Wives and Daughters. Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
every one else; and occasionally the relaxation of the strain which a character for infallible wisdom brings with it, does much to restore health. Mrs. Kirkpatrick thought in her secret soul that she had never found it so easy to get on with Lady Cumnor; and Bradley and she had never done singing the praises of Mr. Gibson, "who always managed my lady so beautifully."
Reports were duly sent up to my lord, but he and his daughters were strictly forbidden to come down. Lady Cumnor wished to be weak and languid, and uncertain both in body and mind, without family observation. It was a condition so different to anything she had ever been in before, that she was unconsciously afraid of losing her prestige, if she was seen in it. Sometimes she herself wrote the daily bulletins; at other times she bade Clare do it, but she would always see the letters. Any answers she received from her daughters she used to read herself, occasionally imparting some of their contents to "that good Clare." But anybody might read my lord's letters. There was no great fear of family secrets oozing out in his sprawling lines of affection. But once Mrs. Kirkpatrick came upon a sentence in a letter from Lord Cumnor, which she was reading out loud to his wife, that caught her eye before she came to it, and if she could have skipped it and kept it for private perusal, she would gladly have done so. My lady was too sharp for her, though. In her opinion "Clare was a good creature, but not clever," the truth being that she was not always quick at resources, though tolerably unscrupulous in the use of them.
"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 match-making 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.
CHAPTER X.
A CRISIS.
"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 more of her 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 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 herself, as if understanding