Wives and Daughters

by Elizabeth Gaskell

  ‘To leave—are you going away again?’

  ‘Yes. Have you not heard? I didn’t complete my engagement. I’m going again in September for six months.’

  ‘I remember. But somehow I fancied—you seemed to have settled down into the old way at the Hall.’

  ‘So my father appears to think. But it is not likely I shall ever make it my home again; and that is partly the reason I want my father to adopt the notion of Aimée’s living with him. Ah, here are all the people coming back from their walk. However, I shall see you again; perhaps this afternoon we may get a little quiet time, for I’ve a great deal to consult you about.’

  They separated then, and Molly went upstairs very happy; very full and warm at her heart; it was so pleasant to have Roger talking to her in this way, like a friend; she had once thought that she could never look upon the great brown-bearded celebrity in the former light of almost brotherly intimacy, but now it was all coming right. There was no opportunity for renewed confidences that afternoon. Molly went a quiet decorous drive as fourth with two dowagers and one spinster; but it was very pleasant to think that she should see him again at dinner, and again to-morrow. On the Sunday evening, as they all were sitting and loitering on the lawn before dinner, Roger went on with what he had to say about the position of his sister-in-law in his father’s house; the mutual bond between the mother and grandfather being the child; who was also, through jealousy, the bone of contention and the severance. There were many details to be given in order to make Molly quite understand the difficulty of the situations on both sides; and the young man and the girl became absorbed in what they were talking about, and wandered away into the shade of the long avenue. Lady Harriet separated herself from a group and came up to Lord Hollingford, who was sauntering a little apart, and putting her arm within his with the familiarity of a favourite sister, she said—

  ‘Don’t you think that your pattern young man, and my favourite young woman, are finding out each other’s good qualities?’

  He had not been observing as she had been.

  ‘Who do you mean?’ said he.

  ‘Look along the avenue; who are those?’

  ‘Mr. Hamley and—is it not Miss Gibson? I can’t quite make out. Oh! if you’re letting your fancy run off in that direction, I can tell you it’s quite waste of time. Roger Hamley is a man who will soon have a European reputation!’

  ‘That’s very possible, and yet it doesn’t make any difference in my opinion. Molly Gibson is capable of appreciating him.’

  ‘She is a very pretty, good little country-girl. I don’t mean to say anything against her, but—’

  ‘Remember the Charity Ball; you called her “unusually intelligent” after you had danced with her there. But, after all, we’re like the genie and the fairy in the Arabian Nights Entertainment, who each cried up the merits of the Prince Caramalzaman and the Princess Badoura.’

  ‘Hamley is not a marrying man.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I know that he has very little private fortune, and I know that science is not a remunerative profession, if profession it can be called.’

  ‘Oh, if that’s all—a hundred things may happen—some one may leave him a fortune—or this tiresome little heir that nobody wanted may die.’

  ‘Hush, Harriet, that’s the worst of allowing yourself to plan far ahead for the future; you are sure to contemplate the death of some one, and to reckon upon the contingency as affecting events.’

  ‘As if lawyers were not always doing something of the kind.’

  ‘Leave it to those to whom it is necessary. I dislike planning marriages, or looking forward to deaths, about equally.’

  ‘You are getting very prosaic and tiresome, Hollingford!’

  ‘Only getting!’ said he, smiling. ‘I thought you had always looked upon me as a tiresome matter-of-fact fellow.’

  ‘Now, if you’re going to fish for a compliment I am gone. Only remember my prophecy when my vision comes to pass; or make a bet, and whoever wins shall spend the money on a present to Prince Caramalzaman or Princess Badoura, as the case may be.’

  Lord Hollingford remembered his sister’s words as he heard Roger say to Molly as he was leaving the Towers on the following day,—

  ‘Then I may tell my father that, you will come and pay him a visit next week? You don’t know what pleasure it will give him.’ He had been on the point of saying will give us, but he had an instinct which told him it was as well to consider Molly’s promised visit as exclusively made to his father.

  The next day Molly went home; she was astonished at herself for being so sorry to leave the Towers; and found it difficult, if not impossible, to reconcile the long-fixed idea of the house, as a place wherein to suffer all a child’s tortures of dismay and forlornness, with her new and fresh conception. She had gained health, she had had pleasure, the faint fragrance of a new and unacknowledged hope had stolen into her life. No wonder that Mr. Gibson was struck with the improvement in her looks, and Mrs. Gibson impressed with her increased grace.

  ‘Ah Molly,’ said she, ‘it’s really wonderful to see what a little good society will do for a girl. Even a week of association with such people as one meets with at the Towers is, as somebody said of a lady of rank whose name I have forgotten, “a polite education in itself.” There is something quite different about you—a je ne sais quoiei—that would tell me at once that you have been mingling with the aristocracy. With all her charms, it was what my darling Cynthia wanted; not that Mr. Henderson thought so, for a more devoted lover can hardly be conceived. He absolutely bought her a parure of diamonds. I was obliged to say to him that I had studied to preserve her simplicity of taste, and that he must not corrupt her with too much luxury. But I was rather disappointed at their going off without a maid. It was the one blemish in the arrangements—the spot in the sun. Dear Cynthia, when I think of her, I do assure you, Molly, I make it my nightly prayer that I may be able to find you just such another husband. And all this time you have never told me who you met at the Towers?’

  Molly ran over a list of names. Roger Hamley’s came last.

  ‘Upon my word! That young man is pushing his way up!’

  ‘The Hamleys are a far older family than the Cumnors,’ said Molly, flushing up.

  ‘Now, Molly, I can’t have you democratic. Rank is a great distinction. It is quite enough to have dear papa with democratic tendencies. But we won’t begin to quarrel. Now that you and I are left alone, we ought to be bosom friends, and I hope we shall be. Roger Hamley did not say much about that unfortunate little Osborne Hamley, I suppose?’

  ‘On the contrary, he says his father dotes on the child; and he seemed very proud of him, himself.’

  ‘I thought the squire must be getting very much infatuated with something. I dare say the French mother takes care of that. Why! he has scarcely taken any notice of you for this month or more, and before that you were everything.’

  It was about six weeks since Cynthia’s engagement had become publicly known, and that might have had something to do with the squire’s desertion, Molly thought. But she said,—

  ‘The squire has sent me an invitation to go and stay there next week if you have no objection, mamma. They seem to want a companion for Mrs. Osborne Hamley, who is not very strong.’

  ‘I can hardly tell what to say,—I don’t like your having to associate with a Frenchwoman of doubtful rank; and I can’t bear the thought of losing my child—my only daughter now. I did ask Helen Kirkpatrick, but she can’t come for some time; and the house is going to be altered. Papa has consented to build me another room at last, for Cynthia and Mr. Henderson will, of course, come and see us; we shall have many more visitors, I expect, and your bedroom will make a capital lumber-room; and Maria wants a week’s holiday. I am always so unwilling to put any obstacles in the way of one’s pleasure, —weakly unwilling, I believe,—but it certainly would be very convenient to have you out of the house for a few days; so, for once, I
will waive my own wish for your companionship, and plead your cause with papa.’

  Miss Brownings came to call and hear the double batch of news. Mrs. Goodenough had come the very day on which they had returned from Miss Hornblower’s, to tell them the astounding fact of Molly Gibson having gone on a visit to the Towers; not to come back at night, but to sleep there, to be there for two or three days, just as if she was a young lady of quality. So Miss Brownings came to hear all the details of the wedding from Mrs. Gibson, and the history of Molly’s visit at the Towers as well. But Mrs. Gibson did not like this divided interest, and some of her old jealousy of Molly’s intimacy at the Towers had returned.

  ‘Now, Molly,’ said Miss Browning, ‘let us hear how you behaved among the great folks. You must not be set up with all their attention; remember that they pay it to you for your good father’s sake.’

  ‘Molly is, I think, quite aware,’ put in Mrs. Gibson, in her most soft and languid tone, ‘that she owes her privilege of visiting at such a house to Lady Cumnor’s kind desire to set my mind quite at liberty at the time of Cynthia’s marriage. As soon as ever I had returned home, Molly came back; indeed, I should not have thought it right to let her intrude upon their kindness beyond what was absolutely necessary.

  Molly felt extremely uncomfortable at all this, although perfectly aware of the entire inaccuracy of the statement.

  ‘Well, but, Molly!’ said Miss Browning, ‘never mind whether you went there on your own merits, or your worthy father’s merits, or Mrs. Gibson’s merits; but tell us what you did when you were there.’

  So Molly began an account of their sayings and doings, which she could have made far more interesting to Miss Browning and Miss Phoebe if she had not been conscious of her stepmother’s critical listening. She had to tell it all with a mental squint; the surest way to spoil a narration. She was also subject to Mrs. Gibson’s perpetual corrections of little statements which she knew to be facts. But what vexed her most of all was Mrs. Gibson’s last speech before the Miss Brownings left.

  ‘Molly has fallen into rambling ways with this visit of hers, of which she makes so much, as if nobody had ever been in a great house but herself. She is going to Hamley Hall next week—getting quite dissipated, in fact.’

  Yet to Mrs. Goodenough, the next caller on the same errand of congratulation, Mrs. Gibson’s tone was quite different. There had always been a tacit antagonism between the two, and the conversation now ran as follows:—

  Mrs. Goodenough began,

  ‘Well! Mrs. Gibson, I suppose I must wish you joy of Miss Cynthia’s marriage; I should condole with some mothers as had lost their daughters; but you’re not one of that sort, I reckon.’

  Now, as Mrs. Gibson was not quite sure to which ‘sort’ of mothers the greatest credit was to be attached, she found it a little difficult how to frame her reply.

  ‘Dear Cynthia!’ she said. ‘One can’t but rejoice in her happiness! And yet—’ she ended her sentence by sighing.

  ‘Aye. She was a young woman as would always have her followers; for, to tell the truth, she was as pretty a creature as ever I saw in my life. And all the more she needed skilful guidance. I’m sure I, for one, am as glad as can be she’s done so well by herself Folks say Mr. Henderson has a handsome private fortune over and above what he makes by the law.’

  ‘There is no fear but that my Cynthia will have everything this world can give!’ said Mrs. Gibson with dignity.

  ‘Well, well! she was always a bit of a favourite of mine; and as I was saying to my granddaughter there’ (for she was accompanied by a young lady, who looked keenly to the prospect of some wedding-cake), ‘I was never one of those who ran her down, and called her a flirt and a jilt. I’m glad to hear she’s like to be so well off. And now, I suppose, you’ll be turning your mind to doing something for Miss Molly there?’

  ‘If you mean by that, doing anything that can, by hastening her marriage, deprive me of the company of one who is like my own child, you are very much mistaken, Mrs. Goodenough. And pray remember, I am the last person in the world to match-make. Cynthia made Mr. Henderson’s acquaintance at her uncle’s in London.’

  ‘Aye! I thought her cousins was very often ill, and needing her nursing, and you were very keen she should be of use. I’m not saying but what it’s right in a mother; I’m only putting in a word for Miss Molly.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs. Goodenough,’ said Molly, half angry, half laughing. ‘When I want to be married, I’ll not trouble mamma. I’ll look out for myself.’

  ‘Molly is becoming so popular, I hardly know how we shall keep her at home,’ said Mrs. Gibson. ‘I miss her sadly, but, as I said to Mr. Gibson, let young people have change, and see a little of the world while they are young. It has been a great advantage to her, being at the Towers while so many clever and distinguished people were there. I can already see a difference in her tone and conversation: an elevation in her choice of subjects. And now she is going to Hamley Hall. I can assure you I feel quite a proud mother, when I see how she is sought after. And my other daughter—my Cynthia—writing such letters from Paris!’

  ‘Things is a deal changed since my days, for sure,’ said Mrs. Goodenough. ‘So, perhaps, I’m no judge. When I was married first, him and me went in a post-chaise to his father’s house, a matter of twenty mile off at the outside; and sat down to as good a supper amongst his friends and relations as you’d wish to see. And that was my first wedding jaunt. My second was when I better knowed my worth as a bride, and thought that now or never I must see London. But I were reckoned a very extravagant sort of a body to go so far, and spend my money, though Jerry had left me uncommon well off. But now young folks go off to Paris, and think nothing of the cost: and it’s well if wilful waste don’t make woeful want before they die. But I’m thankful somewhat is being done for Miss Molly’s chances, as I said afore. It’s not quite what I should have liked to have done for my Anna-Maria, though. But times are changed, as I said just now.’

  CHAPTER 59

  Molly Gibson at Hamley Hall

  The conversation ended there for the time. Wedding-cake and wine were brought in, and it was Molly’s duty to serve them out. But those last words of Mrs. Goodenough’s tingled in her ears, and she tried to interpret them to her own satisfaction in any way but the obvious one. And that, too, was destined to be confirmed; for directly after Mrs. Goodenough took her leave, Mrs. Gibson desired Molly to carry away the tray to a table close to an open corner window, where the things might be placed in readiness for any future callers; and underneath this open window went the path from the house-door to the road. Molly heard Mrs. Goodenough saying to her granddaughter,—

  ‘That Mrs. Gibson is a deep ’un. There’s Mr. Roger Hamley as like as not to have the Hall estate, and she sends Molly a-visiting—’ and then she passed out of hearing. Molly could have burst out crying, with a full sudden conviction of what Mrs. Goodenough had been alluding to: her sense of the impropriety of Molly’s going to visit at the Hall when Roger was at home. To be sure, Mrs. Goodenough was a commonplace, unrefined woman. Mrs. Gibson did not seem to have even noticed the allusion. Mr. Gibson took it all as a matter of course that Molly should go to the Hall as simply now as she had done before. Roger had spoken of it in so straightforward a manner as showed he had no conception of its being an impropriety,—this visit,—this visit until now so happy a subject of anticipation. Molly felt as if she could never speak to any one of the idea to which Mrs. Goodenough’s words had given rise; as if she could never be the first to suggest the notion of impropriety, which pre-supposed what she blushed to think of. Then she tried to comfort herself by reasoning. If it had been forward or indelicate, really improper in the slightest degree, who would have been so ready as her father to put his veto upon it? But reasoning was of no use after Mrs. Goodenough’s words had put fancies into Molly’s head. The more she bade these fancies begone the more they answered her (as Daniel O’Rourke did the man in the moon, when he bade Dan get off his
seat on the sickle, and go into empty space):—‘The more ye ask us the more we won’t stir.’ One may smile at a young girl’s miseries of this description; but they are very real and stinging miseries to her. All that Molly could do was to resolve on a single eye to the dear old squire, and his mental and bodily comforts; to try and heal up any breaches which might have occurred between him and Aimée; and to ignore Roger as much as possible. Good Roger! Kind Roger! Dear Roger! It would be very hard to avoid him as much as was consistent with common politeness; but it would be right to do it; and when she was with him she must be as natural as possible, or he might observe some difference; but what was natural? How much ought she to avoid being with him? Would he even notice if she was more chary of her company, more calculating of her words? Alas! the simplicity of their intercourse was spoilt henceforwards! She made laws for herself; she resolved to devote herself to the squire and to Aimee, and to forget Mrs. Goodenough’s foolish speeches; but her perfect freedom was gone; and with it half her chance, that is to say, half her chance would have been lost over any strangers who had not known her before; they would probably have thought her stiff and awkward, and apt to say things and then retract them. But she was so different from her usual self that Roger noticed the change in her as soon as she arrived at the Hall. She had carefully measured out the days of her visit; they were to be exactly the same number as she had spent at the Towers. She feared lest if she stayed a shorter time the squire might be annoyed. Yet how charming the place looked in its early autumnal glow as she drove up! And there was Roger at the hall-door, waiting to receive her, watching for her coming. And then he retreated, apparently to summon his sister-in-law, who came now timidly forwards in her deep widow’s mourning, holding her boy in her arms as if to protect her shyness; but he struggled down, and ran towards the carriage, eager to greet his friend the coachman, and to obtain a promised ride. Roger did not say much himself; he wanted to make Aimée feel her place as daughter of the house; but she was too timid to speak much. And she only took Molly by the hand and led her into the drawing-room, where, as if by a sudden impulse of gratitude for all the tender nursing she had received during her illness, she put her arms round Molly, and kissed her long and well. And after that they came to be friends.