Delphi Complete Works of Elizabeth Gaskell

by Elizabeth Gaskell

  ‘He said his wife was a good woman, and that he loved her dearly; but she was a French Roman Catholic, and a’ — another glance at her father — ‘she had been a servant once. That was all; except that I have her address at home. He wrote it down and gave it me.’

  ‘Well, well!’ moaned the squire. ‘It’s all over now. All over. All past and gone. We’ll not blame him, — no; but I wish he’d a told me; he and I to live together with such a secret in one of us. It’s no wonder to me now — nothing can be a wonder again, for one never can tell what’s in a man’s heart. Married so long! and we sitting together at meals — and living together. Why, I told him everything! Too much, may be, for I showed him all my passions and ill-tempers! Married so long! Oh, Osborne, Osborne, you should have told me!’

  ‘Yes, he should!’ said Mr. Gibson. ‘But I daresay he knew how much you would dislike such a choice as he had made. But he should have told you!’

  ‘You know nothing about it, sir,’ said the squire sharply. ‘You don’t know the terms we were on. Not hearty or confidential. I was cross to him many a time, angry with him for being dull, poor lad — and he with all this weight on his mind. I won’t have people interfering and judging between me and my sons. And Roger too! He could know it all, and keep it from me!’

  ‘Osborne evidently had bound him down to secrecy, just as he bound me,’ said Molly; ‘Roger could not help himself.’

  ‘Osborne was such a fellow for persuading people, and winning them over,’ said the squire, dreamily. ‘I remember — but what’s the use of remembering? It’s all over, and Osborne is dead without opening his heart to me. I could have been tender to him, I could. But he’ll never know it now!’

  ‘But we can guess what wish he had strongest in his mind at the last, from what we do know of his life.’ said Mr. Gibson.

  ‘What, sir?’ said the squire, with sharp suspicion of what was coming.

  ‘His wife must have been his last thought, must she not?’

  ‘How do I know she was his wife? Do you think he’d go and marry a

  French baggage of a servant? It may be all a tale trumped up.’

  ‘Stop, squire. I don’t care to defend my daughter’s truth or accuracy. But with the dead man’s body lying upstairs — his soul with God — think twice before you say more hasty words, impugning his character; if she was not his wife, what was she?’

  ‘I beg your pardon. I hardly know what I am saying. Did I accuse Osborne? Oh, my lad, my lad — thou might have trusted thy old dad! He used to call me his “old dad” when he was a little chap not bigger than this,’ indicating a certain height with his hand. ‘I never meant to say he was not — not what one would wish to think him now — his soul with God, as you say very justly — for I am sure it is there — ’

  ‘Well! but, squire,’ said Mr. Gibson, trying to check the other’s rambling, ‘to return to his wife — ’

  ‘And the child,’ whispered Molly to her father. Low as the whisper was, it struck on the squire’s ear.

  ‘What?’ said he, turning round to her suddenly, ‘ — child! You never named that? Is there a child? Husband and father, and I never knew! God bless Osborne’s child! I say, God bless it!’ He stood up reverently, and the other two instinctively rose. He closed his hands as if in momentary prayer. Then exhausted he sate down again, and put out his hand to Molly.

  ‘You’re a good girl. Thank you. Tell me what I ought to do, and I’ll do it.’ This to Mr. Gibson.

  ‘I am almost as much puzzled as you are, squire,’ replied he. ‘I fully believe the whole story; but I think there must be some written confirmation of it, which perhaps ought to be found at once, before we act. Most probably this is to be discovered among Osborne’s papers. Will you look over them at once? Molly shall return with me, and find the address that Osborne gave her, while you are busy — ’

  ‘She’ll come back again?’ said the squire eagerly. ‘You — she won’t leave me to myself?’

  ‘No! She shall come back this evening. I’ll manage to send her somehow. But she has no clothes but the habit she came in, and I want my horse that she rode away upon.’

  ‘Take the carriage,’ said the squire. ‘Take anything. I’ll give orders.

  You’ll come back again, too?’

  ‘No! I’m afraid not, to-day. I’ll come to-morrow, early. Molly shall return this evening, whenever it suits you to send for her.’

  ‘This afternoon; the carriage shall be at your house at three. I dare not look at Osborne’s — at the papers without one of you with me; and yet I shall never rest till I know more.’

  ‘I will send the desk in by Robinson before I leave. And — can you give me some lunch before I go?’

  Little by little he led the squire to eat a morsel or so of food; and so, strengthening him physically, and encouraging him mentally, Mr. Gibson hoped that he would begin his researches during Molly’s absence.

  There was something touching in the squire’s wistful looks after Molly as she moved about. A stranger might have imagined her to be his daughter instead of Mr. Gibson’s. The meek, broken-down, considerate ways of the bereaved father never showed themselves more strongly than when he called them back to his chair, out of which he seemed too languid to rise, and said, as if by an after-thought, — ’Give my love to Miss Kirkpatrick; tell her I look upon her as quite one of the family. I shall be glad to see her after — after the funeral. I don’t think I can before.’

  ‘He knows nothing of Cynthia’s resolution to give up Roger,’ said Mr Gibson as they rode away. ‘I had a long talk with her last night, but she was as resolute as ever. From what your mamma tells me, there is a third lover in London, whom she’s already refused. I’m thankful that you’ve no lover at all, Molly, unless that abortive attempt of Mr. Coxe’s at an offer, long ago, can be called a lover.’

  ‘I never heard of it, papa,’ said Molly.

  ‘Oh, no. I forgot. What a fool I was! Why, don’t you remember the hurry

  I was in to get you off to Hamley Hall, the very first time you ever

  went? It was all because I got hold of a desperate love-letter from

  Coxe, addressed to you.’

  But Molly was too tired to be amused, or even interested. She could not get over the sight of the straight body covered with a sheet, which yet let the outlines be seen, — all that remained of Osborne. Her father had trusted too much to the motion of the ride, and the change of scene from the darkened house. He saw his mistake.

  ‘Some one must write to Mrs. Osborne Hamley,’ said he. ‘I believe her to have a legal right to the name; but whether or no, she must be told that the father of her child is dead. Shall you do it, or I?’

  ‘Oh, you, please, papa!’

  ‘I will, if you wish, But she may have heard of you as a friend of her dead husband’s; while of me — a mere country doctor — it’s very probable she has never heard the name.’

  ‘If I ought, I will do it.’ Mr. Gibson did not like this ready acquiescence, given in so few words, too.

  ‘There’s Hollingford church-spire,’ said she presently, as they drew near the town, and caught a glimpse of the church through the trees. ‘I think I never wish to go out of sight of it again.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ said he. ‘Why, you’ve all your travelling to do yet; and if these newfangled railways spread, as they say they will, we shall all be spinning about the world; “sitting on tea-kettles,” as Phoebe Browning calls it. Miss Browning wrote such a capital letter of advice to Miss Hornblower. I heard of it at the Millers’. Miss Hornblower was going to travel by railroad for the first time; and Sally was very anxious, and sent her directions for her conduct; one piece of advice was not to sit on the boiler.’

  Molly laughed a little, as she was expected to do.

  ‘Here we are at home, at last.’

  Mrs. Gibson gave Molly a warm welcome. For one thing, Cynthia was in disgrace; for another, Molly came from the centre of news; for a third, Mrs. Gibson was really
fond of the girl, in her way, and sorry to see her pale heavy looks.

  ‘To think of it all being so sudden at last! Not but what I always expected it! And so provoking! Just when Cynthia had given up Roger! If she had only waited a day! What does the squire say to it all?’

  ‘He is beaten down with grief,’ replied Molly.

  ‘Indeed! I should not have fancied he had liked the engagement so much.’

  ‘What engagement?’

  ‘Why, Roger to Cynthia, to be sure. I asked you how the squire took her letter, announcing the breaking of it off?’

  ‘Oh — I made a mistake. He has not opened his letters to-day. I saw

  Cynthia’s among them.’

  ‘Now that I call positive disrespect.’

  ‘I don’t know. He did not mean it for such. Where is Cynthia?’

  ‘Gone out into the meadow-garden. She’ll be in directly. I wanted her to do some errands for me, but she flatly refused to go into the town. I am afraid she mismanages her affairs sadly. But she won’t allow me to interfere. I hate to look at such things in a mercenary spirit, but it is provoking to see her throw over two such good matches. First Mr. Henderson, and now Roger Hamley. When does the squire expect Roger? Does he think he will come back sooner for poor dear Osborne’s death?’

  ‘I don’t know. He hardly seems to think of anything but Osborne. He seems to me to have almost forgotten every one else. But perhaps the news of Osborne’s being married, and of the child, may rouse him up.’

  Molly had no doubt that Osborne was really and truly married, nor had she any idea that her father had never breathed the facts of which she had told him on the previous night, to his wife or Cynthia. But Mr. Gibson had been slightly dubious of the full legality of the marriage, and had not felt inclined to speak of it to his wife until that had been ascertained one way or another. So Mrs. Gibson exclaimed, ‘What do you mean, child? Married! Osborne married. Who says so?’

  ‘Oh, dear! I suppose I ought not to have named it. I am very stupid to- day. Yes! Osborne has been married a long time; but the squire did not know of it until this morning. I think it has done him good. But I don’t know.’

  ‘Who is the lady? Why, I call it a shame to go about as a single man, and be married all the time! If there is one thing that revolts me, it is duplicity. Who is the lady? Do tell me all you know about it, there’s a dear.’

  ‘She is French, and a Roman Catholic,’ said Molly.

  ‘French! They are such beguiling women; and he was so much abroad! You said there was a child, — is it a boy or girl?’

  ‘I did not hear. I did not ask.’

  Molly did not think it necessary to do more than answer questions; indeed, she was vexed enough to have told anything of what her father evidently considered it desirable to keep secret. Just then Cynthia came wandering into the room with a careless, hopeless look in her face, which Molly noticed at once. She had not heard of Molly’s arrival, and had no idea that she was returned until she saw her sitting there.

  ‘Molly, darling! Is that you? You’re as welcome as the flowers in May, though you’ve not been gone twenty-four hours. But the house is not the same when you are away!’

  ‘And she brings us such news too!’ said Mrs. Gibson. ‘I’m really almost glad you wrote to the squire yesterday, for if you had waited till to- day — I thought you were in too great a hurry at the time — he might have thought you had some interested reason for giving up your engagement. Osborne Hamley was married all this time unknown to everybody, and has got a child too.’

  ‘Osborne married!’ exclaimed Cynthia. ‘If ever a man looked a bachelor, he did. Poor Osborne! with his fair delicate elegance, — he looked so young and boyish!’

  ‘Yes! it was a great piece of deceit, and I can’t easily forgive him for it. Only think! If he had paid either of you any particular attention, and you had fallen in love with him! Why, he might have broken your heart, or Molly’s either. I can’t forgive him, even though he is dead, poor fellow!’

  Well, as he never did pay either of us any particular attention, and as we neither of us did fall in love with him, I think I only feel sorry that he had all the trouble and worry of concealment.’ Cynthia spoke with a pretty keen recollection of how much trouble and worry her concealment had cost her.

  ‘And now of course it is a son, and will be the heir, and Roger will just be as poorly off as ever. I hope you’ll take care and let the squire know Cynthia was quite ignorant of these new facts that have come out when she wrote those letters, Molly? I should not like a suspicion of worldliness to rest upon any one with whom I had any concern.’

  ‘He has not read Cynthia’s letter yet. Oh, do let me bring it home unopened,’ said Molly. ‘Send another letter to Roger — now — at once; it will reach him at the same time; he will get both when he arrives at the Cape, and make him understand which is the last — the real one. Think! he will hear of Osborne’s death at the same time — two such sad things! Do, Cynthia!’

  ‘No, my dear,’ said Mrs. Gibson. ‘I could not allow that, even if Cynthia felt inclined for it. Asking to be re-engaged to him! At any rate, she must wait now until he proposes again, and we see how things turn out.’

  But Molly kept her pleading eyes fixed on Cynthia.

  ‘No!’ said Cynthia firmly, but not without consideration. ‘It cannot be. I have felt more content this last night than I have done for weeks past. I am glad to be free. I dreaded Roger’s goodness, and learning, and all that. It was not in my way, and I don’t believe I should have ever married him, even without knowing of all these ill-natured stories that are circulating about me, and which he would hear of, and expect me to explain, and be sorry for, and penitent and humble. I know he could not have made me happy, and I don’t believe he would have been happy with me. It must stay as it is. I would rather be a governess than married to him. I should get weary of him every day of my life.’

  ‘Weary of Roger!’ said Molly to herself. ‘It is best as it is, I see,’ she answered aloud. ‘Only I am very sorry for him, very. He did love you so. You will never get any one to love you like him!’

  ‘Very well. I must take my chance. And too much love is rather oppressive to me, I believe. I like a great deal, widely spread about; not all confined to one individual lover.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ said Molly. ‘But don’t let us talk any more about it. It is best as it is. I thought — I almost felt sure you would be sorry this morning. But we will leave it alone now.’ She sate silently looking out of the window, her heart sorely stirred, she scarcely knew how or why. But she could not have spoken. Most likely she would have begun to cry if she had spoken. Cynthia stole softly up to her after a while.

  ‘You are vexed with me, Molly,’ she began in a low voice. But Molly turned sharply round.

  ‘I! I have no business at all in the affair. It is for you to judge. Do what you think right. I believe you have done right. Only I don’t want to discuss it, and paw it over with talk. I am very much tired, dear’ — gently now she spoke, — ’and I hardly know what I say. If I speak crossly, don’t mind it.’ Cynthia did not reply at once. Then she said, —

  ‘Do you think I might go with you, and help you? I might have done yesterday; and you say he has not opened my letter, so he has not heard as yet. And I was always fond of poor Osborne, in my way, you know.’

  ‘I cannot tell; I have no right to say,’ replied Molly, scarcely understanding Cynthia’s motives, which, after all, were only impulses in this case. ‘Papa would be able to judge; I think, perhaps, you had better not. But don’t go by my opinion, I can only tell what I should wish to do in your place.’

  ‘It was as much for your sake as any one’s, Molly,’ said Cynthia.

  ‘Oh, then, don’t! I am tired to-day with sitting up; but to-morrow I shall be all right; and I should not like it, if, for my sake, you came into the house at so solemn a time.’

  ‘Very well!’ said Cynthia, half-glad that her impulsive offer
was declined; for, as she said, thinking to herself, ‘It would have been awkward after all,’ So Molly went back in the carriage alone, wondering how she should find the squire, wondering what discoveries he had made among Osborne’s papers; and at what conviction he would have arrived.

  CHAPTER LIII

  UNLOOKED-FOR ARRIVALS

  Robinson opened the door for Molly almost before the carriage had fairly drawn up at the Hall, and told her that the squire had been very anxious for her return, and had more than once sent him to an upstairs window, from which a glimpse of the hill-road between Hollingford and Hamley could be perceived, to know if the carriage was not yet in sight. Molly went into the drawing-room. The squire was standing in the middle of the floor, awaiting her; in fact, longing to go out and meet her, but restrained by a feeling of solemn etiquette, which prevented his moving about as usual in that house of mourning. He held a paper in his hands, which were trembling with excitement and emotion; and four or five open letters were strewed on a table near him.

  ‘It’s all true,’ he began; ‘she’s his wife, and he’s her husband — was her husband — that’s the word for it — was! Poor lad! poor lad! it’s cost him a deal. Pray God, it was not my fault. Read this, my dear. It’s a certificate. It’s all regular — Osborne Hamley to Marie-Aimee Scherer, — parish-church and all, and witnessed. Oh, dear!’ He sate down in the nearest chair and groaned. Molly took a seat by him, and read the legal paper, the perusal of which was not needed to convince her of the fact of the marriage. She held it in her hand after she had finished reading it, waiting for the squire’s next coherent words; for he kept talking to himself in broken sentences. ‘Ay, ay! that comes o’ temper, and crabbedness. She was the only one as could — and I’ve been worse since she was gone. Worse! worse! and see what it has come to. He was afraid of me — ay — afraid. That’s the truth of it — afraid. And it made him keep all to himself, and care killed him. They may call it heart- disease — O my lad, my lad, I know better now; but it’s too late — that’s the sting of it — too late, too late!’ He covered his face, and moved himself backwards and forwards till Molly could bear it no longer.