Wives and Daughters

by Elizabeth Gaskell

  It may be all very pleasant ‘to sport with Amaryllis in the shade, or with the tangles of Naera’s hair,’cy but young men at the outset of their independent life have many other cares in this prosaic England to occupy their time and their thoughts. Roger was fellow at Trinity, to be sure; and from the outside it certainly appeared as if his position, as long as he chose to keep unmarried, was a very easy one. His was not a nature, however, to sink down into inglorious ease, even had his fellowship income been at his disposal. He looked forward to an active life; in what direction he had not yet determined. He knew what were his talents and his tastes; and did not wish the former to lie buried, nor the latter, which he regarded as gifts, fitting him for some peculiar work, to be disregarded or thwarted. He rather liked awaiting an object, secure in his own energy to force his way to it, when he once saw it clearly. He reserved enough of money for his own personal needs, which were small, and for the ready furtherance of any project he might see fit to undertake; the rest of his income was Osborne’s; given and accepted in the spirit which made the bond between these two brothers so rarely perfect. It was only the thought of Cynthia that threw Roger off his balance. A strong man in everything else, about her he was as a child. He knew that he could not marry and retain his fellowship; his intention was to hold himself loose from any employment or profession until he had found one to his mind, so there was no immediate prospect—no prospect for many years, indeed, that he would be able to marry. Yet he went on seeking Cynthia’s sweet company, listening to the music of her voice, basking in her sunshine, and feeding his passion in every possible way, just like an unreasoning child. He knew that it was folly—and yet he did it; and it was perhaps this that made him so sympathetic with Osborne. Roger racked his brains about Osborne’s affairs much more frequently than Osborne troubled himself Indeed, he had become so ailing and languid of late, that even the squire made only very faint objections to his desire for frequent change of scene, though formerly he used to grumble so much at the necessary expenditure it involved.

  ‘After all, it does not cost much,’ the squire said to Roger one day. ‘Choose how he does it, he does it cheaply; he used to come and ask me for twenty, where now he does it for five. But he and I have lost each other’s language, that’s what we have! and my dictionary’ (only he called it ‘dixonary’) ‘has all got wrong because of those confounded debts—which he will never explain to me, or talk about—he always holds me off at arm’s length when I begin upon it—he does, Roger—me, his old dad, as was his primest favourite of all, when he was a little bit of a chap!’

  The squire dwelt so much upon Osborne’s reserved behaviour to himself, that brooding over this one subject perpetually he became more morose and gloomy than ever in his manner to his son, resenting the want of the confidence and affection that he thus repelled. So much so that Roger, who desired to avoid being made the receptacle of his father’s complaints against Osborne—and Roger’s passive listening was the sedative his father always sought—had often to have recourse to the discussion of the drainage works as a counter-irritant. The squire had felt Mr. Preston’s speech about the dismissal of his work-people very keenly; it fell in with the reproaches of his own conscience, though, as he would repeat to Roger over and over again,—‘I could not help it—how could I?—I was drained dry of ready money—I wish the land was drained as dry as I am,’ said he, with a touch of humour that came out before he was aware, and at which he smiled sadly enough. ‘What was I to do, I ask you, Roger? I know I was in a rage—I’ve had a deal to make me so—and maybe I did not think as much about consequences as I should have done, when I gave orders for ’em to be sent off; but I couldn’t have done otherwise if I’d ha’ thought for a twelvemonth in cool blood. Consequences! I hate consequences; they’ve always been against me; they have. I’m so tied up I can’t cut down a stick more, and that’s a “consequence” of having the property so deucedly well settled; I wish I’d never had any ancestors. Aye, laugh, lad! it does me good to see thee laugh a bit, after Osborne’s long face, which always grows longer at sight o’ me!’

  ‘Look here, father!’ said Roger suddenly, ‘I’ll manage somehow about the money for the works. You trust to me; give me two months to turn myself in, and you shall have some money, at any rate, to begin with.’

  The squire looked at him, and his face brightened as a child’s does at the promise of a pleasure made to him by some one on whom he can rely. He became a little graver, however, as he said,—‘But how will you get it? It’s hard enough work.’

  ‘Never mind; I’ll get it—a hundred or so at first—I don’t yet know how—but remember, father, I’m a senior wrangler, and a “very promising young writer,” as that review called me. Oh, you don’t know what a fine fellow you’ve got for a son. You should have read that review to know all my wonderful merits.’

  ‘I did, Roger. I heard Gibson speaking of it, and I made him get it for me. I should have understood it better if they could have called the animals by their English names, and not put so much of their French jingo into it.’

  ‘But it was an answer to an article by a French writer,’ pleaded Roger.

  ‘I’d ha’ let him alone!’ said the squire, earnestly. ‘We had to beat ’em, and we did it at Waterloo; but I’d not demean myself by answering any of their lies, if I was you. But I got through the review, for all their Latin and French; I did, and if you doubt me, you just look at the end of the great ledger, turn it upside down, and you’ll find I’ve copied out all the fine words they said of you: “careful observer,” “strong nervous English,” “rising philosopher.” Oh! I can nearly say it all off by heart, for many a time when I am frabbed by bad debts, or Osborne’s bills, or moidered with accounts, I turn the ledger wrong way up, and smoke a pipe over it, while I read those pieces out of the review which speak about you, lad!’

  CHAPTER 32

  Coming Events

  Roger had turned over many plans in his mind, by which he thought that he could obtain sufficient money for the purpose he desired to accomplish. His careful grandfather, who had been a merchant in the city, had so tied up the few thousands he had left to his daughter, that although, in case of her death before her husband’s, the latter might enjoy the life-interest thereof, yet, in case of both their deaths, their second son did not succeed to the property till he was five-and-twenty; and if he died before that age, the money that would then have been his went to one of his cousins on the maternal side. In short, the old merchant had taken as many precautions about his legacy as if it had been for tens, instead of units of thousands. Of course Roger might have slipped through all these meshes by insuring his life until the specified age; and probably if he had consulted any lawyer this course would have been suggested to him. But he disliked taking any one into his confidence on the subject of his father’s want of ready money. He had obtained a copy of his grandfather’s will at Doctors’ Commons,cz and he imagined that all the contingencies involved in it would be patent to the light of nature and common sense. He was a little mistaken in this, but not the less resolved that money in some way he would have in order to fulfil his promise to his father, and for the ulterior purpose of giving the squire some daily interest to distract his thoughts from the regrets and cares that were almost weakening his mind. It was ‘Roger Hamley, senior wrangler and fellow of Trinity to the highest bidder, no matter what honest employment,’ and presently it came down to ‘any bidder at all.’

  Another perplexity and distress at this time weighed upon Roger. Osborne, heir to the estate, was going to have a child. The Hamley property was entailed on ‘heirs-male born in lawful wedlock.’ Was the ‘wedlock’ lawful? Osborne never seemed to doubt that it was—never seemed, in fact, to think twice about it. And if he, the husband, did not, how much less did Aimee, the trustful wife. Yet who could tell how much misery any shadows of illegality might cast into the future? One evening Roger, sitting by the languid, careless, dilettante Osborne, began to question him as to the d
etails of the marriage. Osborne knew instinctively at what Roger was aiming. It was not that he did not desire perfect legality in justice to his wife; it was that he was so indisposed at the time that he hated to be bothered. It was something like the refrain of Gray’s Scandinavian Prophetess: ‘Leave me, leave me to repose.’

  ‘But do try and tell me how you managed it.’

  ‘How tiresome you are, Roger!’ put in Osborne.

  ‘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.1 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.’