
there, but it was long past lunch-time when once again she stole up
to her room. The door opposite was open wide,--Cynthia had quitted
the chamber. Molly arranged her dress and went down into the
drawing-room. Cynthia and her mother sate there in the stern repose
of an armed neutrality. Cynthia's face looked made of stone, for
colour and rigidity; but she was netting away as if nothing unusual
had occurred. Not so Mrs. Gibson: her face bore evident marks of
tears, and she looked up and greeted Molly's entrance with a faint
smiling notice. Cynthia went on as though she had never heard the
opening of the door, or felt the approaching sweep of Molly's dress.
Molly took up a book,--not to read, but to have the semblance of
some employment which should not necessitate conversation.

There was no measuring the duration of the silence that ensued.
Molly grew to fancy it was some old enchantment that weighed upon
their tongues and kept them still. At length Cynthia spoke, but she
had to begin again before her words came clear,--

'I wish you both to know that henceforward all is at an end between
me and Roger Hamley.'

Molly's book went down upon her knees; with open eyes and lips she
strove to draw in Cynthia's meaning. Mrs. Gibson spoke querulously,
as if injured,--

'I could have understood this if it had happened three months
ago,--when you were in London; but now it's just nonsense, Cynthia,
and you know you don't mean it!'

Cynthia did not reply; nor did the resolute look on her face change
when Molly spoke at last,--

'Cynthia--think of him! It will break his heart!'

'No!' said Cynthia, 'it will not. But even if it did, I cannot help
it.'

'All this talk will soon pass away!' said Molly; 'and when he knows
the truth from your own self--'

'From my own self he shall never hear it. I do not love him well
enough to go through the shame of having to excuse myself,--to plead
that he will reinstate me in his good opinion. Confession may
be--well! I can never believe it pleasant--but it may be an ease of
mind if one makes it to some people,--to some person,--and it may
not be a mortification to sue for forgiveness. I cannot tell. All I
know is,--and I know it clearly, and will act upon it
inflexibly--that--' And there she stopped short.

'I think you might finish your sentence,' said her mother, after a
silence of five seconds.

'I cannot bear to exculpate myself to Roger Hamley. I will not
submit to his thinking less well of me than he has done,--however
foolish his judgment may have been. I would rather never see him
again, for these two reasons. And the truth is, I do not love him. I
like him, I respect him; but I will not marry him. I have written to
tell him so. That was merely as a relief to myself, for when or
where the letter will reach him--And I have written to old Mr
Hamley. The relief is the one good thing come out of it all. It is
such a comfort to feel free again. It wearied me so to think of
straining up to his goodness. "Extenuate my conduct!"' she
concluded, quoting Mr. Gibson's words. Yet when Mr. Gibson came home,
after a silent dinner, she asked to speak with him, alone, in his
consulting-room; and there laid bare the exculpation of herself
which she had given to Molly many weeks before. When she had ended,
she said,--

'And now, Mr. Gibson,--I still treat you like a friend,--help me to
find some home far away, where all the evil talking and gossip mamma
tells me of cannot find me and follow me. It may be wrong to care
for people's good opinion,--but it is me, and I cannot alter myself.
You, Molly,--all the people in the town,--I have not the patience
to live through the nine days' wonder. I want to go away and be a
governess.'

'But, my dear Cynthia,--how soon Roger will be back,--a tower of
strength.'

'Has not mamma told you I have broken it all off with Roger? I wrote
this morning. I wrote to his father. That letter will reach
to-morrow. I wrote to Roger. If he ever receives that letter I hope
to be far away by that time; in Russia may be.'

'Nonsense. An engagement like yours cannot be broken off, except by
mutual consent. You have only given others a great deal of pain,
without freeing yourself. Nor will you wish it in a month's time.
When you come to think calmly you will be glad to think of the stay
and support of such a husband as Roger. You have been in fault, and
have acted foolishly at first,--perhaps wrongly afterwards; but you
don't want your husband to think you faultless?'

'Yes, I do,' said Cynthia. 'At any rate, my lover must think me so.
And it is just because I do not love him even as so light a thing as
I could love, that I feel that I could not bear to have to tell him
I'm sorry, and stand before him like a chidden child to be
admonished and forgiven.'

'But here you are, just in such a position before me, Cynthia!'

'Yes! but I love you better than Roger; I have often told Molly so.
And I would have told you, if I had not expected and hoped to leave
you all before long. I could see if the recollection of it all came
up before your mind; I could see it in your eyes; I should know it
by instinct. I have a fine instinct for reading the thoughts of
others when they refer to me. I almost hate the idea of Roger
judging me by his own standard, which was not made for me, and
graciously forgiving me at last.'

'Then I do believe it is right for you to break it off,' said Mr
Gibson, almost as if he was thinking to himself. 'That poor lad! But
it will be best for him too. And he'll get over it. He has a good
strong heart. Poor old Roger!'

For a moment Cynthia's wilful fancy stretched after the object
passing out of her grasp,--Roger's love became for the instant a
treasure; but, again, she knew that in its entirety of high
undoubting esteem, as well as of passionate regard, it would no
longer be hers; and for the flaw which she herself had made, she
cast it away, and would none of it. Yet often in after years, when
it was too late, she wondered, and strove to penetrate the
inscrutable mystery of 'what would have been.'

'Still take till to-morrow before you act upon your decision,' said
Mr. Gibson, slowly. 'What faults you have fallen into have been mere
girlish faults at first,--leading you into much deceit, I grant.'

'Don't give yourself the trouble to define the shades of blackness,'
said Cynthia, bitterly. 'I am not so obtuse but what I know them all
better than any one can tell me. And as for my decision I acted upon
it at once. It may be long before Roger gets my letter,--but I hope
he is sure to get it at last,--and, as I said, I have let his father
know; it won't hurt him! Oh, sir, I think if I had been differently
brought up I should not have had the sore angry heart I have. Now!
No, don't! I don't want reasoning comfort. I can't stand it. I
should always have wanted admiration and worship, and men's good
opinion. Those unkind gossips! To visit Molly with their hard words!
Oh, dear! I think life is very dreary.'

She put her head down on her hands; tired out mentally as well as
bodily. So Mr. Gibson thought. He felt as if much speech from him
would only add to her excitement, and make her worse. He left the
room, and called Molly, from where she was sitting, dolefully. 'Go
to Cynthia!' he whispered, and Molly went. She took Cynthia into her
arms with gentle power, and laid her head against her own breast, as
if the one had been a mother, and the other a child.

'Oh, my darling!' she murmured. 'I do so love you, dear, dear
Cynthia!' and she stroked her hair, and kissed her eyelids; Cynthia
passive all the while, till suddenly she started up stung with a new
idea, and looking Molly straight in the face, she said,--

'Molly, Roger will marry you! See if it is not so! You two good--'

But Molly pushed her away with a sudden violence of repulsion.
'Don't!' she said. She was crimson with shame and indignation. 'Your
husband this morning! Mine to-night! What do you take him for?'

'A man!' smiled Cynthia. 'And therefore, if you won't let me call
him changeable, I'll coin a word and call him consolable!' But Molly
gave her back no answering smile. At this moment, the servant Maria
entered the consulting-room, where the two girls were. She had a
scared look.

'Is not master here?' asked she, as if she distrusted her eyes.

'No!' said Cynthia. 'I heard him go out. I heard him shut the front
door not five minutes ago.'

'Oh, dear!' said Maria. 'And there's a man come on horseback from
Hamley Hall, and he says Mr. Osborne is dead, and that master must go
off to the squire straight away!'

'Osborne Hamley dead?' said Cynthia, in awed surprise. Molly was out
at the front door, seeking the messenger through the dusk, round
into the stable-yard, where the groom sate motionless on his dark
horse, flecked with foam, made visible by the lantern placed on the
steps near, where it had been left by the servants, who were
dismayed at this news of the handsome young man who had frequented
their master's house, so full of sportive elegance and winsomeness.
Molly went up to the man, whose thoughts were lost in recollection
of the scene he had left at the place he had come from.

She laid her hand on the hot damp skin of the horse's shoulder; the
man started.

'Is the doctor coming, Miss?' For he saw who it was by the dim
light.

'He is dead, is he not?' asked Molly, in a low voice.

'I'm afeard he is,--leastways there is no doubt according to what
they said. But I have ridden hard! there may be a chance. Is the
doctor coming, Miss?'

'He is gone out. They are seeking him, I believe. I will go myself.
Oh! the poor old squire.' She went into the kitchen--went over the
house with swift rapidity to gain news of her father's whereabouts.
The servants knew no more than she did. Neither she nor they had
heard what Cynthia, ever quick of perception, had done. The shutting
of the front door had fallen on deaf cars, as far as others were
concerned. Upstairs sped Molly to the drawing-room, where Mrs. Gibson
stood at the door, listening to the unusual stir in the house.

'What is it, Molly? Why, how white you look, child!'

'Where's papa?'

'Gone out. What's the matter?'

'Where?'

'How should I know? I was asleep; Jenny came upstairs on her way to
the bedrooms; she's a girl who never keeps to her work, and Maria
takes advantage of her.'

'Jenny, Jenny!' cried Molly, frantic at the delay.

'Don't shout, dear,--ring the bell. What can be the matter?'

'Oh, Jenny!' said Molly, half way up the stairs to meet her, 'who
wanted papa?'

Cynthia came to join the group; she too had been looking for traces
or tidings of Mr. Gibson.

'What is the matter?' said Mrs. Gibson. 'Can nobody speak and answer
a question?'

'Osborne Hamley is dead!' said Cynthia, gravely.

'Dead! Osborne! Poor fellow! I knew it would be so, though,--I was
sure of it. But Mr. Gibson can do nothing if he's dead. Poor young
man! I wonder where Roger is now? He ought to come home.'

Jenny bad been blamed for coming into the drawing-room instead of
Maria, whose place it was, and so had lost the few wits she had. To
Molly's hurried questions her replies had been entirely
unsatisfactory. A man had come to the back door--she could not see
who it was--she had not asked his name: he wanted to speak to
master,--master had seemed in a hurry, and only stopped to get his
hat.

'He will not be long away,' thought Molly, 'or he would have left
word where he was going. But oh! the poor father all alone.' And
then a thought came into her head, which she acted upon straight.
'Go to James, tell him to put the side-saddle I had in November on
Nora Creina. Don't cry, Jenny. There's no time for that. No one is
angry with you. Run!'

So down into the cluster of collected women Molly came, equipped in
her jacket and skirt; quick determination in her eyes; controlled
quivering about the corners of her mouth.

'Why, what in the world,' said Mrs. Gibson,--'Molly, what are you
thinking about?' But Cynthia had understood it at a glance, and was
arranging Molly's hastily assumed dress, as she passed along.

'I am going. I must go. I cannot bear to think of him alone. When
papa comes back he is sure to go to Hamley, and if I am not wanted,
I can come back with him.' She heard Mrs. Gibson's voice following
her in remonstrance, but she did not stay for words. She had to wait
in the stable-yard, and she wondered how the messenger could bear to
eat and drink the food and beer brought out to him by the servants.
Her coming out had evidently interrupted the eager talk,--the
questions and answers passing sharp to and fro; but she caught the
words, 'all amongst the tangled grass,' and 'the squire would let
none on us touch him: he took him up as if he was a baby; he had to
rest many a time, and once he sate him down on the ground; but still
he kept him in his arms; but we thought we should ne'er have gotten
him up again--him and the body.'

'The body!'

Molly had never felt that Osborne was really dead till she heard
those words. They rode quick under the shadows of the budding
hedgerow trees, but when they slackened speed, to go up a brow, or
to give their horses breath, Molly heard those two little words
again in her cars; and said them over again to herself, in hopes of
forcing the sharp truth into her unwilling sense. But when they came
in sight of the square stillness of the house, shining in the
moonlight--the moon had risen by this time--Molly caught at her
breath, and for an instant she thought she never could go in, and
face the presence in that dwelling. One yellow light burnt steadily,
spotting the silver shining with its earthly coarseness. The man
pointed it out: it was almost the first word he had spoken since
they had left Hollingford.

'It's the old nursery. They carried him there. The squire broke down
at the stair-foot, and they took him to the readiest place. I'll be
bound for it the squire is there hisself, and old Robin too. They
fetched him, as a knowledgable man among dumb beasts, till th'
regular doctor came.'

Molly dropped down from her seat before the man could dismount to
help her. She gathered up her skirts and did not stay again to think
of what was before her. She ran along the once familiar turns, and
swiftly up the stairs, and through the doors, till she came to the
last; then she stopped and listened. It was a deathly silence. She
opened the door: the squire was sitting alone at the side of the
bed, holding the dead man's hand, and looking straight before him at
vacancy. He did not stir or move, even so much as an eyelid, at
Molly's entrance. The truth had entered his soul before this, and he
knew that no doctor, be he ever so cunning, could, with all his
striving, put the breath into that body again. Molly came up to him
with the softest steps, the most hushed breath that ever she could.
She did not speak, for she did not know what to say. She felt that
he had no more hope from earthly skill, so what was the use of
speaking of her father and the delay in his coming? After a moment's
pause, standing by the old man's side, she slipped down to the
floor, and sate at his feet. Possibly her presence might have some
balm in it; but uttering of words was as a vain thing. He must have
been aware of her being there, but he took no apparent notice. There
they sate, silent and still, he in his chair, she on the floor; the
dead man, beneath the sheet, for a third. She fancied that she must
have disturbed the father in his contemplation of the quiet face,
now more than half, but not fully, covered up out of sight. Time had
never seemed so without measure, silence had never seemed so
noiseless as it did to Molly, sitting there. In the acuteness of her
senses she heard a step mounting a distant staircase, coming slowly,
coming nearer. She knew it not to be her father's, and that was all
she cared about. Nearer and nearer--close to the outside of the
door--a pause, and a soft hesitating tap. The great gaunt figure
sitting by her side quivered at the sound. Molly rose and went to
the door: it was Robinson, the old butler, holding in his hand a
covered basin of soup.

'God bless you, Miss,' said he; 'make him touch a drop o' this: he's
gone since breakfast without food, and it's past one in the morning
now.'

He softly removed the cover, and Molly took the basin back with her
to her place at the squire's side. She did not speak, for she did
not well know what to say, or how to present this homely want of
nature before one so rapt in grief. But she put a spoonful to his
lips, and touched them with the savoury food, as if he had been a
sick child, and she the nurse; and instinctively he took down the
first spoonful of the soup. But in a minute he said, with a sort of
cry, and almost overturning the basin Molly held, by his passionate
gesture as he pointed to the bed,--

'He will never eat again--never.'

Then he threw himself across the corpse, and wept in such a terrible
manner that Molly trembled lest he also should die--should break
his heart there and then. He took no more notice of her words, of
her tears, of her presence, than he did of that of the moon, looking
through the unclosed window, with passionless stare, Her father
stood by them both. before either of them was aware.

'Go downstairs, Molly,' said he gravely; but he stroked her head
tenderly as she rose. 'Go into the dining-room.' Now she felt the
reaction from all her self-control. She trembled with fear as she
went along the moonlit passages. It seemed to her as if she should
meet Osborne, and hear it all explained; how he came to die,--what
he now felt and thought and wished her to do. She did get down to
the dining-room,--the last few steps with a rush of terror,--
senseless terror of what might be behind her; and there she found
supper laid out, and candles lit, and Robinson bustling about
decanting some wine. She wanted to cry; to get into some quiet
place, and weep away her over-excitement; but she could hardly do so
there. She only felt very much tired, and to care for nothing in
this world any more. But vividness of life came back when she found
Robinson holding a glass to her lips as she sate in the great
leather easy-chair, to which she had gone instinctively as to a
place of rest.

'Drink, Miss. It's good old Madeira. Your papa said as how you was
to eat a bit. Says he, "My daughter may have to stay here, Mr
Robinson, and she's young for the work. Persuade her to eat
something, or she'll break down utterly." Those was his very words.'

Molly did not say anything. She had not energy enough for
resistance. She drank and she ate at the old servant's bidding; and
then she asked him to leave her alone, and went back to her
easy-chair and let herself cry, and so ease her heart.


CHAPTER LII


SQUIRE HAMLEY'S SORROW


It seemed very long before Mr. Gibson came down. He went and stood
with his back to the empty fireplace, and did not speak for a minute
or two.

'He's gone to bed,' said he at length. 'Robinson and I have got him
there. But just as I was leaving him he called me back, and asked me
to let you stop. I'm sure I don't know--but one doesn't like to
refuse at such a time.'

'I wish to stay,' said Molly.

'Do you? There's a good girl. But how will you manage?'

'Oh, never mind that. I can manage. Papa,'--she paused--what did
Osborne die of?' She asked the question in a low, awe-stricken
voice.

'Something wrong about the heart. You wouldn't understand if I told
you. I apprehended it for some time; but it is, better not to talk
of such things at home. When I saw him on Thursday week, he seemed
better than I have seen him for a long time. I told Dr Nicholls so.
But one never can calculate in these complaints.'

'You saw him on Thursday week? Why, you never mentioned it!' said
Molly.

'No. I don't talk of my patients at home, Besides, I didn't want him
to consider me as his doctor, but. as a friend. Any alarm about his
own health would only have hastened the catastrophe.'

'Then didn't he know that he was ill--ill of a dangerous complaint,
I mean: one that might end as it has done?'

'No; certainly not. He would only have been watching his
symptoms--accelerating matters, in fact.'

'Oh, papa!' said Molly, shocked.

'I've no time to go into the question,' Mr. Gibson continued. 'And
until you know what has to be said on both sides, and in every
instance, you are not qualified to judge. We must keep our attention
on the duties in hand now. You sleep here for the remainder of the
night, which is more than half-gone already?'

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