Wives and Daughters (107 page)

‘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 inquire 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-bye.’

‘Good-bye. 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 un-pick 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-bye 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 Mr. Gibson’s house was to be obtained, and once more he turned, and his white handkerchief floated in 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
;
^em
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 eyelashes, 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, oh! 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 develop 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. Everybody 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 it was to bring news. 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 won’t mind 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 out 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 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!’

Here the story is broken off, and it can never be finished. What promised to be the crowning work of a life is a memorial of death. A few days longer, and it would have been a triumphal column, crowned with a capital of festal leaves and flowers: now it is another sort of column—one of those sad white pillars which stand broken in the churchyard.
¹

But if the work is not quite complete, little remains to be added to it, and that little has been distinctly reflected into our minds. We know that Roger Hamley will marry Molly, and that is what we are most concerned about. Indeed, there was little else to tell. Had the writer lived, she would have sent her hero back to Africa forthwith; and those scientific parts of Africa are a long way from Hamley; and there is not much to choose between a long distance and a long time. How many hours are there in twenty-four when you are all alone in a desert place, a thousand miles from the happiness which might be yours to take—if you were there to take it? How many, when from the sources of the Topinambo your heart flies back ten times a day, like a carrier-pigeon, to the one only source of future good for you, and ten times a day returns with its message undelivered? Many more than are counted on the calendar. So Roger found. The days were weeks that separated him from the time when Molly gave him a certain little flower, and months from the time which divorced him from Cynthia, whom he had begun to doubt before he knew for certain that she was never much worth hoping for. And if such were his days, what was the slow procession of actual weeks and months in those remote and solitary places? They were like years of a stay-at-home life, with liberty and leisure to see that nobody was courting Molly meanwhile. The effect of this was, that long before the term of his engagement was ended all that Cynthia had been to him was departed from Roger’s mind, and all that Molly was and might be to him filled it full.

He returned; but when he saw Molly again he remembered that to her the time of his absence might not have seemed so long, and was oppressed with the old dread that she would think him fickle. Therefore this young gentleman, so self-reliant and so lucid in scientific matters, found it difficult after all to tell Molly how much he hoped she loved him; and might have blundered if he had not thought of beginning by showing her the flower that was plucked from the nosegay How charmingly that scene would have been drawn, had Mrs. Gaskell lived to depict it, we can only imagine: that it would have been charming-especially in what Molly did, and looked, and said—we know