Wives and Daughters (85 page)

So said Miss Browning on the night in question; her hand of cards lying by her on the puce baize-covered table, while she munched the rich pound-cake of a certain Mrs. Dawes, lately come to inhabit Hollingford.

‘Matrimony’s not so bad as you think for, Miss Browning,’ said Mrs. Goodenough, standing up for the holy estate into which she had twice entered. ‘If I had ha’ seen Nancy, I should ha’ given her my mind very different. It’s a great thing to be able to settle what you’ll have for dinner, without never a one interfering with you.’

‘If that’s all!’ said Miss Browning, drawing herself up, ‘I can do that; and, perhaps, better than a woman who has a husband to please.’

‘No one can say as I didn’t please my husbands—both on ’em, though Jeremy was tickler in his tastes than poor Harry Beaver. But as I used to say to ‘em, “Leave the victual to me; it’s better for you than knowing what’s to come beforehand. The stomach likes to be taken by surprise.” And neither of ’em ever repented ‘em of their confidence. You may take my word for it, beans and bacon will taste better (and Mr. Ashton’s Nancy in her own house) than all the sweet-breads and spring-chickens she’s been a-doing for him this seventeen years. But, if I chose, I could tell you something as would interest you all a deal more than old Nancy’s marriage to a widower with nine children—only as the young folks themselves is meeting in private, clandestine-like, it’s perhaps not for me to tell their secrets.’

‘I’m sure I don’t want to hear of clandestine meetings between young men and young women,’ said Miss Browning, throwing up her head. ‘It’s disgrace enough to the people themselves, I consider, if they enter on a love-affair without the proper sanction of parents. I know public opinion has changed on the subject; but when poor Gratia was married to Mr. Byerley, he wrote to my father without ever having so much as paid her a compliment, or said more than the most trivial and commonplace things to her; and my father and mother sent for her into my father’s study, and she said she was never so much frightened in her life—and they said it was a very good offer, and Mr. Byerley was a very worthy man, and they hoped she would behave properly to him when he came home to supper that night. And after that he was allowed to come twice a week till they were married. My mother and I sat at our work in the bow-window of the Rectory drawing-room, and Gratia and Mr. Byerley at the other end; and my mother always called my attention to some flower or plant in the garden when it struck nine, for that was her time for going. Without offence to the present company, I am rather inclined to look upon matrimony as a weakness to which some very worthy people are prone; but if they must be married, let them make the best of it, and go through the affair with dignity and propriety: or if there are misdoings and clandestine meetings, and such things, at any rate, never let me hear about them! I think it’s you to play, Mrs. Dawes.You’ll excuse my frankness on the subject of matrimony! Mrs. Goodenough there can tell you I’m a very outspoken person.’

‘It’s not the out-speaking, it’s what you say that goes against me, Miss Browning,’ said Mrs. Goodenough, affronted, yet ready to play her card as soon as needed. And as for Mrs. Dawes, she was too anxious to get into the genteelest of all (Hollingford) society to object to whatever Miss Browning (who, in right of being a deceased rector’s daughter, rather represented the selectest circle of the little town) advocated—celibacy, marriage, bigamy, or polygamy.

So the remainder of the evening passed over without any further reference to the secret Mrs. Goodenough was burning to disclose, unless a remark made àpropos de rien
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by Miss Browning during the silence of a deal, could be supposed to have connexion with the previous conversation. She said suddenly and, abruptly—

‘I don’t know what I have done that any man should make me his slave.’ If she was referring to any prospect of matrimonial danger she saw opening before her fancy, she might have been comforted. But it was a remark of which no one took any notice, all being far too much engaged in the rubber. Only when Miss Browning took her early leave (for Miss Phoebe had a cold, and was an invalid at home), Mrs. Goodenough burst out with—

‘Well ! now I may speak out my mind, and say as how if there was a slave between us two, when Goodenough was alive, it wasn’t me; and I don’t think as it was pretty in Miss Browning to give herself such airs on her virginity when there was four widows in the room—who’ve had six honest men among ’em for husbands. No offence,Miss Airy!’ addressing an unfortunate little spinster, who found herself the sole representative of celibacy now that Miss Browning was gone. ‘I could tell her of a girl as she’s very fond on, who’s on the high road to matrimony; and in as cunning a way as ever I heard on; going out at dusk to meet her sweetheart, just as if she was my Betty, or your Jenny. And her name is Molly too—which, as I have often thought, shows a low taste in them as first called her so;—she might as well be a scullery-maid at oncest. Not that she’s picked up anybody common; she’s looked about her for a handsome fellow, and a smart young man enough!’

Every one round the table looked curious and intent on the disclosures being made, except the hostess, Mrs. Dawes, who smiled intelligence with her eyes, and knowingly pursed up her mouth until Mrs. Goodenough had finished her tale. Then she said demurely—

‘I suppose you mean Mr. Preston and Miss Gibson?’

‘Why, who told you?’ said Mrs. Goodenough, turning round upon her in surprise. ‘You can’t say as I did. There’s many a Molly in Hollingford, besides her—though none, perhaps, in such a genteel station in life. I never named her, I’m sure.’

‘No. But I know. I could tell my tale too,’ continued Mrs. Dawes.

‘No! could you, really?’ said Mrs. Goodenough, very curious and a little jealous.

‘Yes. My uncle Sheepshanks came upon them in the Park Avenue—he startled ’em a good deal, he said; and when he taxed Mr. Preston with being with his sweetheart, he didn’t deny it.’

‘Well! Now so much has come out, I’ll tell you what I know. Only, ladies, I wouldn’t wish to do the girl an unkind turn,—so you must keep what I’ve got to tell you a secret.’ Of course they promised; that was easy.

‘My Hannah, as married Tom Oakes, and lives in Pearson’s Lane, was a gathering of damsons only a week ago, and Molly Gibson was a-walking fast down the lane—quite in a hurry like to meet some one—and Hannah’s little Anna-Maria fell down, and Molly (who’s a kind-hearted lass enough) picked her up; so if Hannah had had her doubts before, she had none then.’

‘But there was no one with her, was there?’ asked one of the ladies, anxiously, as Mrs. Goodenough stopped to finish her piece of cake, just at this crisis.

‘No: I said she looked as if she was going to meet some one—and by and by comes Mr. Preston running out of the wood just beyond Hannah’s, and says he, “A cup of water, please, good woman, for a lady has fainted, or is ‘sterical or something.” Now though he didn’t know Hannah, Hannah knew him. “More folks know Tom Fool, than Tom Fool knows,” asking Mr. Preston’s pardon; for he’s no fool whatever he be. And I could tell you more—and what I’ve seed with my own eyes. I seed her give him a letter in Grinstead’s shop, only yesterday, and he looked as black as thunder at her, for he seed me if she didn’t.’

‘It’s a very suitable kind of thing,’ said Miss Airy; ‘why do they make such a mystery of it?’

‘Some folks like it,’ said Mrs. Dawes; ‘it adds zest to it all, to do their courting underhand.’

‘Aye, it’s like salt to their victual,’ put in Mrs. Goodenough. ‘But I didn’t think Molly Gibson was one of that sort, I didn’t.’

‘The Gibsons hold themselves very high?’ cried Mrs. Dawes, more as an inquiry than an assertion. ‘Mrs. Gibson has called upon me.’

‘Aye, you’re like to be a patient of the doctor’s,’ put in Mrs. Goodenough.

‘She seemed to me very affable, though she is so intimate with the Countess and the family at the Towers; and is quite the lady herself; dines late, I’ve heard, and everything in style.’

‘Style! very different style to what Bob Gibson, her husband, was used to when first he came here—glad of a mutton-chop in his surgery for I doubt if he’d a fire anywhere else; we called him Bob Gibson then, but none on us dare Bob him now; I’d as soon think o’ calling him sweep!’
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‘I think it looks very bad for Miss Gibson!’ said one lady, rather anxious to bring back the conversation to the more interesting present time. But as soon as Mrs. Goodenough heard this natural comment on the disclosures she had made, she fired round on the speaker:—

‘Not at all bad, and I’ll trouble you not to use such a word as that about Molly Gibson, as I’ve known all her life. It’s odd, if you will. I was odd myself as a girl; I never could abide a plate of gathered gooseberries, but I must needs go and skulk behind a bush and gather ‘em for myself. It’s some folk’s taste, though it mayn’t be Miss Browning’s, who’d have all the courting done under the nose of the family. All as ever I said was that I was surprised at it in Molly Gibson; and that I’d ha’ thought it was liker that pretty piece of a Cynthia, as they call her; indeed, at one time I was ready to swear as it was her Mr. Preston was after. And now, ladies, I’ll wish you a very good night. I cannot abide waste; and I’ll venture for it Hetty’s letting the candle in the lantern run all to grease, instead of putting it out, as I’ve told her to do, if ever she’s got to wait for me.’

So with formal dipping curtsies the ladies separated, but not without thanking Mrs. Dawes for the pleasant evening they had had; a piece of old-fashioned courtesy always gone through in those days.

W
hen Mr. Gibson returned to Hollingford, he found an accumulation of business waiting for him, and he was much inclined to complain of the consequences of the two days’ comparative holiday, which had resulted in overwork for the week to come. He had hardly time to speak to his family, he had so immediately to rush off to pressing cases of illness. But Molly managed to arrest him in the hall, standing there with his great-coat held out ready for him to put on, but whispering as she did so—

‘Papa ! Mr. Osborne Hamley was here to see you yesterday. He looks very ill, and he’s evidently frightened about himself.’

Mr. Gibson faced about, and looked at her for a moment; but all he said was—

‘I’ll go and see him; don’t tell your mother where I’m gone: you’ve not mentioned this to her, I hope?’

‘No,’ said Molly, for she had only told Mrs. Gibson of Osborne’s call, not of the occasion for it.

‘Don’t say anything about it; there’s no need. Now I think of it, I can’t possibly go to-day-but I will go.’

Something in her father’s manner disheartened Molly, who had persuaded herself that Osborne’s evident illness was partly ‘nervous,’ by which she meant imaginary. She had dwelt upon his looks of enjoyment at Miss Phoebe’s perplexity, and thought that no one really believing himself to be in danger could have given the merry glances which he had done; but after seeing the seriousness of her father’s face, she recurred to the shock she had experienced on first seeing Osborne’s changed appearance. All this time Mrs. Gibson was busy reading a letter from Cynthia which Mr. Gibson had brought from London; for every opportunity of private conveyance was seized upon when postage was so high; and Cynthia had forgotten so many things in the hurried packing that she now sent a list of the clothes which she required. Molly almost wondered that it had not come to her; but she did not understand the sort of reserve that was springing up in Cynthia’s mind towards her. Cynthia herself struggled with the feeling, and tried to fight against it by calling herself‘ungrateful’; but the truth was, she believed that she no longer held her former high place in Molly’s estimation, and she could not help turning away from one who knew things to her discredit. She was fully aware of Molly’s prompt decision and willing action, where action was especially disagreeable, on her behalf; she knew that Molly would never bring up the past errors and difficulties; but still the consciousness that the good, straightforward girl had learnt that Cynthia had been guilty of so much underhand work cooled her regard, and restrained her willingness of intercourse. Reproach herself with ingratitude as she would, she could not help feeling glad to be away from Molly; it was awkward to speak to her as if nothing had happened; it was awkward to write to her about forgotten ribbons and laces, when their last conversation had been on such different subjects, and had called out such vehement expressions of feeling. So Mrs. Gibson held the list in her hand, and read out the small fragments of news that were intermixed with notices of Cynthia’s requirements.

‘Helen cannot be so very ill,’ said Molly at length, ‘or Cynthia would not want her pink muslin and daisy wreath.’

‘I don’t see that that follows, I’m sure,’ replied Mrs. Gibson rather sharply. ‘Helen would never be so selfish as to tie Cynthia to her side, however ill she was. Indeed, I should not have felt that it was my duty to let Cynthia go to London at all, if I had thought she was to be perpetually exposed to the depressing atmosphere of a sick-room. Besides, it must be so good for Helen to have Cynthia coming in with bright pleasant accounts of the parties she has been to—even if Cynthia disliked gaiety I should desire her to sacrifice herself and go out as much as she could, for Helen’s sake. My idea of nursing is that one should not be always thinking of one’s own feelings and wishes, but doing those things which will most serve to beguile the weary hours of an invalid. But then so few people have had to consider the subject so deeply as I have done!’

Mrs. Gibson here thought fit to sigh before going on with Cynthia’s letter. As far as Molly could make any sense out of this rather incoherent epistle, very incoherently read aloud to her, Cynthia was really pleased, and glad to be of use and comfort to Helen, but at the same time very ready to be easily persuaded into the perpetual small gaieties which abounded in her uncle’s house in London, even at this dead season of the year. Mrs. Gibson came upon Mr. Henderson’s name once, and then went on with a running um-um-um to herself, which sounded very mysterious, but which might as well have been omitted, as all that Cynthia really said about him was, ‘Mr. Henderson’s mother has advised my aunt to consult a certain Dr. Donaldson, who is said to be very clever in such cases as Helen’s, but my uncle is not sufficiently sure of the professional etiquette, &c.’ Then there came a very affectionate, carefully worded message to Molly—implying a good deal more than was said of loving gratitude for the trouble she had taken in Cynthia’s behalf. And that was all; and Molly went away a little depressed; she knew not why.