Wives and Daughters (67 page)

‘I don’t know what you mean by trading. Trading in a daughter’s affections is the last thing I should do; and I should have thought you would be rather glad than otherwise to get Cynthia well married, and off your hands.’

Mr. Gibson got up, and walked about the room, his hands in his pockets. Once or twice he began to speak, but he stopped impatiently short without going on.

‘I don’t know what to say to you,’ he said at length. ‘You either can’t or won’t see what I mean. I’m glad enough to have Cynthia here. I have given her a true welcome, and I sincerely hope she will find this house as much a home as my own daughter does. But for the future I must look out of my doors, and double-lock the approaches if I am so foolish as to———However, that’s past and gone; and it remains with me to prevent its recurrence as far as I can for the future. Now let us hear the present state of affairs.’

‘I don’t think I ought to tell you anything about it. It is a secret, just as much as your mysteries are.’

‘Very well; you have told me enough for me to act upon, which I most certainly shall do. It was only the other day I promised the squire to let him know if I suspected anything—any love-affair, or entanglement, much less an engagement—between either of his sons and our girls.’

‘But this is not an engagement; he would not let it be so; if you would only listen to me, I could tell you all. Only I do hope you won’t go and tell the squire and everybody. Cynthia did so beg that it might not be known. It is only my unfortunate frankness that has led me into this scrape. I never could keep a secret from those whom I love.’

‘I must tell the squire. I shall not mention it to any one else. And do you quite think it was consistent with your general frankness to have overheard what you did, and never to have mentioned it to me? I could have told you then that Dr. Nicholls’s opinion was decidedly opposed to mine, and that he believed that the disturbance about which I consulted him on Osborne’s behalf was merely temporary. Dr. Nicholls would tell you that Osborne is as likely as any man to live and marry and beget children.’

If there was any skill used by Mr. Gibson so to word this speech as to conceal his own opinion, Mrs. Gibson was not sharp enough to find it out. She was dismayed, and Mr. Gibson enjoyed her dismay; it restored him to something like his usual frame of mind.

‘Let us review this misfortune, for I see you consider it as such,’ said he.

‘No, not quite a misfortune,’ said she. ‘But certainly if I had known Dr. Nicholls’s opinion——’ she hesitated.

‘You see the advantage of always consulting me,’ he continued gravely. ‘Here is Cynthia engaged——’

‘Not engaged, I told you before. He would not allow it to be considered an engagement on her part.’

‘Well, entangled in a love-affair with a lad of three-and-twenty, with nothing beyond his fellowship and a chance of inheriting an encumbered estate; no profession even, abroad for two years, and I must go and tell his father all about it to-morrow’

‘Oh, dear, pray say that, if he dislikes it, he has only to express his opinion.’

‘I don’t think you can act without Cynthia in the affair. And, if I am not mistaken, Cynthia will have a pretty stout will of her own on the subject.’

‘Oh, I don’t think she cares for him very much; she is not one to be always falling in love, and she does not take things very deeply to heart. But of course one would not do anything abruptly; two years’ absence gives one plenty of time to turn oneself in.’

‘But a little time ago we were threatened with consumption and an early death if Cynthia’s affections were thwarted.’

‘Oh, you dear creature, how you remember all my silly words! It might be; you know poor dear Mr. Kirkpatrick was consumptive, and Cynthia may have inherited it, and a great sorrow might bring out the latent seeds. At times I am so fearful. But I dare say it is not probable, for I don’t think she takes things very deeply to heart.’

‘Then I am quite at liberty to give up the affair, acting as Cynthia’s proxy, if the squire disapproves of it?’

Poor Mrs. Gibson was in a strait at this question.

‘No!’ she said at last. ‘We cannot give it up. I am sure Cynthia would not; especially if she thought others were acting for her. And he really is very much in love. I wish he were in Osborne’s place.’

‘Shall I tell you what I should do?’ said Mr. Gibson, in real earnest. ‘However it may be brought about, here are two young people in love with each other. One is as fine a young fellow as ever breathed; the other a very pretty, lively, agreeable girl. The father of the young man must be told, and it is most likely he will bluster and oppose; for there is no doubt it is an imprudent affair as far as money goes. But let them be steady and patient, and a better lot need await no young woman. I only wish it were Molly’s good fortune to meet with such another.’

‘I will try for her; I will indeed,’ said Mrs. Gibson, relieved by his change of tone.

‘No, don’t. That’s one thing I forbid. I’ll have no “trying” for Molly.’

‘Well, don’t be angry, dear! Do you know I was quite afraid you were going to lose your temper at one time.’

‘It would have been of no use!’ said he, gloomily, getting up as if to close the sitting. His wife was only too glad to make her escape. The conjugal interview had not been satisfactory to either. Mr. Gibson had been compelled to face and acknowledge the fact that the wife he had chosen had a very different standard of conduct from that which he had upheld all his life, and had hoped to have seen inculcated in his daughter. He was more irritated than he chose to show; for there was so much of self-reproach in his irritation that he kept it to himself, brooded over it, and allowed a feeling of suspicious dissatisfaction with his wife to grow up in his mind, which extended itself by and by to the innocent Cynthia, and caused his manner to both mother and daughter to assume a certain curt severity, which took the latter, at any rate, with extreme surprise. But on the present occasion he followed his wife up to the drawing-room, and gravely congratulated the astonished Cynthia.

‘Has mamma told you?’ said she, shooting an indignant glance at her mother. ‘It is hardly an engagement; and we all pledged ourselves to keep it a secret, mamma among the rest!’

‘But, my dearest Cynthia, you could not expect—you could not have wished me to keep a secret from my husband?’ pleaded Mrs. Gibson.

‘No, perhaps not. At any rate, sir,’ said Cynthia, turning towards him with graceful frankness, ‘I am glad you should know it. You have always been a most kind friend to me, and I dare say I should have told you myself, but I did not want it named; if you please, it must still be a secret. In fact, it is hardly an engagement—he’ (she blushed and sparkled a little at the euphemism, which implied that there was but one ‘he’ present in her thoughts at the moment) ‘would not allow me to bind myself by any promise until his return!’

Mr. Gibson looked gravely at her, irresponsive to her winning looks, which at the moment reminded him too forcibly of her mother’s ways. Then he took her hand, and said, seriously enough,—

‘I hope you are worthy of him, Cynthia, for you have indeed drawn a prize. I have never known a truer or warmer heart than Roger’s; and I have known him boy and man.’

Molly felt as if she could have thanked her father aloud for this testimony to the value of him who was gone away. But Cynthia pouted a little before she smiled up in his face.

‘You are not complimentary, are you, Mr. Gibson?’ said she. ‘He thinks me worthy, I suppose; and if you have so high an opinion of him, you ought to respect his judgment of me.’ If she hoped to provoke a compliment she was disappointed, for Mr. Gibson let go her hand in an absent manner, and sat down in an easy chair by the fire, gazing at the wood embers as if hoping to read the future in them. Molly saw Cynthia’s eyes filled with tears, and followed her to the other end of the room, where she had gone to seek some working materials.

‘Dear Cynthia,’ was all she said; but she pressed her hand while trying to assist in the search.

‘Oh, Molly, I am so fond of your father; what makes him speak so to me to-night?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Molly; ‘perhaps he’s tired.’

They were recalled from further conversation by Mr. Gibson. He had roused himself from his reverie, and was now addressing Cynthia.

‘I hope you will not consider it a breach of confidence, Cynthia, but I must tell the squire of—of what has taken place to-day between you and his son. I have bound myself by a promise to him. He was afraid—it’s as well to tell you the truth—he was afraid’ (an emphasis on this last word) ‘of something of this kind between his sons and one of you two girls. It was only the other day I assured him there was nothing of the kind on foot; and I told him then I would inform him at once if I saw any symptoms.’

Cynthia looked extremely annoyed.

‘It was the one thing I stipulated for—secrecy’

‘But why?’ said Mr. Gibson. ‘I can understand your not wishing to have it made public under the present circumstances. But the nearest friends on both sides! Surely you can have no objection to that?’

‘Yes, I have,’ said Cynthia; ‘I would not have had any one know if I could have helped it.’

‘I am almost certain Roger will tell his father.’

‘No, he won’t,’ said Cynthia; ‘I made him promise, and I think he is one to respect a promise’—with a glance at her mother, who, feeling herself in disgrace with both husband and child, was keeping a judicious silence.

‘Well, at any rate, the story would come with so much better a grace from him that I shall give him the chance; I won’t go over to the Hall till the end of the week; he may have written and told his father before then.’

Cynthia held her tongue for a little while. Then she said, with tearful pettishness,—

‘A man’s promise is to override a woman’s wish, then, is it?’

‘I don’t see any reason why it should not.’

‘Will you trust in my reasons when I tell you it will cause me a great deal of distress if it gets known?’ She said this in so pleading a voice, that if Mr. Gibson had not been thoroughly displeased and annoyed by his previous conversation with her mother, he must have yielded to her. As it was, he said, coldly,—‘Telling Roger’s father is not making it public. I don’t like this exaggerated desire for such secrecy, Cynthia. It seems to me as if something more than is apparent was concealed behind it.’

‘Come, Molly,’ said Cynthia, suddenly; ‘let us sing that duet I’ve been teaching you; it’s better than talking as we are doing.’

It was a little lively French duet. Molly sang it carelessly, with heaviness at her heart; but Cynthia sang it with spirit and apparent merriment; only she broke down in hysterics at last, and flew upstairs to her own room. Molly, heeding nothing else—neither her father nor Mrs. Gibson’s words—followed her, and found the door of her bedroom locked, and for all reply to her entreaties to be allowed to come in, she heard Cynthia sobbing and crying.

It was more than a week after the incidents last recorded before Mr. Gibson found himself at liberty to call on the squire; and he heartily hoped that long before then, Roger’s letter might have arrived from Paris, telling his father the whole story. But he saw at the first glance that the squire had heard nothing unusual to disturb his equanimity. He was looking better than he had done for months past; the light of hope was in his eyes, his face seemed of a healthy ruddy colour, gained partly by his resumption of outdoor employment in the superintendence of the works, and partly because the happiness he had lately had through Roger’s means caused his blood to flow with regular vigour. He had felt Roger’s going away, it is true; but whenever the sorrow of parting with him pressed too heavily upon him, he filled his pipe, and smoked it out over a long, slow, deliberate re-perusal of Lord Hollingford’s letter, every word of which he knew by heart; but expressions in which he made a pretence to himself of doubting, that he might have an excuse for looking at his son’s praises once again. The first greetings over, Mr. Gibson plunged into his subject.

‘Any news from Roger yet?’

‘Oh, yes; here’s his letter,’ said the squire, producing his black leather case in which Roger’s missive had been placed along with the other very heterogeneous contents.

Mr. Gibson read it, hardly seeing the words after he had by one rapid glance assured himself that there was no mention of Cynthia in it.

‘Hum! I see he doesn’t name one very important event that has befallen him since he left you,’ said Mr. Gibson, seizing on the first words that came. ‘I believe I’m committing a breach of confidence on one side; but I’m going to keep the promise I made the last time I was here. I find there is something—something of the kind you apprehended—you understand—between him and my stepdaughter, Cynthia Kirkpatrick. He called at our house to wish us good-bye, while waiting for the London coach, found her alone, and spoke to her. They don’t call it an engagement, but of course it is one.’

‘Give me back the letter,’ said the squire, in a constrained kind of voice. Then he read it again, as if he had not previously mastered its contents, and as if there might be some sentence or sentences he had overlooked.

‘No!’ he said at last, with a sigh. ‘He tells me nothing about it. Lads may play at confidences with their fathers, but they keep a deal back.’ The squire appeared more disappointed at not having heard of this straight from Roger than displeased at the fact itself, Mr. Gibson thought. But he let him take his time.

‘He’s not the eldest son,’ continued the squire, talking as it were to himself. ‘But it’s not the match I should have planned for him. How came you, sir,’ said he, firing round on Mr. Gibson, suddenly—‘to say when you were last here, that there was nothing between my sons and either of your girls? Why, this must have been going on all the time!’

‘I’m afraid it was. But I was as ignorant about it as the babe unborn. I only heard of it on the evening of the day of Roger’s departure.’