Wives and Daughters

by Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell

  CHAPTER LIX.

  MOLLY GIBSON AT HAMLEY HALL.

  The conversation ended there for the time. Wedding-cake and wine werebrought in, and it was Molly's duty to serve them out. But those lastwords of Mrs. Goodenough's tingled in her ears, and she tried tointerpret them to her own satisfaction in any way but the obviousone. And that, too, was destined to be confirmed; for directly afterMrs. Goodenough took her leave, Mrs. Gibson desired Molly to carryaway the tray to a table close to an open corner window, where thethings might be placed in readiness for any future callers; andunderneath this open window went the path from the house-door to theroad. Molly heard Mrs. Goodenough saying to her grand-daughter,--

  "That Mrs. Gibson is a deep 'un. There's Mr. Roger Hamley as like asnot to have the Hall estate, and she sends Molly a-visiting--" andthen she passed out of hearing. Molly could have burst out crying,with a full sudden conviction of what Mrs. Goodenough had beenalluding to: her sense of the impropriety of Molly's going to visitat the Hall when Roger was at home. To be sure, Mrs. Goodenough was acommonplace, unrefined woman. Mrs. Gibson did not seem to have evennoticed the allusion. Mr. Gibson took it all as a matter of coursethat Molly should go to the Hall as simply now, as she had donebefore. Roger had spoken of it in so straightforward a manner asshowed he had no conception of its being an impropriety,--thisvisit,--this visit until now so happy a subject of anticipation.Molly felt as if she could never speak to any one of the idea towhich Mrs. Goodenough's words had given rise; as if she could neverbe the first to suggest the notion of impropriety, which presupposedwhat she blushed to think of. Then she tried to comfort herself byreasoning. If it had been wrong, forward, or indelicate, reallyimproper in the slightest degree, who would have been so ready as herfather to put his veto upon it? But reasoning was of no use afterMrs. Goodenough's words had put fancies into Molly's head. The moreshe bade these fancies begone the more they answered her (as DanielO'Rourke did the man in the moon, when he bade Dan get off his seaton the sickle, and go into empty space):--"The more ye ask us themore we won't stir." One may smile at a young girl's miseries of thiskind; but they are very real and stinging miseries to her. All thatMolly could do was to resolve on a single eye to the dear old Squire,and his mental and bodily comforts; to try and heal up any breacheswhich might have occurred between him and Aimee; and to ignore Rogeras much as possible. Good Roger! Kind Roger! Dear Roger! It wouldbe very hard to avoid him as much as was consistent with commonpoliteness; but it would be right to do it; and when she was withhim she must be as natural as possible, or he might observe somedifference; but what was natural? How much ought she avoid being withhim? Would he even notice if she was more chary of her company, morecalculating of her words? Alas! the simplicity of their intercoursewas spoilt henceforwards! She made laws for herself; she resolvedto devote herself to the Squire and to Aimee, and to forget Mrs.Goodenough's foolish speeches; but her perfect freedom was gone; andwith it half her chance--that is to say, half her chance would havebeen lost over any strangers who had not known her before; they wouldprobably have thought her stiff and awkward, and apt to say thingsand then retract them. But she was so different from her usual selfthat Roger noticed the change in her as soon as she arrived at theHall. She had carefully measured out the days of her visit; they wereto be exactly the same number as she had spent at the Towers. Shefeared lest if she stayed at the Hall a shorter time the Squire mightbe annoyed. Yet how charming the place looked in its early autumnalglow as she drove up! And there was Roger at the hall-door, waitingto receive her, watching for her coming. And now he retreated,apparently to summon his sister-in-law, who came now timidly forwardsin her deep widow's mourning, holding her boy in her arms as if toprotect her shyness; but he struggled down, and ran towards thecarriage, eager to greet his friend the coachman, and to obtain apromised ride. Roger did not say much himself; he wanted to makeAimee feel her place as daughter of the house; but she was too timidto speak much. And she only took Molly by the hand and led her intothe drawing-room, where, as if by a sudden impulse of gratitude forall the tender nursing she had received during her illness, she puther arms round Molly and kissed her long and well. And after thatthey came to be friends.

  It was nearly lunch-time, and the Squire always made his appearanceat that meal, more for the pleasure of seeing his grandson eat hisdinner than for any hunger of his own. To-day Molly quickly saw thewhole state of the family affairs. She thought that even had Rogersaid nothing about them at the Towers, she should have seen thatneither the father nor the daughter-in-law had as yet found theclue to each other's characters, although they had now been livingfor several months in the same house. Aimee seemed to forget herEnglish in her nervousness; and to watch with the jealous eyes of adissatisfied mother all the proceedings of the Squire towards herlittle boy. They were not of the wisest kind, it must be owned; thechild sipped the strong ale with evident relish and clamoured foreverything which he saw the others enjoying. Aimee could hardlyattend to Molly for her anxiety as to what her boy was doing andeating; yet she said nothing. Roger took the end of the tableopposite to that at which sat grandfather and grandchild. After theboy's first wants were gratified the Squire addressed himself toMolly.

  "Well! and so you can come here a-visiting though you have been amongthe grand folks. I thought you were going to cut us, Miss Molly, whenI heard you was gone to the Towers. Couldn't find any other place tostay at while father and mother were away, but an earl's, eh?"

  "They asked me, and I went," said Molly; "now you've asked me, andI've come here."

  "I think you might ha' known you'd be always welcome here, withoutwaiting for asking. Why, Molly! I look upon you as a kind of adaughter more than Madam there!" dropping his voice a little,and perhaps supposing that the child's babble would drown thesignification of his words.--"Nay, you needn't look at me sopitifully, she doesn't follow English readily."

  "I think she does!" said Molly, in a low voice,--not looking up,however, for fear of catching another glimpse at Aimee's suddenforlornness of expression and deepened colour. She felt grateful,as if for a personal favour, when she heard Roger speaking to Aimeethe moment afterwards in the tender tones of brotherly friendliness;and presently these two were sufficiently engaged in a separateconversation to allow Molly and the Squire to go on talking.

  "He's a sturdy chap, isn't he?" said the Squire, stroking the littleRoger's curly head. "And he can puff four puffs at grandpapa's pipewithout being sick, can't he?"

  "I s'ant puff any more puffs," said the boy, resolutely. "Mamma says'No.' I s'ant."

  "That's just like her!" said the Squire, dropping his voice this timehowever. "As if it could do the child any harm!"

  Molly made a point of turning the conversation from all personalsubjects after this, and kept the Squire talking about the progressof his drainage during the rest of lunch. He offered to take her tosee it; and she acceded to the proposal, thinking, meantime, howlittle she need have anticipated the being thrown too intimately withRoger, who seemed to devote himself to his sister-in-law. But, inthe evening, when Aimee had gone upstairs to put her boy to bed, andthe Squire was asleep in his easy-chair, a sudden flush of memorybrought Mrs. Goodenough's words again to her mind. She was virtuallytete-a-tete with Roger, as she had been dozens of times before, butnow she could not help assuming an air of constraint; her eyes didnot meet his in the old frank way; she took up a book at a pause inthe conversation, and left him puzzled and annoyed at the changein her manner. And so it went on during all the time of her visit.If sometimes she forgot, and let herself go into all her oldnaturalness, by-and-by she checked herself, and became comparativelycold and reserved. Roger was pained at all this--more pained dayafter day; more anxious to discover the cause. Aimee, too, silentlynoticed how different Molly became in Roger's presence. One day shecould not help saying to Molly,--

  "Don't you like Roger? You would, if you only knew how good he is! Heis learned, but that is nothing: it is his goodness that one admiresand loves."

 
"He is very good," said Molly. "I have known him long enough to knowthat."

  "But you don't think him agreeable? He is not like my poor husband,to be sure; and you knew him well, too. Ah! tell me about him onceagain. When you first knew him? When his mother was alive?"

  Molly had grown very fond of Aimee; when the latter was at her easeshe had very charming and attaching ways; but feeling uneasy in herposition in the Squire's house, she was almost repellent to him; andhe, too, put on his worst side to her. Roger was most anxious tobring them together, and had several consultations with Molly as tothe best means of accomplishing this end. As long as they talked uponthis subject, she spoke to him in the quiet sensible manner which sheinherited from her father; but when their discussions on this pointwere ended, she fell back into her piquant assumption of dignifiedreserve. It was very difficult for her to maintain this strangemanner, especially when once or twice she fancied that it gave himpain; and she would go into her own room and suddenly burst intotears on these occasions, and wish that her visit was ended, andthat she was once again in the eventless tranquillity of her ownhome. Yet presently her fancy changed, and she clung to the swiftlypassing hours, as if she would still retain the happiness of each.For, unknown to her, Roger was exerting himself to make her visitpleasant. He was not willing to appear as the instigator of all thelittle plans for each day, for he felt as if, somehow, he did nothold the same place in her regard as formerly. Still, one day Aimeesuggested a nutting expedition--another day they gave little Rogerthe unheard-of pleasure of tea out-of-doors--there was something elseagreeable for a third; and it was Roger who arranged all these simplepleasures--such as he knew Molly would enjoy. But to her he onlyappeared as the ready forwarder of Aimee's devices. The week wasnearly gone, when one morning the Squire found Roger sitting in theold library--with a book before him, it is true, but so deep inthought that he was evidently startled by his father's unexpectedentrance.

  "I thought I should find thee here, my lad! We'll have the old roomdone up again before winter; it smells musty enough, and yet Isee it's the place for thee! I want thee to go with me round thefive-acre. I'm thinking of laying it down in grass. It's time for youto be getting into the fresh air, you look quite wobegone over books,books, books; there never was a thing like 'em for stealing a man'shealth out of him!"

  So Roger went out with his father, without saying many words tillthey were at some distance from the house. Then he brought out asentence with such abruptness that he repaid his father for the startthe latter had given him a quarter of an hour before.

  "Father, you remember I'm going out again to the Cape next month! Youspoke of doing up the library. If it is for me, I shall be away allthe winter."

  "Can't you get off it?" pleaded his father. "I thought maybe you'dforgotten all about it."

  "Not likely!" said Roger, half smiling.

  "Well, but they might have found another man to finish up your work."

  "No one can finish it but myself. Besides, an engagement is anengagement. When I wrote to Lord Hollingford to tell him I must comehome, I promised to go out again for another six months."

  "Ay. I know. And perhaps it will put it out of thy mind. It willalways be hard on me to part from thee. But I daresay it's best foryou."

  Roger's colour deepened. "You are alluding to--to MissKirkpatrick--Mrs. Henderson, I mean. Father, let me tell you oncefor all, I think that was rather a hasty affair. I'm pretty sure nowthat we were not suited to each other. I was wretched when I got herletter--at the Cape I mean--but I believe it was for the best."

  "That's right. That's my own boy," said the Squire turning round andshaking hands with his son with vehemence. "And now I'll tell youwhat I heard the other day, when I was at the magistrates' meeting.They were all saying she had jilted Preston."

  "I don't want to hear anything against her; she may have her faults,but I can never forget how I once loved her."

  "Well, well! Perhaps it's right. I was not so bad about it, was I,Roger? Poor Osborne need not ha' been so secret with me. I asked yourMiss Cynthia out here--and her mother and all--my bark is worse thanmy bite. For, if I had a wish on earth, it was to see Osborne marriedas befitted one of an old stock, and he went and chose out thisFrench girl, of no family at all, only a--"

  "Never mind what she was; look at what she is! I wonder you are notmore taken with her humility and sweetness, father!"

  "I don't even call her pretty," said the Squire uneasily, for hedreaded a repetition of the arguments which Roger had often used tomake him give Aimee her proper due of affection and position. "Nowyour Miss Cynthia was pretty, I will say that for her, the baggage!And to think that when you two lads flew right in your father's face,and picked out girls below you in rank and family, you should neitherof you have set your fancies on my little Molly there. I daresay Ishould ha' been angry enough at the time, but the lassie would ha'found her way to my heart, as never this French lady, nor t' otherone, could ha' done."

  Roger did not answer.

  "I don't see why you mightn't put up for her still. I'm humble enoughnow, and you're not heir as Osborne was who married a servant-maid.Don't you think you could turn your thoughts upon Molly Gibson,Roger?"

  "No!" said Roger, shortly. "It's too late--too late. Don't let ustalk any more of my marrying. Isn't this the five-acre field?" Andsoon he was discussing the relative values of meadow, arable andpasture land with his father, as heartily as if he had never knownMolly, or loved Cynthia. But the squire was not in such good spirits,and went but heavily into the discussion. At the end of it he saidapropos de bottes,--

  "But don't you think you could like her if you tried, Roger?"

  Roger knew perfectly well to what his father was alluding, but foran instant he was on the point of pretending to misunderstand. Atlength, however, he said, in a low voice,--

  "I shall never try, father. Don't let us talk any more about it. AsI said before, it's too late."

  The Squire was like a child to whom some toy has been refused;from time to time the thought of his disappointment in this matterrecurred to his mind; and then he took to blaming Cynthia as theprimary cause of Roger's present indifference to womankind.

  It so happened that on Molly's last morning at the Hall, she receivedher first letter from Cynthia--Mrs. Henderson. It was just beforebreakfast-time; Roger was out of doors, Aimee had not as yet comedown; Molly was alone in the dining-room, where the table was alreadylaid. She had just finished reading her letter when the Squire camein, and she immediately and joyfully told him what the morning hadbrought to her. But when she saw the Squire's face, she could havebitten her tongue out for having named Cynthia's name to him. Helooked vexed and depressed.

  "I wish I might never hear of her again--I do. She's been the baneof my Roger, that's what she has. I haven't slept half the night,and it's all her fault. Why, there's my boy saying now that he hasno heart for ever marrying, poor lad! I wish it had been you, Molly,my lads had taken a fancy for. I told Roger so t'other day, andI said that for all you were beneath what I ever thought to seethem marry,--well--it's of no use--it's too late, now, as he said.Only never let me hear that baggage's name again, that's all, andno offence to you either, lassie. I know you love the wench; butif you'll take an old man's word, you're worth a score of her. Iwish young men would think so too," he muttered as he went to theside-table to carve the ham, while Molly poured out the tea--herheart very hot all the time, and effectually silenced for a space.It was with the greatest difficulty that she could keep tears ofmortification from falling. She felt altogether in a wrong positionin that house, which had been like a home to her until this lastvisit. What with Mrs. Goodenough's remarks, and now this speech ofthe Squire's, implying--at least to her susceptible imagination--thathis father had proposed her as a wife to Roger, and that she had beenrejected--she was more glad than she could express, or even think,that she was going home this very morning. Roger came in from hiswalk while she was in this state of feeling. He saw in an instantthat something had di
stressed Molly; and he longed to have the oldfriendly right of asking her what it was. But she had effectuallykept him at too great a distance during the last few days for him tofeel at liberty to speak to her in the old straightforward brotherlyway; especially now, when he perceived her efforts to conceal herfeelings, and the way in which she drank her tea in feverish haste,and accepted bread only to crumble it about her plate, untouched. Itwas all that he could do to make talk under these circumstances; buthe backed up her efforts as well as he could until Aimee came down,grave and anxious: her boy had not had a good night, and did not seemwell; he had fallen into a feverish sleep now, or she could not haveleft him. Immediately the whole table was in a ferment. The Squirepushed away his plate, and could eat no more; Roger was tryingto extract a detail or a fact out of Aimee, who began to giveway to tears. Molly quickly proposed that the carriage, whichhad been ordered to take her home at eleven, should come roundimmediately--she had everything ready packed up, she said,--andbring back her father at once. By leaving directly, she said, it wasprobable they might catch him after he had returned from his morningvisits in the town, and before he had set off on his more distantround. Her proposal was agreed to, and she went upstairs to put onher things. She came down all ready into the drawing-room, expectingto find Aimee and the Squire there; but during her absence word hadbeen brought to the anxious mother and grandfather that the child hadwakened up in a panic, and both had rushed up to their darling. ButRoger was in the drawing-room awaiting Molly, with a large bunch ofthe choicest flowers.

  "Look, Molly!" said he, as she was on the point of leaving the roomagain, on finding him there alone. "I gathered these flowers for youbefore breakfast." He came to meet her reluctant advance.

  "Thank you!" said she. "You are very kind. I am very much obliged toyou."

  "Then you must do something for me," said he, determined not tonotice the restraint of her manner, and making the re-arrangement ofthe flowers which she held a sort of link between them, so that shecould not follow her impulse, and leave the room.

  "Tell me,--honestly as I know you will if you speak at all,--haven'tI done something to vex you since we were so happy at the Towerstogether?"

  His voice was so kind and true,--his manner so winning yet wistful,that Molly would have been thankful to tell him all. She believedthat he could have helped her more than any one to understand how sheought to behave rightly; he would have disentangled her fancies,--ifonly he himself had not lain at the very core and centre of all herperplexity and dismay. How could she tell him of Mrs. Goodenough'swords troubling her maiden modesty? How could she ever repeat whathis father had said that morning, and assure him that she, no morethan he, wished that their old friendliness should be troubled by thethought of a nearer relationship?

  "No, you never vexed me in my whole life, Roger," said she, lookingstraight at him for the first time for many days.

  "I believe you, because you say so. I have no right to ask further.Molly, will you give me back one of those flowers, as a pledge ofwhat you have said?"

  "Take whichever you like," said she, eagerly offering him the wholenosegay to choose from.

  "No; you must choose, and you must give it me."

  Just then the Squire came in. Roger would have been glad if Molly hadnot gone on so eagerly to ransack the bunch for the choicest flowerin his father's presence; but she exclaimed:

  "Oh, please, Mr. Hamley, do you know which is Roger's favouriteflower?"

  "No. A rose, I daresay. The carriage is at the door, and, Molly mydear, I don't want to hurry you, but--"

  "I know. Here, Roger,--here is a rose!

  ("And red as a rose was she.")

  I will find papa as soon as ever I get home. How is the little boy?"

  "I'm afraid he's beginning of some kind of a fever."

  And the Squire took her to the carriage, talking all the way of thelittle boy; Roger following, and hardly heeding what he was doing inthe answer to the question he kept asking himself: "Too late--or not?Can she ever forget that my first foolish love was given to one sodifferent?"

  While she, as the carriage rolled away, kept saying to herself,--"Weare friends again. I don't believe he will remember what the dearSquire took it into his head to suggest for many days. It is sopleasant to be on the old terms again! and what lovely flowers!"

  CHAPTER LX.

  ROGER HAMLEY'S CONFESSION.

  Roger had a great deal to think of as he turned away from lookingafter the carriage as long as it could be seen. The day before,he had believed that Molly had come to view all the symptoms ofhis growing love for her,--symptoms which he thought had been sopatent,--as disgusting inconstancy to the inconstant Cynthia; thatshe had felt that an attachment which could be so soon transferred toanother was not worth having; and that she had desired to mark allthis by her changed treatment of him, and so to nip it in the bud.But this morning her old sweet, frank manner had returned--in theirlast interview, at any rate. He puzzled himself hard to find out whatcould have distressed her at breakfast-time. He even went so far asto ask Robinson whether Miss Gibson had received any letters thatmorning; and when he heard that she had had one, he tried to believethat the letter was in some way the cause of her sorrow. So farso good. They were friends again after their unspoken difference;but that was not enough for Roger. He felt every day more and morecertain that she, and she alone, could make him happy. He had feltthis, and had partly given up all hope, while his father had beenurging upon him the very course he most desired to take. No need for"trying" to love her, he said to himself,--that was already done. Andyet he was very jealous on her behalf. Was that love worthy of herwhich had once been given to Cynthia? Was not this affair too mucha mocking mimicry of the last--again just on the point of leavingEngland for a considerable time--if he followed her now to her ownhome,--in the very drawing-room where he had once offered to Cynthia?And then by a strong resolve he determined on this course. Theywere friends now, and he kissed the rose that was her pledge offriendship. If he went to Africa, he ran some deadly chances; he knewbetter what they were now than he had done when he went before. Untilhis return he would not even attempt to win more of her love thanhe already had. But once safe home again, no weak fancies as towhat might or might not be her answer should prevent his runningall chances to gain the woman who was to him the one who excelledall. His was not the poor vanity that thinks more of the possiblemortification of a refusal than of the precious jewel of a bride thatmay be won. Somehow or another, please God to send him back safe, hewould put his fate to the touch. And till then he would be patient.He was no longer a boy to rush at the coveted object; he was a mancapable of judging and abiding.

  Molly sent her father, as soon as she could find him, to the Hall;and then sate down to the old life in the home drawing-room, whereshe missed Cynthia's bright presence at every turn. Mrs. Gibson wasin rather a querulous mood, which fastened itself upon the injury ofCynthia's letter being addressed to Molly, and not to herself.

  "Considering all the trouble I had with her trousseau, I think shemight have written to me."

  "But she did--her first letter was to you, mamma," said Molly, herreal thoughts still intent upon the Hall--upon the sick child--uponRoger, and his begging for the flower.

  "Yes, just a first letter, three pages long, with an account of hercrossing; while to you she can write about fashions, and how thebonnets are worn in Paris, and all sorts of interesting things. Butpoor mothers must never expect confidential letters, I have foundthat out."

  "You may see my letter, mamma," said Molly, "there is really nothingin it."

  "And to think of her writing, and crossing to you who don't value it,while my poor heart is yearning after my lost child! Really, life issomewhat hard to bear at times."

  Then there was silence--for a while.

  "Do tell me something about your visit, Molly. Is Roger veryheart-broken? Does he talk much about Cynthia?"

  "No. He does not mention her often; hardly ever, I think."


  "I never thought he had much feeling. If he had had, he would nothave let her go so easily."

  "I don't see how he could help it. When he came to see her after hisreturn, she was already engaged to Mr. Henderson--he had come downthat very day," said Molly, with perhaps more heat than the occasionrequired.

  "My poor head!" said Mrs. Gibson, putting her hands up to her head."One may see you've been stopping with people of robust health,and--excuse my saying it, Molly, of your friends--of unrefinedhabits, you've got to talk in so loud a voice. But do remember myhead, Molly. So Roger has quite forgotten Cynthia, has he? Oh! whatinconstant creatures men are! He will be falling in love with somegrandee next, mark my words! They are making a pet and a lion of him,and he's just the kind of weak young man to have his head turned byit all; and to propose to some fine lady of rank, who would no morethink of marrying him than of marrying her footman."

  "I don't think it is likely," said Molly, stoutly. "Roger is toosensible for anything of the kind."

  "That's just the fault I always found with him; sensible andcold-hearted! Now, that's a kind of character which may be veryvaluable, but which revolts me. Give me warmth of heart, even with alittle of that extravagance of feeling which misleads the judgment,and conducts into romance. Poor Mr. Kirkpatrick! That was justhis character. I used to tell him that his love for me was quiteromantic. I think I have told you about his walking five miles in therain to get me a muffin once when I was ill?"

  "Yes!" said Molly. "It was very kind of him."

  "So imprudent, too! Just what one of your sensible, cold-hearted,commonplace people would never have thought of doing. With his coughand all."

  "I hope he didn't suffer for it?" replied Molly, anxious at anycost to keep off the subject of the Hamleys, upon which she and herstepmother always disagreed, and on which she found it difficult tokeep her temper.

  "Yes, indeed, he did! I don't think he ever got over the cold hecaught that day. I wish you had known him, Molly. I sometimes wonderwhat would have happened if you had been my real daughter, andCynthia dear papa's, and Mr. Kirkpatrick and your own dear mother hadall lived. People talk a good deal about natural affinities. It wouldhave been a question for a philosopher." She began to think on theimpossibilities she had suggested.

  "I wonder how the poor little boy is?" said Molly, after a pause,speaking out her thought.

  "Poor little child! When one thinks how little his prolongedexistence is to be desired, one feels that his death would be aboon."

  "Mamma! what do you mean?" asked Molly, much shocked. "Why, every onecares for his life as the most precious thing! You have never seenhim! He is the bonniest, sweetest little fellow that can be! What doyou mean?"

  "I should have thought that the Squire would have desired abetter-born heir than the offspring of a servant,--with all his ideasabout descent and blood and family. And I should have thought that itwas a little mortifying to Roger--who must naturally have looked uponhimself as his brother's heir--to find a little interloping child,half French, half English, stepping into his shoes!"

  "You don't know how fond they are of him,--the Squire looks upon himas the apple of his eye."

  "Molly! Molly! pray don't let me hear you using such vulgarexpressions. When shall I teach you true refinement--that refinementwhich consists in never even thinking a vulgar, commonplace thing!Proverbs and idioms are never used by people of education. 'Apple ofhis eye!' I am really shocked."

  "Well, mamma, I'm very sorry; but after all, what I wanted to sayas strongly as I could was, that the Squire loves the little boy asmuch as his own child; and that Roger--oh! what a shame to think thatRoger--" And she stopped suddenly short, as if she were choked.

  "I don't wonder at your indignation, my dear!" said Mrs. Gibson."It is just what I should have felt at your age. But one learns thebaseness of human nature with advancing years. I was wrong, though,to undeceive you so early--but depend upon it, the thought I alludedto has crossed Roger Hamley's mind!"

  "All sorts of thoughts cross one's mind--it depends upon whether onegives them harbour and encouragement," said Molly.

  "My dear, if you must have the last word, don't let it be a truism.But let us talk on some more interesting subject. I asked Cynthia tobuy me a silk gown in Paris, and I said I would send her word whatcolour I fixed upon--I think dark blue is the most becoming to mycomplexion what do you say?"

  Molly agreed, sooner than take the trouble of thinking about thething at all; she was far too full of her silent review of all thetraits in Roger's character which had lately come under her notice,and that gave the lie direct to her stepmother's supposition. Justthen they heard Mr. Gibson's step downstairs. But it was some timebefore he made his entrance into the room where they were sitting.

  "How is little Roger?" said Molly, eagerly.

  "Beginning with scarlet fever, I'm afraid. It's well you left whenyou did, Molly. You've never had it. We must stop up all intercoursewith the Hall for a time. If there's one illness I dread, it isthis."

  "But you go and come back to us, papa."

  "Yes. But I always take plenty of precautions. However, no need totalk about risks that lie in the way of one's duty. It is unnecessaryrisks that we must avoid."

  "Will he have it badly?" asked Molly.

  "I can't tell. I shall do my best for the wee laddie."

  Whenever Mr. Gibson's feelings were touched, he was apt to recur tothe language of his youth. Molly knew now that he was much interestedin the case.

  For some days there was imminent danger to the little boy; for someweeks there was a more chronic form of illness to contend with; butwhen the immediate danger was over and the warm daily interest waspast, Molly began to realize that, from the strict quarantine herfather evidently thought it necessary to establish between the twohouses, she was not likely to see Roger again before his departurefor Africa. Oh! if she had but made more of the uncared-for days thatshe had passed with him at the Hall! Worse than uncared for; days onwhich she had avoided him; refused to converse freely with him; givenhim pain by her change of manner; for she had read in his eyes, heardin his voice, that he had been perplexed and pained, and now herimagination dwelt on and exaggerated the expression of his tones andlooks.

  One evening after dinner, her father said,--

  "As the country-people say, I've done a stroke of work to-day. RogerHamley and I have laid our heads together, and we've made a plan bywhich Mrs. Osborne and her boy will leave the Hall."

  "What did I say the other day, Molly?" said Mrs. Gibson,interrupting, and giving Molly a look of extreme intelligence.

  "And go into lodgings at Jennings' farm; not four hundred yards fromthe Park-field gate," continued Mr. Gibson. "The Squire and hisdaughter-in-law have got to be much better friends over the littlefellow's sick-bed; and I think he sees now how impossible it wouldbe for the mother to leave her child, and go and be happy in France,which has been the notion running in his head all this time. To buyher off, in fact. But that one night, when I was very uncertainwhether I could bring him through, they took to crying together,and condoling with each other; and it was just like tearing down acurtain that had been between them; they have been rather friendsthan otherwise ever since. Still Roger"--(Molly's cheeks grew warmand her eyes soft and bright; it was such a pleasure to hear hisname)--"and I both agree that his mother knows much better how tomanage the boy than his grandfather does. I suppose that was theone good thing she got from that hard-hearted mistress of hers. Shecertainly has been well trained in the management of children. Andit makes her impatient, and annoyed, and unhappy, when she seesthe Squire giving the child nuts and ale, and all sorts of sillyindulgences, and spoiling him in every possible way. Yet she's acoward, and doesn't speak out her mind. Now by being in lodgings, andhaving her own servants--nice pretty rooms they are, too; we went tosee them, and Mrs. Jennings promises to attend well to Mrs. OsborneHamley, and is very much honoured, and all that sort of thing--notten minutes' walk from the Hall, too, so that she and the little cha
pmay easily go backwards and forwards as often as they like, and yetshe may keep the control over the child's discipline and diet. Inshort, I think I've done a good day's work," he continued, stretchinghimself a little; and then with a shake rousing himself, and makingready to go out again, to see a patient who had sent for him in hisabsence.

  "A good day's work!" he repeated to himself as he ran downstairs."I don't know when I have been so happy!" For he had not told Mollyall that had passed between him and Roger. Roger had begun a freshsubject of conversation just as Mr. Gibson was hastening away fromthe Hall, after completing the new arrangement for Aimee and herchild.

  "You know that I set off next Tuesday, Mr. Gibson, don't you?" saidRoger, a little abruptly.

  "To be sure. I hope you'll be as successful in all your scientificobjects as you were the last time, and have no sorrows awaiting youwhen you come back."

  "Thank you. Yes. I hope so. You don't think there's any danger ofinfection now, do you?"

  "No! If the disease were to spread through the household, I thinkwe should have had some signs of it before now. One is never sure,remember, with scarlet fever."

  Roger was silent for a minute or two. "Should you be afraid," he saidat length, "of seeing me at your house?"

  "Thank you; but I think I would rather decline the pleasure of yoursociety there at present. It's only three weeks or a month sincethe child began. Besides, I shall be over here again before you go.I'm always on my guard against symptoms of dropsy. I have known itsupervene."

  "Then I shall not see Molly again!" said Roger, in a tone and with alook of great disappointment.

  Mr. Gibson turned his keen, observant eyes upon the young man, andlooked at him in as penetrating a manner as if he had been beginningwith an unknown illness. Then the doctor and the father compressedhis lips and gave vent to a long intelligent whistle. "Whew!" saidhe.

  Roger's bronzed cheeks took a deeper shade.

  "You will take a message to her from me, won't you? A message offarewell?" he pleaded.

  "Not I. I'm not going to be a message-carrier between any young manand young woman. I'll tell my womenkind I forbade you to come nearthe house, and that you're sorry to go away without bidding good-by.That's all I shall say."

  "But you do not disapprove?--I see you guess why. Oh! Mr. Gibson,just speak to me one word of what must be in your heart, though youare pretending not to understand why I would give worlds to see Mollyagain before I go."

  "My dear boy!" said Mr. Gibson, more affected than he liked to show,and laying his hand on Roger's shoulder. Then he pulled himself up,and said gravely enough,--

  "Mind, Molly is not Cynthia. If she were to care for you, she is notone who could transfer her love to the next comer."

  "You mean not as readily as I have done," replied Roger. "I only wishyou could know what a different feeling this is to my boyish love forCynthia."

  "I wasn't thinking of you when I spoke; but, however, as I might haveremembered afterwards that you were not a model of constancy, let ushear what you have to say for yourself."

  "Not much. I did love Cynthia very much. Her manners and her beautybewitched me; but her letters,--short, hurried letters,--sometimesshowing that she really hadn't taken the trouble to read minethrough,--I cannot tell you the pain they gave me! Twelve months'solitude, in frequent danger of one's life--face to face withdeath--sometimes ages a man like many years' experience. Still Ilonged for the time when I should see her sweet face again, and hearher speak. Then the letter at the Cape!--and still I hoped. But youknow how I found her, when I went to have the interview which Itrusted might end in the renewal of our relations,--engaged to Mr.Henderson. I saw her walking with him in your garden, coquetting withhim about a flower, just as she used to do with me. I can see thepitying look in Molly's eyes as she watched me; I can see it now. AndI could beat myself for being such a blind fool as to-- What must shethink of me? how she must despise me, choosing the false Duessa."

  "Come, come! Cynthia isn't so bad as that. She's a very fascinating,faulty creature."

  "I know! I know! I will never allow any one to say a word againsther. If I called her the false Duessa it was because I wanted toexpress my sense of the difference between her and Molly as stronglyas I could. You must allow for a lover's exaggeration. Besides, all Iwanted to say was,--Do you think that Molly, after seeing and knowingthat I had loved a person so inferior to herself, could ever bebrought to listen to me?"

  "I don't know. I can't tell. And even if I could, I wouldn't. Only ifit's any comfort to you, I may say what my experience has taught me.Women are queer, unreasoning creatures, and are just as likely as notto love a man who has been throwing away his affection."

  "Thank you, sir!" said Roger, interrupting him. "I see you mean togive me encouragement. And I had resolved never to give Molly a hintof what I felt till I returned,--and then to try and win her by everymeans in my power. I determined not to repeat the former scene in theformer place,--in your drawing-room,--however I might be tempted. Andperhaps, after all, she avoided me when she was here last."

  "Now, Roger, I've listened to you long enough. If you've nothingbetter to do with your time than to talk about my daughter, I have.When you come back it will be time enough to inquire how far yourfather would approve of such an engagement."

  "He himself urged it upon me the other day--but then I was indespair--I thought it was too late."

  "And what means you are likely to have of maintaining a wife?--Ialways thought that point was passed too lightly over when you formedyour hurried engagement to Cynthia. I'm not mercenary,--Molly hassome money independently of me,--that she by the way knows nothingof,--not much;--and I can allow her something. But all these thingsmust be left till your return."

  "Then you sanction my attachment?"

  "I don't know what you mean by sanctioning it. I can't help it. Isuppose losing one's daughter is a necessary evil. Still"--seeing thedisappointed expression on Roger's face--"it is but fair to you tosay, I'd rather give my child,--my only child, remember!--to you,than to any man in the world!"

  "Thank you!" said Roger, shaking hands with Mr. Gibson, almostagainst the will of the latter. "And I may see her, just once, beforeI go?"

  "Decidedly not. There I come in as doctor as well as father. No!"

  "But you will take a message, at any rate?"

  "To my wife and to her conjointly. I will not separate them. I willnot in the slightest way be a go-between."

  "Very well," said Roger. "Tell them both as strongly as you can howI regret your prohibition. I see I must submit. But if I don't comeback, I'll haunt you for having been so cruel."

  "Come, I like that. Give me a wise man of science in love! No onebeats him in folly. Good-by."

  "Good-by. You will see Molly this afternoon!"

  "To be sure. And you will see your father. But I don't heave suchportentous sighs at the thought."

  Mr. Gibson gave Roger's message to his wife and to Molly that eveningat dinner. It was but what the latter had expected, after all herfather had said of the very great danger of infection but now thather expectation came in the shape of a final decision, it took awayher appetite. She submitted in silence; but her observant fathernoticed that after this speech of his, she only played with the foodon her plate, and concealed a good deal of it under her knife andfork.

  "Lover _versus_ father!" thought he, half sadly. "Lover wins." Andhe, too, became indifferent to all that remained of his dinner. Mrs.Gibson pattered on and nobody listened.

  The day of Roger's departure came. Molly tried hard to forget itin working away at a cushion she was preparing as a present toCynthia; people did worsted-work in those days. One, two, three. One,two, three, four, five, six, seven; all wrong: she was thinking ofsomething else, and had to unpick it. It was a rainy day, too; andMrs. Gibson, who had planned to go out and pay some calls, had tostay indoors. This made her restless and fidgety. She kept goingbackwards and forwards to different windows in the drawing-room tolook at the weather,
as if she imagined that while it rained at onewindow, it might be fine weather at another.

  "Molly--come here! who is that man wrapped up in acloak,--there,--near the Park wall, under the beech-tree--he has beenthere this half-hour and more, never stirring, and looking at thishouse all the time! I think it's very suspicious."

  Molly looked, and in an instant recognized Roger under all his wraps.Her first instinct was to draw back. The next to come forwards, andsay--"Why, mamma, it's Roger Hamley! Look now--he's kissing his hand;he's wishing us good-by in the only way he can!" And she respondedto his sign; but she was not sure if he perceived her modest quietmovement, for Mrs. Gibson became immediately so demonstrative thatMolly fancied that her eager foolish pantomimic motions must absorball his attention.

  "I call this so attentive of him," said Mrs. Gibson, in the midst ofa volley of kisses of her hand. "Really, it is quite romantic. Itreminds me of former days--but he will be too late! I must send himaway; it is half-past twelve!" And she took out her watch and held itup, tapping it with her forefinger, and occupying the very centre ofthe window. Molly could only peep here and there, dodging now up, nowdown, now on this side, now on that, of the perpetually-moving arms.She fancied she saw something of a corresponding movement on Roger'spart. At length he went away slowly, slowly, and often looking back,in spite of the tapped watch. Mrs. Gibson at last retreated, andMolly quietly moved into her place to see his figure once more beforethe turn of the road hid it from her view. He, too, knew where thelast glimpse of Mr. Gibson's house was to be obtained, and once morehe turned, and his white handkerchief floated in the air. Molly wavedhers high up, with eager longing that it should be seen. And then,he was gone! and Molly returned to her worsted-work, happy, glowing,sad, content, and thinking to herself how sweet is--friendship!

  When she came to a sense of the present, Mrs. Gibson was saying,--

  "Upon my word, though Roger Hamley has never been a great favouriteof mine, this little attention of his has reminded me very forciblyof a very charming young man--a _soupirant_, as the French would callhim--Lieutenant Harper--you must have heard me speak of him, Molly?"

  "I think I have!" said Molly, absently.

  "Well, you remember how devoted he was to me when I was at Mrs.Duncombe's, my first situation, and I only seventeen. And when therecruiting party was ordered to another town, poor Mr. Harper cameand stood opposite the schoolroom window for nearly an hour, and Iknow it was his doing that the band played 'The girl I left behindme,' when they marched out the next day. Poor Mr. Harper! It wasbefore I knew dear Mr. Kirkpatrick! Dear me. How often my poor hearthas had to bleed in this life of mine! not but what dear papa is avery worthy man, and makes me very happy. He would spoil me, indeed,if I would let him. Still he is not as rich as Mr. Henderson."

  That last sentence contained the germ of Mrs. Gibson's presentgrievance. Having married Cynthia, as her mother put it--takingcredit to herself as if she had had the principal part in theachievement--she now became a little envious of her daughter's goodfortune in being the wife of a young, handsome, rich, and moderatelyfashionable man, who lived in London. She naively expressed herfeelings on this subject to her husband one day when she was reallynot feeling quite well, and when consequently her annoyances weremuch more present to her mind than her sources of happiness.

  "It is such a pity!" said she, "that I was born when I was. I shouldso have liked to belong to this generation."

  "That's sometimes my own feeling," said he. "So many new views seemto be opened in science, that I should like, if it were possible, tolive till their reality was ascertained, and one saw what they ledto. But I don't suppose that's your reason, my dear, for wishing tobe twenty or thirty years younger."

  "No, indeed. And I did not put it in that hard unpleasant way; I onlysaid I should like to belong to this generation. To tell the truth,I was thinking of Cynthia. Without vanity, I believe I was as prettyas she is--when I was a girl, I mean; I had not her dark eyelashes,but then my nose was straighter. And now look at the difference! Ihave to live in a little country town with three servants, and nocarriage; and she with her inferior good looks will live in SussexPlace, and keep a man and a brougham, and I don't know what. But thefact is, in this generation there are so many more rich young menthan there were when I was a girl."

  "Oh, ho! so that's your reason, is it, my dear? If you had been youngnow you might have married somebody as well off as Walter?"

  "Yes!" said she. "I think that was my idea. Of course I should haveliked him to be you. I always think if you had gone to the bar youmight have succeeded better, and lived in London, too. I don't thinkCynthia cares much where she lives, yet you see it has come to her."

  "What has--London?"

  "Oh, you dear, facetious man. Now that's just the thing to havecaptivated a jury. I don't believe Walter will ever be so cleveras you are. Yet he can take Cynthia to Paris, and abroad, andeverywhere. I only hope all this indulgence won't develope the faultsin Cynthia's character. It's a week since we heard from her, and Idid write so particularly to ask her for the autumn fashions before Ibought my new bonnet. But riches are a great snare."

  "Be thankful you are spared temptation, my dear."

  "No, I'm not. Everybody likes to be tempted. And, after all, it'svery easy to resist temptation, if one wishes."

  "I don't find it so easy," said her husband.

  "Here's medicine for you, mamma," said Molly, entering with a letterheld up in her hand. "A letter from Cynthia."

  "Oh, you dear little messenger of good news! There was one of theheathen deities in Mangnall's Questions whose office it was to bringnews. The letter is dated from Calais. They're coming home! She'sbought me a shawl and a bonnet! The dear creature! Always thinkingof others before herself: good fortune cannot spoil her. They've afortnight left of their holiday! Their house is not quite ready;they're coming here. Oh, now, Mr. Gibson, we must have the newdinner-service at Watts's I've set my heart on so long! 'Home'Cynthia calls this house. I'm sure it has been a home to her, poordarling! I doubt if there is another man in the world who would havetreated his step-daughter like dear papa! And, Molly, you must have anew gown."

  "Come, come! Remember I belong to the last generation," said Mr.Gibson.

  "And Cynthia will not notice what I wear," said Molly, bright withpleasure at the thought of seeing her again.

  "No! but Walter will. He has such a quick eye for dress, and I thinkI rival papa; if he's a good stepfather, I'm a good stepmother, andI could not bear to see my Molly shabby, and not looking her best.I must have a new gown too. It won't do to look as if we had nothingbut the dresses which we wore at the wedding!"

  But Molly stood out against the new gown for herself, and urgedthat if Cynthia and Walter were to come to visit them often, theyhad better see them as they really were, in dress, habits, andappointments. When Mr. Gibson had left the room, Mrs. Gibson softlyreproached Molly for her obstinacy.

  "You might have allowed me to beg for a new gown for you, Molly, whenyou knew how much I had admired that figured silk at Brown's theother day. And now, of course, I can't be so selfish as to get it formyself, and you to have nothing. You should learn to understand thewishes of other people. Still, on the whole, you are a dear, sweetgirl, and I only wish--well, I know what I wish; only dear papa doesnot like it to be talked about. And now cover me up close, and let mego to sleep, and dream about my dear Cynthia and my new shawl!"

  * * * * * *

  CONCLUDING REMARKS:

  [By the Editor of _The Cornhill Magazine_.]

  Here the story is broken off, and it can never be finished. Whatpromised to be the crowning work of a life is a memorial of death. Afew days longer, and it would have been a triumphal column, crownedwith a capital of festal leaves and flowers: now it is another sortof column--one of those sad white pillars which stand broken in thechurchyard.

  But if the work is not quite complete, little remains to be addedto it, and that little has been distinctl
y reflected into our minds.We know that Roger Hamley will marry Molly, and that is what we aremost concerned about. Indeed, there was little else to tell. Had thewriter lived, she would have sent her hero back to Africa forthwith;and those scientific parts of Africa are a long way from Hamley; andthere is not much to choose between a long distance and a long time.How many hours are there in twenty-four when you are all alone ina desert place, a thousand miles from the happiness which might beyours to take--if you were there to take it? How many, when from thesources of the Topinambo your heart flies back ten times a day, likea carrier-pigeon, to the one only source of future good for you, andten times a day returns with its message undelivered? Many more thanare counted on the calendar. So Roger found. The days were weeks thatseparated him from the time when Molly gave him a certain littleflower, and months from the time which divorced him from Cynthia,whom he had begun to doubt before he knew for certain that she wasnever much worth hoping for. And if such were his days, what wasthe slow procession of actual weeks and months in those remote andsolitary places? They were like years of a stay-at-home life, withliberty and leisure to see that nobody was courting Molly meanwhile.The effect of this was, that long before the term of his engagementwas ended all that Cynthia had been to him was departed from Roger'smind, and all that Molly was and might be to him filled it full.

  He returned; but when he saw Molly again he remembered that toher the time of his absence might not have seemed so long, andwas oppressed with the old dread that she would think him fickle.Therefore this young gentleman, so self-reliant and so lucid inscientific matters, found it difficult after all to tell Molly howmuch he hoped she loved him; and might have blundered if he had notthought of beginning by showing her the flower that was plucked fromthe nosegay. How charmingly that scene would have been drawn, hadMrs. Gaskell lived to depict it, we can only imagine: that it _would_have been charming--especially in what Molly did, and looked, andsaid--we know.

  Roger and Molly are married; and if one of them is happier thanthe other, it is Molly. Her husband has no need to draw upon thelittle fortune which is to go to poor Osborne's boy, for he becomesprofessor at some great scientific institution, and wins his way inthe world handsomely. The squire is almost as happy in this marriageas his son. If any one suffers for it, it is Mr. Gibson. But he takesa partner, so as to get a chance of running up to London to stay withMolly for a few days now and then, and "to get a little rest fromMrs. Gibson." Of what was to happen to Cynthia after her marriage theauthor was not heard to say much; and, indeed, it does not seem thatanything needs to be added. One little anecdote, however, was toldof her by Mrs. Gaskell, which is very characteristic. One day, whenCynthia and her husband were on a visit to Hollingford, Mr. Hendersonlearned for the first time, through an innocent casual remark ofMr. Gibson's, that the famous traveller, Roger Hamley, was known tothe family. Cynthia had never happened to mention it. How well thatlittle incident, too, would have been described!

  But it is useless to speculate upon what would have been done by thedelicate strong hand which can create no more Molly Gibsons--no moreRoger Hamleys. We have repeated, in this brief note, all that isknown of her designs for the story, which would have been completedin another chapter. There is not so much to regret, then, so far asthis novel is concerned; indeed, the regrets of those who knew herare less for the loss of the novelist than of the woman--one of thekindest and wisest of her time. But yet, for her own sake _as_ anovelist alone, her untimely death is a matter for deep regret. It isclear in this novel of _Wives and Daughters_, in the exquisite littlestory that preceded it, _Cousin Phillis_, and in _Sylvia's Lovers_,that Mrs. Gaskell had within these five years started upon a newcareer with all the freshness of youth, and with a mind which seemedto have put off its clay and to have been born again. But that "putoff its clay" must be taken in a very narrow sense. All minds aretinctured more or less with the "muddy vesture" in which they arecontained; but few minds ever showed less of base earth than Mrs.Gaskell's. It was so at all times; but lately even the originalslight tincture seemed to disappear. While you read any one of thelast three books we have named, you feel yourself caught out of anabominable wicked world, crawling with selfishness and reeking withbase passions, into one where there is much weakness, many mistakes,sufferings long and bitter, but where it is possible for people tolive calm and wholesome lives; and, what is more, you feel that thisis at least as real a world as the other. The kindly spirit whichthinks no ill looks out of her pages irradiate; and while we readthem, we breathe the purer intelligence which prefers to deal withemotions and passions which have a living root in minds within thepale of salvation, and not with those which rot without it. Thisspirit is more especially declared in _Cousin Phillis_ and _Wives andDaughters_--their author's latest works; they seem to show that forher the end of life was not descent amongst the clods of the valley,but ascent into the purer air of the heaven-aspiring hills.

  We are saying nothing now of the merely intellectual qualitiesdisplayed in these later works. Twenty years to come, that may bethought the more important question of the two; in the presence ofher grave we cannot think so; but it is true, all the same, thatas mere works of art and observation, these later novels of Mrs.Gaskell's are among the finest of our time. There is a scene in_Cousin Phyllis_--where Holman, making hay with his men, ends theday with a psalm--which is not excelled as a picture in all modernfiction and the same may be said of that chapter of this last storyin which Roger smokes a pipe with the Squire after the quarrel withOsborne. There is little in either of these scenes, or in a scoreof others which succeed each other like gems in a cabinet, whichthe ordinary novel-maker could "seize." There is no "material" for_him_ in half-a-dozen farming men singing hymns in a field, or adiscontented old gentleman smoking tobacco with his son. Still lesscould he avail himself of the miseries of a little girl sent tobe happy in a fine house full of fine people; but it is just insuch things as these that true genius appears brightest and mostunapproachable. It is the same with the personages in Mrs. Gaskell'sworks. Cynthia is one of the most difficult characters which haveever been attempted in our time. Perfect art always obscures thedifficulties it overcomes; and it is not till we try to follow theprocesses by which such a character as the Tito of _Romola_ iscreated, for instance, that we begin to understand what a marvellouspiece of work it is. To be sure, Cynthia was not so difficult, nor isit nearly so great a creation as that splendid achievement of art andthought--of the rarest art, of the profoundest thought. But she alsobelongs to the kind of characters which are conceived only in mindslarge, clear, harmonious and just, and which can be portrayed fullyand without flaw only by hands obedient to the finest motions of themind. Viewed in this light, Cynthia is a more important piece of workeven than Molly, delicately as she is drawn, and true and harmoniousas that picture is also. And what we have said of Cynthia may besaid with equal truth of Osborne Hamley. The true delineation of acharacter like that is as fine a test of art as the painting of afoot or a hand, which also seems so easy, and in which perfection ismost rare. In this case the work is perfect. Mrs. Gaskell has drawna dozen characters more striking than Osborne since she wrote _MaryBarton_, but not one which shows more exquisite finish.

  Another thing we may be permitted to notice, because it has a greatand general significance. It may be true that this is not exactlythe place for criticism, but since we are writing of Osborne Hamley,we cannot resist pointing out a peculiar instance of the subtlerconceptions which underlie all really considerable works. Here areOsborne and Roger, two men who, in every particular that can beseized for _description_, are totally different creatures. Body andmind they are quite unlike. They have different tastes; they takedifferent ways: they are men of two sorts which, in the societysense, never "know" each other; and yet, never did brotherly bloodrun more manifest than in the veins of those two. To make thatmanifest without allowing the effort to peep out for a single moment,would be a triumph of art; but it is a "touch beyond the reach ofart" to make their likeness in un
likeness so natural a thing that weno more wonder about it than we wonder at seeing the fruit and thebloom on the same bramble: we have always seen them there together inblackberry season, and do not wonder about it nor think about it atall. Inferior writers, even some writers who are highly accounted,would have revelled in the "contrast," persuaded that they weredoing a fine anatomical dramatic thing by bringing it out at everyopportunity. To the author of _Wives and Daughters_ this sort ofanatomy was mere dislocation. She began by having the people of herstory born in the usual way, and not built up like the Frankensteinmonster; and thus when Squire Hamley took a wife, it was thenprovided that his two boys should be as naturally one and diverse asthe fruit and the bloom on the bramble. "It goes without speaking."These differences are precisely what might have been expectedfrom the union of Squire Hamley with the town-bred, refined,delicate-minded woman whom he married; and the affection of the youngmen, their kindness (to use the word in its old and new meanings atonce) is nothing but a reproduction of those impalpable threads oflove which bound the equally diverse father and mother in bondsfaster than the ties of blood.

  But we will not permit ourselves to write any more in this vein. Itis unnecessary to demonstrate to those who know what is and whatis not true literature that Mrs. Gaskell was gifted with some ofthe choicest faculties bestowed upon mankind; that these grew intogreater strength and ripened into greater beauty in the decline ofher days; and that she has gifted us with some of the truest, purestworks of fiction in the language. And she was herself what her worksshow her to have been--a wise, good woman.