Wives and Daughters (24 page)

‘Read on. What are you stopping for? There is no bad news, is there, about Agnes?—Give me the letter.’

Lady Cumnor read, half aloud,—

‘How are Clare and Gibson getting on? You despised my advice to help on that affair, but I really think a little matchmaking would be a very pleasant amusement now that you are shut up in the house; and I cannot conceive any marriage more suitable.’

‘Oh!’ said Lady Cumnor, laughing, ‘it was awkward for you to come upon that, Clare: I don’t wonder you stopped short. You gave me a terrible fright, though.’

‘Lord Cumnor is so fond of joking,’ said Mrs. Kirkpatrick, a little flurried, yet quite recognizing the truth of his last words,—‘I cannot conceive any marriage more suitable.’ She wondered what Lady Cumnor thought of it. Lord Cumnor wrote as if there was really a chance. It was not an unpleasant idea; it brought a faint smile out upon her face, as she sat by Lady Cumnor, while the latter took her afternoon nap.

M
rs. Kirkpatrick had been reading aloud till Lady Cumnor fell asleep, the book rested on her knee, just kept from falling by her hold. She was looking out of the window, not seeing the trees in the park, nor the glimpses of the hills beyond, but thinking how pleasant it would be to have a husband once more;—some one who would work while she sat at her elegant ease in a prettily-furnished drawing-room; and she was rapidly investing this imaginary bread-winner with the form and features of the country surgeon, when there was a slight tap at the door, and, almost before she could rise, the object of her thoughts came in. She felt herself blush, and she was not displeased at the consciousness. She advanced to meet him, making a sign towards her sleeping ladyship.

‘Very good,’ said he, in a low voice, casting a professional eye on the slumbering figure; ‘can I speak to you for a minute or two in the library?’

‘Is he going to offer?’ thought she, with a sudden palpitation, and a conviction of her willingness to accept a man whom an hour before she had simply looked upon as one of the category of unmarried men to whom matrimony was possible.

He was only going to make one or two medical inquiries; she found that out very speedily, and considered the conversation as rather flat to her, though it might be instructive to him. She was not aware that he finally made up his mind to propose during the time that she was speaking—answering his questions in many words, but he was accustomed to winnow the chaff from the corn; and her voice was so soft, her accent so pleasant, that it struck him as particularly agreeable after the broad country accent he was perpetually hearing. Then the harmonious colours of her dress, and her slow and graceful movements, had something of the same soothing effect upon his nerves that a cat’s purring has upon some people’s. He began to think that he should be fortunate if he could win her, for his own sake. Yesterday he had looked upon her more as a possible stepmother for Molly; to-day he thought of her more as a wife for himself The remembrance of Lord Cumnor’s letter gave her a very becoming consciousness; she wished to attract, and hoped that she was succeeding. Still they only talked of the countess’s state for some time: then a lucky shower came on. Mr. Gibson did not care a jot for rain, but just now it gave him an excuse for lingering.

‘It’s very stormy weather,’ said he.

‘Yes, very. My daughter writes me word that for two days last week the packet could not sail from Boulogne.’

‘Miss Kirkpatrick is at Boulogne, is she?’

‘Yes, poor girl; she is at school there, trying to perfect herself in the French language. But, Mr. Gibson, you must not call her Miss Kirkpatrick. Cynthia remembers you with so much—affection, I may say. She was your little patient when she had the measles here four years ago, you know. Pray call her Cynthia; she would be quite hurt at such a formal name as Miss Kirkpatrick from you.’

‘Cynthia
^ai
seems to me such an out-of-the-way name, only fit for poetry, not for daily use.’

‘It is mine,’ said Mrs. Kirkpatrick, in a plaintive tone of reproach. ‘I was christened Hyacinth, and her poor father would have her called after me. I’m sorry you don’t like it.’

Mr. Gibson did not know what to say. He was not quite prepared to plunge into the directly personal style. While he was hesitating, she went on—

‘Hyacinth Clare! Once upon a time I was quite proud of my pretty name; and other people thought it pretty, too.’

‘I’ve no doubt—’ Mr. Gibson began; and then stopped.

‘Perhaps I did wrong in yielding to his wish to have her called by such a romantic name. It may excite prejudice against her in some people; and, poor child! she will have enough to struggle with. A young daughter is a great charge, Mr. Gibson, especially when there is only one parent to look after her.’

‘You are quite right,’ said he, recalled to the remembrance of Molly; ‘though I should have thought that a girl who is so fortunate as to have a mother could not feel the loss of her father so acutely as one who is motherless must suffer from her deprivation.’

‘You are thinking of your own daughter. It was careless of me to say what I did. Dear child! how well I remember her sweet little face as she lay sleeping on my bed. I suppose she is nearly grown-up now. She must be near my Cynthia’s age. How I should like to see her!’

‘I hope you will. I should like you to see her. I should like you to love my poor little Molly,—to love her as your own.’ He swallowed down something that rose in his throat, and was nearly choking him.

‘Is he going to offer? Is he?’ she wondered; and she began to tremble in the suspense before he next spoke.

‘Could you love her as your daughter? Will you try? Will you give me the right of introducing you to her as her future mother; as my wife?’

There! he had done it—whether it was wise or foolish—he had done it; but he was aware that the question as to its wisdom came into his mind the instant that the words were said past recall.

She hid her face in her hands.

‘Oh! Mr. Gibson,’ she said; and then, a little to his surprise, and a great deal to her own, she burst into hysterical tears: it was such a wonderful relief to feel that she need not struggle any more for a livelihood.

‘My dear—my dearest,’ said he, trying to soothe her with word and caress; but, just at the moment, uncertain what name he ought to use. After her sobbing had abated a little, she said to herself, as if understanding his difficulty,—

‘Call me Hyacinth—your own Hyacinth. I can’t bear “Clare,” it does so remind me of being a governess, and those days are all past now.’

‘Yes; but surely no one can have been more valued, more beloved, than you have been, in this family at least.’

‘Oh, yes! they have been very good. But still one has always had to remember one’s position.’

‘We ought to tell Lady Cumnor,’ said he, thinking, perhaps, more of the various duties which lay before him in consequence of the step he had just taken than of what his future bride was saying.

‘You’ll tell her, won’t you?’ said she, looking up in his face with beseeching eyes. ‘I always like other people to tell her things, and then I can see how she takes them.’

‘Certainly! I will do whatever you wish. Shall we go and see if she is awake now?’

‘No! I think not. I had better prepare her. You will come to-morrow, won’t you? and you will tell her then.’

‘Yes; that will be best. I ought to tell Molly first. She has the right to know. I do hope you and she will love each other dearly.’

‘Oh, yes! I’m sure we shall. Then you’ll come to-morrow and tell Lady Cumnor? And I’ll prepare her.’

‘I don’t see what preparation is necessary; but you know best, my dear. When can we arrange for you and Molly to meet?’

Just then a servant came in, and the pair started apart.

‘Her ladyship is awake, and wishes to see Mr. Gibson.’

They both followed the man upstairs; Mrs. Kirkpatrick trying hard to look as if nothing had happened, for she particularly wished ‘to prepare’ Lady Cumnor; that is to say, to give her version of Mr. Gibson’s extreme urgency, and her own coy unwillingness.

But Lady Cumnor had observant eyes in sickness as well as in health. She had gone to sleep with the recollection of the passage in her husband’s letter full in her mind, and, perhaps, it gave a direction to her wakening ideas.

‘I’m glad you’re not gone, Mr. Gibson. I wanted to tell you——— What’s the matter with you both? What have you been saying to Clare? I’m sure something has happened.’

There was nothing for it, in Mr. Gibson’s opinion, but to make a clean breast of it, and tell her ladyship all. He turned round, and took hold of Mrs. Kirkpatrick’s hand, and said out straight, ‘I have been asking Mrs. Kirkpatrick to be my wife, and to be a mother to my child; and she has consented. I hardly know how to thank her enough in words.’

‘Umph! I don’t see any objection. I dare say you’ll be very happy. I’m very glad of it! Here! shake hands with me, both of you.’ Then laughing a little, she added, ‘It does not seem to me that any exertion has been required on my part.’

Mr. Gibson looked perplexed at these words. Mrs. Kirkpatrick reddened.

‘Did she not tell you? Oh, then, I must. It’s too good a joke to be lost, especially as everything has ended so well. When Lord Cumnor’s letter came this morning—this very morning, I gave it to Clare to read aloud to me, and I saw she suddenly came to a full stop, where no full stop could be, and I thought it was something about Agnes, so I took the letter and read—stay! I’ll read the sentence to you. Where’s the letter, Clare? Oh! don’t trouble yourself, here it is. “How are Clare and Gibson getting on? You despised my advice to help on that affair, but I really think a little matchmaking would be a very pleasant amusement, now that you are shut up in the house; and I cannot conceive any marriage more suitable.” You see, you have my lord’s full approbation. But I must write, and tell him you have managed your own affairs without any interference of mine. Now we’ll just have a medical talk, Mr. Gibson, and then you and Clare shall finish your
tête-à-tête.
’
^aj

They were neither of them quite as desirous of further conversation together as they had been before the passage out of Lord Cumnor’s letter had been read aloud. Mr. Gibson tried not to think about it, for he was aware that if he dwelt upon it, he might get to fancy all sorts of things as to the conversation which had ended in his offer. But Lady Cumnor was imperious now, as always.

‘Come, no nonsense. I always made my girls go and have
tête-à-
têteswith the men who were to be their husbands, whether they would or no: there’s a great deal to be talked over before every marriage, and you two are certainly old enough to be above affectation. Go away with you.’

So there was nothing for it but for them to return to the library; Mrs. Kirkpatrick pouting a little, and Mr. Gibson feeling more like his own cool, sarcastic self, by many degrees, than he had done when last in that room.

She began, half crying—

‘I cannot tell what poor Kirkpatrick would say if he knew what I have done. He did so dislike the notion of second marriages, poor fellow’

‘Let us hope that he doesn’t know, then; or that, if he does, he is wiser—I mean, that he sees how second marriages may be most desirable and expedient in some cases.’

Altogether, this second tête-à-tête, done to command, was not so satisfactory as the first; and Mr. Gibson was quite alive to the necessity of proceeding on his round to see his patients, before very much time had elapsed.

‘We shall shake down into uniformity before long, I’ve no doubt,’ said he to himself, as he rode away. ‘It’s hardly to be expected that our thoughts should run in the same groove all at once. Nor should I like it,’ he added. ‘It would be very flat and stagnant to have only an echo of one’s own opinions from one’s wife. Heigho! I must tell Molly about it: dear little woman, I wonder how she’ll take it? It’s done, in a great measure, for her good.’ And then he lost himself in recapitulating Mrs. Kirkpatrick’s good qualities, and the advantages to be gained to his daughter from the step he had just taken.

It was too late to go round by Hamley that afternoon. The Towers and the Towers’ round lay just in the opposite direction to Hamley. So it was the next morning before Mr. Gibson arrived at the hall, timing his visit as well as he could so as to have half an hour’s private talk with Molly before Mrs. Hamley came down into the drawing-room. He thought that his daughter would require sympathy after receiving the intelligence he had to communicate; and he knew there was no one more fit to give it than Mrs. Hamley.

It was a brilliantly hot summer’s morning; men in their shirt-sleeves were in the fields getting in the early harvest of oats; as Mr. Gibson rode slowly along, he could see them over the tall hedgerows, and even hear the soothing measured sound of the fall of the long swathes, as they were mown. The labourers seemed too hot to talk; the dog, guarding their coats and cans, lay panting loudly on the other side of the elm, under which Mr. Gibson stopped for an instant to survey the scene, and gain a little delay before the interview that he wished was well over. In another minute he had snapped at himself for his weakness, and put spurs to his horse. He came up to the hall at a good sharp trot; it was earlier than the usual time of his visits, and no one was expecting him; all the stable-men were in the fields, but that signified little to Mr. Gibson; he walked his horse about for five minutes or so before taking him into the stable, and loosened his girths, examining him with perhaps unnecessary exactitude. He went into the house by a private door, and made his way into the drawing-room, half expecting, however, that Molly would be in the garden. She had been there, but it was too hot and dazzling now for her to remain out of doors, and she had come in by the open window of the drawing-room. Oppressed with the heat, she had fallen asleep in an easy-chair, her bonnet and open book upon her knee, one arm hanging listlessly down. She looked very soft, and young, and childlike; and a gush of love sprang into her father’s heart as he gazed at her.