‘Phoebe, it would be a bad match for Mary Preston’s daughter. If I had known what I know now we’d never have had him to tea last September.’
‘Why, what do you know?’ asked Miss Phoebe.
‘Miss Hornblower told me many things; some that I don’t think you ought to hear, Phoebe. He was engaged to a very pretty Miss Gregson, at Henwick, where he comes from; and her father made inquiries, and heard so much that was bad about him, that he made his daughter break off the match, and she’s dead since!’
‘How shocking!’ said Miss Phoebe, duly impressed.
‘Besides, he plays at billiards and he bets at races, and some people do say he keeps race-horses.’
‘But is not it strange that the earl keeps him on as his agent?’
‘No! perhaps not. He’s very clever about land, and very sharp in all law affairs; and my lord is not bound to take notice — if indeed he knows — of the manner in which Mr. Preston talks when he has taken too much wine.’
‘Taken too much wine. Oh, sister, is he a drunkard? and we have had him to tea!’
‘I did not say he was a drunkard, Phoebe,’ said Miss Browning, pettishly. ‘A man may take too much wine occasionally, without being a drunkard. Don’t let me hear you using such coarse words, Phoebe!’
Miss Phoebe was silent for a time after this rebuke.
‘Presently she said, ‘I do hope it was not Molly Gibson.’
‘You may hope as much as you like, but I’m pretty sure it was. However, we’d better say nothing about it to Mrs. Goodenough; she has got Cynthia into her head, and there let her rest. Time enough to set reports afloat about Molly when we know there’s some truth in them. Mr. Preston might do for Cynthia, who’s been brought up France, though she has such pretty manners; but it may have made her not particular. He must not, and he shall not, have Molly, if I go into church and forbid the banns myself; but I’m afraid — I’m afraid there’s something between her and him. We must keep on the lookout, Phoebe. I’ll be her guardian angel, in spite of herself.’
CHAPTER XLI
GATHERING CLOUDS
Mrs. Gibson came back full of rose-coloured accounts of London. Lady Cumnor had been gracious and affectionate, ‘so touched by my going up to see her, so soon after her return to England;’ Lady Harriet charming and devoted to her old governess; Lord Cumnor ‘just like his dear usual hearty self;’ and as for the Kirkpatricks, no Lord Chancellor’s house was ever grander than theirs, and the silk gown of the Q.C. had floated over housemaids and footmen. Cynthia, too, was so much admired; and as for her dress, Mrs. Kirkpatrick had showered down ball-dresses and wreaths, and pretty bonnets and mantles, like a fairy godmother. Mr. Gibson’s poor present of ten pounds shrank into very small dimensions compared with all this munificence.
‘And they’re so fond of her, I don’t know when we shall have her back,’ was Mrs. Gibson’s winding-up sentence. ‘And now, Molly, what have you and papa been doing? Very gay, you sounded in your letter. I had not time to read it in London; so I put it in my pocket, and read it in the coach coming home. But, my dear child, you do look so old-fashioned with your gown made all tight, and your hair all tumbling about in curls. Curls are quite gone out.’ We must do your hair differently,’ she continued, trying to smooth Molly’s black waves into straightness.
‘I sent Cynthia an African letter,’ said Molly, timidly. ‘Did you hear anything of what was in it?’
‘Oh, yes, poor child! It made her very uneasy, I think; she said she did not feel inclined to go to Mr. Rawson’s ball, which was on that night, and for which Mrs. Kirkpatrick had given her the ball-dress. But there really was nothing for her to fidget herself about. Roger only said he had had another touch of fever, but was better when he wrote. He says every European has to be acclimatized by fever in that part of Abyssinia where he is.’
‘And did she go?’ asked Molly.
‘Yes, to be sure. It is not an engagement; and if it were, it is not acknowledged. Fancy her going and saying, “A young man that I know has been ill for a few days in Africa, two months ago, therefore I don’t want to go to the ball to-night.” It would have seemed like affectation of sentiment; and if there’s one thing I hate it is that.’
‘She would hardly enjoy herself,’ said Molly.
‘Oh, yes, but she did. Her dress was white gauze, trimmed with lilacs, and she really did look — a mother may be allowed a little natural partiality — most lovely. And she danced every dance, although she was quite a stranger. I am sure she enjoyed herself, from her manner of talking about it next morning.’
‘I wonder if the squire knows.’
‘Knows what? Oh, yes, to be sure! You mean about Roger. I dare say he doesn’t, and there’s no need to tell him, for I’ve no doubt it is all right now.’ And she went out of the room to Finish her unpacking.
Molly let her work fall, and sighed. ‘It will be a year the day after to-morrow since he came here to propose our going to Hurst Wood, and mamma was so vexed at his calling before lunch. I wonder if Cynthia remembers it as well as I do. And now, perhaps — Oh! Roger, Roger! I wish — I pray that you were safe home again! How could we all bear it, if — ’
She covered her face with her hands, and tried to stop thinking.
Suddenly she got up, as if stung by a venomous fancy,
‘I don’t believe she loves him as she ought, or she could not — could not have gone and danced. What shall I do if she does not? What shall I do? I can bear anything but that.’
But she found the long suspense as to his health hard enough to endure. They were not likely to hear from him for a month at least, and before that time had elapsed Cynthia would be at home again. Molly learnt to long for her return before a fortnight of her absence was over. She had had no idea that perpetual tete-a-tetes with Mrs. Gibson could, by any possibility, be so tiresome as she found them. Perhaps Molly’s state of delicate health, consequent upon her rapid growth during the last few months, made her irritable; but really often she had to get up and leave the room to calm herself down after listening to a long series of words, more frequently plaintive or discontented in tone than cheerful, and which at the end conveyed no distinct impression of either the speaker’s thought or feeling. Whenever anything had gone wrong, whenever Mr. Gibson had coolly persevered in anything to which she had objected; whenever the cook had made a mistake about the dinner, or the housemaid broken any little frangible article; whenever Molly’s hair was not done to her liking, or her dress did not become her, or the smell of dinner pervaded the house, or the wrong callers came, or the right callers did not come — in fact, whenever anything went wrong, poor Mr. Kirkpatrick was regretted and mourned over, nay, almost blamed, as if, had he only given himself the trouble of living, he could have helped it.
‘When I look back to those happy days, it seems to me as if I had never valued them as I ought. To be sure — youth, love, — what did we care for poverty! I remember dear Mr. Kirkpatrick walking five miles into Stratford to buy me a muffin because I had such a fancy for one after Cynthia was born. I don’t mean to complain of dear papa — but I don’t think — but, perhaps I ought not to say it to you. If Mr Kirkpatrick had but taken care of that cough of his; but he was so obstinate! Men always are, I think. And it really was selfish of him. Only I dare say he did not consider the forlorn state in which I should be left. It came harder upon me than upon most people, because I always was of such an affectionate sensitive nature. I remember a little poem of Mr. Kirkpatrick’s in which he compared my heart to a harp-string, vibrating to the slightest breeze.’
‘I thought harp-strings required a pretty strong finger to make them sound,’ said Molly.
‘My dear child, you’ve no more poetry in you than your father. And as for your hair! it’s worse than ever. Can’t you drench it in water to take those untidy twists and twirls out of it?’
‘It only makes it curl more and more when it gets dry,’ said Molly, sudden tears coming into her eyes as a recollection came before her like a pi
cture seen long ago and forgotten for years — a young mother washing and dressing her little girl; placing the half-naked darling on her knee, and twining the wet rings of dark hair fondly round her fingers, and then, in an ecstasy of fondness, kissing the little curly head.
The receipt of Cynthia’s letters made very agreeable events. She did not write often, but her letters were tolerably long when they did come, and very sprightly in tone. There was constant mention made of many new names, which conveyed no idea to Molly, though Mrs. Gibson would try and enlighten her by running commentaries like the following, —
‘Mrs. Green! ah, that’s Mr. Jones’s pretty cousin, who lives in Russell Square with the fat husband. They keep their carriage; but I’m not sure if it is not Mr. Green who is Mrs. Jones’s cousin. We can ask Cynthia when she comes home. Mr. Henderson! to be sure — a young man with black whiskers, a pupil of Mr. Kirkpatrick’s formerly, — or was he a pupil of Mr. Murray’s? I know they said he had read law with somebody. Ah, yes! they are the people who called the day after Mr Rawson’s ball, and who admired Cynthia so much, without knowing I was her mother. She was very handsomely dressed indeed, in black satin; and the son had a glass eye, but he was a young man of good property. Coleman! yes, that was the name.’
No more news of Roger until some time after Cynthia had returned from her London visit. She came back looking fresher and prettier than ever, beautifully dressed, thanks to her own good taste, and her cousins’ generosity, full of amusing details of the gay life she had been enjoying, yet not at all out of spirits at having left it behind her. She brought home all sorts of pretty and dainty devices for Molly; a neck ribbon made up in the newest fashion, a pattern for a tippet, a delicate pair of light gloves embroidered as Molly had never seen gloves embroidered before, and many another little sign of remembrance during her absence. Yet somehow or other, Molly felt that Cynthia was changed in her relation to her. Molly was aware that she had never had Cynthia’s full confidence, for with all her apparent frankness and naivete of manner, Cynthia was extremely reserved and reticent. She knew this much of herself, and had often laughed about it to Molly, and the latter had found out the truth of her friend’s assertion for herself. But Molly did not trouble herself much about this, She too knew that there were many thoughts and feelings that flitted through her mind that she should never think of telling to any one, except perhaps — if they were ever very much thrown together — to her father. She knew that Cynthia withheld from her more than thoughts and feelings — that she withheld facts. But then, as Molly reflected, these facts might involve details of struggle and suffering, might relate to her mother’s neglect, and altogether be of so painful a character, that it would be well if Cynthia could forget her childhood altogether, instead of fixing it in her mind by the relation of her grievances and troubles. So it was not now by any want of confidence that Molly felt distanced as it were. It was because Cynthia rather avoided than sought her companionship; because her eyes shunned the straight, serious, loving look of Molly’s; because there were certain subjects on which she evidently disliked speaking, not particularly interesting things as far as Molly could perceive, but it almost seemed as if they lay on the road to points to be avoided. Molly felt a sort of sighing pleasure in noticing Cynthia’s changed manner of talking about Roger. She spoke of him tenderly now; ‘poor Roger,’ as she called him; and Molly thought that she must be referring to the illness which he had mentioned in his last letter. One morning in the first week after Cynthia’s return home, just as he was going out, Mr. Gibson ran up into the drawing-room, hat on, booted and spurred, and hastily laid an open pamphlet down before her; pointing out a particular passage with his finger, but not speaking a word before he rapidly quitted the room. His eyes were sparkling, and had an amused as well as pleased expression. All this Molly noticed, as well as Cynthia’s flush of colour as she read what was thus pointed out to her. Then she pushed it a little on one side, not closing the book however, and went on with her work.
‘What is it? may I see it?’ asked Molly, stretching out her hand for the pamphlet, which lay within her reach. But she did not take it until Cynthia had said, —
‘Certainly, I don’t suppose there are any great secrets in a scientific journal, full of reports of meetings.’ And she gave the book a little push towards Molly. .
‘Oh, Cynthia!’ said Molly, catching her breath as she read, ‘Are you not proud?’ For it was an account of an annual gathering of the Geographical Society, and Lord Hollingford had read a letter he had received from Roger Hamley, dated from Arracuoba, a district in Africa, hitherto unvisited by any intelligent European traveller; and about which, Mr. Hamley sent many curious particulars. The reading of this letter had been received with the greatest interest, and several subsequent speakers had paid the writer very high compliments.
But Molly might have known Cynthia better than to expect an answer responsive to the feelings that prompted her question. Let Cynthia be ever so proud, ever so glad, or so grateful, or even indignant, remorseful, grieved or sorry, the very fact that she was expected by another to entertain any of these emotions, would have been enough to prevent her expressing them.
‘I’m afraid I’m not as much struck by the wonder of the thing as you are, Molly. Besides, it is not news to me; at least, not entirely. I heard about the meeting before I left London; it was a good deal talked about in my uncle’s set; to be sure I did not hear all the fine things they say of him there — but then, you know, that’s a mere fashion of speaking, which means nothing; somebody is bound to pay compliments when a lord takes the trouble to read one of his letters aloud.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Molly. ‘You know you don’t believe what you are saying, Cynthia.’
Cynthia gave that pretty little jerk of her shoulders, which was her equivalent for a French shrug, but did not lift up her head from her sewing. Molly began to read the report over again.
‘Why, Cynthia!’ she said, ‘you might have been there; ladies were there. It says “many ladies were present.” Oh, could not you have managed to go? If your uncle’s set cared about these things, would not some of them have taken you?’
‘Perhaps, if I had asked them. But I think they would have been rather astonished at my sudden turn for science.’
‘You might have told your uncle how matters really stood; he would not have talked about it if you had wished him not, I am sure, and he could have helped you.’
‘Once for all, Molly,’ said Cynthia, now laying down her work, and speaking with quick authority, ‘do learn to understand that it is, and always has been my wish, not to have the relation which Roger and I bear to each other, mentioned or talked about. When the right time comes, I will make it known to my uncle, and to everybody whom it may concern; but I am not going to make mischief, and get myself into trouble — even for the sake of hearing compliments paid to him — by letting it out before the time. If I’m pushed to it, I’d sooner break it off altogether at once, and have done with it. I can’t be worse off than I am now.’ Her angry tone had changed into a kind of desponding complaint before she had ended her sentence. Molly looked at her with dismay.
‘I can’t understand you, Cynthia,’ she said at length.
‘No; I dare say you can’t,’ said Cynthia, looking at her with tears in her eyes, and very tenderly, as if in atonement for her late vehemence. ‘I am afraid — I hope you never will.’
In a moment, Molly’s arms were round her. ‘Oh, Cynthia,’ she murmured, ‘have I been plaguing you? Have I vexed you? Don’t say you’re afraid of my knowing you. Of course you’ve your faults, everybody has, but I think I love you the better for them.’
‘I don’t know that I’m so very bad,’ said Cynthia, smiling a little through the tears that Molly’s words and caresses had forced to overflow from her eyes. ‘But I have got into scrapes. I am in a scrape now, I do sometimes believe I shall always be in scrapes, and if they ever come to light, I shall seem to be worse than I really am; and I know yo
ur father will throw me off, and I — no, I won’t be afraid that you will, Molly.’
‘I’m sure I won’t. Are they — do you think — how would Roger take it?’ asked Molly, very timidly.
‘I don’t know. I hope he will never hear of it. I don’t see why he should, for in a little while I shall be quite clear again. It all came about without my ever thinking I was doing wrong. I’ve a great mind to tell you all about it, Molly.’
Molly did not like to urge it, though she longed to know, and to see if she could not offer help; but while Cynthia was hesitating, and perhaps, to say the truth, rather regretting that she had even made this slight advance towards bestowing her confidence, Mrs. Gibson came in, full of some manner of altering a gown of hers, so as to make it into the fashion of the day, as she had seen it during her visit to London. Cynthia seemed to forget her tears and her troubles, and to throw her whole soul into millinery.
Cynthia’s correspondence went on pretty briskly with her London cousins, according to the usual rate of correspondence in those days. Indeed Mrs. Gibson was occasionally inclined to complain of the frequency of Helen Kirkpatrick’s letters; for before the penny post came in, the recipient had to pay the postage of letters; and elevenpence-halfpenny three times a week came, according to Mrs Gibson’s mode of reckoning when annoyed, to a sum ‘between three and four shillings.’ But these complaints were only for the family; they saw the wrong side of the tapestry. Hollingford in general, the Miss Brownings in particular, heard of ‘dear Helen’s enthusiastic friendship for Cynthia’ and of ‘the real pleasure it was to receive such constant news — relays of news indeed — from London. It was almost as good as living there!’
‘A great deal better I should think,’ said Miss Browning with some severity. For she had got many of her notions of the metropolis from the British Essayists, where town is so often represented as the centre of dissipation, corrupting country wives and squires’ daughters, and unfitting them for all their duties by the constant whirl of its not always innocent pleasures. London was a sort of moral pitch, which few could touch and not be defiled. Miss Browning had been on the watch for the signs of deterioration in Cynthia’s character ever since her return home. But, excepting in a greater number of pretty and becoming articles of dress, there was no great change for the worse to be perceived. Cynthia had been ‘in the world,’ had ‘beheld the glare and glitter and dazzling display of London,’ yet had come back to Hollingford as ready as ever to place a chair for Miss Browning, or to gather flowers for a nosegay for Miss Phoebe, or to mend her own clothes. But all this was set down to the merits of Cynthia, not to the credit of London-town.
Delphi Complete Works of Elizabeth Gaskell Page 279
