Wives and Daughters

by Elizabeth Gaskell

  To return to the squire. Occupied as he now was, he recovered his former health, and something of his former cheerfulness. If Osborne had met him halfway, it is probable that the old bond between father and son might have been renewed; but Osborne either was really an invalid, or had sunk into invalid habits, and made no effort to rally. If his father urged him to go out—nay, once or twice he gulped down his pride, and asked Osborne to accompany him—Osborne would go to the window and find out some flaw or speck in the wind or weather, and make that an excuse for stopping in the house over his books. He would saunter out on the sunny side of the house in a manner that the squire considered as both indolent and unmanly. Yet if there was a prospect of his leaving home, which he did pretty often about this time, he was seized with a hectic energy; the clouds in the sky, the easterly wind, the dampness of the air, were nothing to him then; and as the squire did not know the real secret cause of this anxiety to be gone, he took it into his head that it arose from Osborne’s dislike to Hamley and to the monotony of his father’s society.

  ‘It was a mistake,’ thought the squire. ‘I see it now. I was never great at making friends myself; I always thought those Oxford and Cambridge men turned up their noses at me for a country booby, and I’d get the start and have none o’ them. But when the boys went to Rugby and Cambridge, I should ha’ let them have had their own friends about ’em, even though they might ha’ looked down on me; it was the worst they could ha’ done to me, and now what few friends I had, have fallen off from me, by death or somehow, and it is but dreary work for a young man, I grant it. But he might try not to show it so plain to me as he does. I’m getting case-hardened, but it does cut me to the quick sometimes—it does. And he so fond of his dad as he was once! If I can but get the land drained I’ll make him an allowance, and let him go to London, or where he likes. Maybe he’ll do better this time, or maybe he’ll go to the dogs altogether; but perhaps it will make him think a bit kindly of the old father at home—I should like him to do that, I should!’

  It is possible that Osborne might have been induced to tell his father of his marriage during their long solitary intercourse, if the squire, in an unlucky moment, had not given him his confidence about Roger’s engagement with Cynthia. It was on one wet Sunday afternoon, when the father and son were sitting together in the large empty drawing-room: Osborne had not been to church in the morning; the squire had, and he was now trying hard to read one of Blair’s sermons. They had dined early; they always did on Sundays; and either that or the sermon, or the hopeless wetness of the day, made the afternoon seem interminably long to the squire. He had certain unwritten rules for the regulation of his conduct on Sundays. Cold meat, sermon-reading, no smoking till after evening prayers, as little thought as possible as to the state of the land and the condition of the crops, and as much respectable sitting indoors in his best clothes as was consistent with going to church twice a day, and saying the responses louder than the clerk. To-day it had rained so unceasingly that he had remitted the afternoon church; but oh, even with the luxury of a nap, how long it seemed before he saw the Hall servants trudging homewards, along the field-path, a covey of umbrellas! He had been standing at the window for the last half-hour, his hands in his pockets, and his mouth often contracting itself into the traditional sin of a whistle, but as often checked into sudden gravity—ending, nine times out of ten, in a yawn. He looked askance at Osborne, who was sitting near the fire absorbed in a book. The poor squire was something like the little boy in the child’s story, who asks all sorts of birds and beasts to come and play with him; and, in every case, receives the sober answer, that they are too busy to have leisure for trivial amusements. The father wanted the son to put down his book, and talk to him: it was so wet, so dull, and a little conversation would so wile away the time! But Osborne, with his back to the window where his father was standing, saw nothing of all this, and went on reading. He had assented to his father’s remark that it was a very wet afternoon, but had not carried on the subject into all the varieties of truisms of which it was susceptible. Something more rousing must be started, and this the squire felt. The recollection of the affair between Roger and Cynthia came into his head, and, without giving it a moment’s consideration, he began—

  ‘Osborne! Do you know anything about this—this attachment of Roger’s?’

  Quite successful. Osborne laid down his book in a moment, and turned round to his father.

  ‘Roger! an attachment! No! I never heard of it—I can hardly believe it—that is to say, I suppose it is to——’

  And then he stopped; for he thought he had no right to betray his own conjecture that the object was Cynthia Kirkpatrick.

  ‘Yes. He is, though. Can you guess who to? Nobody that I particularly like—not a connexion to my mind—yet she’s a very pretty girl; and I suppose I was to blame in the first instance.’

  ‘Is it——?’

  ‘It’s no use beating about the bush. I’ve gone so far, I may as well tell you all. It’s Miss Kirkpatrick, Gibson’s stepdaughter. But it’s not an engagement, mind you——’

  ‘I’m very glad—I hope she likes Roger back again——’

  ‘Like—it’s only too good a connexion for her not to like it: if Roger is of the same mind when he comes home, I’ll be bound she’ll be only too happy!’

  ‘I wonder Roger never told me,’ said Osborne, a little hurt, now he began to consider himself.

  ‘He never told me either,’ said the squire. ‘It was Gibson who came here, and made a clean breast of it, like a man of honour. I’d been saying to him I could not have either of you two lads taking up with his lasses. I’ll own it was you I was afraid of—it’s bad enough with Roger, and maybe will come to nothing after all; but if it had been you, I’d ha’ broken with Gibson and every mother’s son of ’em, sooner than have let it go on; and so I told Gibson.’

  ‘I beg your pardon for interrupting you, but, once for all, I claim the right of choosing my wife for myself, subject to no man’s interference,’ said Osborne, hotly.

  ‘Then you’ll keep your wife with no man’s interference, that’s all; for ne’er a penny will you get from me, my lad, unless you marry to please me a little, as well as yourself a great deal. That’s all I ask of you. I’m not particular as to beauty, or as to cleverness, and piano-playing, and that sort of thing; if Roger marries this girl, we shall have enough of that in the family. I should not much mind her being a bit older than you, but she must be well-born, and the more money she brings the better for the old place.’

  ‘I say again, father, I choose my wife for myself, and I don’t admit any man’s right of dictation.’

  ‘Well, well!’ said the squire, getting a little angry in turn. ‘If I’m not to be father in this matter, thou shan’t be son. Go against me in what I’ve set my heart on, and you’ll find there’s the devil to pay, that’s all. But don’t let us get angry, it’s Sunday afternoon for one thing, and it’s a sin; and besides that, I’ve not finished my story.’

  For Osborne had taken up his book again, and under pretence of reading, was fuming to himself He hardly put it away even at his father’s request.

  ‘As I was saying, Gibson said, when first we spoke about it, that there was nothing on foot between any of you four, and that if there was, he would let me know; so by and by he comes and tells me of this.’

  ‘Of what—I don’t understand how far it has gone?’

  There was a tone in Osborne’s voice the squire did not quite like; and he began answering rather angrily.

  ‘Of this, to be sure—of what I’m telling you—of Roger going and making love to this girl, that day he left, after he had gone away from here, and was waiting for the “Umpire” in Hollingford. One would think you quite stupid at times, Osborne.’

  ‘I can only say that these details are quite new to me; you never mentioned them before, I assure you.’

  ‘Well; never mind whether I did or not. I’m sure I said Roger was attached t
o Miss Kirkpatrick, and be hanged to her; and you might have understood all the rest as a matter of course.’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Osborne, politely. ‘May I ask if Miss Kirkpatrick, who appeared to me to be a very nice girl, responds to Roger’s affection?’

  ‘Fast enough, I’ll be bound,’ said the squire, sulkily. ‘A Hamley of Hamley is not to be had every day. Now, I’ll tell you what, Osborne, you’re the only marriageable one left in the market, and I want to hoist the old family up again. Don’t go against me in this; it really will break my heart if you do.’

  ‘Father, don’t talk so,’ said Osborne. ‘I will do anything I can to oblige you, except________’

  ‘Except the only thing I’ve set my heart on your doing?’

  ‘Well, well, let it alone for the present. There’s no question of my marrying just at this moment. I’m out of health, and I’m not up to going into society, and meeting young ladies and all that sort of thing, even if I had an opening into fitting society.’

  ‘You should have an opening fast enough. There’ll be more money coming in in a year or two, please God. And as for your health, why, what’s to make you well, if you cower over the fire all day, and shudder away from a good honest tankard as if it were poison?’

  ‘So it is to me,’ said Osborne, languidly, playing with his book as if he wanted to end the conversation and take it up again. The squire saw the movements, and understood them.

  ‘Well,’ said he, ‘I’ll go and have a talk with Will about poor old Black Bess. It’s Sunday work enough, asking after a dumb animal’s aches and pains.’

  But after his father had left the room Osborne did not take up his book again. He laid it down on the table by him, leant back in his chair, and covered his eyes with his hand. He was in a state of health which made him despondent about many things, though, least of all, about what was most in danger. The long concealment of his marriage from his father made the disclosure of it far, far more difficult than it would have been at first. Unsupported by Roger, how could he explain it all to one so passionate as the squire? how tell of the temptation, the stolen marriage, the consequent happiness, and alas! the consequent suffering?—for Osborne had suffered, and did suffer, greatly in the untoward circumstances in which he had placed himself. He saw no way out of it all, excepting by the one strong stroke of which he felt himself incapable. So with a heavy heart he addressed himself to his book again. Everything seemed to come in his way, and he was not strong enough in character to overcome obstacles. The only overt step he took in consequence of what he had heard from his father, was to ride over to Hollingford the first fine day after he had received the news, and go to see Cynthia and the Gibsons. He had not been there for a long time; bad weather and languor combined had prevented him. He found them full of preparations and discussions about Cynthia’s visit to London; and she herself not at all in the sentimental mood proper to respond to his delicate intimations of how glad he was in his brother’s joy. Indeed, it was so long after the time, that Cynthia scarcely perceived that to him the intelligence was recent, and that the first bloom of his emotions had not yet passed away. With her head a little on one side, she was contemplating the effect of a knot of ribbons, when he began, in a low whisper, and leaning forward towards her as he spoke—‘Cynthia—I may call you Cynthia now, mayn’t I?—I’m so glad of this news; I’ve only just heard of it, but I’m so glad!’

  ‘What news do you mean?’ She had her suspicions; but she was annoyed to think that from one person her secret was passing to another and another, till, in fact, it was becoming no secret at all. Still, Cynthia could always conceal her annoyance when she chose. ‘Why are you to begin calling me Cynthia now?’ she went on, smiling. ‘The terrible word has slipped out from between your lips before, do you know?’

  This light way of taking his tender congratulation did not quite please Osborne, who was in a sentimental mood, and for a minute or so he remained silent. Then, having finished making her bow of ribbon, she turned to him, and continued in a quick low voice, anxious to take advantage of a tête-à-tête between her mother and Molly—

  ‘I think I can guess why you made that pretty little speech just now? But do you know you ought not to have been told? And, moreover, things are not quite arrived at the solemnity, of—of—well—an engagement. He would not have it so. Now, I shan’t say any more; and you must not. Pray remember you ought not to have known; it is my own secret, and I particularly wished it not to be spoken about; and I don’t like it’s being so talked about. Oh, the leaking of water through one small hole!’

  And then she plunged into the talk of the other two, making the conversation general. Osborne was rather discomfited at the non-success of his congratulations; he had pictured to himself the unbosoming of a lovesick girl, full of rapture, and glad of a sympathizing confidant. He little knew Cynthia’s nature. The more she suspected that she was called upon for a display of emotion, the less would she show; and her emotions were generally under the control of her will. He had made an effort to come and see her; and now he leant back in his chair, weary and a little dispirited.

  ‘You poor dear young man,’ said Mrs. Gibson, coming up to him with her soft, soothing manner; ‘how tired you look! Do take some of that eau-de-Cologne and bathe your forehead. This spring weather overcomes me too. “Primavera” I think the Italians call it. But it is very tiring for delicate constitutions, as much from its associations as from its variableness of temperature. It makes me sigh perpetually; but then I am so sensitive. Dear Lady Cumnor always used to say I was like a thermometer. You’ve heard how ill she has been?’

  ‘No,’ said Osborne, not very much caring either.

  ‘Oh, yes, she is better now; but the anxiety about her has tried me so: detained here by what are, of course, my duties, but far away from all intelligence, and not knowing what the next post might bring.’

  ‘Where was she then?’ asked Osborne, becoming a little more sympathetic.

  ‘At Spa. Such a distance off! Three days’ post! Can’t you conceive the trial? Living with her as I did for years; bound up in the family as I was.’

  ‘But Lady Harriet said, in her last letter, that they hoped she would be stronger than she had been for years,’ said Molly, innocently.

  ‘Yes—Lady Harriet—of course—every one who knows Lady Harriet knows that she is of too sanguine a temperament for her statements to be perfectly relied on. Altogether—strangers are often deluded by Lady Harriet—she has an off-hand manner which takes them in; but she does not mean half she says.’

  ‘We will hope she does in this instance,’ said Cynthia, shortly. ‘They are in London now, and Lady Cumnor has not suffered from the journey.’

  ‘They say so,’ said Mrs. Gibson, shaking her head, and laying an emphasis on the word ‘saγ.’ ‘I am perhaps over-anxious, but I wish—I wish I could see and judge for myself It would be the only way of calming my anxiety. I almost think I shall go up with you, Cynthia, for a day or two, just to see her with my own eyes. I don’t quite like your travelling alone either. We will think about it, and you shall write to Mr. Kirkpatrick, and propose it, if we determine upon it. You can tell him of my anxiety; and it will be only sharing your bed for a couple of nights.’

  CHAPTER 40

  Molly Gibson Breathes Freely

  That was the way in which Mrs. Gibson first broached her intention accompanying Cynthia up to London for a few days’ visit. She had a trick of producing the first sketch of any new plan before an outsider to the family circle; so that the first emotions of others, if they disapproved of her projects, had to be repressed, until the idea had become familiar to them. To Molly it seemed too charming a proposal ever to come to pass. She had never allowed herself to recognize the restraint she was under in her stepmother’s presence; but all at once she found it out when her heart danced at the idea of three whole days—for that it would be at the least—of perfect freedom of intercourse with her father; of old times come back again; of meals
without perpetual fidgetiness after details of ceremony and correctness of attendance.

  ‘We’ll have bread and cheese for dinner, and eat it on our knees; we’ll make up for having had to eat sloppy puddings with a fork instead of a spoon all this time, by putting our knives in our mouths till we cut ourselves. Papa shall pour his tea into his saucer if he’s in a hurry; and if I’m thirsty I’ll take the slop-basin. And oh, if I could but get, buy, borrow, or steal any kind of an old horse; my grey skirt isn’t new, but it will do;—that would be too delightful. After all, I think I can be happy again; for months and months it has seemed as if I had got too old ever to feel pleasure, much less happiness again.’

  So thought Molly. Yet she blushed, as if with guilt, when Cynthia, reading her thoughts, said to her one day—

  ‘Molly, you’re very glad to get rid of us, are not you?’

  ‘Not of you, Cynthia; at least, I don’t think I am. Only, if you but knew how I love papa, and how I used to see a great deal more of him than I ever do now——’

  ‘Ah! I often think what interlopers we must seem, and are in fact——’

  ‘I don’t feel you as such. You, at any rate, have been a new delight to me—a sister; and I never knew how charming such a relationship could be.’

  ‘But mamma?’ said Cynthia, half-suspiciously, half-sorrowfully.