Wives and Daughters (77 page)

The receipt of Cynthia’s letters made very agreeable events. She did not write often, but her letters were tolerably long when they did come, and very sprightly in tone. There was constant mention made of many new names, which conveyed no idea to Molly, though Mrs. Gibson would try and enlighten her by running commentaries like the following:—

‘Mrs. Green! ah, that’s Mr. Jones’s pretty cousin, who lives in Russell Square with the fat husband. They keep their carriage; but I’m not sure if it is not Mr. Green who is Mrs. Jones’s cousin. We can ask Cynthia when she comes home. Mr. Henderson! to be sure—a young man with black whiskers, a pupil of Mr. Kirkpatrick’s formerly—or was he a pupil of Mr. Murray’s? I know they said he had read law with somebody. Ah, yes! they are the people who called the day after Mr. Rawson’s ball, and who admired Cynthia so much, without knowing I was her mother. She was very handsomely dressed indeed, in black satin; and the son had a glass eye, but he was a young man of good property. Coleman! yes, that was the name.’

No more news of Roger until some time after Cynthia had returned from her London visit. She came back looking fresher and prettier than ever, beautifully dressed, thanks to her own good taste and her cousins’ generosity, full of amusing details of the gay life she had been enjoying, yet not at all out of spirits at having left it behind her. She brought home all sorts of pretty and dainty devices for Molly; a neck ribbon made up in the newest fashion, a pattern for a tippet, a delicate pair of tight gloves, embroidered as Molly had never seen gloves embroidered before, and many another little sign of remembrance during her absence. Yet, somehow or other, Molly felt that Cynthia was changed in her relation to her. Molly was aware that she had never had Cynthia’s full confidence, for with all her apparent frankness and naiveté of manner, Cynthia was extremely reserved and reticent. She knew this much of herself, and had often laughed about it to Molly, and the latter had by this time found out the truth of her friend’s assertion. But Molly did not trouble herself much about it. She too knew that there were many thoughts and feelings that flitted through her mind which she should never think of telling to any one, except perhaps—if they were ever very much thrown together—to her father. She knew that Cynthia withheld from her more than thoughts and feelings—that she withheld facts. But then, as Molly reflected, these facts might involve details of struggle and suffering—might relate to her mother’s neglect—and altogether be of so painful a character that it would be well if Cynthia could forget her childhood altogether, instead of fixing it in her mind by the relation of her grievances and troubles. So it was not now by any want of confidence that Molly felt distanced as it were. It was because Cynthia rather avoided than sought her companionship; because her eyes shunned the straight, serious loving look of Molly’s; because there were certain subjects on which she evidently disliked speaking, not particularly interesting things as far as Molly could perceive, but it almost seemed as if they lay on the road to points to be avoided. Molly felt a sort of sighing pleasure in noticing Cynthia’s changed manner of talking about Roger. She spoke of him tenderly now; ‘poor Roger,’ as she called him; and Molly thought that she must be referring to the illness which he had mentioned in his last letter. One morning in the first week after Cynthia’s return home, just as he was going out, Mr. Gibson ran up into the drawing-room, booted and spurred, and hastily laid an open pamphlet down before her; pointing out a particular passage with his finger, but not speaking a word before he rapidly quitted the room. His eyes were sparkling, and had an amused as well as pleased expression. All this Molly noticed, as well as Cynthia’s flush of colour as she read what was thus pointed out to her. Then she pushed it a little on one side, not closing the book, however, and went on with her work.

‘What is it? may I see it?’ asked Molly, stretching out her hand for the pamphlet, which lay within her reach. But she did not take it until Cynthia had said—

‘Certainly; I don’t suppose there are any great secrets in a scientific journal, full of reports of meetings.’ And she gave the book a little push towards Molly.

‘Oh, Cynthia!’ said Molly, catching her breath as she read, ‘are you not proud?’ For it was an account of an annual gathering of the Geographical Society,
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and Lord Hollingford had read a letter he had received from Roger Hamley, dated from Arracuoba, a district in Africa, hitherto unvisited by any intelligent European traveller; and about which Mr. Hamley sent many curious particulars. The reading of this letter had been received with the greatest interest, and several subsequent speakers had paid the writer very high compliments.

But Molly might have known Cynthia better than to expect an answer responsive to the feelings that prompted her question. Let Cynthia be ever so proud, ever so glad, or so grateful, or even indignant, remorseful, grievous or sorry, the very fact that she was expected by another to entertain any of these emotions, would have been enough to prevent her expressing them.

‘I’m afraid I’m not as much struck by the wonder of the thing as you are, Molly. Besides, it is not news to me; at least, not entirely. I heard about the meeting before I left London; it was a good deal talked about in my uncle’s set; to be sure, I didn’t hear all the fine things they say of him there—but there, you know, that’s a mere fashion of speaking, which means nothing; somebody is bound to pay compliments when a lord takes the trouble to read one of his letters aloud.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Molly. ‘You know you don’t believe what you are saying, Cynthia.’

Cynthia gave that pretty little jerk of her shoulders, which was her equivalent for a French shrug, but did not lift up her head from her sewing. Molly began to read the report over again.

‘Why, Cynthia!’ she said, ‘you might have been there; ladies were there. It says “many ladies were present.” Oh, couldn’t you have managed to go? If your uncle’s set cared about these things, wouldn’t some of them have taken you?’

‘Perhaps, if I had asked them. But I think they would have been rather astonished at my sudden turn for science.’

‘You might have told your uncle how matters really stood; he would not have talked about it if you had wished him not, I am sure, and he could have helped you.’

‘Once for all, Molly,’ said Cynthia, now laying down her work, and speaking with quick authority, ‘do learn to understand that it is, and always has been my wish, not to have the relation which Roger and I bear to each other, mentioned or talked about. When the right time comes, I will make it known to my uncle, and to everybody whom it may concern; but I am not going to make mischief, and get myself into trouble even for the sake of hearing compliments paid to him—by letting it out before the time. If I’m pushed to it, I’d sooner break it off altogether at once, and have done with it. I can’t be worse off than I am now.’ Her angry tone had changed into a kind of desponding complaint before she had ended her sentence. Molly looked at her with dismay.

‘I can’t understand you, Cynthia,’ she said at length.

‘No; I dare say you can’t,’ said Cynthia, looking at her with tears in her eyes, and very tenderly, as if in atonement for her late vehemence. ‘I am afraid—I hope you never will.’

In a moment, Molly’s arms were round her. ‘Oh, Cynthia,’ she murmured, ‘have I been plaguing you? Have I vexed you? Don’t say you’re afraid of my knowing you. Of course you’ve your faults, everybody has, but I think I love you the better for them.’

‘I don’t know that I am so very bad,’ said Cynthia, smiling a little through the tears that Molly’s words and caresses had forced to overflow from her eyes. ‘But I’ve got into scrapes. I’m in a scrape now. I do sometimes believe I shall always be in scrapes, and if they ever come to light, I shall seem to be worse than I really am; and I know your father will throw me off, and I—no, I won’t be afraid that you will, Molly.’

‘I’m sure I won’t. Are they—do you think—how would Roger take it?’ asked Molly, very timidly.

‘I don’t know. I hope he will never hear of it. I don’t see why he should, for in a little while I shall be quite clear again. It all came about without my ever thinking I was doing wrong. I’ve a great mind to tell you all about it, Molly.’

Molly did not like to urge it, though she longed to know, and to see if she could not offer help; but while Cynthia was hesitating and, perhaps, to say the truth, rather regretting that she had even made this slight advance towards bestowing her confidence, Mrs. Gibson came in, full of some manner of altering a gown of hers, so as to make it into the fashion of the day, as she had seen it during her visit to London. Cynthia seemed to forget her tears and her troubles, and to throw her own soul into millinery.

Cynthia’s correspondence went on pretty briskly with her London cousins, according to the usual rate of correspondence in those days. Indeed, Mrs. Gibson was occasionally inclined to complain of the frequency of Helen Kirkpatrick’s letters; for before the penny post came in, the recipient had to pay the postage of letters; and elevenpence-halfpenny three times a week came, according to Mrs. Gibson’s mode of reckoning when annoyed, to a sum ‘between three and four shillings.’ But these complaints were only for the family; they saw the wrong side of the tapestry. Hollingford in general, Miss Brownings in particular, heard of ‘dear Helen’s enthusiastic friendship for Cynthia,’ and of‘the real pleasure it was to receive such constant news—relays of news indeed—from London. It was almost as good as living there!’

‘A great deal better, I should think,’ said Miss Browning with some severity. For she had got many of her notions of the metropolis from the British Essayists, where town is so often represented as the centre of dissipation, corrupting country wives and squires’ daughters, and unfitting them for all their duties by the constant whirl of its not always innocent pleasures. London was a sort of moral pitch, which few could touch and not be defiled. Miss Browning had been on the watch for the signs of deterioration in Cynthia’s character ever since her return home. But, except in a greater number of pretty and becoming articles of dress, there was no great change for the worse to be perceived. Cynthia had been ‘in the world,’ had ‘beheld the glare and glitter and dazzling display of London,’ yet had come back to Hollingford as ready as ever to place a chair for Miss Browning, or to gather flowers for a nosegay for Miss Phoebe, or to mend her own clothes. But all this was set down to the merits of Cynthia, not to the credit of London-town.

‘As far as I can judge of London,’ said Miss Browning, sententiously continuing her tirade against the place, ‘it’s no better than a pickpocket and a robber dressed up in the spoils of honest folk. I should like to know where my Lord Hollingford was bred, and Mr. Roger Hamley. Your good husband lent me that report of the meeting, Mrs. Gibson, where so much was said about them both, and he was as proud of their praises as if he had been akin to them, and Phoebe read it aloud to me, for the print was too small for my eyes; she was a good deal perplexed with all the new names of places, but I said she’d better skip them, for we had never heard of them before and probably should never hear of them again, but she read out the fine things they said of my lord, and Mr. Roger, and I put it to you, where were they born and bred? Why, within eight miles of Hollingford; it might have been Molly there or me; it’s all a chance; and then they go and talk about the pleasures of intellectual society in London, and the distinguished people up there that it is such an advantage to know, and all the time I know it’s only shops and the play that’s the real attraction. But that’s neither here nor there. We all put our best foot foremost, and if we have a reason to give that looks sensible we speak it out like men, and never say anything about the silliness we are hugging to our heart. But I ask you again, where does this fine society come from, and these wise men, and these distinguished travellers? Why, out of country parishes like this! London picks ’em all up, and decks herself with them, and then calls out to the folks she’s robbed, and says, “Come and see how fine I am.” Fine, indeed! I’ve no patience with London: Cynthia is much better out of it; and I’m not sure, if I were you, Mrs. Gibson, if I wouldn’t stop up those London letters: they’ll only be unsettling her.’

‘But perhaps she may live in London some of these days, Miss Browning,’ simpered Mrs. Gibson.

‘Time enough then to be thinking of London. I wish her an honest country husband with enough to live upon, and a little to lay by, and a good character to boot. Mind that, Molly,’ said she, firing round upon the startled Molly; ‘I wish Cynthia a husband with a good character; but she’s got a mother to look after her; you’ve none, and when your mother was alive she was a dear friend of mine; so I’m not going to let you throw yourself away upon any one whose life isn’t clear and aboveboard, you may depend upon it!’

This last speech fell like a bomb into the quiet little drawing-room, it was delivered with such vehemence. Miss Browning, in her secret heart, meant it as a warning against the intimacy she believed that Molly had formed with Mr. Preston; but as it happened that Molly had never dreamed of any such intimacy, the girl could not imagine why such severity of speech should be addressed to her. Mrs. Gibson, who always took up the points of every word or action where they touched her own self (and called it sensitiveness), broke the silence that followed Miss Browning’s speech by saying, plaintively—

‘I’m sure, Miss Browning, you are very much mistaken if you think that any mother could take more care of Molly than I do. I don’t—I can’t think there is any need for any one to interfere to protect her, and I have not an idea why you have been talking in this way, just as if we were all wrong, and you were all right. It hurts my feelings, indeed it does; for Molly can tell you there is not a thing or a favour that Cynthia has, that she has not. And as for not taking care of her, why, if she were to go up to London to-morrow, I should make a point of going with her to see after her; and I never did it for Cynthia when she was at school in France; and her bedroom is furnished just like Cynthia‘s, and I let her wear my red shawl whenever she likes; she might have it oftener if she would. I can’t think what you mean, Miss Browning.’