Wives and Daughters

by Elizabeth Gaskell

  ‘No. I dare say it is all very true; only I should think the squire could not take it so easily.’

  ‘I always write him a little note when I hear from Roger, but I don’t think I’ll name this touch of fever—shall I, Molly?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Molly. ‘People say one ought, but I almost wish I hadn’t heard it. Please, does he say anything else that I may hear?’

  ‘Oh, lovers’ letters are so silly, and I think this is sillier than usual,’ said Cynthia, looking over her letter again. ‘Here’s a piece you may read, from that line to that,’ indicating two places. ‘I haven’t read it myself, for it looked dullish—all about Aristotle and Plinydh and I want to get this bonnet-cap made up before we go out to pay our calls.’

  Molly took the letter, the thought crossing her mind that he had touched it, had had his hands upon it, in those far distant desert lands, where he might be lost to sight and to any human knowledge of his fate; even now her pretty brown fingers almost caressed the flimsy paper with their delicacy of touch as she read. She saw references made to books, which, with a little trouble, would be accessible to her here in Hollingford. Perhaps the details and the references would make the letter dull and dry to some people, but not to her, thanks to his former teaching and the interest he had excited in her for his pursuits. But, as he said in apology, what had he to write about in that savage land, but his love, and his researches, and travels? There was no society, no gaiety, no new books to write about, no gossip in Abyssinian wilds.

  Molly was not in strong health, and perhaps this made her a little fanciful; but certain it is that her thoughts by day and her dreams by night were haunted by the idea of Roger lying ill and untended in those savage lands. Her constant prayer, ‘O my Lord! give her the living child, and in no wise slay it,’1 came from a heart as true as that of the real mother in King Solomon’s judgment. ‘Let him live, let him live, even though I may never set eyes upon him again. Have pity upon his father! Grant that he may come home safe, and live happily with her whom he loves so tenderly—so tenderly, O God.’ And then she would burst into tears, and drop asleep at last, sobbing.

  CHAPTER 38

  Mr. Kirkpatrick, Q.C.

  Cynthia was always the same with Molly: kind, sweettempered, ready to help, professing a great deal of love for her, and probably feeling as much as she did for any one in the world. But Molly had reached to this superficial residence in her father’s house; and if she had been of a depth of affection and intimacy in the first few weeks of Cynthia’s nature prone to analyse the character of one whom she loved dearly, she might have perceived that, with all Cynthia’s apparent frankness, there were certain limits beyond which her confidence did not go; where her reserve began, and her real self was shrouded in mystery For instance, her relations with Mr. Preston were often very puzzling to Molly. She was sure that there had been a much greater intimacy between them formerly at Ashcombe, and that the remembrance of this was often very galling and irritating to Cynthia, who was evidently desirous of forgetting it as he was anxious to make her remember it. But why this intimacy had ceased, why Cynthia disliked him so extremely now, and many other unexplained circumstances connected with these two facts, were Cynthia’s secrets; and she effectually baffled all Molly’s innocent attempts during the first glow of her friendship for Cynthia, to learn the girlish antecedents of her companion’s life. Every now and then Molly came to a dead wall, beyond which she could not pass—at least with the delicate instruments which were all she chose to use. Perhaps Cynthia might have told all there was to tell to a more forcible curiosity, which knew how to improve every slip of the tongue and every fit of temper to its own gratification. But Molly’s was the interest of affection, not the coarser of knowing everything for a little excitement; and as soon as she saw that Cynthia did not wish to tell her anything about that period of her life, Molly left off referring to it. But if Cynthia had preserved a sweet tranquillity of manner and an unvarying kindness for Molly during the winter of which there is question, at present she was the only person to whom the beauty’s ways were unchanged. Mr. Gibson’s influence had been good for her as long as she saw that he liked her; she had tried to keep as high a place in his good opinion as she could, and had curbed many a little sarcasm against her mother, and many a twisting of the absolute truth when he was by. Now there was a constant uneasiness about her which made her more cowardly than before; and even her partisan, Molly, could not help being aware of the distinct equivocations she occasionally used when anything in Mr. Gibson’s words or behaviour pressed her too hard. Her repartees to her mother were less frequent than they had been, but there was often the unusual phenomenon of pettishness in her behaviour to her. These changes in humour and disposition, here described all at once, were in themselves a series of delicate alterations of relative conduct spread over many months—many winter months of long evenings and bad weather, which bring out discords of character, as a dash of cold water brings out the fading colours of an old fresco.

  During much of this time Mr. Preston had been at Ashcombe; for Lord Cumnor had not been able to find an agent whom he liked to replace Mr. Preston; and while the inferior situation remained vacant Mr. Preston had undertaken to do the duties of both. Mrs. Goodenough had had a serious illness; and the little society at Hollingford did not care to meet while one of their habitual set was scarcely out of danger. So there had been very little visiting; and though Miss Browning said that the absence of the temptations of society was very agreeable to cultivated minds, after the dissipations of the previous autumn, when there were parties every week to welcome Mr. Preston, yet Miss Phoebe let out in confidence that she and her sister had fallen into the habit of going to bed at nine o‘clock, for they found cribbage night after night, from five o’clock till ten, rather too much of a good thing. To tell the truth, that winter, if peaceful, was monotonous in Hollingford; and the whole circle of gentility there was delighted to be stirred up in March by the intelligence that Mr. Kirkpatrick, the newly-made Q.C.,di was coming on a visit of a couple of days to his sister-in-law, Mrs. Gibson. Mrs. Goodenough’s room was the very centre of gossip; gossip had been her daily bread through her life, gossip was meat and wine to her now.

  ‘Dear-ah-me!’ said the old lady, rousing herself so as to sit upright in her easy chair, and propping herself with her hands on the arms; ‘who would ha’ thought she’d such grand relations! Why, Mr. Ashton told me once that a Queen’s counsel was as like to be a judge as a kitten is like to be a cat. And to think of her being as good as sister to a judge! I saw one oncst; and I know I thought as I shouldn’t wish for a better winter-cloak than his old robes would make me, if I could only find out where I could get ’em second-hand. And I know she’d her silk gowns turned and dyed and cleaned, and, for aught I know, turned again, while she lived at Ashcombe. Keeping a school, too, and so near akin to this Queen’s counsel all the time! Well, to be sure, it was not much of a school—only ten young ladies at the best o’ times; so perhaps he never heard of it.’

  ‘I’ve been wondering what they’ll give him to dinner,’ said Miss Browning. ‘It is an unlucky time for visitors; no game to be had, and lamb so late this year, and chicken hardly to be had for love or money.’

  ‘He’ll have to put up with calf’s head, that he will,’ said Mrs. Goodenough, solemnly. ‘If I’d ha’ got my usual health I’d copy out a receipt of my grandmother’s for a rolled calf’s head, and send it to Mrs. Gibson—the doctor has been very kind to me all through this illness—I wish my daughter in Combermere would send me some autumn chickens—I’d pass ‘em on to the doctor, that I would; but she’s been a killing of ’em all, and a sending of them to me, and the last she sent she wrote me word was the last.’

  ‘I wonder if they’ll give a party for him!’ suggested Miss Phoebe. ‘I should like to see a Queen’s counsel for once in my life. I have seen javelin-men,dj but that’s the greatest thing in the legal line I ever came across.’

  ‘They’
ll ask Mr. Ashton, of course,’ said Miss Browning. ‘The three black graces, Law, Physic, and Divinity, as the song calls them. Whenever there’s a second course, there’s always the clergyman of the parish invited in any family of gentility.’

  ‘I wonder if he’s married!’ said Mrs. Goodenough. Miss Phoebe had been feeling the same wonder, but had not thought it maidenly to express it, even to her sister, who was the source of knowledge, having met Mrs. Gibson in the street on her way to Mrs. Goodenough’s.

  ‘Yes, he’s married, and must have several children, for Mrs. Gibson said that Cynthia Kirkpatrick had paid them a visit in London, to have lessons with her cousins. And she said that his wife was a most accomplished woman, and of good family, though she brought him no fortune.’

  ‘It’s a very creditable connexion, I’m sure; it’s only a wonder to me as how we’ve heard so little talk of it before’ said Mrs. Goodenough. ‘At the first look of the thing, I shouldn’t ha’ thought Mrs. Gibson was one to hide away her fine relations under a bushel; indeed, for that matter, we’re all of us fond o’ turning the best breadth o’ the gown to the front. I remember speaking o’ breadths, how I’ve undone my skirts many a time and oft to put a stain or a grease-spot next to poor Mr. Goodenough. He’d a soft kind of heart when first we was married and he said, says he, “Patty, link thy right arm into my left one, then thou‘lt be nearer to my heart”; and so we kept up the habit, when, poor man, he’d a deal more to think on than romancing on which side his heart lay; so as I said, I always put my damaged breadths on the right hand, and when we walked arm in arm, as we always did, no one was never the wiser.’

  ‘I should not be surprised if he invited Cynthia to pay him another visit in London,’ said Miss Browning. ‘If he did it when he was poor, he’s twenty times more likely to do it now he’s a Queen’s counsel.’

  ‘Aye, work it by the rule o’ three, and she stands a good chance. I only hope it won’t turn her head; going up visiting in London at her age. Why, I was fifty before ever I went!’

  ‘But she has been in France; she’s quite a travelled young lady,’ said Miss Phoebe.

  Mrs. Goodenough shook her head for a whole minute before she gave vent to her opinion.

  ‘It’s a risk,’ said she, ‘a great risk. I don’t like saying so to the doctor, but I shouldn’t like having my daughter, if I was him, so cheek-by-jowl with a girl as was brought up in the country where Robespierre and Bonyparte was born.’1

  ‘But Buonaparte was a Corsican,’ said Miss Browning, who was much farther advanced both in knowledge and in liberality of opinions than Mrs. Goodenough. ‘And there’s a great opportunity for cultivation of the mind afforded by intercourse with foreign countries. I always admire Cynthia’s grace of manner, never too shy to speak, yet never putting herself forwards; she’s quite a help to a party; and if she has a few airs and graces, why, they’re, natural at her age! Now as for dear Molly, there’s a kind of awkwardness about her—she broke one of our best china cups last time she was at a party at our house, and spilt the coffee on the new carpet; and then she got so confused that she hardly did anything but sit in a corner and hold her tongue all the rest of the evening.’

  ‘She was so sorry for what she had done, sister,’ said Miss Phoebe, in a gentle tone of reproach; she was always faithful to Molly.

  ‘Well, and did I say she wasn’t? but was there any need for her to be stupid all the evening after?’

  ‘But you were rather sharp—rather displeased———’

  ‘And I think it my duty to be sharp, aye, and cross too, when I see young folks careless. And when I see my duty clear I do it; I’m not one to shrink from it, and they ought to be grateful to me. It’s not every one that will take the trouble of reproving them, as Mrs. Goodenough knows. I’m very fond of Molly Gibson, very, for her own sake and for her mother’s too; I’m not sure if I don’t think she’s worth half a dozen Cynthias, but for all that she shouldn’t break my best china teacup, and then sit doing nothing for her livelihood all the rest of the evening.’

  By this time Mrs. Goodenough gave evident signs of being tired; Molly’s misdemeanours and Miss Browning’s broken teacup were not as exciting subjects of conversation as Mrs. Gibson’s newly-discovered good luck in having a successful London lawyer for a relation.

  Mr. Kirkpatrick had been like many other men, struggling on in his profession, and encumbered with a large family of his own; he was ready to do a good turn for his connexions, if it occasioned him no loss of time, and if (which was, perhaps, a primary condition) he remembered their existence. Cynthia’s visit to Doughty Street nine or ten years ago had not made much impression upon him after he had once suggested its feasibility to his good-natured wife. He was even rather startled every now and then by the appearance of a pretty little girl amongst his own children, as they trooped in to dessert and had to remind himself who she was. But as it was his custom to leave the table almost immediately and to retreat into a small back room called his study, to immerse himself in papers for the rest of the evening, the child had not made much impression upon him; and probably the next time he remembered her existence was when Mrs. Kirkpatrick wrote to him to beg him to receive Cynthia for a night on her way to school at Boulogne. The same request was repeated on her return; but it so happened that he had not seen her either time; and only dimly remembered some remarks which his wife had made on one of these occasions, that it seemed to her rather hazardous to send so young a girl so long a journey without making more provision for her safety than Mrs. Kirkpatrick had done. He knew that his wife would fill up all deficiencies in this respect as if Cynthia had been her own daughter; and thought no more about her until he received an invitation to attend Mrs. Kirkpatrick’s wedding with Mr. Gibson, the highly esteemed surgeon of Hollingford, &c. &c.—an attention which irritated instead of pleasing him. ‘Does the woman think I have nothing to do but run about the country in search of brides and bridegrooms, when this great case of Houghton v. Houghton is coming on, and I haven’t a moment to spare?’ he asked of his wife.

  ‘Perhaps she never heard of it,’ suggested Mrs. Kirkpatrick.

  ‘Nonsense! the case has been in the paper for days.’

  ‘But she mayn’t know you are engaged in it.’

  ‘She mayn’t,’ said he, meditatively—such ignorance was possible.

  But now the great case of Houghton v. Houghton was a thing of the past; the hard struggle was over, the comparative tableland of Q.C.-dom gained, and Mr. Kirkpatrick had leisure for family feeling and recollection. One day in the Easter vacation he found himself near Hollingford; he had a Sunday to spare, and he wrote to offer himself as a visitor to the Gibsons from Friday to Monday, expressing strongly (what he really felt, in a less degree) his wish to make Mr. Gibson’s acquaintance. Mr. Gibson, though often overwhelmed with professional business, was always hospitable; and moreover, it was always a pleasure to him to get out of the somewhat confined mental atmosphere which he had breathed over and over again, and have a whiff of fresh air: a glimpse of what was passing in the great world beyond his daily limits of thought and action. So he was ready to give a cordial welcome to his unknown relation. Mrs. Gibson was in a flutter of sentimental delight, which she fancied was family action, but which might not have been quite so effervescent if Mr. Kirkpatrick had remained in his former position of struggling lawyer, with seven children, living in Doughty Street.

  When the two gentlemen met they were attracted towards each other by a similarity of character, with just enough difference in their opinions to make the experience of each, on which such opinions were based, valuable to the other. To Mrs. Gibson, although the bond between them counted for very little in their intercourse, Mr. Kirkpatrick paid very polite attention; and was, in fact, very glad that she had done so well for herself as to marry a sensible and agreeable man, who was able to keep her in comfort, and to behave to her daughter in so liberal a manner. Molly struck him as a delicate-looking girl, who might be very pretty if she h
ad a greater look of health and animation; indeed, looking at her critically, there were beautiful points about her face—long soft grey eyes, black curling eyelashes, rarely-showing dimples, perfect teeth; but there was a languor over all, a slow depression of manner, which contrasted unfavourably with the brightly-coloured Cynthia, sparkling, quick, graceful, and witty. As Mr. Kirkpatrick expressed it afterwards to his wife, he was quite in love with that girl; and Cynthia, as ready to captivate strangers as any little girl of three or four, rose to the occasion, forgot all her cares and despondencies, remembered no longer her regret at having lost something of Mr. Gibson’s good opinion, and listened eagerly and made soft replies, intermixed with naive sallies of droll humour, till Mr. Kirkpatrick was quite captivated. He left Hollingford, almost surprised to have performed a duty and found it a pleasure. For Mrs. Gibson and Molly he had a general friendly feeling; but he did not care if he never saw them again. But for Mr. Gibson he had a warm respect, a strong personal liking, which he should be glad to have ripen into a friendship, if there was time for it in this bustling world. And he fully resolved to see more of Cynthia; his wife must know her; they must have her up to stay with them in London, and show her something of the world. But, on returning home, Mr. Kirkpatrick found so much work awaiting him that he had to lock up embryo friendships and kindly plans in some safe closet of his mind, and gave himself up, body and soul, to the immediate work of his profession. But, in May, he found time to take his wife to the Academy Exhibition,dk and some portrait there striking him as being like Cynthia, he told his wife more about her and his visit to Hollingford than he had ever had leisure to do before; and the result was that on the next day a letter was sent off to Mrs. Gibson, inviting Cynthia to pay a visit to her cousins in London, and reminding her of many little circumstances that had occurred when she was with them as a child, so as to carry on the clue of friendship from that time to the present.