Wives and Daughters Page #5

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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away, and Molly sat upright, waiting for the promised messenger. She
did not know who Clare might be, and she did not care much for food
now; but she felt as if she could not walk without some help. At
length she saw the pretty lady coming back, followed by a footman
with a small tray.

"Look how kind Lady Cuxhaven is," said she who was called Clare. "She
chose you out this little lunch herself; and now you must try and eat
it, and you'll be quite right when you've had some food, darling--You
need not stop, Edwards; I will bring the tray back with me."

There was some bread, and some cold chicken, and some jelly, and
a glass of wine, and a bottle of sparkling water, and a bunch of
grapes. Molly put out her trembling little hand for the water; but
she was too faint to hold it. Clare put it to her mouth, and she took
a long draught and was refreshed. But she could not eat; she tried,
but she could not; her headache was too bad. Clare looked bewildered.
"Take some grapes, they will be the best for you; you must try and
eat something, or I don't know how I shall get you to the house."

"My head aches so," said Molly, lifting her heavy eyes wistfully.

"Oh, dear, how tiresome!" said Clare, still in her sweet gentle
voice, not at all as if she was angry, only expressing an obvious
truth. Molly felt very guilty and very unhappy. Clare went on, with a
shade of asperity in her tone: "You see, I don't know what to do with
you here if you don't eat enough to enable you to walk home. And I've
been out for these three hours trapesing about the grounds till I'm
as tired as can be, and missed my lunch and all." Then, as if a new
idea had struck her, she said,--"You lie back in that seat for a few
minutes, and try to eat the bunch of grapes, and I'll wait for you,
and just be eating a mouthful meanwhile. You are sure you don't want
this chicken?"

Molly did as she was bid, and leant back, picking languidly at the
grapes, and watching the good appetite with which the lady ate up the
chicken and jelly, and drank the glass of wine. She was so pretty and
so graceful in her deep mourning, that even her hurry in eating, as
if she was afraid of some one coming to surprise her in the act, did
not keep her little observer from admiring her in all she did.

"And now, darling, are you ready to go?" said she, when she had eaten
up everything on the tray. "Oh, come; you have nearly finished your
grapes; that's a good girl. Now, if you will come with me to the
side entrance, I will take you up to my own room, and you shall lie
down on the bed for an hour or two; and if you have a good nap your
headache will be quite gone."

So they set off, Clare carrying the empty tray, rather to Molly's
shame; but the child had enough work to drag herself along, and was
afraid of offering to do anything more. The "side entrance" was
a flight of steps leading up from a private flower-garden into a
private matted hall, or ante-room, out of which many doors opened,
and in which were deposited the light garden-tools and the bows and
arrows of the young ladies of the house. Lady Cuxhaven must have seen
their approach, for she met them in this hall as soon as they came
in.

"How is she now?" she asked; then glancing at the plates and glasses,
she added, "Come, I think there can't be much amiss! You're a good
old Clare, but you should have let one of the men fetch that tray in;
life in such weather as this is trouble enough of itself."

Molly could not help wishing that her pretty companion would have
told Lady Cuxhaven that she herself had helped to finish up the
ample luncheon; but no such idea seemed to come into her mind. She
only said,--"Poor dear! she is not quite the thing yet; has got a
headache, she says. I am going to put her down on my bed, to see if
she can get a little sleep."

Molly saw Lady Cuxhaven say something in a half-laughing manner
to "Clare," as she passed her; and the child could not keep from
tormenting herself by fancying that the words spoken sounded
wonderfully like "Over-eaten herself, I suspect." However, she felt
too poorly to worry herself long; the little white bed in the cool
and pretty room had too many attractions for her aching head. The
muslin curtains flapped softly from time to time in the scented air
that came through the open windows. Clare covered her up with a light
shawl, and darkened the room. As she was going away Molly roused
herself to say, "Please, ma'am, don't let them go away without me.
Please ask somebody to waken me if I go to sleep. I am to go back
with Miss Brownings."

"Don't trouble yourself about it, dear; I'll take care," said Clare,
turning round at the door, and kissing her hand to little anxious
Molly. And then she went away, and thought no more about it.
The carriages came round at half-past four, hurried a little by
Lady Cumnor, who had suddenly become tired of the business of
entertaining, and annoyed at the repetition of indiscriminating
admiration.

"Why not have both carriages out, mamma, and get rid of them all at
once?" said Lady Cuxhaven. "This going by instalments is the most
tiresome thing that could be imagined." So at last there had been a
great hurry and an unmethodical way of packing off every one at once.
Miss Browning had gone in the chariot (or "chawyot," as Lady Cumnor
called it;--it rhymed to her daughter, Lady Hawyot--or Harriet,
as the name was spelt in the Peerage), and Miss Phoebe had been
speeded along with several other guests, away in a great roomy family
conveyance, of the kind which we should now call an "omnibus." Each
thought that Molly Gibson was with the other, and the truth was, that
she lay fast asleep on Mrs. Kirkpatrick's bed--Mrs. Kirkpatrick née
Clare.

The housemaids came in to arrange the room. Their talking aroused
Molly, who sat up on the bed, and tried to push back the hair from
her hot forehead, and to remember where she was. She dropped down on
her feet by the side of the bed, to the astonishment of the women,
and said,--"Please, how soon are we going away?"

"Bless us and save us! who'd ha' thought of any one being in the bed?
Are you one of the Hollingford ladies, my dear? They are all gone
this hour or more!"

"Oh, dear, what shall I do? That lady they call Clare promised to
waken me in time. Papa will so wonder where I am, and I don't know
what Betty will say."

The child began to cry, and the housemaids looked at each other
in some dismay and much sympathy. Just then, they heard Mrs.
Kirkpatrick's step along the passages, approaching. She was singing
some little Italian air in a low musical voice, coming to her bedroom
to dress for dinner. One housemaid said to the other, with a knowing
look, "Best leave it to her;" and they passed on to their work in the
other rooms.

Mrs. Kirkpatrick opened the door, and stood aghast at the sight of
Molly.

"Why, I quite forgot you!" she said at length. "Nay, don't cry;
you'll make yourself not fit to be seen. Of course I must take the
consequences of your over-sleeping yourself, and if I can't manage to
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