Wives and Daughters

by Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell

  CHAPTER LI.

  "TROUBLES NEVER COME ALONE."

  [Illustration (untitled)]

  Molly had her out-of-door things on, and she crept away as she wasbidden. She lifted her heavy weight of heart and body along tillshe came to a field, not so very far off,--where she had sought thecomfort of loneliness ever since she was a child; and there, underthe hedge-bank, she sate down, burying her face in her hands, andquivering all over as she thought of Cynthia's misery, which shemight not try to touch or assuage. She never knew how long she satethere, but it was long past lunch-time when once again she stoleup to her room. The door opposite was open wide,--Cynthia hadquitted the chamber. Molly arranged her dress and went down into thedrawing-room. Cynthia and her mother sate there in the stern reposeof an armed neutrality. Cynthia's face looked made of stone, forcolour and rigidity; but she was netting away as if nothing unusualhad occurred. Not so Mrs. Gibson her face bore evident marks oftears, and she looked up and greeted Molly's entrance with a faintsmiling notice. Cynthia went on as though she had never heard theopening 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 someemployment which should not necessitate conversation.

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

  "I wish you both to know that henceforward all is at an end betweenme and Roger Hamley."

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

  "I could have understood this if it had happened three monthsago,--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 changewhen 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 helpit."

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

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

  "I think you might finish your sentence," said her mother, after asilence of five seconds.

  "I cannot bear to exculpate myself to Roger Hamley. I will not submitto his thinking less well of me than he has done,--however foolishhis judgment may have been. I would rather never see him again, forthese two reasons. And the truth is, I do not love him. I like him, Irespect 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 letterwill reach him-- And I have written to old Mr. Hamley. The reliefis the one good thing come out of it all. It is such a comfortto feel free again. It wearied me so to think of straining up tohis 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 therelaid bare the exculpation of herself which she had given to Mollymany weeks before. When she had ended, she said:

  "And now, Mr. Gibson,--I still treat you like a friend,--help me tofind some home far away, where all the evil talking and gossip mammatells me of cannot find me and follow me. It may be wrong to carefor people's good opinion,--but it is me, and I cannot alter myself.You, Molly,--all the people in the town,--I haven't the patienceto live through the nine days' wonder.--I want to go away and be agoverness."

  "But, my dear Cynthia,--how soon Roger will be back,--a tower ofstrength!"

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

  "Nonsense. An engagement like yours cannot be broken off, except bymutual consent. You've only given others a great deal of pain withoutfreeing yourself. Nor will you wish it in a month's time. When youcome to think calmly, you'll be glad to think of the stay and supportof such a husband as Roger. You have been in fault, and have actedfoolishly at first,--perhaps wrongly afterwards; but you don't wantyour 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 asI could love, that I feel that I couldn't bear to have to tell himI'm sorry, and stand before him like a chidden child to be admonishedand forgiven."

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

  "Yes! but I love you better than Roger; I've often told Molly so. AndI would have told you, if I hadn't expected and hoped to leave youall before long. I could see if the recollection of it all came upbefore your mind; I could see it in your eyes; I should know it byinstinct. I have a fine instinct for reading the thoughts of otherswhen they refer to me. I almost hate the idea of Roger judging me byhis own standard, which wasn't made for me, and graciously forgivingme at last."

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

  For a moment Cynthia's wilful fancy stretched after the objectpassing out of her grasp,--Roger's love became for the instanta treasure; but, again, she knew that in its entirety of highundoubting esteem, as well as of passionate regard, it would nolonger be hers; and for the flaw which she herself had made she castit away, and would none of it. Yet often in after years, when itwas too late, she wondered and strove to penetrate the inscrutablemystery of "what would have been."

  "Still, take till to-morrow before you act upon your decision," saidMr. Gibson, slowly. "What faults you have fallen into have been meregirlish 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'm not so obtuse but what I know them allbetter than any one can tell me. And as for my decision I acted uponit at once. It may be long before Roger gets my letter,--but I hopehe is sure to get it at last,--and, as I said, I have let his fatherknow; it won't hurt him! Oh, sir, I think if I had been differentlybrought up I shouldn't have had the sore angry heart I have. Now! No,don't! I don't want reasoning comfort. I can't stand it. I shouldalways 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 asbodily. So Mr. Gibson thought. He felt as if much speech from himwould only add to her excitement, and make her worse. He left theroom, and called Molly, from where she was sitting, dolefully. "Goto Cynthia!" he whispered, and Molly went. She took Cynthia into herarms with gentle power, and laid her head against her own breast, asif the one had been a mother, and the other a child.

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

  "Molly, Roger will marry you! See if it isn't 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. "Yourhusband 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 Mollygave her back no answering smile. At this moment, the servant Mariaentered the consulting-room, where the two girls were. She had ascared look.

  "Isn't master here?" asked she, as if she distrusted her eyes.

  "No!" said Cynthia. "I heard him go out. I heard him shut the frontdoor not five minutes ago."

  "Oh, dear!" said Maria. "And there's a man come on horseback fromHamley Hall, and he says as Mr. Osborne is dead, and that master mustgo off to the Squire straight away."

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

  She laid her hand on the hot damp skin of the horse's shoulder; theman 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's no doubt according to whatthey said. But I've ridden hard! there may be a chance. Is the doctorcoming, 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 thehouse with swift rapidity to gain news of her father's whereabouts.The servants knew no more than she did. Neither she nor they hadheard what Cynthia, ever quick of perception, had done. The shuttingof the front door had fallen on deaf ears, as far as others wereconcerned. Upstairs sped Molly to the drawing-room, where Mrs. Gibsonstood 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 tothe bedrooms; she's a girl who never keeps to her work and Mariatakes 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, "whowanted papa?"

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

  "What is the matter?" said Mrs. Gibson. "Can nobody speak and answera question?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "I am going. I must go. I cannot bear to think of him alone. Whenpapa comes back he is sure to go to Hamley, and if I am not wanted, Ican come back with him." She heard Mrs. Gibson's voice following herin remonstrance, but she did not stay for words. She had to wait inthe stable-yard, and she wondered how the messenger could bear to eatand drink the food and beer brought out to him by the servants. Hercoming out had evidently interrupted the eager talk,--the questionsand answers passing sharp to and fro; but she caught the words, "allamongst the tangled grass," and "the Squire would let none on ustouch him: he took him up as if he was a baby; he had to rest manya time, and once he sate him down on the ground; but still he kepthim in his arms; but we thought we should ne'er have gotten him upagain--him and the body."

  "The body!"

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

  "It's the old nursery. They carried him there. The Squire broke downat the stair-foot, and they took him to the readiest place. I'll bebound for it the Squire is there hisself, and old Robin too. Theyfetched him, as a knowledgable man among dumb beasts, till th'regular doctor came."

  Molly dropped down from her seat before the man could dismount tohelp her. She gathered up her skirts and did not stay again to thinkof what was before her. She ran along the once familiar turns, andswiftly up the stairs, and through the doors, till she came to thelast; then she stopped and listened. It was a deathly silence. Sheopened the door:--the Squire was sitting alone at the side of thebed, holding the dead man's hand, and looking straight before himat vacancy. He did not stir or move, even so much as an eyelid, atMolly's entrance. The truth had entered his soul before this, andhe knew that no doctor, be he ever so cunning, could, with all hisstriving, put the breath into that body again. Molly came up to himwith 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 hehad no more hope from earthly skill, so what was the use of speakingof 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, andsat 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 awareof 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 havedisturbed the father in his contemplation of the quiet face, now morethan half, but not fully, covered up out of sight. Time had neverseemed so without measure, silence had never seemed so noiseless asit did to Molly, sitting there. In the acuteness of her senses sheheard a step mounting a distant staircase, coming slowly, comingnearer. She knew it not to be her father's, and that was all shecared about. Nearer and nearer--close to the outside of the door--apause, and a soft hesitating tap. The great gaunt figure sitting byher side quivered at the sound. Molly rose and went to the door: itwas Robinson, the old butler, holding in his hand a covered basin ofsoup.

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

  He softly removed the cover, and Molly took the basin back with herto her place at the Squire's side. She did not speak, for she did notwell know what to say, or how to present this homely want of naturebefore one so rapt in grief. But she put a spoonful to his lips, andtouched them with the savoury foo
d, as if he had been a sick child,and she the nurse; and instinctively he took down the first spoonfulof the soup. But in a minute he said, with a sort of cry, and almostoverturning the basin Molly held, by his passionate gesture as hepointed to the bed,--

  "He will never eat again--never."

  Then he threw himself across the corpse, and wept in such a terriblemanner that Molly trembled lest he also should die--should break hisheart there and then. He took no more notice of her words, of hertears, of her presence, than he did of that of the moon, lookingthrough the unclosed window, with passionless stare. Her father stoodby them both before either of them was aware.

  "Go downstairs, Molly," said he gravely; but he stroked her headtenderly as she rose. "Go into the dining-room." Now she felt thereaction from all her self-control. She trembled with fear as shewent along the moonlit passages. It seemed to her as if she shouldmeet Osborne, and hear it all explained; how he came to die,--what henow felt and thought and wished her to do. She did get down to thedining-room,--the last few steps with a rush of terror,--senselessterror of what might be behind her; and there she found supper laidout, and candles lit, and Robinson bustling about decanting somewine. She wanted to cry; to get into some quiet place, and weep awayher over-excitement; but she could hardly do so there. She only feltvery much tired, and to care for nothing in this world any more. Butvividness of life came back when she found Robinson holding a glassto her lips as she sat in the great leather easy-chair, to which shehad gone instinctively as to a place of rest.

  "Drink, Miss. It's good old Madeira. Your papa said as how you was toeat 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, orshe'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 sheasked him to leave her alone, and went back to her easy-chair and letherself cry, and so ease her heart.