Wives and Daughters

by Elizabeth Gaskell

  On its receipt this letter was greeted in various ways by the four people who sat round the breakfast-table. Mrs. Gibson read it to herself first. Then without telling what its contents were, so that her auditors were quite in the dark as to what her remarks applied, she said—

  ‘I think they might have remembered that I am a generation nearer to them than she is, but nobody thinks of family affection nowadays; and I liked him so much, and bought a new cookery-book, all to make it pleasant and agreeable and what he was used to.’ She said all this in a plaintive, aggrieved tone of voice; but as no one knew to what she was referring, it was difficult to offer her consolation. Her husband was the first to speak.

  ‘If you want us to sympathize with you, tell us what is the nature of your woe.’

  ‘Why, I dare say it’s what he means as a very kind attention, only I think I ought to have been asked before Cynthia,’ said she, reading the letter over again.

  ‘Who’s he? and what’s meant for a “kind attention”?’

  ‘Mr. Kirkpatrick, to be sure. This letter is from him; and he wants Cynthia to go and pay them a visit, and never says anything about you or me, my dear. And I’m sure we did our best to make it pleasant; and he should have asked us first, I think.’

  ‘As I could not possibly have gone, it makes very little difference to me.’

  ‘But I could have gone; and, at any rate, he should have paid us the compliment: it’s only a proper mark of respect, you know. So ungrateful, too, when I gave up my dressing-room on purpose for him!’

  ‘And I dressed for dinner every day he was here, if we are each to recapitulate all our sacrifices on his behalf. But for all that I didn’t expect to be invited to his house. I shall be only too glad if he will come again to mine.’

  ‘I’ve a great mind not to let Cynthia go,’ said Mrs. Gibson, reflectively.

  ‘I can’t go, mamma,’ said Cynthia, colouring. ‘My gowns are all so shabby, and my old bonnet must do for the summer.’

  ‘Well, but you can buy a new one; and I’m sure it is high time you should get yourself another silk gown. You must have been saving up a great deal, for I don’t know when you’ve had any new clothes.’

  Cynthia began to say something, but stopped short. She went on buttering her toast, but she held it in her hand without eating it; without looking up either, as, after a minute or two of silence, she spoke again—

  ‘I cannot go. I should like it very much; but I really cannot go. Please, mamma, write at once, and refuse it.’

  ‘Nonsense, child! When a man in Mr. Kirkpatrick’s position comes forward to offer a favour, it does not do to decline it without giving a sufficient reason. So kind of him as it is, too!’

  ‘Suppose you offer to go instead of me?’ proposed Cynthia.

  ‘No, no! that won’t do,’ said Mr. Gibson, decidedly. ‘You can’t transfer invitations in that way. But really this excuse about your clothes does appear to be very trivial, Cynthia, if you have no other reason to give.’

  ‘It is a real, true reason to me,’ said Cynthia, looking up at him as she spoke. ‘You must let me judge for myself It would not do to go there in a state of shabbiness, for even in Doughty Street, I remember, my aunt was very particular about dress; and now that Margaret and Helen are grown up, and they visit so much—pray don’t say anything more about it, for I know it would not do.’

  ‘What have you done with all your money, I wonder?’ said Mrs. Gibson. ‘You’ve twenty pounds a year, thanks to Mr. Gibson and me; and I’m sure you haven’t spent more than ten.’

  ‘I hadn’t many things when I came back from France,’ said Cynthia, in a low voice, and evidently troubled by all this questioning. ‘Pray let it be decided at once; I can’t go, and there’s an end of it.’ She got up, and left the room rather suddenly.

  ‘I don’t understand it at all,’ said Mrs. Gibson. ‘Do you, Molly?’

  ‘No. I know she doesn’t like spending money on her dress, and is very careful.’ Molly said this much, and then was afraid she had made mischief.

  ‘But then she must have got the money somewhere. It always has struck me that if you have not extravagant habits, and do not live up to your income, you must have a certain sum to lay by at the end of the year. Have I not often said so, Mr. Gibson?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Well, then apply the same reasoning to Cynthia’s case; and then, I ask, what has become of the money?’

  ‘I cannot tell,’ said Molly, seeing that she was appealed to. ‘She may have given it away to some one who wants it.’

  Mr. Gibson put down his newspaper.

  ‘It’s very clear that she has neither got the dress nor the money necessary for this London visit, and that she doesn’t want any more inquiries to be made on the subject. She likes mysteries, in fact, and I detest them. Still, I think it’s a desirable thing for her to keep up the acquaintance, or friendship, or whatever it is to be called, with her father’s family; and I shall gladly give her ten pounds; and if that’s not enough, why, either you must help her out, or she must do without some superfluous article of dress or another.’

  ‘I’m sure there never was such a kind, dear, generous man as you are, Mr. Gibson,’ said his wife. ‘To think of your being a stepfather! and so good to my poor fatherless girl! But, Molly my dear, I think you’ll acknowledge that you too are very fortunate in your stepmother. Are you not, love? And what happy tête-à-têtes we shall have together when Cynthia goes to London! I’m not sure if I don’t get on better with you even than with her, though she is my own child; for, as dear papa says so truly, there is a love of mystery about her; and if I hate anything, it is the slightest concealment or reserve. Ten pounds! Why, it will quite set her up, buy her a couple of gowns and a new bonnet, and I don’t know what all! Dear Mr. Gibson, how generous you are!’

  Something very like ‘Pshaw!’ was growled out from behind the newspaper.

  ‘May I go and tell her?’ said Molly, rising up.

  ‘Yes, do, love. Tell her it would be so ungrateful to refuse; and tell her that your father wishes her to go; and tell her, too, that it would be quite wrong not to avail herself of an opening which may by and by be extended to the rest of the family. I am sure if they ask me—which certainly they ought to do—I won’t say before they asked Cynthia, because I never think of myself, and am really the most forgiving person in the world, in forgiving slights;—but when they do ask me, which they are sure to do, I shall never be content till, by putting in a little hint here and a little hint there, I’ve induced them to send you an invitation. A month or two in London would do you so much good, Molly.’

  Molly had left the room before this speech was ended, and Mr. Gibson was occupied with his newspaper; but Mrs. Gibson finished it to herself very much to her own satisfaction; for, after all, it was better to have some one of the family going on the visit, though she might not be the right person, than to refuse it altogether, and never to have the opportunity of saying anything about it. As Mr. Gibson was so kind to Cynthia, she too would be kind to Molly, and dress her becomingly, and invite young men to the house; do all the things, in fact, which Molly and her father did not want to have done, and throw the old stumbling-blocks in the way of their unrestrained intercourse, which was the one thing they desired to have, free and open, and without the constant dread of her jealousy.

  CHAPTER 39

  Secret Thoughts Ooze Out

  Molly found Cynthia in the drawing-room, standing in the bow-window, looking out on the garden. She started as Molly came up to her.

  ‘Oh, Molly; said she, putting her arms out towards her, ‘I am always so glad to have you with me!’

  It was outbursts of affection such as these that always called Molly back, if she had been ever so unconsciously wavering in her allegiance to Cynthia. She had been wishing downstairs that Cynthia would be less reserved, and not have so many secrets; but now it seemed almost like treason to have wanted her to be anything but what she was. Never ha
d any one more than Cynthia the power spoken of by Goldsmith when he wrote—He threw off his friends like a huntsman his pack,

  For he knew when he liked he could whistle them back.

  ‘Do you know, I think you’ll be glad to hear what I’ve got to tell you,’ said Molly. ‘I think you would really like to go to London; shouldn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s of no use liking,’ said Cynthia. ‘Don’t you begin about it, Molly, for the thing is settled; and I can’t tell you why, but I can’t go.’

  ‘It is only the money, dear. And papa has been so kind about it. He wants you to go; he thinks you ought to keep up relationships; and he is going to give you ten pounds.’

  ‘How kind he is!’ said Cynthia. ‘But I ought not to take it. I wish I had known you years ago; I should have been different to what I am.’

  ‘Never mind that! We like you as you are; we don’t want you different. You’ll really hurt papa if you don’t take it. Why do you hesitate? Do you think Roger won’t like it?’

  ‘Roger! no, I wasn’t thinking about him! Why should he care? I shall be there and back again before he even hears about it.’

  ‘Then you will go?’ said Molly.

  Cynthia thought for a minute or two. ‘Yes, I will,’ said she, at length. ‘I dare say it’s not wise; but it will be pleasant and I’ll go. Where is Mr. Gibson? I want to thank him. Oh, how kind he is! Molly, you’re a lucky girl!’

  ‘I?’ said Molly, quite startled at being told this; for she had been feeling as if so many things were going wrong, almost as if they would never go right again.

  ‘There he is!’ said Cynthia. ‘I hear him in the hall!’ And down she flew, and laying her hands on Mr. Gibson’s arm, she thanked him with such warm impulsiveness, and in so pretty and caressing a manner, that something of his old feeling of personal liking for her returned, and he forgot for a time the causes of disapproval he had against her.

  ‘There, there!’ said he, ‘that’s enough, my dear! It’s quite right you should keep up with your relations; there’s nothing more to be said about it.’

  ‘I do think your father is the most charming man I know,’ said Cynthia, on her return to Molly; ‘and it’s that which always makes me so afraid of losing his good opinion, and fret so when I think he is displeased with me. And now let us think all about this London visit. It will be delightful, won’t it? I can make ten pounds go ever so far; and in some ways it will be such a comfort to get out of Hollingford.’

  ‘Will it?’ said Molly, rather wistfully.

  ‘Oh, yes! You know I don’t mean that it will be a comfort to leave you; that will be anything but a comfort. But, after all, a country town is a country town, and London is London. You need not smile at my truisms; I’ve always had a sympathy with M. de la Palisse—sang she, in so gay a manner that she puzzled Molly, as she often did, by her change of mood from the gloomy decision with which she had refused to accept the invitation only half an hour ago. She suddenly took Molly round the waist, and began waltzing about the room with her, to the imminent danger of the various little tables, loaded with ’objets d’art’ (as Mrs. Gibson delighted to call them) with which the drawing-room was crowded. She avoided them, however, with her usual skill; but they both stood still at last, surprised at Mrs. Gibson’s surprise, as she stood at the door, looking at the whirl going on before her.M. de la Palisse est mort

  En perdant sa vie;Un quart d‘heure avant sa mort

  Il était en vie,’1

  ‘Upon my word, I only hope you are not going crazy, both of you! What’s all this about, pray?’

  ‘Only because I’m so glad I’m going to London, mamma,’ said Cynthia, demurely.

  ‘I’m not sure if it’s quite the thing for an engaged young lady to be so much beside herself at the prospect of gaiety In my time, our great pleasure in our lovers’ absence was in thinking about them.’

  ‘I should have thought that would have given you pain, because you would have had to remember that they were away, which ought to have made you unhappy. Now, to tell you the truth, just at the moment I had forgotten all about Roger. I hope it wasn’t very wrong. Osborne looks as if he did all my share as well as his own of the fretting after Roger. How ill he looked yesterday!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Molly; ‘I didn’t know if any one besides me had noticed it. I was quite shocked.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Mrs. Gibson, ‘I’m afraid that young man won’t live long—very much afraid,’ and she shook her head ominously.

  ‘Oh, what will happen if he dies!’ exclaimed Molly, suddenly sitting down, and thinking of that strange, mysterious wife who never made her appearance, whose very existence was never spoken about—and Roger away too!

  ‘Well, it would be very sad, of course, and we should all feel it very much, I’ve no doubt; for I’ve always been very fond of Osborne; in fact, before Roger became, as it were, my own flesh and blood, I liked Osborne better: but we must not forget the living, dear Molly’ (for Molly’s eyes were filling with tears at the dismal thoughts presented to her). ‘Our dear good Roger would, I am sure, do all in his power to fill Osborne’s place in any way; and his marriage need not be so long delayed.’

  ‘Don’t speak of that in the same breath as Osborne’s life, mamma,’ said Cynthia, hastily.

  ‘Why, my dear, it is a very natural thought. For poor Roger’s sake, you know, one wishes it not to be so very, very long an engagement; and I was only answering Molly’s question, after all. One can’t help following out one’s thoughts. People must die, you know—young, as well as old.’

  ‘If I ever suspected Roger of following out his thoughts in a similar way,’ said Cynthia, ‘I’d never speak to him again.’

  ‘As if he would!’ said Molly, warm in her turn. ‘You know he never would; and you shouldn’t suppose it of him, Cynthia—no, not even for a moment!’

  ‘I can’t see the great harm of it all, for my part,’ said Mrs. Gibson, plaintively. ‘A young man strikes us all as looking very ill—and I’m sure I’m sorry for it; but illness very often leads to death. Surely you agree with me there, and what’s the harm of saying so? Then Molly asks what will happen if he dies; and I try to answer her question. I don’t like talking or thinking of death any more than any one else; but I should think myself wanting in strength of mind if I could not look forward to the consequences of death. I really think we’re commanded to do so, somewhere in the Bible or the Prayer-book.’

  ‘Do you look forward to the consequences of my death, mamma?’ asked Cynthia.

  ‘You really are the most unfeeling girl I ever met with,’ said Mrs. Gibson, really hurt. ‘I wish I could give you a little of my own sensitiveness, for I have too much for my happiness. Don’t let us speak of Osborne’s looks again; ten to one it was only some temporary over-fatigue, or some anxiety about Roger, or perhaps a little fit of indigestion. I was very foolish to attribute it to anything more serious, and dear papa might be displeased if he knew I had done so. Medical men don’t like other people to be making conjectures about health; they consider it as trenching on their own particular province, and very proper, I’m sure. Now let us consider about your dress, Cynthia; I could not understand how you had spent your money, and made so little show with it.’

  ‘Mamma! it may sound very cross, but I must tell Molly and you, and everybody, once for all, that as I don’t want and didn’t ask for more than my allowance, I’m not going to answer any questions about what I do with it.’ She did not say this with any want of respect; but she said it with quiet determination, which subdued her mother for the time; though often afterwards, when Mrs. Gibson and Molly were alone, the former would start the wonder as to what Cynthia could possibly have done with her money, and hunt each poor conjecture through woods and valleys of doubt, till she was wearied out; and the exciting sport was given up for the day. At present, however, she confined herself to the practical matter in hand; and the genius for millinery and dress, inherent in both mother and daughter, soon settled a gr
eat many knotty points of contrivance and taste, and then they all three set to work to ‘ gar auld claes look amaist as weel’s the new.’2

  Cynthia’s relations with the squire had been very stationary ever since the visit she had paid to the Hall the previous autumn. He had received them all at that time with hospitable politeness, and he had been more charmed with Cynthia than he liked to acknowledge to himself when he thought the visit all over afterwards.

  ‘She’s a pretty lass, sure enough,’ thought he, ‘and has pretty ways about her too, and likes to learn from older people; which is a good sign; but, somehow, I don’t like madam her mother; but still she is her mother, and the girl is her daughter; yet she spoke to her once or twice as I shouldn’t ha’ liked our little Fanny to have spoken, if it had pleased God for her to ha’ lived. No, it’s not the right way, and it may be a bit old-fashioned, but I like the right way. And then again she took possession o’ me, as I may say, and little Molly had to run after us in the garden walks that are too narrow for three, just like a little four-legged doggie; and the other was so full of listening to me, she never turned round for to speak a word to Molly. I don’t mean to say they’re not fond of each other, and that’s in Roger’s sweetheart’s favour; and it’s very ungrateful in me to go and find fault with a lass who was so civil to me, and had such a pretty way with her of hanging on every word that fell from my lips. Well! a deal may come and go in two years! and the lad says nothing to me about it. I’ll be as deep as him, and take no more notice of the affair till he comes home and tells me himself.’

  So although the squire was always delighted to receive the little notes which Cynthia sent to him every time she heard from Roger, and although this attention on her part was melting the heart he tried to harden, he controlled himself into writing her the briefest acknowledgments. His words were strong in meaning, but formal in expression; she herself did not think much about them, being satisfied to do the kind actions that called them forth. But her mother criticized them and pondered them. She thought she had hit on the truth when she had decided in her own mind that it was a very old-fashioned style, and that he and his house and his furniture all wanted some of the brightening up and polishing which they were sure to receive, when—she never quite liked to finish the sentence definitely, although she kept repeating to herself that ‘there was no harm in it.’