Wives and Daughters Page #6

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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get you back to Hollingford to-night, you shall sleep with me, and
we'll do our best to send you home to-morrow morning."

"But papa!" sobbed out Molly. "He always wants me to make tea for
him; and I have no night-things."

"Well, don't go and make a piece of work about what can't be helped
now. I'll lend you night-things, and your papa must do without your
making tea for him to-night. And another time don't over-sleep
yourself in a strange house; you may not always find yourself among
such hospitable people as they are here. Why now, if you don't cry
and make a figure of yourself, I'll ask if you may come in to dessert
with Master Smythe and the little ladies. You shall go into the
nursery, and have some tea with them; and then you must come back
here and brush your hair and make yourself tidy. I think it is a very
fine thing for you to be stopping in such a grand house as this; many
a little girl would like nothing better."

During this speech she was arranging her toilette for dinner--taking
off her black morning gown; putting on her dressing-gown; shaking her
long soft auburn hair over her shoulders, and glancing about the room
in search of various articles of her dress,--a running flow of easy
talk came babbling out all the time.

"I have a little girl of my own, dear! I don't know what she would
not give to be staying here at Lord Cumnor's with me; but, instead
of that, she has to spend her holidays at school; and yet you are
looking as miserable as can be at the thought of stopping for
just one night. I really have been as busy as can be with those
tiresome--those good ladies, I mean, from Hollingford--and one can't
think of everything at a time."

Molly--only child as she was--had stopped her tears at the mention
of that little girl of Mrs. Kirkpatrick's, and now she ventured to
say,--

"Are you married, ma'am; I thought she called you Clare?"

In high good-humour Mrs. Kirkpatrick made reply:--"I don't look as
if I was married, do I? Every one is surprised. And yet I have been
a widow for seven months now: and not a grey hair on my head, though
Lady Cuxhaven, who is younger than I, has ever so many."

"Why do they call you 'Clare?'" continued Molly, finding her so
affable and communicative.

"Because I lived with them when I was Miss Clare. It is a pretty
name, isn't it? I married a Mr. Kirkpatrick; he was only a curate,
poor fellow; but he was of a very good family, and if three of his
relations had died without children I should have been a baronet's
wife. But Providence did not see fit to permit it; and we must always
resign ourselves to what is decreed. Two of his cousins married, and
had large families; and poor dear Kirkpatrick died, leaving me a
widow."

"You have a little girl?" asked Molly.

"Yes: darling Cynthia! I wish you could see her; she is my only
comfort now. If I have time I will show you her picture when we come
up to bed; but I must go now. It does not do to keep Lady Cumnor
waiting a moment, and she asked me to be down early, to help with
some of the people in the house. Now I shall ring this bell, and when
the housemaid comes, ask her to take you into the nursery, and to
tell Lady Cuxhaven's nurse who you are. And then you'll have tea with
the little ladies, and come in with them to dessert. There! I'm sorry
you've over-slept yourself, and are left here; but give me a kiss,
and don't cry--you really are rather a pretty child, though you've
not got Cynthia's colouring! Oh, Nanny, would you be so very kind as
to take this young lady--(what's your name, my dear? Gibson?),--Miss
Gibson, to Mrs. Dyson, in the nursery, and ask her to allow her to
drink tea with the young ladies there; and to send her in with them
to dessert. I'll explain it all to my lady."

Nanny's face brightened out of its gloom when she heard the name
Gibson; and, having ascertained from Molly that she was "the
doctor's" child, she showed more willingness to comply with Mrs.
Kirkpatrick's request than was usual with her.

Molly was an obliging girl, and fond of children; so, as long as she
was in the nursery, she got on pretty well, being obedient to the
wishes of the supreme power, and even very useful to Mrs. Dyson, by
playing at tricks, and thus keeping a little one quiet while its
brothers and sisters were being arrayed in gay attire,--lace and
muslin, and velvet, and brilliant broad ribbons.

"Now, miss," said Mrs. Dyson, when her own especial charge were all
ready, "what can I do for you? You have not got another frock here,
have you?" No, indeed, she had not; nor if she had had one, could it
have been of a smarter nature than her present thick white dimity.
So she could only wash her face and hands, and submit to the nurse's
brushing and perfuming her hair. She thought she would rather have
stayed in the park all night long, and slept under the beautiful
quiet cedar, than have to undergo the unknown ordeal of "going
down to dessert," which was evidently regarded both by children and
nurses as the event of the day. At length there was a summons from
a footman, and Mrs. Dyson, in a rustling silk gown, marshalled her
convoy, and set sail for the dining-room door.

There was a large party of gentlemen and ladies sitting round the
decked table, in the brilliantly lighted room. Each dainty little
child ran up to its mother, or aunt, or particular friend; but Molly
had no one to go to.

"Who is that tall girl in the thick white frock? Not one of the
children of the house, I think?"

The lady addressed put up her glass, gazed at Molly, and dropped it
in an instant. "A French girl, I should imagine. I know Lady Cuxhaven
was inquiring for one to bring up with her little girls, that they
might get a good accent early. Poor little woman, she looks wild
and strange!" And the speaker, who sate next to Lord Cumnor, made a
little sign to Molly to come to her; Molly crept up to her as to the
first shelter; but when the lady began talking to her in French, she
blushed violently, and said in a very low voice,--

"I don't understand French. I'm only Molly Gibson, ma'am."

"Molly Gibson!" said the lady, out loud; as if that was not much of
an explanation.

Lord Cumnor caught the words and the tone.

"Oh, ho!" said he. "Are you the little girl who has been sleeping in
my bed?"

He imitated the deep voice of the fabulous bear, who asks this
question of the little child in the story; but Molly had never read
the "Three Bears," and fancied that his anger was real; she trembled
a little, and drew nearer to the kind lady who had beckoned her as
to a refuge. Lord Cumnor was very fond of getting hold of what he
fancied was a joke, and working his idea threadbare; so all the time
the ladies were in the room he kept on his running fire at Molly,
alluding to the Sleeping Beauty, the Seven Sleepers, and any other
famous sleeper that came into his head. He had no idea of the misery
his jokes were to the sensitive girl, who already thought herself
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