‘It’s such a comfort to leave my lady to you; only don’t you be deluded by her ways. She’ll not show she’s ill till she can’t help it. Consult with Bradley’ (Lady Cumnor’s ‘own woman,‘—she disliked the newfangledness of ‘lady‘s-maid’); ‘and if I were you, I’d send and ask Gibson to call—you might make any kind of a pretence,’—and then the idea he had had in London of the fitness of a match between the two coming into his head just now, he could not help adding,—‘Get him to come and see you, he’s a very agreeable man; Lord Hollingford says there’s no one like him in these parts: and he might be looking at my lady while he was talking to you, and see if he thinks her really ill. And let me know what he says about her.’
But Clare was just as great a coward about doing anything for Lady Cumnor which she had not expressly ordered as Lord Cumnor himself. She knew she might fall into such disgrace if she sent for Mr. Gibson without direct permission, that she might never be asked to stay at the Towers again; and the life there, monotonous in its smoothness of luxury as it might be to some, was exactly to her taste. She in turn tried to put upon Bradley the duty which Lord Cumnor had put upon her.
‘Mrs. Bradley,’ she said one day, ‘are you quite comfortable about my lady’s health? Lord Cumnor fancied that she was looking worn and ill?’
‘Indeed, Mrs. Kirkpatrick, I don’t think my lady is herself I can’t persuade myself as she is, though if you was to question me till night I couldn’t tell you why.’
‘Don’t you think you could make some errand to Hollingford, and see Mr. Gibson, and ask him to come round this way some day, and make a call on Lady Cumnor?’
‘It would be as much as my place is worth, Mrs. Kirkpatrick. Till my lady’s dying day, if Providence keeps her in her senses, she’ll have everything done her own way, or not at all. There’s only Lady Harriet that can manage her the least, and she not always.’
‘Well, then—we must hope that there is nothing the matter with her; and I daresay there is not. She says there is not, and she ought to know best herself.’
But a day or two after this conversation took place, Lady Cumnor startled Mrs. Kirkpatrick, by saying suddenly,—
‘Clare, I wish you’d write a note to Mr. Gibson, saying I should like to see him this afternoon. I thought he would have called of himself before now. He ought to have done so, to pay his respects.’
Mr. Gibson had been far too busy in his profession to have time for mere visits of ceremony, though he knew quite well he was neglecting what was expected of him. But the district of which he may be said to have had medical charge was full of a bad kind of low fever, which took up all his time and thought, and often made him very thankful that Molly was out of the way in the quiet shades of Hamley.
His domestic ‘rows’ had not healed over in the least, though he was obliged to put the perplexities on one side for the time. The last drop—the final straw—had been an impromptu visit of Lord Hollingford’s, whom he had met in the town one forenoon. They had had a good deal to say to each other about some new scientific discovery, with the details of which Lord Hollingford was well acquainted, while Mr. Gibson was ignorant and deeply interested. At length Lord Hollingford said suddenly,—
‘Gibson, I wonder if you’d give me some lunch; I’ve been a good deal about since my seven-o’clock breakfast, and am getting quite ravenous.’
Now Mr. Gibson was only too much pleased to show hospitality to one whom he liked and respected so much as Lord Hollingford, and he gladly took him home with him to the early family dinner. But it was just at the time when the cook was sulking at Bethia’s dismissal—and she chose to be unpunctual and careless. There was no successor to Bethia as yet appointed to wait at the meals. So, though Mr. Gibson knew well that bread-and-cheese, cold beef, or the simplest food available, would have been welcome to the hungry lord, he could not get either these things for luncheon, or even the family dinner, at anything like the proper time, in spite of all his ringing, and as much anger as he liked to show, for fear of making Lord Hollingford uncomfortable. At last dinner was ready, but the poor host saw the want of nicety—almost the want of cleanliness, in all its accompaniments—dingy plate, dull-looking glass, a tablecloth that, if not absolutely dirty, was anything but fresh in its splashed and rumpled condition, and compared it in his own mind with the dainty delicacy with which even a loaf of brown bread was served up at his guest’s home. He did not apologize directly, but, after dinner, just as they were parting, he said,—
‘You see a man like me—a widower—with a daughter who cannot always be at home—has not a regulated household which would enable me to command the small portions of time I can spend there.’
He made no allusion to the comfortless meal of which they had both partaken, though it was full in his mind. Nor was it absent from Lord Hollingford’s as he made reply,—
‘True, true. Yet a man like you ought to be free from any thought of household cares. You ought to have somebody. How old is Miss Gibson?’
‘Seventeen. It’s a very awkward age for a motherless girl.’
‘Yes; very. I have only boys, but it must be very awkward with a girl. Excuse me, Gibson, but we’re talking like friends. Have you never thought of marrying again? It would not be like a first marriage, of course; but if you found a sensible agreeable woman of thirty or so, I really think you couldn’t do better than take her to manage your home, and so save you either discomfort or wrong; and, beside, she would be able to give your daughter that kind of tender supervision which, I fancy, all girls of that age require. It’s a delicate subject, but you’ll excuse my having spoken frankly.’
Mr. Gibson had thought of this advice several times since it was given; but it was a case of ‘first catch your hare.’ Where was the ‘sensible and agreeable woman of thirty or so?’ Not Miss Browning, nor Miss Phoebe, nor Miss Goodenough. Among his country patients there were two classes pretty distinctly marked: farmers, whose children were unrefined and uneducated; squires, whose daughters would, indeed, think the world was coming to a pretty pass if they were to marry a country surgeon.
But the first day on which Mr. Gibson paid his visit to Lady Cumnor, he began to think it possible that Mrs. Kirkpatrick was his ‘hare.’ He rode away with slack rein, thinking over what he knew of her, more than about the prescriptions he should write, or the way he was going. He remembered her as a very pretty Miss Clare: the governess who had the scarlet fever; that was in his wife’s days, a long time ago; he could hardly understand Mrs. Kirkpatrick’s youthfulness of appearance when he thought how long. Then he had heard of her marriage to a curate; and the next day (or so it seemed, he could not recollect the exact duration of the interval), of his death. He knew, in some way, that ever since she had been living as a governess in different families; but that she had always been a great favourite with the family at the Towers, for whom, quite independent of their rank, he had a true respect. A year or two ago he had heard that she had taken the good-will of a school at Ashcombe, a small town close to another property of Lord Cumnor’s, in the same county. Ashcombe was a larger estate than that near Hollingford, but the old Manor-house there was not nearly so good a residence as the Towers; so it was given up to Mr. Preston, the land-agent for the Ashcombe property, just as Mr. Sheepshanks was for that at Hollingford. There were a few rooms at the Manor-house reserved for the occasional visits of the family, otherwise Mr. Preston, a handsome young bachelor, had it all to himself Mr. Gibson knew that Mrs. Kirkpatrick had one child, a daughter, who must be much about the same age as Molly. Of course she had very little, if any, property But he himself had lived carefully, and had a few thousands well invested; besides which, his professional income was good, and increasing rather than diminishing every year. By the time he had arrived at this point in his consideration of the case, he was at the house of the next patient on his round, and he put away all thought of matrimony and Mrs. Kirkpatrick for the time. Once again, in the course of the day, he remembered with a certain pleasu
re that Molly had told him some little details connected with her unlucky detention at the Towers five or six years ago, which had made him feel at the time as if Mrs. Kirkpatrick had behaved very kindly to his little girl. So there the matter rested for the present, as far as he was concerned.
Lady Cumnor was out of health; but not so ill as she had been herself during all those days when the people about her dared not send for the doctor. It was a great relief to her to have Mr. Gibson to decide for her what she was to do; what to eat, drink, avoid. Such decisions ab extraah are sometimes a wonderful relief to those whose habit it has been to decide, not only for themselves, but for every one else; and occasionally the relaxation of the strain which a character for infallible wisdom brings with it does much to restore health. Mrs. Kirkpatrick thought in her secret soul that she had never found it so easy to get on with Lady Cumnor; and Bradley and she had never done singing the praises of Mr. Gibson, ‘who always managed my lady so beautifully.’
Reports were duly sent up to my lord, but he and his daughters were strictly forbidden to come down. Lady Cumnor wished to be weak and languid, and uncertain both in body and mind, without the family observation. It was a condition so different to anything she had ever been in before, that she was unconsciously afraid of losing her prestige, if she was seen in it. Sometimes she herself wrote the daily bulletins; at other times she bade Clare do it, but she would always see the letters. Any answers she received from her daughters she used to read herself, occasionally imparting some of their contents to ‘that good Clare.’ But anybody might read my lord’s letters. There was no great fear of family secrets oozing out in his sprawling lines of affection. But once Mrs. Kirkpatrick came upon a sentence in a letter from Lord Cumnor, which she was reading out loud to his wife, that caught her eye before she came to it, and if she could have skipped it and kept it for private perusal, she would gladly have done so. My lady was too sharp for her, though. In her opinion ‘Clare was a good creature, but not clever,’ the truth being that she was not always quick at resources, though tolerably unscrupulous in the use of them.
‘Read on. What are you stopping for? There is no bad news, is there, about Agnes?—Give me the letter.’
Lady Cumnor read, half aloud,—
‘How are Clare and Gibson getting on? You despised my advice to help on that affair, but I really think a little matchmaking would be a very pleasant amusement now that you are shut up in the house; and I cannot conceive any marriage more suitable.’
‘Oh!’ said Lady Cumnor, laughing, ‘it was awkward for you to come upon that, Clare: I don’t wonder you stopped short. You gave me a terrible fright, though.’
‘Lord Cumnor is so fond of joking,’ said Mrs. Kirkpatrick, a little flurried, yet quite recognizing the truth of his last words,—‘I cannot conceive any marriage more suitable.’ She wondered what Lady Cumnor thought of it. Lord Cumnor wrote as if there was really a chance. It was not an unpleasant idea; it brought a faint smile out upon her face, as she sat by Lady Cumnor, while the latter took her afternoon nap.
CHAPTER 10
A Crisis
Mrs. Kirkpatrick had been reading aloud till Lady Cumnor fell asleep, the book rested on her knee, just kept from falling by her hold. She was looking out of the window, not seeing the trees in the park, nor the glimpses of the hills beyond, but thinking how pleasant it would be to have a husband once more;—some one who would work while she sat at her elegant ease in a prettily-furnished drawing-room; and she was rapidly investing this imaginary bread-winner with the form and features of the country surgeon, when there was a slight tap at the door, and, almost before she could rise, the object of her thoughts came in. She felt herself blush, and she was not displeased at the consciousness. She advanced to meet him, making a sign towards her sleeping ladyship.
‘Very good,’ said he, in a low voice, casting a professional eye on the slumbering figure; ‘can I speak to you for a minute or two in the library?’
‘Is he going to offer?’ thought she, with a sudden palpitation, and a conviction of her willingness to accept a man whom an hour before she had simply looked upon as one of the category of unmarried men to whom matrimony was possible.
He was only going to make one or two medical inquiries; she found that out very speedily, and considered the conversation as rather flat to her, though it might be instructive to him. She was not aware that he finally made up his mind to propose during the time that she was speaking—answering his questions in many words, but he was accustomed to winnow the chaff from the corn; and her voice was so soft, her accent so pleasant, that it struck him as particularly agreeable after the broad country accent he was perpetually hearing. Then the harmonious colours of her dress, and her slow and graceful movements, had something of the same soothing effect upon his nerves that a cat’s purring has upon some people’s. He began to think that he should be fortunate if he could win her, for his own sake. Yesterday he had looked upon her more as a possible stepmother for Molly; to-day he thought of her more as a wife for himself The remembrance of Lord Cumnor’s letter gave her a very becoming consciousness; she wished to attract, and hoped that she was succeeding. Still they only talked of the countess’s state for some time: then a lucky shower came on. Mr. Gibson did not care a jot for rain, but just now it gave him an excuse for lingering.
‘It’s very stormy weather,’ said he.
‘Yes, very. My daughter writes me word that for two days last week the packet could not sail from Boulogne.’
‘Miss Kirkpatrick is at Boulogne, is she?’
‘Yes, poor girl; she is at school there, trying to perfect herself in the French language. But, Mr. Gibson, you must not call her Miss Kirkpatrick. Cynthia remembers you with so much—affection, I may say. She was your little patient when she had the measles here four years ago, you know. Pray call her Cynthia; she would be quite hurt at such a formal name as Miss Kirkpatrick from you.’
‘Cynthiaai seems to me such an out-of-the-way name, only fit for poetry, not for daily use.’
‘It is mine,’ said Mrs. Kirkpatrick, in a plaintive tone of reproach. ‘I was christened Hyacinth, and her poor father would have her called after me. I’m sorry you don’t like it.’
Mr. Gibson did not know what to say. He was not quite prepared to plunge into the directly personal style. While he was hesitating, she went on—
‘Hyacinth Clare! Once upon a time I was quite proud of my pretty name; and other people thought it pretty, too.’
‘I’ve no doubt—’ Mr. Gibson began; and then stopped.
‘Perhaps I did wrong in yielding to his wish to have her called by such a romantic name. It may excite prejudice against her in some people; and, poor child! she will have enough to struggle with. A young daughter is a great charge, Mr. Gibson, especially when there is only one parent to look after her.’
‘You are quite right,’ said he, recalled to the remembrance of Molly; ‘though I should have thought that a girl who is so fortunate as to have a mother could not feel the loss of her father so acutely as one who is motherless must suffer from her deprivation.’
‘You are thinking of your own daughter. It was careless of me to say what I did. Dear child! how well I remember her sweet little face as she lay sleeping on my bed. I suppose she is nearly grown-up now. She must be near my Cynthia’s age. How I should like to see her!’
‘I hope you will. I should like you to see her. I should like you to love my poor little Molly,—to love her as your own.’ He swallowed down something that rose in his throat, and was nearly choking him.
‘Is he going to offer? Is he?’ she wondered; and she began to tremble in the suspense before he next spoke.
‘Could you love her as your daughter? Will you try? Will you give me the right of introducing you to her as her future mother; as my wife?’
There! he had done it—whether it was wise or foolish—he had done it; but he was aware that the question as to its wisdom came into his mind the instant that the words were
said past recall.
She hid her face in her hands.
‘Oh! Mr. Gibson,’ she said; and then, a little to his surprise, and a great deal to her own, she burst into hysterical tears: it was such a wonderful relief to feel that she need not struggle any more for a livelihood.
‘My dear—my dearest,’ said he, trying to soothe her with word and caress; but, just at the moment, uncertain what name he ought to use. After her sobbing had abated a little, she said to herself, as if understanding his difficulty,—
‘Call me Hyacinth—your own Hyacinth. I can’t bear “Clare,” it does so remind me of being a governess, and those days are all past now.’
‘Yes; but surely no one can have been more valued, more beloved, than you have been, in this family at least.’
‘Oh, yes! they have been very good. But still one has always had to remember one’s position.’
‘We ought to tell Lady Cumnor,’ said he, thinking, perhaps, more of the various duties which lay before him in consequence of the step he had just taken than of what his future bride was saying.
‘You’ll tell her, won’t you?’ said she, looking up in his face with beseeching eyes. ‘I always like other people to tell her things, and then I can see how she takes them.’
‘Certainly! I will do whatever you wish. Shall we go and see if she is awake now?’
‘No! I think not. I had better prepare her. You will come to-morrow, won’t you? and you will tell her then.’
‘Yes; that will be best. I ought to tell Molly first. She has the right to know. I do hope you and she will love each other dearly.’
‘Oh, yes! I’m sure we shall. Then you’ll come to-morrow and tell Lady Cumnor? And I’ll prepare her.’
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