Wives and Daughters Page #12

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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Astley) was brought down from London to bear on the family's health,
it was due to him, as well as to the local medical attendant, to ask
Mr. Hall to dinner, in a formal and ceremonious manner, on which
occasions Mr. Hall buried his chin in voluminous folds of white
muslin, put on his black knee-breeches, with bunches of ribbon at
the sides, his silk stockings and buckled shoes, and otherwise made
himself excessively uncomfortable in his attire, and went forth in
state in a post-chaise from the "George," consoling himself in the
private corner of his heart for the discomfort he was enduring with
the idea of how well it would sound the next day in the ears of the
squires whom he was in the habit of attending: "Yesterday at dinner
the earl said," or "the countess remarked," or "I was surprised to
hear when I was dining at the Towers yesterday." But somehow things
had changed since Mr. Gibson had become "the doctor" par excellence
at Hollingford. Miss Brownings thought that it was because he had
such an elegant figure, and "such a distinguished manner;" Mrs.
Goodenough, "because of his aristocratic connections"--"the son of a
Scotch duke, my dear, never mind on which side of the blanket." But
the fact was certain; although he might frequently ask Mrs. Brown
to give him something to eat in the housekeeper's room--he had no
time for all the fuss and ceremony of luncheon with my lady--he was
always welcome to the grandest circle of visitors in the house. He
might lunch with a duke any day that he chose; given that a duke was
forthcoming at the Towers. His accent was Scotch, not provincial. He
had not an ounce of superfluous flesh on his bones; and leanness goes
a great way to gentility. His complexion was sallow, and his hair
black; in those days, the decade after the conclusion of the great
continental war, to be sallow and black-a-vised was of itself a
distinction; he was not jovial (as my lord remarked with a sigh, but
it was my lady who endorsed the invitations), sparing of his words,
intelligent, and slightly sarcastic. Therefore he was perfectly
presentable.

His Scotch blood (for that he was of Scottish descent there could be
no manner of doubt) gave him just the kind of thistly dignity which
made every one feel that they must treat him with respect; so on that
head he was assured. The grandeur of being an invited guest to dinner
at the Towers from time to time, gave him but little pleasure for
many years, but it was a form to be gone through in the way of his
profession, without any idea of social gratification.

But when Lord Hollingford returned to make the Towers his home,
affairs were altered. Mr. Gibson really heard and learnt things that
interested him seriously, and that gave fresh flavour to his reading.
From time to time he met the leaders of the scientific world;
odd-looking, simple-hearted men, very much in earnest about their
own particular subjects, and not having much to say on any other. Mr.
Gibson found himself capable of appreciating such persons, and also
perceived that they valued his appreciation, as it was honestly
and intelligently given. Indeed, by-and-by, he began to send
contributions of his own to the more scientific of the medical
journals, and thus partly in receiving, partly in giving out
information and accurate thought, a new zest was added to his life.
There was not much intercourse between Lord Hollingford and himself;
the one was too silent and shy, the other too busy, to seek each
other's society with the perseverance required to do away with the
social distinction of rank that prevented their frequent meetings.
But each was thoroughly pleased to come into contact with the other.
Each could rely on the other's respect and sympathy with a security
unknown to many who call themselves friends; and this was a source
of happiness to both; to Mr. Gibson the most so, of course; for
his range of intelligent and cultivated society was the smaller.
Indeed, there was no one equal to himself among the men with whom he
associated, and this he had felt as a depressing influence, although
he never recognized the cause of his depression. There was Mr.
Ashton, the vicar, who had succeeded Mr. Browning, a thoroughly good
and kind-hearted man, but one without an original thought in him;
whose habitual courtesy and indolent mind led him to agree to every
opinion, not palpably heterodox, and to utter platitudes in the most
gentlemanly manner. Mr. Gibson had once or twice amused himself, by
leading the vicar on in his agreeable admissions of arguments "as
perfectly convincing," and of statements as "curious but undoubted,"
till he had planted the poor clergyman in a bog of heretical
bewilderment. But then Mr. Ashton's pain and suffering at suddenly
finding out into what a theological predicament he had been brought,
his real self-reproach at his previous admissions, were so great
that Mr. Gibson lost all sense of fun, and hastened back to the
Thirty-nine Articles with all the good-will in life, as the only
means of soothing the vicar's conscience. On any other subject,
except that of orthodoxy, Mr. Gibson could lead him any lengths; but
then his ignorance on most of them prevented bland acquiescence from
arriving at any results which could startle him. He had some private
fortune, and was not married, and lived the life of an indolent and
refined bachelor; but though he himself was no very active visitor
among his poorer parishioners, he was always willing to relieve their
wants in the most liberal, and, considering his habits, occasionally
in the most self-denying manner, whenever Mr. Gibson, or any one
else, made them clearly known to him. "Use my purse as freely as if
it was your own, Gibson," he was wont to say. "I'm such a bad one at
going about and making talk to poor folk--I daresay I don't do enough
in that way--but I am most willing to give you anything for any one
you may consider in want."

"Thank you; I come upon you pretty often, I believe, and make very
little scruple about it; but if you'll allow me to suggest, it is,
that you shouldn't try to make talk when you go into the cottages;
but just talk."

"I don't see the difference," said the vicar, a little querulously;
"but I daresay there is a difference, and I have no doubt what you
say is quite true. I shouldn't make talk, but talk; and as both are
equally difficult to me, you must let me purchase the privilege of
silence by this ten-pound note."

"Thank you. It's not so satisfactory to me; and, I should think, not
to yourself. But probably the Joneses and Greens will prefer it."

Mr. Ashton would look with plaintive inquiry into Mr. Gibson's face
after some such speech, as if asking if a sarcasm was intended. On
the whole, they went on in the most amicable way; only beyond the
gregarious feeling common to most men, they had very little actual
pleasure in each other's society. Perhaps the man of all others
to whom Mr. Gibson took the most kindly--at least, until Lord
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