Wives and Daughters Page #11

The daughter of a country doctor copes with an unwanted stepmother, an impetuous stepsister, burdensome secrets, the town gossips, and the tug on her own heartstrings for a man who thinks of her only as a friend. Wives and Daughters was first published serially in the Cornhill Magazine from August, 1864, to January, 1866. Elizabeth Gaskell died suddenly in November, 1865. She had completed all but the last chapter, and in that sense the book, which many consider her masterpiece, is unfinished. The editor of the Cornhill Magazine Frederick Greenwood, appended his comments about Gaskell's intentions for the story's ending.

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employment just when she needed it most. But Betty, though agreeing
in theory with her master when he told her of the necessity of having
a governess for his little daughter, was vehemently opposed to any
division of her authority and influence over the child who had been
her charge, her plague, and her delight ever since Mrs. Gibson's
death. She took up her position as censor of all Miss Eyre's sayings
and doings from the very first, and did not for a moment condescend
to conceal her disapprobation. In her heart she could not help
respecting the patience and painstaking of the good lady,--for
a "lady" Miss Eyre was in the best sense of the word, though in
Hollingford she only took rank as a shopkeeper's daughter. Yet Betty
buzzed about her with the teasing pertinacity of a gnat, always ready
to find fault, if not to bite. Miss Eyre's only defence came from the
quarter whence it might least have been expected--from her pupil; on
whose fancied behalf, as an oppressed little personage, Betty always
based her attacks. But very early in the day Molly perceived their
injustice, and soon afterwards she began to respect Miss Eyre for her
silent endurance of what evidently gave her far more pain than Betty
imagined. Mr. Gibson had been a friend in need to her family, so Miss
Eyre restrained her complaints, sooner than annoy him. And she had
her reward. Betty would offer Molly all sorts of small temptations to
neglect Miss Eyre's wishes; Molly steadily resisted, and plodded away
at her task of sewing or her difficult sum. Betty made cumbrous jokes
at Miss Eyre's expense; Molly looked up with the utmost gravity, as
if requesting the explanation of an unintelligible speech; and there
is nothing so quenching to a wag as to be asked to translate his
jest into plain matter-of-fact English, and to show wherein the
point lies. Occasionally Betty lost her temper entirely, and spoke
impertinently to Miss Eyre; but when this had been done in Molly's
presence, the girl flew out into such a violent passion of words
in defence of her silent trembling governess, that even Betty
herself was daunted, though she chose to take the child's anger as
a good joke, and tried to persuade Miss Eyre herself to join in her
amusement.

"Bless the child! one 'ud think I was a hungry pussy-cat, and she
a hen-sparrow, with her wings all fluttering, and her little eyes
aflame, and her beak ready to peck me just because I happened to
look near her nest. Nay, child! if thou lik'st to be stifled in a
nasty close room, learning things as is of no earthly good when they
is learnt, instead o' riding on Job Donkin's hay-cart, it's thy
look-out, not mine. She's a little vixen, isn't she?" smiling at
Miss Eyre, as she finished her speech. But the poor governess saw no
humour in the affair; the comparison of Molly to a hen-sparrow was
lost upon her. She was sensitive and conscientious, and knew, from
home experience, the evils of an ungovernable temper. So she began to
reprove Molly for giving way to her passion, and the child thought
it hard to be blamed for what she considered her just anger against
Betty. But, after all, these were the small grievances of a very
happy childhood.




CHAPTER IV.

MR. GIBSON'S NEIGHBOURS.


[Illustration (untitled)]

Molly grew up among these quiet people in calm monotony of life,
without any greater event than that which has been recorded--the
being left behind at the Towers--until she was nearly seventeen. She
had become a visitor at the school, but she had never gone again to
the annual festival at the great house; it was easy to find some
excuse for keeping away, and the recollection of that day was not
a pleasant one on the whole, though she often thought how much she
should like to see the gardens again.

Lady Agnes was married; there was only Lady Harriet remaining at
home; Lord Hollingford, the eldest son, had lost his wife, and was
a good deal more at the Towers since he had become a widower. He
was a tall ungainly man, considered to be as proud as his mother,
the countess; but, in fact, he was only shy, and slow at making
commonplace speeches. He did not know what to say to people whose
daily habits and interests were not the same as his; he would have
been very thankful for a handbook of small-talk, and would have
learnt off his sentences with good-humoured diligence. He often
envied the fluency of his garrulous father, who delighted in talking
to everybody, and was perfectly unconscious of the incoherence of his
conversation. But, owing to his constitutional reserve and shyness,
Lord Hollingford was not a popular man although his kindness of
heart was very great, his simplicity of character extreme, and his
scientific acquirements considerable enough to entitle him to much
reputation in the European republic of learned men. In this respect
Hollingford was proud of him. The inhabitants knew that the great,
grave, clumsy heir to its fealty was highly esteemed for his wisdom;
and that he had made one or two discoveries, though in what direction
they were not quite sure. But it was safe to point him out to
strangers visiting the little town, as "That's Lord Hollingford--the
famous Lord Hollingford, you know; you must have heard of him, he is
so scientific." If the strangers knew his name, they also knew his
claims to fame; if they did not, ten to one but they would make as
if they did, and so conceal not only their own ignorance, but that
of their companions, as to the exact nature of the sources of his
reputation.

He was left a widower with two or three boys. They were at a public
school; so that their companionship could make the house in which
he had passed his married life but little of a home to him, and he
consequently spent much of his time at the Towers; where his mother
was proud of him, and his father very fond, but ever so little afraid
of him. His friends were always welcomed by Lord and Lady Cumnor; the
former, indeed, was in the habit of welcoming everybody everywhere;
but it was a proof of Lady Cumnor's real affection for her
distinguished son, that she allowed him to ask what she called "all
sorts of people" to the Towers. "All sorts of people" meant really
those who were distinguished for science and learning, without regard
to rank: and it must be confessed, without much regard to polished
manners likewise.

Mr. Hall, Mr. Gibson's predecessor, had always been received with
friendly condescension by my lady, who had found him established as
the family medical man, when first she came to the Towers on her
marriage; but she never thought of interfering with his custom of
taking his meals, if he needed refreshment, in the housekeeper's
room, not with the housekeeper, bien entendu. The comfortable,
clever, stout, and red-faced doctor would very much have preferred
this, even if he had had the choice given him (which he never had) of
taking his "snack," as he called it, with my lord and my lady, in the
grand dining-room. Of course, if some great surgical gun (like Sir
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