Wives and Daughters (104 page)

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.’

T
he 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.

It was nearly lunch-time, and the squire always made his appearance at that meal more for the pleasure of seeing his grandson eat his dinner than for any hunger of his own. To-day Molly quickly saw the whole state of the family affairs. She thought that, even had Roger said nothing about them at the Towers, she should have seen that neither the father nor the daughter-in-law had as yet found the clue to each other’s character, although they had now been living for several months in the same house. Aimée seemed to forget her English in her nervousness; and to watch with the jealous eyes of a dissatisfied mother all the proceedings of the squire towards her little boy. They were not of the wisest kind, it must be owned; the child sipped the strong ale with evident relish, and clamoured for everything which he saw the others enjoying. Aimée could hardly attend to Molly for her anxiety as to what her boy was doing and eating; yet she said nothing. Roger took the end of the table opposite to that at which sat grandfather and grandchild. After the boy’s first wants were gratified the squire addressed himself to Molly.

‘Well! and so you can come here a-visiting though you have been among the grand folks. I thought you were going to cut us, Miss Molly, when I heard you was gone to the Towers. Couldn’t find any other place to stay at while father and mother were away, but an earl’s, eh?’

‘They asked me, and I went,’ said Molly; ‘now you’ve asked me, and I’ve come here.’

‘I think you might ha’ known you’d be always welcome here, without waiting for asking. Why, Molly! I look upon you as a kind of daughter more than madam there!’ dropping his voice a little, and perhaps supposing that the child’s babble would drown the signification of his words.

‘Nay, you needn’t look at me so pitifully, she doesn’t follow English readily.’

‘I think she does!’ said Molly, in a low voice—not looking up, however, for fear of catching another glimpse at Aimée’s sudden forlornness of expression and deepened colour. She felt grateful, as if for a personal favour, when she heard Roger speaking to Aimée the moment afterwards in the tender terms of brotherly friendliness; and presently these two were sufficiently engaged in a separate conversation to allow Molly and the squire to go on talking.

‘He’s a sturdy chap, isn’t he?’ said the squire, stroking the little Roger’s curly head. ‘And he can puff four puffs at grandpapa’s pipe without being sick, can’t he?’

‘I s’ant puff any more puffs,’ said the boy, resolutely. ‘Mamma says No. I s‘ant.’

‘That’s just like her!’ said the squire, dropping his voice this time, however. ‘As if it could do the child any harm!’

Molly made a point of turning the conversation from all personal subjects after this, and kept the squire talking about the progress of his drainage during the rest of lunch. He offered to take her to see it; and she acceded to the proposal, thinking, meantime, how little she need have anticipated the being thrown too intimately with Roger, who seemed to devote himself to his sister-in-law. But, in the evening, when Aimée had gone upstairs to put her boy to bed, and the squire was asleep in his easy chair, a sudden flush of memory brought Mrs. Goodenough’s words again to her mind. She was virtually tête-à-tête with Roger, as she had been dozens of times before, but now she could not help assuming an air of constraint; her eyes did not meet his in the old frank way; she took up a book at a pause in the conversation, and left him puzzled and annoyed at the change in her manner. And so it went on during all the time of her visit. If sometimes she forgot, and let herself go into all her old naturalness, by and by she checked herself, and became comparatively cold and reserved. Roger was pained at all this—more pained day after day; more anxious to discover the cause. Aimee, too, silently noticed how different Molly became in Roger’s presence. One day she could not help saying to Molly,—

‘Don’t you like Roger? You would, if you only knew how good he was! He is learned, but that is nothing; it is his goodness that one admires and loves.’

‘He is very good,’ said Molly. ‘I have known him long enough to know that.’

‘But you don’t think him agreeable? He is not like my poor husband, to be sure; and you knew him well, too. Ah! tell me about him once again. When you first knew him? When his mother was alive?’

Molly had grown very fond of Aimée; when the latter was at her ease she had very charming and attaching ways; but feeling uneasy in her position in the squire’s house, she was almost repellent to him; and he, too, put on his worst side to her. Roger was most anxious to bring them together, and had several consultations with Molly as to the best means of accomplishing this end. As long as they talked upon this subject, she spoke to him in the quiet sensible manner which she inherited from her father; but when their discussions on this point were ended, she fell back into her piquant assumption of dignified reserve. It was very difficult to her to maintain this strange manner, especially when once or twice she fancied that it gave him pain; and she would go into her own room and suddenly burst into tears on these occasions, and wish that her visit was ended, and that she was once again in the eventless tranquillity of her own home. Yet presently her fancy changed, and she clung to the swiftly passing hours, as if she would still retain the happiness of each. For, unknown to her, Roger was exerting himself to make her visit pleasant. He was not willing to appear as the instigator of all the little plans for each day, for he felt as if, somehow, he did not hold the same place in her regard as formerly. Still, one day Aimée suggested a nutting expedition—another day they gave little Roger the unheard-of pleasure of tea out-of-doors—there was something else agreeable for a third; and it was Roger who arranged all these simple pleasures—such as he knew Molly would enjoy. But to her he only appeared as the ready forwarder of Aimée’s devices. The week was nearly gone, when one morning the squire found Roger sitting in the old library—with a book before him, it is true, but so deep in thought that he was evidently startled by his father’s unexpected entrance.