Wives and Daughters (62 page)

‘Well, I dare say I am. Go on!’

‘I’ve told you Morrison married us. You remember old Morrison at Trinity?’

‘Yes; as good and blunder-headed a fellow as ever lived.’

‘Well, he’s taken orders; and the examination for priest’s orders fatigued him so much that he got his father to give him a hundred or two for a tour on the Continent. He meant to get to Rome, because he heard that there were such pleasant winters there. So he turned up at Metz in August.’

‘I don’t see why.’

‘No more did he. He never was great in geography, you know; and somehow he thought that Metz, pronounced French fashion, must be on the road to Rome. Some one had told him so in fun. However, it was very well for me that I met with him there, for I was determined to be married, and that without loss of time.’

‘But Aimée is a Catholic?’

‘That’s true! but you see I am not. You don’t suppose I would do her any wrong, Roger?’ asked Osborne, sitting up in his lounging-chair, and speaking rather indignantly to Roger, his face suddenly flushing red.

‘No! I’m sure you would not mean it; but you see there’s a child coming, and this estate is entailed on ‘heirs-male.’ Now, I want to know if the marriage is legal or not? and it seems to me it’s a ticklish question.’

‘Oh!’ said Osborne, falling back into repose, ‘if that’s all, I suppose you’re next heir-male, and I can trust you as I can myself. You know my marriage is bona fide in intention, and I believe it to be legal in fact. We went over to Strasbourg; Aimée picked up a friend—a good middle-aged Frenchwoman—who served half as bridesmaid, half as chaperon, and then we went before the mayor—prefet—what do you call them? I think Morrison rather enjoyed the spree. I signed all manner of papers in the prefecture; I did not read them over, for fear lest I could not sign them conscientiously. It was the safest plan. Aimée kept trembling so I thought she would faint; and then we went off to the nearest English chaplaincy, Carlsruhe, and the chaplain was away, so Morrison easily got the loan of the chapel, and we were married the next day.’

‘But surely some registration or certificate was necessary?’

‘Morrison said he would undertake all those forms; and he ought to know his own business. I know I tipped him pretty well for the job.’

‘You must be married again,’ said Roger, after a pause, ‘and that before the child is born. Have you got a certificate of the marriage?’

‘I dare say Morrison has got it somewhere. But I believe I’m legally married according to the laws both of England and France; I really do, old fellow. I’ve got the préfet’s papers somewhere.’

‘Never mind! you shall be married again in England.
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Aimée goes to the Roman Catholic chapel at Prestham, doesn’t she?’

‘Yes. She is so good I wouldn’t disturb her in her religion for the world.’

‘Then you shall be married both there and at the church of the parish in which she lives as well,’ said Roger, decidedly.

‘It’s a great deal of trouble, unnecessary trouble, and unnecessary expense, I should say,’ said Osborne. ‘Why can’t you leave well alone? Neither Aimée nor I are of the sort of stuff to turn scoundrels and deny the legality of our marriage; and if the child is a boy and my father dies, and I die, why I’m sure you’ll do him justice, as sure as I am of myself, old fellow!’

‘But if I die into the bargain? Make a hecatomb of the present Hamleys all at once, while you are about it. Who succeeds as heir-male?’

Osborne thought for a moment. ‘One of the Irish Hamleys, I suppose. I fancy they are needy chaps. Perhaps you’re right. But what need to have such gloomy forebodings?’

‘The law makes one have foresight in such affairs,’ said Roger. ‘So I’ll go down to Aimée next week when I’m in town, and I’ll make all necessary arrangements before you come. I think you’ll be happier if it is all done.’

‘I shall be happier if I’ve a chance of seeing the little woman, that I grant you. But what is taking you up to town? I wish I’d money to run about like you, instead of being shut up for ever in this dull old house.’

Osborne was apt occasionally to contrast his position with Roger’s in a tone of complaint, forgetting that both were the results of character, and also that out of his income Roger gave up so large a portion for the maintenance of his brother’s wife. But if this ungenerous thought of Osborne’s had been set clearly before his conscience, he would have smote his breast and cried ‘Mea culpa’ with the best of them; it was only that he was too indolent to keep an unassisted conscience.

‘I shouldn’t have thought of going up,’ said Roger, reddening as if he had been accused of spending another’s money instead of his own, ‘if I hadn’t had to go up on business. Lord Hollingford has written for me; he knows my great wish for employment, and has heard of something which he considers suitable; there’s his letter if you care to read it. But it does not tell anything definitely.’

Osborne read the letter and returned it to Roger. After a moment or two of silence he said,—‘Why do you want money? Are we taking too much from you? It’s a great shame of me; but what can I do? Only suggest a career for me, and I’ll follow it to-morrow.’ He spoke as if Roger had been reproaching him.

‘My dear fellow, don’t get those notions into your head! I must do something for myself some time, and I’ve been on the look-out. Besides, I want my father to go on with his drainage; it would do good both to his health and his spirits. If I can advance any part of the money requisite, he and you shall pay me interest until you can return the capital.’

‘Roger, you’re the providence of the family,’ exclaimed Osborne, suddenly struck by admiration at his brother’s conduct, and forgetting to contrast it with his own.

So Roger went up to London and Osborne followed him, and for two or three weeks the Gibsons saw nothing of the brothers. But as wave succeeds to wave, so interest succeeds to interest. ‘The family,’ as they were called, came down for their autumn sojourn at the Towers, and again the house was full of visitors, and the Towers’ servants, and carriages, and liveries were seen in the two streets of Hollingford, just as they might have been seen for scores of autumns past.

So runs the round of life from day to day. Mrs. Gibson found the chances of intercourse with the Towers rather more personally exciting than Roger’s visits, or the rarer calls of Osborne Hamley. Cynthia had an old antipathy to the great family who had made so much of her mother and so little of her; and whom she considered as in some measure the cause why she had seen so little of her mother in the days when the little girl had craved for love and found none. Moreover, Cynthia missed her slave, although she did not care for Roger one thousandth part of what he did for her; yet she had found it not unpleasant to have a man whom she thoroughly respected, and whom men in general respected, the subject of her eye, the glad ministrant to each scarce spoken wish, a person in whose sight all her words were pearls or diamonds, all her actions heavenly graciousness, and in whose thoughts she reigned supreme. She had no modest unconsciousness about her; and yet she was not vain. She knew of all this worship; and when from circumstances she no longer received it she missed it. The Earl and the Countess, Lord Hollingford and Lady Harriet, lords and ladies in general, liveries, dresses, bags of game, and rumours of riding parties were as nothing to her compared to Roger’s absence. And yet she did not love him. No, she did not love him. Molly knew that Cynthia did not love him. Molly grew angry with her many and many a time as the conviction of this fact was forced upon her. Molly did not know her own feelings; Roger had no overwhelming interest in what they might be; while his very life-breath seemed to depend on what Cynthia felt and thought. Therefore Molly had keen insight into her ‘sister’s’ heart; and she knew that Cynthia did not love Roger. Molly could have cried with passionate regret at the thought of the unvalued treasure lying at Cynthia’s feet, and it would have been a merely unselfish regret. It was the old fervid tenderness: ‘do not wish for the moon, O my darling, for I cannot give it thee.’ Cynthia’s love was the moon Roger yearned for; and Molly saw that it was far away and out of reach, else would she have strained her heart-cords to give it to Roger.

‘I am his sister,’ she would say to herself. ‘That old bond is not done away with, though he is too much absorbed by Cynthia to speak about it just now. His mother called me “Fanny”; it was almost like an adoption. I must wait and watch, and see if I can do anything for my brother.’

One day Lady Harriet came to call on the Gibsons, or rather on Mrs. Gibson, for the latter retained her old jealousy if any one else in Holhngford was supposed to be on intimate terms at the great house, or in the least acquainted with their plans. Mr. Gibson might possibly know as much, but then he was professionally bound to secrecy. Out of the house she considered Mr. Preston as her rival, and he was aware that she did so, and delighted in teasing her by affecting a knowledge of family plans and details of affairs of which she was ignorant. Indoors she was jealous of the fancy Lady Harriet had evidently taken for her stepdaughter, and she contrived to place quiet obstacles in the way of a too frequent intercourse between them. These obstacles were not unlike the shield of the knight in the old story; only instead of the two sides presented to the two travellers approaching it from opposite quarters, one of which was silver, and one of which was gold, Lady Harriet saw the smooth and shining yellow radiance, while poor Molly only perceived a dull and heavy lead. To Lady Harriet it was ‘Molly is gone out; she will be sorry to miss you, but she was obliged to go to see some old friends of her mother’s whom she ought not to neglect; as I said to her, constancy is everything. It is Sterne, I think, who says, “Thine own and thy mother’s friends forsake not.” But, dear Lady Harriet, you’ll stop till she comes home, won’t you? I know how fond you are of her; in fact’ (with a little surface playfulness) ‘I sometimes say you come more to see her than your poor old Clare.’

To Molly it had previously been—

‘Lady Harriet is coming here this morning. I can’t have any one else coming in. Tell Maria to say I’m not at home. Lady Harriet has always so much to tell me; dear Lady Harriet! I’ve known all her secrets since she was twelve years old.You two girls must keep out of the way. Of course she’ll ask for you, out of common civility; but you would only interrupt us if you came in, as you did the other day;’—now addressing Molly—‘I hardly like to say so, but I thought it was very forward.’

‘Maria told me she had asked for me,’ put in Molly, simply.

‘Very forward indeed!’ continued Mrs. Gibson, taking no further notice of the interruption, except to strengthen the words to which Molly’s little speech had been intended as a correction.

‘I think this time I must secure her ladyship from the chances of such an intrusion, by taking care that you are out of the house, Molly. You had better go to the Holly Farm, and speak about those damsons I ordered, and which have never been sent.’

‘I’ll go,’ said Cynthia. ‘It’s far too long a walk for Molly; she’s had a bad cold, and is not as strong as she was a fortnight ago. I delight in long walks. If you want Molly out of the way, mamma, send her to the Miss Brownings’, they are always glad to see her.’

‘I never said I wanted Molly out of the way, Cynthia,’ replied Mrs. Gibson. ‘You always put things in such an exaggerated—I should almost say, so coarse a manner. I am sure, Molly, my love, you could never have so misunderstood me; it is only on Lady Harriet’s account.’

‘I don’t think I can walk as far as the Holly Farm; papa would take the message; Cynthia need not go.’

‘Well! I’m the last person in the world to tax any one’s strength; I’d sooner never see damson preserve again. Suppose you do go and see Miss Browning; you can pay her a nice long call, you know she likes that; and ask after Miss Phoebe’s cold, from me, you know. They were friends of your mother’s, my dear, and I would not have you break off old friendships for the world. “Constancy above everything” is my motto, as you know, and the memory of the dead ought always to be cherished.’

‘Now, mamma, where am I to go?’ asked Cynthia. ‘Though Lady Harriet doesn’t care for me as much as she does for Molly—indeed, quite the contrary I should say—yet she might ask after me, and I had better be safely out of the way.’

‘True!’ said Mrs. Gibson, meditatively, yet unconscious of any satire in Cynthia’s speech.

‘She is much less likely to ask for you, my dear: I almost think you might remain in the house, or you might go to the Holly Farm; I really do want the damsons; or you might stay here in the dining-room, you know, so as to be ready to arrange lunch prettily, if she does take a fancy to stay for it. She is very fanciful, is dear Lady Harriet! I would not like her to think we made any difference in our meals because she stayed. “Simple elegance,” as I tell her, “always is what we aim at.” But still you could put out the best service, and arrange some flowers, and ask cook what there is for dinner that she could send us for lunch, and make it all look pretty, and impromptu, and natural. I think you had better stay at home, Cynthia, and then you could fetch Molly from Miss Brownings’ in the afternoon, you know, and you two could take a walk together.’

‘After Lady Harriet was fairly gone! I understand, mamma. Off with you, Molly. Make haste, or Lady Harriet may come and ask for you as well as mamma. I’ll take care and forget where you are going to, so that no one shall learn from me where you are, and I’ll answer for mamma’s loss of memory.’

‘Child! what nonsense you talk; you quite confuse me with being so silly,’ said Mrs. Gibson, fluttered and annoyed as she usually was with the Lilliputian darts
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Cynthia flung at her. She had recourse to her accustomed feckless piece of retaliation—bestowing some favour on Molly; and this did not hurt Cynthia one whit.

‘Molly, darling, there’s a very cold wind, though it looks so fine. You had better put on my Indian shawl; and it will look so pretty, too, on your grey gown—scarlet and grey; it’s not everybody I would lend it to, but you’re so careful.’