Wives and Daughters

by Elizabeth Gaskell

  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 dartsda 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.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Molly: and she left Mrs. Gibson in careless uncertainty as to whether her offer would be accepted or not.

  Lady Harriet was sorry to miss Molly, as she was fond of the girl; but as she perfectly agreed with Mrs. Gibson’s truism about ‘constancy’ and ‘old friends,’ she saw no occasion for saying any more about the affair, but sat down in a little low chair with her feet on the fender. This said fender was made of bright, bright steel, and was strictly tabooed to all household and plebeian feet; indeed the position if they assumed it, was considered low-bred and vulgar.

  ‘That’s right, dear Lady Harriet! you can’t think what a pleasure it is to me to welcome you at my own fireside, into my humble home.’

  ‘Humble! now, Clare, that’s a little bit of nonsense, begging your pardon. I don’t call this pretty little drawing-room a bit of a “humble home.” It is as full of comforts, and of pretty things too, as any room of its size can be.’

  ‘Ah! how small you must feel it! even I had to reconcile myself to it at first.’

  ‘Well! perhaps your schoolroom was larger, but remember how bare it was, how empty of anything but deal tables, and forms, and mats. Oh, indeed, Clare, I quite agree with mamma, who always says you have done very well for yourself; and Mr. Gibson too! What an agreeable, well-informed man!’

  ‘Yes, he is,’ said his wife, slowly, as if she did not like to relinquish her role of a victim to circumstances quite immediately. ‘He is very agreeable, very; only we see so little of him; and of course he comes home tired and hungry, and not inclined to talk to his own family, and apt to go to sleep.’

  ‘Come, come!’ said Lady Harriet, ‘I’m going to have my turn now. We’ve had the complaint of a doctor’s wife, now hear the moans of a peer’s daughter. Our house is so overrun with visitors; and literally to-day I have come to you for a little solitude.’

  ‘Solitude!’ exclaimed Mrs. Gibson. ‘Would you rather be alone?’ slightly aggrieved.

  ‘No, you dear silly woman; my solitude requires a listener, to whom I may say, “how sweet is solitude.” But I am tired of the responsibility of entertaining. Papa is so openhearted, he asks every friend he meets with to come and pay us a visit. Mamma is really a great invalid, but she does not choose to give up her reputation for good health, having always considered illness a want of self-control. So she gets wearied and worried by a crowd of people who are all of them open-mouthed for amusement of some kind; just like a brood of fledglings in a nest; so I have to be parent-bird, and pop morsels into their yellow leathery bills, to find them swallowed down before I can think of where to find the next. Oh, it’s “entertaining” in the largest, literalest, most dreariest sense of the word. So I have told a few lies this morning, and come off here for quietness and the comfort of complaining!’

  Lady Harriet threw herself back in her chair, and yawned; Mrs. Gibson took one of her ladyship’s hands in a soft sympathizing manner, and murmured,—

  ‘Poor Lady Harriet!’ and then she purred affectionately.

  After a pause Lady Harriet started up and said—‘I used to take you as my arbiter of morals when I was a little girl. Tell me, do you think it wrong to tell lies?’

  ‘Oh, my dear! how can you ask such questions?—of course it is, very wrong,—very wicked indeed, I think I may say. But I know you were only joking when you said you had told lies.’

  ‘No, indeed, I wasn’t. I told as plump, fat lies as you would wish to hear. I said I “was obliged to go into Hollingford on business,” when the truth was there was no obligation in the matter, only an insupportable desire of being free from my visitors for an hour or two, and my only business was to come here, and yawn, and complain, and lounge at my leisure. I really think I’m unhappy at having told a story, as children express it.’

  ‘But, my dear Lady Harriet,’ said Mrs. Gibson, a little puzzled as to the exact meaning
of the words that were trembling on her tongue, ‘I am sure you thought that you meant what you said when you said it.’

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ put in Lady Harriet.

  ‘And besides, if you didn’t, it was the fault of the tiresome people who drove you into such straits—yes, it was certainly their fault, not yours—and then you know the conventions of society—ah, what trammels they are!’

  Lady Harriet was silent for a minute or two; then she said,—‘Tell me, Clare; you’ve told lies sometimes, haven’t you?’

  ‘Lady Harriet! I think you might have known me better; but I know you don’t mean it, dear.’

  ‘Yes, I do.You must have told white lies, at any rate. How did you feel after them?’

  ‘I should have been miserable if I ever had. I should have died of self-reproach. “The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,” has always seemed to me such a fine passage. But then I have so much that is unbending in my nature, and in our sphere of life there are so few temptations; if we are humble we are also simple, and unshackled by etiquette.’

  ‘Then you blame me very much? If somebody else will blame me, I shan’t be so unhappy at what I said this morning.’

  ‘I am sure I never blamed you, not in my innermost heart, dear Lady Harriet. Blame you, indeed! That would be presumption in me.’

  ‘I think I shall set up a confessor! and it shan’t be you, Clare, for you have always been only too indulgent to me.’

  After a pause she said,—‘Can you give me some lunch, Clare? I don’t mean to go home till three. My “business” will take me till then, as the people at the Towers are duly informed.’

  ‘Certainly. I shall be delighted! but you know we are very simple in our habits.’

  ‘Oh, I only want a little bread-and-butter, and perhaps a slice of cold meat—you must not give yourself any trouble, Clare—perhaps you dine now? let me sit down just like one of your family.’

  ‘Yes, you shall. I won’t make any alteration;—it will be so pleasant to have you sharing our family meal, dear Lady Harriet. But we dine late, we only lunch now. How low the fire is getting; I really am forgetting everything in the pleasure of this tête-à-tête!’

  So she rang twice; with great distinctness, and with a long pause between the rings. Maria brought in coals.

  But the signal was as well understood by Cynthia as the ‘Hall of Apollo’ was by the servants of Lucullus. The brace of partridges that were to have been for the late dinner were instantly put down to the fire; and the prettiest china brought out, and the table decked with flowers and fruit, arranged with all Cynthia’s usual dexterity and taste. So that when the meal was announced, and Lady Harriet entered the room, she could not but think her hostess’s apologies had been quite unnecessary; and be more and more convinced that Clare had done very well for herself. Cynthia now joined the party, pretty and elegant as she always was; but somehow she did not take Lady Harriet’s fancy; she only noticed her on account of her being her mother’s daughter. Her presence made the conversation more general, and Lady Harriet gave out several pieces of news, none of them of any great importance to her, but as what had been talked about by the circle of visitors assembled at the Towers.

  ‘Lord Hollingford ought to have been with us,’ she said, amongst other things; ‘but he is obliged, or fancies himself obliged, which is all the same thing, to stay in town about this Crichton legacy!’

  ‘A legacy? To Lord Hollingford? I am so glad!’

  ‘Don’t be in a hurry to be glad! It’s nothing for him but trouble. Didn’t you hear of that rich eccentric Mr. Crichton, who died some time ago, and—fired by the example of Lord Bridgewater,db I suppose—left a sum of money in the hands of trustees, of whom my brother is one, to send out a man with a thousand fine qualifications, to make a scientific voyage, with a view to bringing back specimens of the fauna of distant lands, and so forming the nucleus of a museum which is to be called the Crichton Museum, and so perpetuate the founder’s name. Such various forms does man’s vanity take! Sometimes it simulates philanthropy; sometimes a love of science!’

  ‘It seems to me a very laudable and useful object, I am sure,’ said Mrs. Gibson, safely.

  ‘I dare say it is, taking it from the public-good view. But it’s rather tiresome to us privately, for it keeps Hollingford in town—or between it and Cambridge—and each place as dull and empty as can be, just when we want him down at the Towers. The thing ought to have been decided long ago, and there’s some danger of the legacy lapsing. The two other trustees have run away to the Continent, feeling, as they say, the utmost confidence in him, but in reality shirking their responsibilities. However, I believe he likes it, so I ought not to grumble. He thinks he is going to be very successful in the choice of this man—and he belongs to this county, too,—young Hamley of Hamley, if he can only get his college to let him go, for he is a fellow of Trinity, senior wrangler or something; and they’re not so foolish as to send their crack man to be eaten up by lions and tigers!’

  ‘It must be Roger Hamley!’ exclaimed Cynthia, her eyes brightening, and her cheeks flushing.

  ‘He’s not the eldest son; he can scarcely be called Hamley of Hamley!’ said Mrs. Gibson.

  ‘Hollingford’s man is a fellow of Trinity, as I said before.’

  ‘Then it is Mr. Roger Hamley,’ said Cynthia; ‘and he’s up in London about some business! What news for Molly when she comes home!’

  ‘Why, what has Molly to do with it?’ asked Lady Harriet. ‘Is_______?’ and she looked into Mrs. Gibson’s face for an answer. Mrs. Gibson in reply gave an intelligent and very expressive glance at Cynthia, who, however, did not perceive it.

  ‘Oh, no! not at all,’ and Mrs. Gibson nodded a little at her daughter, as much as to say, ‘If any one, that.’

  Lady Harriet began to look at the pretty Miss Kirkpatrick with fresh interest; her brother had spoken in such a manner of this young Mr. Hamley that every one connected with the phoenix was worthy of observation. Then, as if the mention of Molly’s name had brought her afresh into her mind, Lady Harriet said,—‘And where is Molly all this time? I should like to see my little mentor. I hear she is very much grown since those days.’

  ‘Oh! when she once gets gossiping with the Miss Brownings, she never knows when to come home,’ said Mrs. Gibson.

  ‘The Miss Brownings? Oh! I’m so glad you named them! I’m very fond of them. Pecksy and Flapsy; I may call them so in Molly’s absence. I’ll go and see them before I go home, and then perhaps I shall see my dear little Molly too. Do you know, Clare, I’ve quite taken a fancy to that girl!’

  So Mrs. Gibson, after all her precautions, had to submit to Lady Harriet’s leaving her half an hour earlier than she otherwise would have done in order to ‘make herself common’ (as Mrs. Gibson expressed it) by calling on the Miss Brownings.

  But Molly had left before Lady Harriet arrived.

  Molly went the long walk to the Holly Farm to order the damsons, out of a kind of penitence. She had felt conscious of anger at being sent out of the house by such a palpable manoeuvre as that which her stepmother had employed. Of course she did not meet Cynthia, so she went alone along the pretty lanes, with grassy sides and high-hedge banks not at all in the style of modern agriculture. At first she made herself uncomfortable with questioning herself as to how far it was right to leave unnoticed the small domestic failings—the webs, the distortions of truth which had prevailed in their household ever since her father’s second marriage. She knew that very often she longed to protest, but did not do it, from the desire of sparing her father any discord; and she saw by his face that he, too, was occasionally aware of certain things that gave him pain, as showing that his wife’s standard of conduct was not as high as he would have liked. It was a wonder to Molly whether this silence was right or wrong. With a girl’s want of toleration, and want of experience to teach her the force of circumstances, and of temptation, she had often been on the point of telling her stepmother some forcible ho
me truths. But, possibly, her father’s example of silence, and often some piece of kindness on Mrs. Gibson’s part (for after her way, and when in a good temper, she was very kind to Molly), made her hold her tongue.

  That night at dinner, Mrs. Gibson repeated the conversation between herself and Lady Harriet, giving it a very strong individual colouring, as was her wont, and telling nearly the whole of what had passed, although implying that there was a great deal said which was so purely confidential, that she was bound in honour not to repeat it. Her three auditors listened to her without interrupting her much—indeed, without bestowing extreme attention on what she was saying, until she came to the fact of Lord Hollingford’s absence in London, and the reason for it.

  ‘Roger Hamley going off on a scientific expedition!’ exclaimed Mr. Gibson, suddenly awakened into vivacity.

  ‘Yes. At least it is not settled finally; but as Lord Hollingford is the only trustee who takes any interest—and being Lord Cumnor’s son—it is next to certain.’

  ‘I think I must have a voice in the matter,’ said Mr. Gibson; and he relapsed into silence, keeping his ears open, however, henceforward.