‘A good day’s work!’ he repeated to himself as he ran downstairs. ‘I don’t know when I have been so happy!’ For he had not told Molly all that had passed between him and Roger. Roger had begun a fresh subject of conversation just as Mr. Gibson was hastening away from the Hall, after completing the new arrangement for Aimee and her child.
‘You know that I set off next Tuesday, Mr. Gibson, don’t you?’ said
Roger, a little abruptly.
‘To be sure. I hope you’ll be as successful in all your scientific objects as you were the last time, and have no sorrows awaiting you when you come back.’
‘Thank you. Yes. I hope so. You don’t think there’s any danger of infection now, do you?’
‘No! If the disease were to spread through the household, I think we should have had some signs of it before now. One is never sure, remember, with scarlet fever.
Roger was silent for a minute or two. ‘Should you be afraid,’ he said at length, ‘of seeing me at your house?’
‘Thank you; but I think I would rather decline the pleasure of your society there at present. It’s only three weeks or a month since the child began. Besides, I shall be over here again before you go. I’m always on my guard against symptoms of dropsy. I have known it supervene.’
‘Then I shall not see Molly again!’ said Roger, in a tone and with a look of great disappointment.
Mr. Gibson turned his keen, observant eyes upon the young man, and looked at him in as penetrating a manner as if he had been beginning with an unknown illness. Then the doctor and the father compressed his lips and gave vent to a long intelligent whistle. ‘Whew!’ said he.
Roger’s bronzed cheeks took a deeper shade.
‘You will take a message to her from me, won’t you? A message of farewell?’ he pleaded.
‘Not I. I’m not going to be a message-carrier between any young man and young woman. I’ll tell my womankind I forbade you to come near the house, and that you’re sorry to go away without bidding good-by. That’s all I shall say.’
‘But you do not disapprove? — I see you guess why. Oh! Mr. Gibson, just speak to me one word of what must be in your heart, though you are pretending not to understand why I would give worlds to see Molly again before I go.’
‘My dear boy!’ said Mr. Gibson, more affected than he liked to show, and laying his hand on Roger’s shoulder. Then he pulled himself up, and said gravely enough, —
‘Mind, Molly is not Cynthia. If she were to care for you, she is not one who could transfer her love to the next comer.’
‘You mean not as readily as I have done,’ replied Roger. ‘I only wish you could know what a different feeling this is to my boyish love for Cynthia.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of you when I spoke; but, however, as I might have remembered afterwards that you were not a model of constancy, let us hear what you have to say for yourself.’
‘Not much. I did love Cynthia very much. Her manners and her beauty bewitched me; but her letters, — short, hurried letters, — sometimes showing that she really hadn’t taken the trouble to read mine through, — I cannot tell you the pain they gave me! Twelve months’ solitude, in frequent danger of one’s life — face to face with death — sometimes ages a man like many years’ experience. Still I longed for the time when I should see her sweet face again, and hear her speak. Then the letter at the Cape! — and still I hoped. But you know how I found her, when I went to have the interview which I trusted might end in the renewal of our relations, — engaged to Mr Henderson. I saw her walking with him in your garden, coquetting with him about a flower, just as she used to do with me. I can see the pitying look in Molly’s eyes as she watched me; I can see it now. And I could beat myself for being such a blind fool as to — What must she think of me? how she must despise me, choosing the false Duessa.’
‘Come, come! Cynthia isn’t so bad as that. She’s a very fascinating, faulty creature.’
‘I know! I know! I will never allow any one to say a word against her. If I called her the false Duessa it was because I wanted to express my sense of the difference between her and Molly as strongly as I could. You must allow for a lover’s exaggeration. Besides, all I wanted to say was, — Do you think that Molly, after seeing and knowing that I had loved a person so inferior to herself, could ever be brought to listen to me?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t tell. And even if I could, I would not. Only if it’s any comfort to you, I may say what my experience has taught me. Women are queer, unreasoning creatures, and are just as likely as not to love a man who has been throwing away his affection.’
‘Thank you, sir!’ said Roger, interrupting him. ‘I see you mean to give me encouragement. And I had resolved never to give Molly a hint of what I felt till I returned, — and then to try and win her by every means in my power. I determined not to repeat the former scene in the former place, — in your drawing-room, — however I might be tempted. And perhaps, after all, she avoided me when she was here last.’
‘Now, Roger, I’ve listened to you long enough. If you’ve nothing better to do with your time than to talk about my daughter, I have. When you come back it will be time enough to enquire how far your father would approve of such an engagement.’
‘He himself urged it upon me the other day — but then I was in despair —
I thought it was too late.’
‘And what means you are likely to have of maintaining a wife, — I always thought that point was passed too lightly over when you formed your hurried engagement to Cynthia. I’m not mercenary, — Molly has some money independently of me, — that she by the way knows nothing of, — not much; — and I can allow her something. But all these things must be left till your return.’
‘Then you sanction my attachment?’
‘I don’t know what you mean by sanctioning it. I can’t help it. I suppose losing one’s daughter is a necessary evil. Still,’ — seeing the disappointed expression on Roger’s face — ’it is but fair to you to say I’d rather give my child, — my only child, remember! — to you, than to any man in the world!’
‘Thank you!’ said Roger, shaking hands with Mr. Gibson, almost against the will of the latter. ‘And I may see her, just once, before I go?’
‘Decidedly not. There I come in as doctor as well as father. No!’
‘But you will take a message, at any rate?’
‘To my wife and to her conjointly. I will not separate them. I will not in the slightest way be a go-between.’
‘Very well,’ said Roger. ‘Tell them both as strongly as you can how I regret your prohibition. I see I must submit. But if I don’t come back, I’ll haunt you for having been so cruel.’
‘Come, I like that. Give me a wise man of science in love! No one beats him in folly. Good-by.’
‘Good-by, You will see Molly this afternoon!’
‘To be sure. And you will see your father. But I don’t heave such portentous sighs at the thought.’
Mr. Gibson gave Roger’s message to his wife and to Molly that evening at dinner. It was but what the latter had expected, after all her father had said of the very great danger of infection; but now that her expectation came in the shape of a final decision, it took away her appetite. She submitted in silence; but her observant father noticed that after this speech of his, she only played with the food on her plate, and concealed a good deal of it under her knife and fork.
‘Lover versus father!’ thought he, half sadly. ‘Lover wins.’ And he, too, became indifferent to all that remained of his dinner. Mrs Gibson pattered on; and nobody listened.
The day of Roger’s departure came. Molly tried hard to forget it in working away at a cushion she was preparing as a present to Cynthia; people did worsted-work in those days. One, two, three. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven; all wrong; she was thinking of something else, and had to unpick it. It was a rainy day, too; and Mrs. Gibson, who had planned to go out and pay some calls, had to stay indoors. This made her restless
and fidgety. She kept going backwards and forwards to different windows in the drawing-room to look at the weather, as if she imagined that while it rained at one window, it might be fine weather at another.
‘Molly — come here! who is that man wrapped up in a cloak, — there, — near the Park wall, under the beech-tree — he has been there this half-hour and more, never stirring, and looking at this house all the time! I think it’s very suspicious.’
Molly looked, and in an instant recognized Roger under all his wraps. Her first instinct was to draw back. The next to come forwards, and say, — ’Why, mamma, it’s Roger Hamley! Look now — he’s kissing his hand; he’s wishing us good-by in the only way he can!’ And she responded to his sign; but she was not sure if he perceived her modest quiet movement, for Mrs. Gibson became immediately so demonstrative that Molly fancied that her eager foolish pantomimic motions must absorb all his attention.
‘I call this so attentive of him,’ said Mrs. Gibson, in the midst of a volley of kisses of her hand. ‘Really it is quite romantic. It reminds me of former days — but he will be too late! I must send him away; it is half-past twelve!’ And she took out her watch and held it up, tapping it with her forefinger, and occupying the very centre of the window. Molly could only peep here and there, dodging now up, now down, now on this side, now on that, of the perpetually-moving arms. She fancied she saw something of a corresponding movement on Roger’s part. At length he went away, slowly, slowly, and often looking back, in spite of the tapped watch. Mrs. Gibson at last retreated, and Molly quietly moved into her place to see his figure once more before the turn of the road hid it from her view. He, too, knew where the last glimpse of the Gibsons’ house was to be obtained, and once more he turned, and his white handkerchief floated on the air. Molly waved hers high up, with eager longing that it should be seen. And then, he was gone! and Molly returned to her worsted-work, happy, glowing, sad, content, and thinking to herself how sweet is — friendship!
When she came to a sense of the present, Mrs. Gibson was saying, —
‘Upon my word, though Roger Hamley has never been a great favourite of mine, this little attention of his has reminded me very forcibly of a very charming young man — a soupirant, as the French would call him — Lieutenant Harper — you must have heard me speak of him, Molly?’
‘I think I have!’ said Molly, absently.
‘Well, you remember how devoted he was to me when I was at Mrs Duncombe’s, my first situation, and I only seventeen. And when the recruiting party was ordered to another town, poor Mr. Harper came and stood opposite the schoolroom window for nearly an hour, and I know it was his doing that the band played “The girl I left behind me,” when they marched out the next day. Poor Mr. Harper! It was before I knew dear Mr. Kirkpatrick! Dear me. How often my poor heart has had to bleed in this life of mine! not but what dear papa is a very worthy man, and makes me very happy. He would spoil me, indeed, if I would let him. Still he is not as rich as Mr. Henderson.’
That last sentence contained the germ of Mrs. Gibson’s present grievance. Having married Cynthia, as her mother put it — taking credit to herself as if she had had the principal part in the achievement — she now became a little envious of her daughter’s good fortune in being the wife of a young, handsome, rich and moderately fashionable man, who lived in London. She naively expressed her feelings on this subject to her husband one day when she was really not feeling quite well, and when consequently her annoyances were much more present to her mind than her sources of happiness.
‘It is such a pity!’ said she, ‘that I was born when I was. I should so have liked to belong to this generation.’
‘That’s sometimes my own feeling,’ said he. ‘So many new views seem to be opened in science, that I should like, if it were possible, to live till their reality was ascertained, and one saw what they led to. But I don’t suppose that’s your reason, my dear, for wishing to be twenty or thirty years younger.’
‘No, indeed. And I did not put it in that hard unpleasant way; I only said I should like to belong to this generation. To tell the truth, I was thinking of Cynthia. Without vanity, I believe I was as pretty as she is — when I was a girl, I mean; I had not her dark eye-lashes, but then my nose was straighter. And now look at the difference! I have to live in a little country town with three servants, and no carriage; and she with her inferior good looks will live in Sussex Place,’ and keep a man and a brougham, and I don’t know what. But the fact is, in this generation there are so many more rich young men than there were when I was a girl.’
‘Oh, ho! so that’s your reason, is it, my dear. If you had been young now you might have married somebody as well off as Walter?’
‘Yes!’ said she. ‘I think that was my idea. Of course I should have liked him to be you. I always think if you had gone to the bar you might have succeeded better, and lived in London, too. I don’t think Cynthia cares much where she lives, yet you see it has come to her.’
‘What has — London?’
‘Oh, you dear, facetious man. Now that’s just the thing to have captivated a jury. I don’t believe Walter will ever be so clever as you are. Yet he can take Cynthia to Paris, and abroad, and everywhere. I only hope all this indulgence won’t develope the faults in Cynthia’s character. It’s a week since we heard from her, and I did write so particularly to ask her for the autumn fashions before I bought my new bonnet. But riches are a great snare.’
‘Be thankful you are spared temptation, my dear.’
‘No, I’m not. Every body likes to be tempted. And, after all, it’s very easy to resist temptation, if one wishes.’
‘I don’t find it so easy,’ said her husband.
‘Here’s medicine for you, mamma,’ said Molly, entering with a letter held up in her hand. ‘A letter from Cynthia.’
‘Oh, you dear little messenger of good news! There was one of the heathen deities in Mangnall’s Questions whose office that was. The letter is dated from Calais. They’re coming home! She’s bought me a shawl and a bonnet! The dear creature! Always thinking of others before herself. Good fortune cannot spoil her. They’ve a fortnight left of their holiday! Their house is not quite ready; they’re coming here. Oh, now, Mr. Gibson, we must have the new dinner service at Watts’s I’ve set my heart on so long! “Home” Cynthia calls this house. I’m sure it has been a home to her, poor darling! I doubt if there is another man in the world who would have treated his stepdaughter like dear papa! And, Molly, you must have a new gown.’
‘Come, come! Remember I belong to the last generation,’ said Mr Gibson.
‘And Cynthia will not notice what I wear,’ said Molly, bright with pleasure at the thought of seeing her again.
‘No! but Walter will. He has such a quick eye for dress, and I think I rival papa; if he is a good stepfather, I’m a good stepmother, and I could not bear to see my Molly shabby, and not looking her best. I must have a new gown too. It won’t do to look as if we had nothing but the dresses which we wore at the wedding!’
But Molly stood against the new gown for herself, and urged that if Cynthia and Walter were to come to visit them often, they had better see them as they really were, in dress, habits, and appointments. When Mr. Gibson had left the room, Mrs. Gibson softly reproached Molly for her obstinacy.
‘You might have allowed me to beg for a new gown for you, Molly, when you knew how much I had admired that figured silk at Brown’s the other day. And now, of course, I can’t be so selfish as to get it for myself, and you to have nothing. You should learn to understand the wishes of other people. Still, on the whole, you are a dear, sweet girl, and I only wish — well, I know what I wish; only dear papa does not like it to be talked about. And now cover me up close, and let me go to sleep, and dream about my dear Cynthia and my new shawl!’
The Novellas
Gaskell at home, 1864
THE MOORLAND COTTAGE
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER I.
If you take the turn to the left, after you pass the lyke-gate at Combehurst Church, you will come to the wooden bridge over the brook; keep along the field-path which mounts higher and higher, and, in half a mile or so, you will be in a breezy upland field, almost large enough to be called a down, where sheep pasture on the short, fine, elastic turf. You look down on Combehurst and its beautiful church-spire. After the field is crossed, you come to a common, richly colored with the golden gorse and the purple heather, which in summer-time send out their warm scents into the quiet air. The swelling waves of the upland make a near horizon against the sky; the line is only broken in one place by a small grove of Scotch firs, which always look black and shadowed even at mid-day, when all the rest of the landscape seems bathed in sunlight. The lark quivers and sings high up in the air; too high--in too dazzling a region for you to see her. Look! she drops into sight; but, as if loth to leave the heavenly radiance, she balances herself and floats in the ether. Now she falls suddenly right into her nest, hidden among the ling, unseen except by the eyes of Heaven, and the small bright insects that run hither and thither on the elastic flower-stalks. With something like the sudden drop of the lark, the path goes down a green abrupt descent; and in a basin, surrounded by the grassy hills, there stands a dwelling, which is neither cottage nor house, but something between the two in size. Nor yet is it a farm, though surrounded by living things. It is, or rather it was, at the time of which I speak, the dwelling of Mrs. Browne, the widow of the late curate of Combehurst. There she lived with her faithful old servant and her only children, a boy and girl. They were as secluded in their green hollow as the households in the German forest-tales. Once a week they emerged and crossed the common, catching on its summit the first sounds of the sweet-toned bells, calling them to church. Mrs. Browne walked first, holding Edward’s hand. Old Nancy followed with Maggie; but they were all one party, and all talked together in a subdued and quiet tone, as beseemed the day. They had not much to say, their lives were too unbroken; for, excepting on Sundays, the widow and her children never went to Combehurst. Most people would have thought the little town a quiet, dreamy place; but to those two children if seemed the world; and after they had crossed the bridge, they each clasped more tightly the hands which they held, and looked shyly up from beneath their drooped eyelids when spoken to by any of their mother’s friends. Mrs. Browne was regularly asked by some one to stay to dinner after morning church, and as regularly declined, rather to the timid children’s relief; although in the week-days they sometimes spoke together in a low voice of the pleasure it would be to them if mamma would go and dine at Mr. Buxton’s, where the little girl in white and that great tall boy lived. Instead of staying there, or anywhere else, on Sundays, Mrs. Browne thought it her duty to go and cry over her husband’s grave. The custom had arisen out of true sorrow for his loss, for a kinder husband, and more worthy man, had never lived; but the simplicity of her sorrow had been destroyed by the observation of others on the mode of its manifestation. They made way for her to cross the grass toward his grave; and she, fancying that it was expected of her, fell into the habit I have mentioned. Her children, holding each a hand, felt awed and uncomfortable, and were sensitively conscious how often they were pointed out, as a mourning group, to observation.
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