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Wives and Daughters

E >> Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell >> Wives and Daughters




'I think I may be able to come down for a few days too, if you will
let me, mamma; and I'll bring Grace, who is looking rather pale and
weedy; growing too fast, I am afraid. So I hope you won't be dull.'

'My dear,' said Lady Cumnor, drawing herself up, 'I should be
ashamed of feeling dull with my resources; my duties to others and
to myself!'

So the plan in its present shape was told to Lord Cumnor, who highly
approved of it; as he always did of every project of his wife's.
Lady Cumnor's character was perhaps a little too ponderous for him
in reality, but he was always full of admiration for all her words
and deeds, and used to boast of her wisdom, her benevolence, her
power and dignity, in her absence, as if by this means he could
buttress up his own more feeble nature.

'Very good--very good, indeed! Clare to join you at the Towers!
Capital! I could not have planned it better myself! I shall go down
with you on Wednesday in time for the jollification on Thursday. I
always enjoy that day; they are such nice, friendly people, those
good Hollingford ladies. Then I'll have a day with Sheepshanks, and
perhaps I may ride over to Ashcombe and see Preston--Brown Jess can
do it in a day, eighteen miles--to be sure! But there's back again
to the Towers! how much is twice eighteen--thirty?'

'Thirty-six,' said Lady Cumnor, sharply.

'So it is; you're always right, my dear. Preston's a clever, sharp
fellow.'

'I don't like him,' said my lady.

'He takes looking after; but he's a sharp fellow. He's such a
good-looking man, too, I wonder you don't like him.'

'I never think whether a land-agent is handsome or not. They don't
belong to the class of people whose appearance I notice.'

'To be sure not. But he is a handsome fellow; and what should make
you like him is the interest he takes in Clare and her prospects. He
is constantly suggesting something that can be done to her house,
and I know he sends her fruit, and flowers, and game just as
regularly as we should ourselves if we lived at Ashcombe.'

'How old is he?' said Lady Cumnor, with a faint suspicion of motives
in her mind.

'About twenty-seven, I think. Ah! I see what is in your ladyship's
head. No! no! he's too young for that. You must look out for some
middle-aged man, if you want to get poor Clare married; Preston
won't do.'

'I'm not a match-maker, as you might know. I never did it for my own
daughters. I'm not likely to do it for Clare,' said she, leaning
back languidly.

'Well! you might do a worse thing. I'm beginning to think she'll
never get on as a schoolmistress, though why she should not, I'm
sure I don't know; for she's an uncommonly pretty woman for her age,
and her having lived in our family, and your having had her so often
with you, ought to go a good way. I say, my lady, what do you think
of Gibson? He would be just the right age--widower--lives near the
Towers.'

'I told you just now I was no match-maker, my lord. I suppose we had
better go by the old road--the people at those inns know us?'

And so they passed on to speaking about other things than Mrs
Kirkpatrick and her prospects, scholastic or matrimonial.


CHAPTER IX


THE WIDOWER AND THE WIDOW


Mrs. Kirkpatrick was only too happy to accept Lady Cumnor's
invitation. It was what she had been hoping for, but hardly daring
to expect, as she believed that the family were settled in London
for some time to come. The Towers was a pleasant and luxurious house
in which to pass her holidays; and though she was not one to make
deep plans, or to look far ahead, she was quite aware of the
prestige which her being able to say she had been staying with 'dear
Lady Cumnor' at the Towers, was likely to give her and her school in
the eyes of a good many people; so she gladly prepared to join her
ladyship on the 17th. Her wardrobe did not require much arrangement;
if it had done, the poor lady would not have had much money to
appropriate to the purpose. She was very pretty and graceful; and
that goes a great way towards carrying off shabby clothes; and it
was her taste, more than any depth of feeling, that had made her
persevere in wearing all the delicate tints--the violets and
greys--which, with a certain admixture of black, constitute
half-mourning. This style of becoming dress she was supposed to wear
in memory of Mr. Kirkpatrick; in reality because it was both
lady-like and economical. Her beautiful hair was of that rich auburn
that hardly ever turns grey; and partly out of consciousness of its
beauty, and partly because the washing of caps is expensive, she did
not wear anything on her head; her complexion had the vivid tints
that often accompany the kind of hair which has once been red; and
the only injury her skin had received from advancing years was that
the colouring was rather more brilliant than delicate, and varied
less with every passing emotion. She could no longer blush; and at
eighteen she had been very proud of her blushes. Her eyes were soft,
large, and china-blue in colour. they had not much expression or
shadow about them, which was perhaps owing to the flaxen colour of
her eyelashes. Her figure was a little fuller than it used to be,
but her movements were as soft and sinuous as ever. Altogether, she
looked much younger than her age, which was not far short of forty.
She had a very pleasant voice, and read aloud well and distinctly,
which Lady Cumnor liked. Indeed, for some inexplicable reason, she
was a greater; more positive favourite with Lady Cumnor than with
any of the rest of the family, though they all liked her up to a
certain point, and found it agreeably useful to have any one in the
house who was so well acquainted with their ways and habits; so
ready to talk, when a little trickle of conversation was required;
so willing to listen, and to listen with tolerable intelligence, if
the subjects spoken about did not refer to serious solid literature,
or science, or politics, or social economy. About novels and poetry,
travels and gossip, personal details, or anecdotes of any kind, she
always made exactly the remarks which are expected from an agreeable
listener; and she had sense enough to confine herself to those short
expressions of wonder, admiration, and astonishment, which may mean
anything, when more recondite things were talked about.

It was a very pleasant change to a poor unsuccessful schoolmistress
to leave her own house, full of battered and shabby furniture (she
had taken the goodwill and furniture of her predecessor at a
valuation, two or three years before), where the look-out was as
gloomy, and the surrounding as squalid, as is often the case in the
smaller streets of a country town, and to come bowling through the
Towers Park in the luxurious carriage sent to meet her; to alight,
and feel secure that the well-trained servants would see after her
bags and umbrella, and parasol, and cloak, without her loading
herself with all these portable articles, as she had had to do while
following the wheel-barrow containing her luggage in going to the
Ashcombe coach-office that morning; to pass up the deep-piled
carpets of the broad shallow stairs into my lady's own room, cool
and deliciously fresh, even on this sultry day, and fragrant with
great bowls of freshly gathered roses of every shade of colour.
There were two or three new novels lying uncut on the table; the
daily papers, the magazines. Every chair was an easy-chair of some
kind or other; and all covered with French chintz that mimicked the
real flowers in the garden below. She was familiar with the bedroom
called hers, to which she was soon ushered by Lady Cumnor's maid. It
seemed to her far more like home than the dingy place she had left
that morning; it was so natural to her to like dainty draperies and
harmonious colouring, and fine linen and soft raiment. She sate down
on the arm-chair by the bed-side, and wondered over her fate
something in this fashion,--

'One would think it was an easy enough thing to deck a looking-glass
like that with muslin and pink ribbons; and yet how hard it is to
keep it up! People don't know how hard it is till they've tried as I
have. I made my own glass just as pretty when I first went to
Ashcombe; but the muslin got dirty, and the pink ribbons faded, and
it is so difficult to earn money to renew them; and when one has got
the money one hasn't the heart to spend it all at once. One thinks
and one thinks how one can get the most good out of it; and a new
gown, or a day's pleasure, or some hot-house fruit, or some piece of
elegance that can be seen and noticed in one's drawing-room, carries
the day, and good-by to prettily decked looking-glasses. Now here,
money is like the air they breathe. No one ever asks or knows how
much the washing costs, or what pink ribbon is a yard. Ah! it would
be different if they had to earn every penny as I have! They would
have to calculate, like me, how to get the most pleasure out of it.
I wonder if I am to go on all my life toiling and moiling for money?
It's not natural. Marriage is the natural thing; then the husband
has all that kind of dirty work to do, and his wife sits in the
drawing-room like a lady. I did, when poor Kirkpatrick was alive.
Heigho! it's a sad thing to be a widow.'

Then there was the contrast between the dinners which she had to
share with her scholars at Ashcombe--rounds of beef, legs of mutton,
great dishes of potatoes, and large barter-puddings, with the tiny
meal of exquisitely cooked delicacies, sent up on old Chelsea china,
that was served every day to the earl and countess and herself at
the Towers. She dreaded the end of her holidays as much as the most
home-loving of her pupils. But at this time that end was some weeks
off, so Clare shut her eyes to the future, and tried to relish the
present to its fullest extent. A disturbance to the pleasant, even
course of the summer days came in the indisposition of Lady Cumnor.
Her husband had gone back to London, and she and Mrs. Kirkpatrick had
been left to the very even tenor of life, which was according to my
lady's wish just now. In spite of her languor and fatigue, she had
gone through the day when the school visitors came to the Towers, in
full dignity, dictating clearly all that was to be done, what walks
were to be taken, what hothouses to be seen, and when the party were
to return to the 'collation.' She herself remained indoors, with one
or two ladies who had ventured to think that the fatigue or the heat
might be too much for them, and who had therefore declined
accompanying the ladies in charge of Mrs. Kirkpatrick, or those other
favoured few to whom Lord Cumnor was explaining the new buildings in
his farm-yard. 'With the utmost condescension,' as her hearers
afterwards expressed it, Lady Cumnor told them all about her married
daughters' establishments, nurseries, plans for the education of
their children, and manner of passing the day. But the exertion
tired her; and when every one had left, the probability is that she
would have gone to lie down and rest, had not her husband made an
unlucky remark in the kindness of his heart. He came up to her and
put his hand on her shoulder.

'I'm afraid you're sadly tired, my lady?' he said.

She braced her muscles, and drew herself up, saying coldly,--

'When I am tired, Lord Cumnor, I will tell you so.' And her own
fatigue showed itself during the rest of the evening in her sitting
particularly upright, and declining all offers of easy-chairs or
footstools, and refusing the insult of a suggestion that they should
all go to bed earlier. She went on in something of this kind of
manner as long as Lord Cumnor remained at the Towers. Mrs
Kirkpatrick was quite deceived by it, and kept assuring Lord Cumnor
that she had never seen dear Lady Cumnor looking better, or so
strong and well. But he had an affectionate heart, if a blundering
head; and though he could give no reason for his belief, he was
almost certain his wife was not well. Yet he was too much afraid of
her to send for Mr. Gibson without her permission. His last words to
Clare were,--

'It's such a comfort to leave my lady to you; only don't you be
deluded by her ways. She'll not show she's ill till she can't help
it. Consult with Bradley,' (Lady Cumnor's 'own woman,'--she disliked
the new-fangledness of 'lady's-maid,') 'and if I were you, I'd send
and ask Gibson to call--you might make any kind of a pretence,'--and
then the idea he had had in London of the fitness of a match between
the two coming into his head just now, he could not help
adding,--'Get him to come and see you, he's a very agreeable man;
Lord Hollingford says there's no one like him in these parts: and he
might be looking at my lady while he was talking to you, and see if
he thinks her really ill. And let me know what he says about her.'

But Clare was just as great a coward about doing anything for Lady
Cumnor which she had not expressly ordered, as Lord Cumnor himself.
She knew she might fall into such disgrace if she sent for Mr. Gibson
without direct permission, that she might never be asked to stay at
the Towers again; and the life there, monotonous in its smoothness
of luxury as it might be to some, was exactly to her taste. She in
her turn tried to put upon Bradley the duty which Lord Cumnor had
put upon her.

'Mrs. Bradley,' she said one day, 'are you quite comfortable about my
lady's health? Lord Cumnor fancied that she was looking worn and
ill?'

'Indeed, Mrs. Kirkpatrick, I don't think my lady is herself. I can't
persuade myself as she is, though if you was to question me till
night I couldn't tell you why.'

'Don't you think you could make some errand to Hollingford, and see
Mr. Gibson, and ask him to come round this way some day, and make a
call on Lady Cumnor?'

'It would be as much as my place is worth, Mrs. Kirkpatrick. Till my
lady's dying day, if Providence keeps her in her senses, she'll have
everything done her own way, or not at all. There's only Lady
Harriet that can manage her at all, and she not always.'

'Well, then--we must hope that there is nothing the matter with her;
and I dare say there is not. She says there is not, and she ought to
know best herself.'

But a day or two after this conversation took place, Lady Cumnor
startled Mrs. Kirkpatrick, by saying suddenly,--

'Clare, I wish you'd write a note to Mr. Gibson, saying, I should
like to see him this afternoon. I thought he would have called of
himself before now. He ought to have done so, to pay his respects.'

Mr. Gibson had been far too busy in his profession to have time for
mere visits of ceremony, though he knew quite well he was neglecting
what was expected of him. But the district of which he may be said
to have had medical charge was full of a bad kind of low fever,
which took up all his time and thought, and often made him very
thankful that Molly was out of the way in the quiet shades of
Hamley.

His domestic 'raws' had not healed over in the least, though he was
obliged to put the perplexities on one side for the time. The last
drop--the final straw, had been an impromptu visit of Lord
Hollingford's, whom he had met in the town one forenoon. They had
had a good deal to say to each other about some new scientific
discovery, with the details of which Lord Hollingford was well
acquainted, while Mr. Gibson was ignorant and deeply interested. At
length Lord Hollingford said suddenly,--

'Gibson, I wonder if you'd give me some lunch; I've been a good deal
about since my seven-o'clock breakfast, and am getting quite
ravenous.'

Now Mr. Gibson was only too much pleased to show hospitality to one
whom he liked and respected so much as Lord Hollingford, and he
gladly took him home with him to the early family dinner. But it was
just at the time when the cook was sulking at Bethia's
dismissal--and she chose to be unpunctual and careless. There was no
successor to Bethia as yet appointed to wait at the meals. So,
though Mr. Gibson knew well that bread-and-cheese, cold beef, or the
simplest food available, would have been welcome to the hungry lord,
he could not get either these things for luncheon, or even the
family dinner, at anything like the proper time, in spite of all his
ringing, and as much anger as he liked to show, for fear of making
Lord Hollingford uncomfortable. At last dinner was ready, but the
poor host saw the want of nicety--almost the want of cleanliness, in
all its accompaniments--dingy plate, dull-looking glass, a
tablecloth that, if not absolutely dirty, was anything but fresh in
its splashed and rumpled condition, and compared it in his own mind
with the dainty delicacy with which even a loaf of brown bread was
served up at his guest's home. He did not apologize directly, but,
after dinner, just as they were parting, he said,--

'You see a man like me--a widower--with a daughter who cannot always
be at home--has not the regulated household which would enable me to
command the small portions of time I can spend there.'

He made no allusion to the comfortless meal of which they had both
partaken, though it was full in his mind. Nor was it absent from
Lord Hollingford's, as he made reply,--

'True, true. Yet a man like you ought to be free from any thought of
household cares. You ought to have somebody. How old is Miss
Gibson?'

'Seventeen. It's a very awkward age for a motherless girl.'

'Yes; very. I have only boys, but it must be very awkward with a
girl. Excuse me, Gibson, but we're talking like friends. Have you
never thought of marrying again? It would not be like a first
marriage, of course; but if you found a sensible agreeable woman of
thirty or so, I really think you couldn't do better than take her to
manage your home, and so save you either discomfort or worry; and,
besides, she would be able to give your daughter that kind of tender
supervision which, I fancy, all girls of that age require. It's a
delicate subject, but you'll excuse my having spoken frankly.'

Mr. Gibson had thought of this advice several times since it was
given; but it was a case of 'first catch your hare.' Where was the
'sensible and agreeable woman of thirty or so?' Not Miss Browning,
nor Miss Phoebe, nor Miss Goodenough. Among his country patients
there were two classes pretty distinctly marked: farmers, whose
children were unrefined and uneducated; squires, whose daughters
would, indeed think the world was coming to a pretty pass, if they
were to marry a country surgeon.

But the first day on which Mr. Gibson paid his visit to Lady Cumnor,
he began to think it possible that Mrs. Kirkpatrick was his 'hare.'
He rode away with slack rein, thinking over what he knew of her,
more than about the prescriptions he should write, or the way he was
going. He remembered her as a very pretty Miss Clare: the governess
who had the scarlet fever; that was in his wife's days, a long time
ago; he could hardly understand Mrs. Kirkpatrick's youthfulness of
appearance when he thought how long. Then he heard of her marriage
to a curate; and the next day (or so it seemed, he could not
recollect the exact duration of the interval), of his death. He
knew, in some way, that ever since she had been living as a
governess in different families; but that she had always been a
great favourite with the family at the Towers, for whom, quite
independent of their rank, he had a true respect. A year or two ago
he had heard that she had taken the good-will of a school at
Ashcombe; a small town close to another property of Lord Cumnor's,
in the same county. Ashcombe was a larger estate than that near
Hollingford, but the old Manor-house there was not nearly so good a
residence as the Towers; so it was given up to Mr. Preston, the
land-agent, for the Ashcombe property, just as Mr. Sheepshanks was
for that at Hollingford. There were a few rooms at the Manor-house
reserved for the occasional visits of the family, otherwise Mr
Preston, a handsome young bachelor, had it all to himself. Mr. Gibson
knew that Mrs. Kirkpatrick had one child, a daughter, who must be
much about the same age as Molly. Of course she had very little, if
any, property. But he himself had lived carefully, and had a few
thousands well invested; besides which, his professional income was
good, and increasing rather than diminishing every year. By the time
he had arrived at this point in his consideration of the case, he
was at the house of the next patient on his round, and he put away
all thought of matrimony and Mrs. Kirkpatrick for the time. Once
again, in the course of the day, he remembered with a certain
pleasure that Molly had told him some little details connected with
her unlucky detention at the Towers five or six years ago, which had
made him feel at the time as if Mrs. Kirkpatrick had behaved very
kindly to his little girl. So there the matter rested for the
present, as far as he was concerned.

Lady Cumnor was out of health; but not so ill as she had been
fancying herself during all those days when the people about her
dared not send for the doctor. It was a great relief to her to have
Mr. Gibson to decide for her what she was to do; what to eat, drink,
avoid. Such decisions ~ab extra~, are sometimes a wonderful relief
to those whose habit it has been to decide, not only for themselves,
but for every one else; and occasionally the relaxation of the
strain which a character for infallible wisdom brings with it, does
much to restore health. Mrs. Kirkpatrick thought in her secret soul
that she had never found it so easy to get on with Lady Cumnor; and
Bradley and she had never done singing the praises of Mr. Gibson,
'who always managed my lady so beautifully.'

Reports were duly sent up to my lord, but he and her daughters were
strictly forbidden to come down. Lady Cumnor wished to be weak and
languid, and uncertain both in body and mind, without family
observation. It was a condition so different to anything she had
ever been in before, that she was unconsciously afraid of losing her
prestige, if she was seen in it. Sometimes she herself wrote the
daily bulletins; at other times she bade Clare to do it, but she
would always see the letters. Any answers she received from her
daughters she used to read herself, occasionally imparting some of
their contents to 'that good Clare.' But anybody might read my
lord's letters. There was no great fear of family secrets oozing out
in his sprawling lines of affection. But once Mrs. Kirkpatrick came
upon a sentence in a letter from Lord Cumnor, which she was reading
out loud to his wife, that caught her eye before she came to it, and
if she could have skipped it and kept it for private perusal, she
would gladly have done so. My lady was too sharp for her, though. In
her opinion 'Clare was a good creature, but not clever,' the truth
being that she was not always quick at resources, though tolerably
unscrupulous in the use of them.

'Read on. What are you stopping for? There is no bad news, is there,
about Agnes?--Give me the letter.'

Lady Cumnor read, half aloud,--

'"How are Clare and Gibson getting on? You despised my advice to
help on that affair, but I really think a little match-making would
be a very pleasant amusement now that you are shut up in the house;
and I cannot conceive any marriage more suitable."'

'Oh!' said Lady Cumnor, laughing, 'it was awkward for you to come
upon that, Clare: I don't wonder you stopped short. You gave me a
terrible fright, though.'

'Lord Cumnor is so fond of joking,' said Mrs. Kirkpatrick, a little
flurried, yet quite recognizing the truth of his last words,--'I
cannot conceive any marriage more suitable.' She wondered what Lady
Cumnor thought of it. Lord Cumnor wrote as if there was really a
chance. It was not an unpleasant idea; it brought a faint smile out
upon her face, as she sate by Lady Cumnor, while the latter took her
afternoon nap.


CHAPTER X


A CRISIS


Mrs. Kirkpatrick had been reading aloud till Lady Cumnor fell asleep,
the book rested on her knee, just kept from falling by her hold. She
was looking out of the window, not seeing the trees in the park, nor
the glimpses of the hills beyond, but thinking how pleasant it would
be to have a husband once more;--some one who would work while she
sate at her elegant ease in a prettily-furnished drawing-room; and
she was rapidly investing this imaginary bread-winner with the form
and features of the country surgeon, when there was a slight tap at
the door, and almost before she could rise, the object of her
thoughts came in. She felt herself blush, and she was not displeased
at the consciousness. She advanced to meet him, making a sign
towards her sleeping ladyship.

'Very good,' said he, in a low voice, casting a professional eye on
the slumbering figure; 'can I speak to you for a minute or two in
the library?'

'Is he going to offer?' thought she, with a sudden palpitation, and
a conviction of her willingness to accept a man whom an hour before
she had simply looked upon as one of the category of unmarried men
to whom matrimony was possible.

He was only going to make one or two medical inquiries; she found
that out very speedily, and considered the conversation as rather
flat to her, though it might be instructive to him. She was not
aware that he finally made up his mind to propose, during the time
that she was speaking--answering his questions in many words, but he
was accustomed to winnow the chaff from the corn; and her voice was
so soft, her accent so pleasant, that it struck him as particularly
agreeable after the broad country accent he was perpetually hearing.
Then the harmonious colours of her dress, and her slow and graceful
movements, had something of the same soothing effect upon his nerves
that a cat's purring has upon some people's. He began to think that
he should be fortunate if he could win her, for his own sake.
Yesterday he had looked upon her more as a possible stepmother for
Molly; to-day he thought more of her as a wife for himself. The
remembrance of Lord Cumnor's letter gave her a very becoming
consciousness; she wished to attract, and hoped that she was
succeeding. Still they only talked of the countess's state for some
time; then a lucky shower came on. Mr. Gibson did not care a jot for
rain, but just now it gave him an excuse for lingering.

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