Wives and Daughters

by Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  MR. OSBORNE'S SECRET.

  [Illustration (untitled)]

  Osborne and Roger came to the Hall; Molly found Roger establishedthere when she returned after this absence at home. She gatheredthat Osborne was coming; but very little was said about him in anyway. The Squire scarcely ever left his wife's room; he sat by her,watching her, and now and then moaning to himself. She was so muchunder the influence of opiates that she did not often rouse up; butwhen she did, she almost invariably asked for Molly. On these rareoccasions, she would ask after Osborne--where he was, if he had beentold, and if he was coming? In her weakened and confused state ofintellect she seemed to have retained two strong impressions--one,of the sympathy with which Molly had received her confidence aboutOsborne; the other, of the anger which her husband entertainedagainst 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 hisbrother, while she remembered Molly's eager defence, which she hadthought hopelessly improbable at the time. At any rate, she madeMolly her confidante about her first-born. She sent her to ask Rogerhow soon he would come, for she seemed to know perfectly well that hewas 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 lengthMolly came upon Roger sitting in the library, his head buried in hishands. 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 allruffled up and in disorder.

  "I've been wanting to see you alone," she began. "Your mother doesso want some news of your brother Osborne. She told me last week toask you about him, but I did not like to speak of him before yourfather."

  "She has hardly ever named him to me."

  "I don't know why; for to me she used to talk of him perpetually. Ihave seen so little of her this week, and I think she forgets a greatdeal now. Still, if you don't mind, I should like to be able to tellher something if she asks me again."

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

  "What does she want to know?" said he, at last. "Does she know thatOsborne 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, butI'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 wherehe'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 thehouse almost, without knowing that much. For that and for otherreasons 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 withyour father. He said she had rallied more than he had ever expected.You're not afraid of any change that makes you so anxious forOsborne's coming?"

  "No. It's only for her that I asked. She did seem so to crave fornews of him. I think she dreamed of him; and then when she wakenedit was a relief to her to talk about him to me. She always seemed toassociate me with him. We used to speak so much of him when we weretogether."

  "I don't know what we should any of us have done without you. You'vebeen 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 thinkshe often takes you for her. It was partly that, and partly that atsuch a time as this one can't stand on formalities, that made me callyou Molly. I hope you don't mind it?"

  "No; I like it. But will you tell me something more about yourbrother? She really hungers for news of him."

  "She'd better ask me herself. Yet, no! I am so involved by promisesof secrecy, Molly, that I couldn't satisfy her if she once began toquestion me. I believe he's in Belgium, and that he went there abouta fortnight ago, partly to avoid his creditors. You know my fatherhas 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 withouthaving recourse to steps which he would exceedingly recoil from. Yetfor the time it places Osborne in a very awkward position."

  "I think what vexes your father a good deal is some mystery as to howthe money was spent."

  "If my mother ever says anything about that part of the affair," saidRoger, hastily, "assure her from me that there's nothing of vice orwrong-doing about it. I can't say more: I'm tied. But set her mind atease 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 beforeyou came, when your father seemed so angry. And now, whenever shesees me she wants to talk on the old subject; but she doesn'tremember so clearly. If she were to see him, I don't believe shewould 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 bedirected against her.

  "I don't know," said Roger. "My mother's illness may alter him; buthe didn't easily forgive us formerly. I remember once--but that isnothing to the purpose. I can't help fancying that he has put himselfunder some strong restraint for my mother's sake, and that he won'texpress much. But it doesn't follow that he will forget it. My fatheris a man of few affections, but what he has are very strong; he feelsanything that touches him on these points deeply and permanently.That unlucky valuing of the property! It has given my father the ideaof 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 anythingof the kind. But my father expressed his suspicions in languagethat irritated Osborne; and he doesn't speak out, and won't justifyhimself even as much as he might; and, much as he loves me, I've butlittle influence over him, or else he would tell my father all. Well,we must leave it to time," he added, sighing. "My mother would havebrought us all right, if she'd been what she once was."

  He turned away, leaving Molly very sad. She knew that every member ofthe family she cared for so much was in trouble, out of which she sawno exit; and her small power of helping them was diminishing day byday as Mrs. Hamley sank more and more under the influence of opiatesand stupefying illness. Her father had spoken to her only this veryday of the desirableness of her returning home for good. Mrs. Gibsonwanted her--for no particular reason, but for many small fragments ofreasons. Mrs. Hamley had ceased to want her much, only occasionallyappearing to remember her existence. Her position (her fatherthought--the idea had not entered her head) in a family of whichthe only woman was an invalid confined to bed, was becoming awkward.But Molly had begged hard to remain two or three days longer--onlythat--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 ofearthly 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 lookround 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 ortwo he asked,--

  "I don't like to take
you away while you even fancy you can be of useor comfort to one who has been so kind to you; but, if she hasn'twanted you before Friday, will you be convinced, will you come homewillingly?"

  "If I go then, I may see her once again, even if she hasn't asked forme?" inquired Molly.

  "Yes, of course. You must make no noise, no step; but you may go inand see her. I must tell you, I'm almost certain she won't ask foryou."

  "But she may, papa. I will go home on Friday, if she does not. Ithink she will."

  So Molly hung about the house, trying to do all she could out of thesick-room, for the comfort of those in it. They only came out formeals, or for necessary business, and found little time for talkingto her, so her life was solitary enough, waiting for the call thatnever came. The evening of the day on which she had had the aboveconversation with Roger, Osborne arrived. He came straight intothe drawing-room, where Molly was seated on the rug, reading byfirelight, as she did not like to ring for candles merely for herown use. Osborne came in, with a kind of hurry, which almost madehim 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 holdof both her hands, leading her into the full flickering light, andstraining his eyes to look into her face.

  "How is she? You will tell me--you must know the truth! I'vetravelled day and night since I got your father's letter."

  Before she could frame her answer, he had sate down in the nearestchair, covering his eyes with his hand.

  "She's very ill," said Molly. "That you know; but I don't think shesuffers 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. "Yourbrother was away, too. I think no one knew how ill she was--she hadbeen 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 comehome, I should have told her all. Does my father know of my comingnow?"

  "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'sarrival, 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 muchexhausted, too much oppressed by his feelings, and also too muchestranged by his father's angry, suspicious letters. If he had comeforward with any manifestation of feeling at this moment, everythingmight have been different. But he waited for his father to see himbefore he uttered a word. All that the Squire said when his eye fellupon him at last was,--

  "You here, sir!"

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

  "For I think I forget everything now!" said the poor Squire, puttinghis hand up to his head. "For the life of me, I can't rememberwhether we've had dinner or not; these long nights, and all thissorrow and watching, quite bewilder me."

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

  "Ay! I remember now. No! I won't have any more. Give Mr. Osborne whatwine he chooses. Perhaps _he_ can eat and drink." So the Squire wentaway upstairs with bitterness as well as sorrow in his heart.

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

  "You're sure I mayn't see her to-night?" he asked Molly, for thethird or fourth time.

  "No, indeed. I will go up again if you like it. But Mrs. Jones, thenurse Dr. Nicholls sent, is a very decided person. I went up whileyou were at dinner, and Mrs. Hamley had just taken her drops, and wason no account to be disturbed by seeing any one, much less by anyexcitement."

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

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

  "He has done since her last attack. I believe he reproaches himselffor not having been enough alarmed before."

  "You heard all the words he said to me; they were not much of awelcome, were they? And my dear mother, who always--whether I was toblame or not--I suppose Roger is sure to come home to-night?"

  "Quite sure."

  "You are staying here, are you not? Do you often see my mother, ordoes this omnipotent nurse keep you out too?"

  "Mrs. Hamley hasn't asked for me for three days now, and I don't gointo her room unless she asks. I'm leaving on Friday, I believe."

  "My mother was very fond of you, I know."

  After a while he said, in a voice that had a great deal of sensitivepain in its tone,--

  "I suppose--do you know whether she is quite conscious--quiteherself?"

  "Not always conscious," said Molly, tenderly. "She has to take somany opiates. But she never wanders, only forgets, and sleeps."

  "Oh, mother, mother!" said he, stopping suddenly, and hanging overthe fire, his hands on the chimney-piece.

  When Roger came home, Molly thought it time to retire. Poor girl!it was getting to be time for her to leave this scene of distressin which she could be of no use. She sobbed herself to sleep thisTuesday night. Two days more, and it would be Friday; and she wouldhave to wrench up the roots she had shot down into this ground. Theweather was bright the next morning; and morning and sunny weathercheer up young hearts. Molly sate in the dining-room making tea forthe gentlemen as they came down. She could not help hoping that theSquire and Osborne might come to a better understanding before sheleft; for after all, in the dissension between father and son, lay abitterer sting than in the illness sent by God. But though they metat the breakfast-table, they purposely avoided addressing each other.Perhaps the natural subject of conversation between the two, at sucha time, would have been Osborne's long journey the night before; buthe had never spoken of the place he had come from, whether north,south, east, or west, and the Squire did not choose to allude toanything that might bring out what his son wished to conceal. Again,there was an unexpressed idea in both their minds that Mrs. Hamley'spresent illness was much aggravated, if not entirely brought on, bythe discovery of Osborne's debts; so, many inquiries and answers onthat head were tabooed. In fact, their attempts at easy conversationwere limited to local subjects, and principally addressed to Mollyor Roger. Such intercourse was not productive of pleasure, or evenof friendly feeling, though there was a thin outward surface ofpoliteness and peace. Long before the day was over, Molly wished thatshe had acceded to her father's proposal, and gone home with him.No one seemed to want her. Mrs. Jones, the nurse, assured her timeafter time that Mrs. Hamley had never named her name; and her smallservices in the sick-room were not required since there was a regularnurse. Osborne and Roger seemed all in all to each other; and Mollynow felt how much the short conversations she had had with Roger hadserved to give her something to think about, all during the remainderof her solitary days. Osborne was extremely polite, and evenexpressed his gratitude to her for her attentions to his mother ina very pleasant manner; but he appeared to be unwilling to showher any of the deeper feelings of his heart, and almost ashamed ofhis exhibition of emotion t
he night before. He spoke to her as anyagreeable young man speaks to any pleasant young lady; but Mollyalmost resented this. It was only the Squire who seemed to make herof any account. He gave her letters to write, small bills to reckonup; and she could have kissed his hands for thankfulness.

  The last afternoon of her stay at the Hall came. Roger had gone outon the Squire's business. Molly went into the garden, thinking overthe last summer, when Mrs. Hamley's sofa used to be placed underthe old cedar-tree on the lawn, and when the warm air seemed to bescented with roses and sweetbriar. Now, the trees leafless, there wasno sweet odour in the keen frosty air; and looking up at the house,there were the white sheets of blinds, shutting out the pale wintersky from the invalid's room. Then she thought of the day her fatherhad brought her the news of his second marriage: the thicket wastangled with dead weeds and rime and hoar-frost; and the beautifulfine articulations of branches and boughs and delicate twigs wereall intertwined in leafless distinctness against the sky. Could sheever be so passionately unhappy again? Was it goodness, or was itnumbness, that made her feel as though life was too short to betroubled much about anything? Death seemed the only reality. She hadneither energy nor heart to walk far or briskly; and turned backtowards the house. The afternoon sun was shining brightly on thewindows; and, stirred up to unusual activity by some unknown cause,the housemaids had opened the shutters and windows of the generallyunused library. The middle window was also a door; the white-paintedwood went halfway up. Molly turned along the little flag-paved paththat led past the library windows to the gate in the white railingsat the front of the house, and went in at the opened door. She hadhad leave given to choose out any books she wished to read, and totake them home with her; and it was just the sort of half-dawdlingemployment suited to her taste this afternoon. She mounted on theladder to get to a particular shelf high up in a dark corner of theroom; and finding there some volume that looked interesting, she satdown on the step to read part of it. There she sat, in her bonnet andcloak, when Osborne suddenly came in. He did not see her at first;indeed, he seemed in such a hurry that he probably might not havenoticed her at all, if she had not spoken.

  "Am I in your way? I only came here for a minute to look for somebooks." She came down the steps as she spoke, still holding the bookin her hand.

  "Not at all. It is I who am disturbing you. I must just write aletter for the post, and then I shall be gone. Is not this open doortoo cold for you?"

  "Oh, no. It is so fresh and pleasant."

  She began to read again, sitting on the lowest step of the ladder;he to write at the large old-fashioned writing-table close to thewindow. There was a minute or two of profound silence, in which therapid scratching of Osborne's pen upon the paper was the only sound.Then came a click of the gate, and Roger stood at the open door. Hisface was towards Osborne, sitting in the light; his back to Molly,crouched up in her corner. He held out a letter, and said in hoarsebreathlessness--

  "Here's a letter from your wife, Osborne. I went past the post-officeand thought--"

  Osborne stood up, angry dismay upon his face:--

  "Roger! what have you done! Don't you see her?"

  Roger looked round, and Molly stood up in her corner, red, trembling,miserable, as though she were a guilty person. Roger entered theroom. All three seemed to be equally dismayed. Molly was the first tospeak; she came forward and said--

  "I am so sorry! I didn't wish to hear it, but I couldn't help it. Youwill trust me, won't you?" and turning to Roger she said to him withtears in her eyes--"Please say you know I shall not tell."

  "We can't help it," said Osborne, gloomily. "Only Roger, who knewof what importance it was, ought to have looked round him beforespeaking."

  "So I should," said Roger. "I'm more vexed with myself than you canconceive. Not but what I'm as sure of you as of myself," continuedhe, turning to Molly.

  "Yes; but," said Osborne, "you see how many chances there arethat even the best-meaning persons may let out what it is of suchconsequence to me to keep secret."

  "I know you think it so," said Roger.

  "Well, don't let us begin that old discussion again--at any rate,before a third person."

  Molly had had hard work all this time to keep from crying. Now thatshe was alluded to as the third person before whom conversation wasto be restrained, she said--

  "I'm going away. Perhaps I ought not to have been here. I'm verysorry--very. But I'll try and forget what I've heard."

  "You can't do that," said Osborne, still ungraciously. "But will youpromise me never to speak about it to any one--not even to me, or toRoger? Will you try to act and speak as if you had never heard it?I'm sure, from what Roger has told me about you, that if you give methis promise I may rely upon it."

  "Yes; I will promise," said Molly, putting out her hand as a kind ofpledge. Osborne took it, but rather as if the action was superfluous.She added, "I think I should have done so, even without a promise.But it is, perhaps, better to bind oneself. I will go away now. Iwish I'd never come into this room."

  She put down her book on the table very softly, and turned to leavethe room, choking down her tears until she was in the solitude of herown chamber. But Roger was at the door before her, holding it openfor her, and reading--she felt that he was reading--her face. He heldout his hand for hers, and his firm grasp expressed both sympathy andregret for what had occurred.

  She could hardly keep back her sobs till she reached her bedroom. Herfeelings had been overwrought for some time past, without finding thenatural vent in action. The leaving Hamley Hall had seemed so sadbefore; and now she was troubled with having to bear away a secretwhich she ought never to have known, and the knowledge of which hadbrought out a very uncomfortable responsibility. Then there wouldarise a very natural wonder as to who Osborne's wife was. Molly hadnot stayed so long and so intimately in the Hamley family withoutbeing well aware of the manner in which the future lady of Hamley wasplanned for. The Squire, for instance, partly in order to show thatOsborne, his heir, was above the reach of Molly Gibson, the doctor'sdaughter, in the early days before he knew Molly well, had oftenalluded to the grand, the high, and the wealthy marriage which Hamleyof Hamley, as represented by his clever, brilliant, handsome sonOsborne, might be expected to make. Mrs. Hamley, too, unconsciouslyon her part, showed the projects that she was constantly devising forthe reception of the unknown daughter-in-law that was to be.

  "The drawing-room must be refurnished when Osborne marries"--or"Osborne's wife will like to have the west suite of rooms to herself;it will perhaps be a trial to her to live with the old couple; but wemust arrange it so that she will feel it as little as possible."--"Ofcourse, when Mrs. Osborne comes we must try and give her a newcarriage; the old one does well enough for us."--These, and similarspeeches had given Molly the impression of the future Mrs. Osborne asof some beautiful grand young lady, whose very presence would makethe old Hall into a stately, formal mansion, instead of the pleasant,unceremonious home that it was at present. Osborne, too, who hadspoken with such languid criticism to Mrs. Gibson about variouscountry belles, and even in his own home was apt to give himselfairs--only at home his airs were poetically fastidious, while withMrs. Gibson they had been socially fastidious--what unspeakablyelegant beauty had he chosen for his wife? Who had satisfied him; andyet satisfying him, had to have her marriage kept in concealment fromhis parents? At length Molly tore herself up from her wonderings. Itwas of no use: she could not find out; she might not even try. Theblank wall of her promise blocked up the way. Perhaps it was not evenright to wonder, and endeavour to remember slight speeches, casualmentions of a name, so as to piece them together into somethingcoherent. Molly dreaded seeing either of the brothers again; but theyall met at dinner-time as if nothing had happened. The Squire wastaciturn, either from melancholy or displeasure. He had never spokento Osborne since his return, excepting about the commonest trifles,when intercourse could not be avoided; and his wife's state oppressedhim like a heavy cloud coming over the light of his
day. Osborne puton an indifferent manner to his father, which Molly felt sure wasassumed; but it was not conciliatory for all that. Roger, quiet,steady, and natural, talked more than all the others; but he toowas uneasy, and in distress on many accounts. To-day he principallyaddressed himself to Molly; entering into rather long narrations oflate discoveries in natural history, which kept up the current oftalk without requiring much reply from any one. Molly had expectedOsborne to look something different from usual--conscious, orashamed, or resentful, or even "married"--but he was exactly theOsborne of the morning--handsome, elegant, languid in manner and inlook; cordial with his brother, polite towards her, secretly uneasyat the state of things between his father and himself. She wouldnever have guessed the concealed romance which lay _perdu_ underthat every-day behaviour. She had always wished to come into directcontact with a love-story: here she had, and she only found it veryuncomfortable; there was a sense of concealment and uncertainty aboutit all; and her honest straightforward father, her quiet life atHollingford, which, even with all its drawbacks, was above-board,and where everybody knew what everybody was doing, seemed secure andpleasant in comparison. Of course she felt great pain at quittingthe Hall, and at the mute farewell she had taken of her sleepingand unconscious friend. But leaving Mrs. Hamley now was a differentthing to what it had been a fortnight ago. Then she was wanted at anymoment, and felt herself to be of comfort. Now her very existenceseemed forgotten by the poor lady whose body appeared to be living solong after her soul.

  She was sent home in the carriage, loaded with true thanks from everyone of the family. Osborne ransacked the greenhouses for flowers forher; Roger had chosen her out books of every kind. The Squire himselfkept shaking her hand, without being able to speak his gratitude,till at last he took her in his arms, and kissed her as he would havedone a daughter.