Wives and Daughters

by Elizabeth Gaskell

  ‘Oh, papa, I’m afraid Mrs. Hamley will miss me! I do so like being with her.’

  ‘I don’t think it is likely she will miss you as much as she would have done a month or two ago. She sleeps so much now, that she is scarcely conscious of the lapse of time. I’ll see that you come back here again in a day or two.’

  So, out of the silence and the soft melancholy of the Hall, Molly returned into the all-pervading element of chatter and gossip at Hollingford. Mrs. Gibson received her kindly enough. Once she had a smart new winter bonnet ready to give her as a present; but she did not care to hear any particulars about the friends whom Molly had just left; and her few remarks on the state of affairs at the Hall jarred terribly on the sensitive Molly.

  ‘What a time she lingers! Your papa never expected she would last half so long after that attack. It must be very wearing work to them all; I declare you look quite another creature since you were there. One can only wish it mayn’t last, for their sakes.’

  ‘You don’t know how the squire values every minute,’ said Molly.

  ‘Why, you say she sleeps a great deal, and doesn’t talk much when she’s awake, and there’s not the slightest hope for her. And yet, at such times, people are kept on the tenterhooks with watching and waiting. I know it by my dear Kirkpatrick. There really were days when I thought it never would end. But we won’t talk any more of such dismal things; you’ve had quite enough of them, I’m sure, and it always makes me melancholy to hear of illness and death; and yet your papa seems sometimes as if he could talk of nothing else. I’m going to take you out to-night, though, and that will give you something of a change; and I’ve been getting Miss Rose to trim up one of my old gowns for you; it’s too tight for me. There’s some talk of dancing—it’s at Mrs. Edwards’.’

  ‘Oh, mamma, I cannot go!’ cried Molly. ‘I’ve been so much with her; and she may be suffering so, or even dying—and I to be dancing!’

  ‘Nonsense! You’re no relation, so you need not feel it so much. I wouldn’t urge you, if she was likely to know about it and be hurt; but as it is, it’s all fixed that you are to go; and don’t let us have any nonsense about it. We might sit twirling our thumbs, and repeating hymns all our lives long, if we were to do nothing else when people were dying.’

  ‘I cannot go,’ repeated Molly. And, acting upon impulse, and almost to her own surprise, she appealed to her father, who came into the room at this very time. He contracted his dark eyebrows, and looked annoyed as both wife and daughter poured their different sides of the argument into his ears. He sat down in desperation of patience. When his turn came to pronounce a decision, he said—

  ‘I suppose I can have some lunch? I went away at six this morning, and there’s nothing in the dining-room. I have to go off again directly.’

  Molly started to the door; Mrs. Gibson made haste to ring the bell.

  ‘Where are you going, Molly?’ said she, sharply.

  ‘Only to see about papa’s lunch.’

  ‘There are servants to do it; and I don’t like your going into the kitchen.’

  ‘Come, Molly! sit down and be quiet,’ said her father. ‘One comes home wanting peace and quietness—and food too. If I am to be appealed to, which I beg I may not be another time, I settle that Molly stops at home this evening. I shall come back late and tired. See that I have something ready to eat, goosey, and then I’ll dress myself up in my best, and go and fetch you home, my dear. I wish all these wedding festivities were well over. Ready, is it? Then I’ll go into the dining-room and gorge myself. A doctor ought to be able to eat like a camel, or like Major Dugald Dalgetty.’2

  It was well for Molly that callers came in just at this time, for Mrs. Gibson was extremely annoyed. They told her some little local piece of news, however, which filled up her mind; and Molly found that, if she only expressed wonder enough at the engagement they had both heard of from the departed callers, the previous discussion as to her accompanying her stepmother or not might be entirely passed over. Not entirely though; for the next morning she had to listen to a very brilliantly touched-up account of the dance and the gaiety which she had missed; and also to be told that Mrs. Gibson had changed her mind about giving her the gown, and thought now that she should reserve it for Cynthia, if only it was long enough; but Cynthia was so tall—quite overgrown, in fact. The chances seemed equally balanced as to whether Molly might not have the gown after all.

  CHAPTER 18

  Mr. Osborne’s Secret

  Osborne and Roger came to the Hall; Molly found Roger established there when she returned after this absence at home. She gathered that Osborne was coming: but very little was said about him in any way. The squire scarcely ever left his wife’s room now; he sat by her, watching her, and now and then moaning to himself She was so much under the influence of opiates that she did not often rouse up; but when she did, she almost invariably asked for Molly. In their rare tête-à-tête, she would ask after Osborne—where he was, if he had been told, and if he was coming? In her weakened and confused state of intellect she seemed to have retained two strong impressions—one, of the sympathy with which Molly had received her confidence about Osborne; the other, of the anger which her husband entertained against him. Before the squire she never mentioned Osborne’s name; nor did she seem at her ease in speaking about him to Roger, while, when she was alone with Molly, she hardly spoke of any one else. She must have had some sort of wandering idea that Roger blamed his brother, while she remembered Molly’s eager defence, which she had thought hopelessly improbable at the time. At any rate she made Molly her confidant about her first-born. She sent her to ask Roger how soon he would come, for she seemed to know perfectly well that he was coming.

  ‘Tell me all Roger says. He will tell you.’

  But it was several days before Molly could ask Roger any questions; and meanwhile Mrs. Hamley’s state had materially altered. At length Molly came upon Roger sitting in the library, his head buried in his hands. He did not hear her footstep till she was close beside him. Then he lifted up his face, red, and stained with tears, his hair all ruffled up and in disorder.

  ‘I’ve been wanting to see you alone,’ she began. ‘Your mother does so want some news of your brother Osborne. She told me last week to ask you about him, but I did not like to speak of him before your father.’

  ‘She hardly ever named him to me.’

  ‘I don’t know why; for to me she used to talk of him perpetually. I have seen so little of her this week, and I think she forgets a great deal now. Still, if you don’t mind, I should like to be able to tell her something if she asks me again.’

  He put his head again between his hands, and did not answer her for some time.

  ‘What does she want to know?’ said he, at last. ‘Does she know that Osborne is coming soon—any day?’

  ‘Yes. But she wants to know where he is.’

  ‘I can’t tell you. I don’t exactly know. I believe he’s abroad, but I’m not sure.’

  ‘But you’ve sent papa’s letter to him?’

  ‘I’ve sent it to a friend of his who will know better than I do where he’s to be found. You must know that he isn’t free from creditors, Molly. You can’t have been one of the family, like a child of the house almost, without knowing that much. For that and for other reasons I don’t exactly know where he is.’

  ‘I will tell her so. You are sure he will come?’

  ‘Quite sure. But, Molly, I think my mother may live some time yet; don’t you? Dr. Nicholls said so yesterday when he was here with your father. He said she had rallied more than he had ever expected. You’re not afraid of any change that makes you so anxious for Osborne’s coming?’

  ‘No. It’s only for her that I asked. She did seem so to crave for news of him. I think she dreamed of him; and then when she awakened it was a relief to her to talk about him to me. She always seemed to associate me with him. We used to speak so much of him when we were together.’

  ‘I don’t know what w
e should any of us have done without you. You’ve been like a daughter to my mother.’

  ‘I do so love her,’ said Molly, softly.

  ‘Yes; I see. Have you ever noticed that she sometimes calls you “Fanny”? It was the name of a little sister of ours who died. I think she often takes you for her. It was partly that, and partly that at such a time as this one can’t stand on formalities, that made me call you Molly. I hope you don’t mind it?’

  ‘No; I like it. But will you tell me something more about your brother? She really hungers for news of him.’

  ‘She’d better ask me herself. Yet, no! I am so involved by promises of secrecy, Molly, that I couldn’t satisfy her if she once began to question me. I believe he’s in Belgium, and that he went there about a fortnight ago, partly to avoid his creditors. You know my father has refused to pay his debts?’

  ‘Yes: at least, I knew something like it.’

  ‘I don’t believe my father could raise the money all at once without having recourse to steps which he would exceedingly recoil from. Yet for the time it places Osborne in a very awkward position.’

  ‘I think what vexes your father a good deal is some mystery as to how the money was spent.’

  ‘If my mother ever says anything about that part of the affair,’ said Roger, hastily, ‘assure her from me that there’s nothing of vice or wrong-doing about it. I can’t say more: I’m tired. But set her mind at ease on that point.’

  ‘I’m not sure if she remembers all her painful anxiety about this,’ said Molly. ‘She used to speak a great deal to me about him before you came, when your father seemed so angry. And now, whenever she sees me she wants to talk on the old subject; but she doesn’t remember so clearly. If she were to see him I don’t believe she would recollect why she was uneasy about him while he was absent.’

  ‘He must be here soon. I expect him every day,’ said Roger, uneasily.

  ‘Do you think your father will be very angry with him?’ asked Molly, with as much timidity as if the squire’s displeasure might be directed against her.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Roger. ‘My mother’s illness may alter him; but he didn’t easily forgive us formerly. I remember once—but that is nothing to the purpose. I can’t help fancying that he has put himself under some strong restraint for my mother’s sake, and that he won’t express much. But it doesn’t follow that he will forget it. My father is a man of few affections, but what he has are very strong; he feels anything that touches him on these points deeply and permanently. That unlucky valuing of the property! It has given my father the idea of post-obits’

  ‘What are they?’ asked Molly.

  ‘Raising money to be paid on my father’s death, which, of course, involves calculations as to the duration of his life.’

  ‘How shocking!’ said she.

  ‘I’m as sure as I am of my own life that Osborne never did anything of the kind. But my father expressed his suspicions in language that irritated Osborne; and he doesn’t speak out, and won’t justify himself even as much as he might; and, much as he loves me, I’ve but little influence over him, or else he would tell my father all. Well, we must leave it to time,’ he added, sighing. ‘My mother would have brought us all right, if she’d been what she once was.’

  He turned away, leaving Molly very sad. She knew that every member of the family she cared for so much was in trouble, out of which she saw no exit; and her small power of helping them was diminishing day by day as Mrs. Hamley sank more and more under the influence of opiates and stupefying illness. Her father had spoken to her only this very day of the desirableness of her returning home for good. Mrs. Gibson wanted her—for no particular reason, but for many small fragments of reasons. Mrs. Hamley had ceased to want her much, only occasionally appearing to remember her existence. Her position (her father thought—the idea had not entered her head) in a family of which the only woman was an invalid confined to bed, was becoming awkward. But Molly had begged hard to remain two or three days longer—only that—only till Friday. If Mrs. Hamley should want her (she argued, with tears in her eyes), and should hear that she had left the house, she would think her so unkind, so ungrateful!

  ‘My dear child, she’s getting past wanting any one! The keenness of earthly feelings is deadened.’

  ‘Papa, that is worst of all. I cannot bear it. I won’t believe it. She may not ask for me again, and may quite forget me; but I’m sure, to the very last, if the medicines don’t stupefy her, she will look round for the squire and her children. For poor Osborne most of all; because he’s in sorrow.’

  Mr. Gibson shook his head, but said nothing in reply. In a minute or two he asked,—

  ‘I don’t like to take you away while you even fancy you can be of use or comfort to one who has been so kind to you; but, if she hasn’t wanted you before Friday, will you be convinced, will you come home willingly?’

  ‘If I go then, I may see her once again, even if she hasn’t asked for me?’ inquired Molly.

  ‘Yes, of course. You must make no noise, no step; but you may go in and see her. I must tell you, I’m almost certain she won’t ask for you.’

  ‘But she may, papa. I will go home on Friday, if she does not. I think she will.’

  So Molly hung about the house, trying to do all she could out of the sick-room, for the comfort of those in it. They only came out for meals, or for necessary business, and found little time for talking to her, so her life was solitary enough, waiting for the call that never came. The evening of the day on which she had had the above conversation with Roger, Osborne arrived. He came straight into the drawing-room, where Molly was seated on the rug, reading by fire-light, as she did not like to ring for candles merely for her own use. Osborne came in, with a kind of hurry, which almost made him appear as if he would trip himself up, and fall down. Molly rose. He had not noticed her before; now he came forwards, and took hold of both her hands, leading her into the full flickering light, and straining his eyes to look into her face.

  ‘How is she? You will tell me—you must know the truth! I’ve travelled day and night since I got your father’s letter.’

  Before she could frame her answer, he had sat down in the nearest chair, covering his eyes with his hand.

  ‘She’s very ill,’ said Molly. ‘That you know; but I don’t think she suffers much pain. She has wanted you sadly.’

  He groaned aloud. ‘My father forbade me to come.’

  ‘I know!’ said Molly, anxious to prevent his self-reproach. ‘Your brother was away, too. I think no one knew how ill she was—she had been an invalid for so long.’

  ‘You know—Yes! she told you a great deal—she was very fond of you. And God knows how I loved her. If I had not been forbidden to come home, I should have told her all. Does my father know of my coming now?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Molly; ‘I told him papa had sent for you.’

  Just at that moment the squire came in. He had not heard of Osborne’s arrival, and was seeking Molly to ask her to write a letter for him.

  Osborne did not stand up when his father entered. He was too much exhausted, too much oppressed by his feelings, and also too much estranged by his father’s angry, suspicious letters. If he had come forward with any manifestation of feeling at this moment, everything might have been different. But he waited for his father to see him before he uttered a word. All that the squire said when his eye fell upon him at last was—

  ‘You here, sir!’

  And, breaking off in the directions he was giving to Molly, he abruptly left the room. All the time his heart was yearning after his first-born; but mutual pride kept them asunder. Yet he went straight to the butler, and asked him when Mr. Osborne had arrived, and how he had come, and if he had had any refreshment—dinner or what—since his arrival?

  ‘For I think I forget everything now!’ said the poor squire, putting his hand up to his head. ‘For the life of me, I can’t remember whether we’ve had dinner or not; these long nights, and all this sor
row and watching, quite bewilder me.’

  ‘Perhaps, sir, you will take some dinner with Mr. Osborne. Mrs. Morgan is sending up his directly. You hardly sat down at dinner-time, sir, you thought my mistress wanted something.’

  ‘Aye! I remember now. No! I won’t have any more. Give Mr. Osborne what wine he chooses. Perhaps he can eat and drink.’ So the squire went away upstairs with bitterness as well as sorrow in his heart.

  When lights were brought, Molly was struck with the change in Osborne. He looked haggard and worn; perhaps with travelling and anxiety. Not quite such a dainty gentleman either, as Molly had thought him, when she had last seen him calling on her stepmother, two months before. But she liked him better now. The tone of his remarks pleased her more. He was simpler, and less ashamed of showing his feelings. He asked after Roger in a warm, longing kind of way. Roger was out: he had ridden to Ashcombe to transact some business for the squire. Osborne evidently wished for his return; and hung about restlessly in the drawing-room after he had dined.

  ‘You are sure I may not see her to-night?’ he asked Molly, for the third or fourth time.

  ‘No, indeed. I will go up again if you like it. But Mrs. Jones, the nurse Dr. Nicholls sent, is a very decided person. I went up while you were at dinner, and Mrs. Hamley had just taken her drops, and was on no account to be disturbed by seeing any one, much less by any excitement.’

  Osborne kept walking up and down the long drawing-room, half talking to himself, half to Molly.

  ‘I wish Roger would come. He seems to be the only one to give me a welcome. Does my father always live upstairs in my mother’s rooms, Miss Gibson?’

  ‘He has done since her last attack. I believe he reproaches himself for not having been enough alarmed before.’

  ‘You heard all the words he said to me; they were not much of a welcome, were they? And my dear mother, who always—whether I was to blame or not——I suppose Roger is sure to come home to-night?’