THE WIDOWER AND THE WIDOW.
Mrs. Kirkpatrick was only too happy to accept Lady Cumnor's
invitation. It was what she had been hoping for, but hardly daring to
expect, as she believed that the family were settled in London for
some time to come. The Towers was a pleasant and luxurious house in
which to pass her holidays; and though she was not one to make deep
plans, or to look far ahead, she was quite aware of the prestige
which her being able to say she had been staying with "dear Lady
Cumnor" at the Towers, was likely to give her and her school in
the eyes of a good many people; so she gladly prepared to join her
ladyship on the 17th. Her wardrobe did not require much arrangement;
if it had done, the poor lady would not have had much money to
appropriate to the purpose. She was very pretty and graceful; and
that goes a great way towards carrying off shabby clothes; and it was
her taste more than any depth of feeling, that had made her persevere
in wearing all the delicate tints--the violets and grays--which, with
a certain admixture of black, constitute half-mourning. This style of
becoming dress she was supposed to wear in memory of Mr. Kirkpatrick;
in reality because it was both lady-like and economical. Her
beautiful hair was of that rich auburn that hardly ever turns gray;
and partly out of consciousness of its beauty, and partly because the
washing of caps is expensive, she did not wear anything on her head;
her complexion had the vivid tints that often accompany the kind
of hair which has once been red; and the only injury her skin had
received from advancing years was that the colouring was rather more
brilliant than delicate, and varied less with every passing emotion.
She could no longer blush; and at eighteen she had been very proud
of her blushes. Her eyes were soft, large, and china-blue in colour;
they had not much expression or shadow about them, which was perhaps
owing to the flaxen colour of her eyelashes. Her figure was a little
fuller than it used to be, but her movements were as soft and sinuous
as ever. Altogether, she looked much younger than her age, which
was not far short of forty. She had a very pleasant voice, and read
aloud well and distinctly, which Lady Cumnor liked. Indeed, for some
inexplicable reason, she was a greater, more positive favourite with
Lady Cumnor than with any of the rest of the family, though they all
liked her up to a certain point, and found it agreeably useful to
have any one in the house who was so well acquainted with their ways
and habits; so ready to talk, when a little trickle of conversation
was required; so willing to listen, and to listen with tolerable
intelligence, if the subjects spoken about did not refer to serious
solid literature, or science, or politics, or social economy. About
novels and poetry, travels and gossip, personal details, or anecdotes
of any kind, she always made exactly the remarks which are expected
from an agreeable listener; and she had sense enough to confine
herself to those short expressions of wonder, admiration, and
astonishment, which may mean anything, when more recondite things
were talked about.
It was a very pleasant change to a poor unsuccessful schoolmistress
to leave her own house, full of battered and shabby furniture (she
had taken the good-will and furniture of her predecessor at a
valuation, two or three years before), where the look-out was as
gloomy, and the surrounding as squalid, as is often the case in the
smaller streets of a country town, and to come bowling through the
Towers Park in the luxurious carriage sent to meet her; to alight,
and feel secure that the well-trained servants would see after her
bags, and umbrella, and parasol, and cloak, without her loading
herself with all these portable articles, as she had had to do
while following the wheelbarrow containing her luggage in going to
the Ashcombe coach-office that morning; to pass up the deep-piled
carpets of the broad shallow stairs into my lady's own room, cool and
deliciously fresh, even on this sultry day, and fragrant with great
bowls of freshly gathered roses of every shade of colour. There were
two or three new novels lying uncut on the table; the daily papers,
the magazines. Every chair was an easy-chair of some kind or other;
and all covered with French chintz that mimicked the real flowers in
the garden below. She was familiar with the bedroom called hers, to
which she was soon ushered by Lady Cumnor's maid. It seemed to her
far more like home than the dingy place she had left that morning;
it was so natural to her to like dainty draperies, and harmonious
colouring, and fine linen, and soft raiment. She sate down in the
arm-chair by the bed-side, and wondered over her fate something in
this fashion--
"One would think it was an easy enough thing to deck a looking-glass
like that with muslin and pink ribbons; and yet how hard it is to
keep it up! People don't know how hard it is till they've tried as
I have. I made my own glass just as pretty when I first went to
Ashcombe; but the muslin got dirty, and the pink ribbons faded, and
it is so difficult to earn money to renew them; and when one has got
the money one hasn't the heart to spend it all at once. One thinks
and one thinks how one can get the most good out of it; and a new
gown, or a day's pleasure, or some hot-house fruit, or some piece of
elegance that can be seen and noticed in one's drawing-room, carries
the day, and good-by to prettily decked looking-glasses. Now here,
money is like the air they breathe. No one even asks or knows how
much the washing costs, or what pink ribbon is a yard. Ah! it would
be different if they had to earn every penny as I have! They would
have to calculate, like me, how to get the most pleasure out of it.
I wonder if I am to go on all my life toiling and moiling for money?
It's not natural. Marriage is the natural thing; then the husband
has all that kind of dirty work to do, and his wife sits in the
drawing-room like a lady. I did, when poor Kirkpatrick was alive.
Heigho! it's a sad thing to be a widow."
Then there was the contrast between the dinners which she had to
share with her scholars at Ashcombe--rounds of beef, legs of mutton,
great dishes of potatoes, and large batter-puddings, with the tiny
meal of exquisitely cooked delicacies, sent up on old Chelsea china,
that was served every day to the earl and countess and herself at
the Towers. She dreaded the end of her holidays as much as the most
home-loving of her pupils. But at this time that end was some weeks
off, so Clare shut her eyes to the future, and tried to relish the
present to its fullest extent. A disturbance to the pleasant, even
course of the summer days came in the indisposition of Lady Cumnor.
Her husband had gone back to London, and she and Mrs. Kirkpatrick had
been left to the very even tenor of life, which was according to my
lady's wish just now. In spite of her languor and fatigue, she had
gone through the day when the school visitors came to the Towers, in
full dignity, dictating clearly all that was to be done, what walks
were to be taken, what hothouses to be seen, and when the party were
to return to the "collation." She herself remained indoors, with
one or two ladies who had ventured to think that the fatigue or the
heat might be too much for them, and who had therefore declined
accompanying the ladies in charge of Mrs. Kirkpatrick, or those other
favoured few to whom Lord Cumnor was explaining the new buildings
in his farm-yard. "With the utmost condescension," as her hearers
afterwards expressed it, Lady Cumnor told them all about her married
daughters' establishments, nurseries, plans for the education of
their children, and manner of passing the day. But the exertion tired
her; and when every one had left, the probability is that she would
have gone to lie down and rest, had not her husband made an unlucky
remark in the kindness of his heart. He came up to her and put his
hand on her shoulder.
"I'm afraid you're sadly tired, my lady?" he said.
She braced her muscles, and drew herself up, saying coldly,--
"When I am tired, Lord Cumnor, I will tell you so." And her fatigue
showed itself during the rest of the evening in her sitting
particularly upright, and declining all offers of easy-chairs or
foot-stools, and refusing the insult of a suggestion that they
should all go to bed earlier. She went on in something of this
kind of manner as long as Lord Cumnor remained at the Towers. Mrs.
Kirkpatrick was quite deceived by it, and kept assuring Lord Cumnor
that she had never seen dear Lady Cumnor looking better, or so
strong. But he had an affectionate heart, if a blundering head; and
though he could give no reason for his belief, he was almost certain
his wife was not well. Yet he was too much afraid of her to send for
Mr. Gibson without her permission. His last words to Clare were--
"It's such a comfort to leave my lady to you; only don't you be
deluded by her ways. She'll not show she's ill till she can't help
it. Consult with Bradley" (Lady Cumnor's "own woman,"--she disliked
the new-fangledness of "lady's-maid"); "and if I were you, I'd send
and ask Gibson to call--you might make any kind of a pretence,"--and
then the idea he had had in London of the fitness of a match
between the two coming into his head just now, he could not help
adding,--"Get him to come and see you, he's a very agreeable man;
Lord Hollingford says there's no one like him in these parts: and he
might be looking at my lady while he was talking to you, and see if
he thinks her really ill. And let me know what he says about her."
But Clare was just as great a coward about doing anything for Lady
Cumnor which she had not expressly ordered, as Lord Cumnor himself.
She knew she might fall into such disgrace if she sent for Mr. Gibson
without direct permission, that she might never be asked to stay at
the Towers again; and the life there, monotonous in its smoothness of
luxury as it might be to some, was exactly to her taste. She in her
turn tried to put upon Bradley the duty which Lord Cumnor had put
upon her.
"Mrs. Bradley," she said one day, "are you quite comfortable about
my lady's health? Lord Cumnor fancied that she was looking worn and
ill?"
"Indeed, Mrs. Kirkpatrick, I don't think my lady is herself. I can't
persuade myself as she is, though if you was to question me till
night I couldn't tell you why."
"Don't you think you could make some errand to Hollingford, and see
Mr. Gibson, and ask him to come round this way some day, and make a
call on Lady Cumnor?"
"It would be as much as my place is worth, Mrs. Kirkpatrick. Till my
lady's dying day, if Providence keeps her in her senses, she'll have
everything done her own way, or not at all. There's only Lady Harriet
that can manage her the least, and she not always."
"Well, then--we must hope that there is nothing the matter with her;
and I daresay there is not. She says there is not, and she ought to
know best herself."
But a day or two after this conversation took place, Lady Cumnor
startled Mrs. Kirkpatrick, by saying suddenly,--"Clare, I wish you'd
write a note to Mr. Gibson, saying I should like to see him this
afternoon. I thought he would have called of himself before now. He
ought to have done so, to pay his respects."
Mr. Gibson had been far too busy in his profession to have time for
mere visits of ceremony, though he knew quite well he was neglecting
what was expected of him. But the district of which he may be said to
have had medical charge was full of a bad kind of low fever, which
took up all his time and thought, and often made him very thankful
that Molly was out of the way in the quiet shades of Hamley.
His domestic "rows" had not healed over in the least, though he
was obliged to put the perplexities on one side for the time. The
last drop--the final straw, had been an impromptu visit of Lord
Hollingford's, whom he had met in the town one forenoon. They had had
a good deal to say to each other about some new scientific discovery,
with the details of which Lord Hollingford was well acquainted,
while Mr. Gibson was ignorant and deeply interested. At length Lord
Hollingford said suddenly,--
"Gibson, I wonder if you'd give me some lunch; I've been a good
deal about since my seven-o'clock breakfast, and am getting quite
ravenous."
Now Mr. Gibson was only too much pleased to show hospitality to one
whom he liked and respected so much as Lord Hollingford, and he
gladly took him home with him to the early family dinner. But it was
just at the time when the cook was sulking at Bethia's dismissal--and
she chose to be unpunctual and careless. There was no successor to
Bethia as yet appointed to wait at the meals. So, though Mr. Gibson
knew well that bread-and-cheese, cold beef, or the simplest food
available, would have been welcome to the hungry lord, he could not
get either these things for luncheon, or even the family dinner, at
anything like the proper time, in spite of all his ringing, and as
much anger as he liked to show, for fear of making Lord Hollingford
uncomfortable. At last dinner was ready, but the poor host saw
the want of nicety--almost the want of cleanliness, in all its
accompaniments--dingy plate, dull-looking glass, a table-cloth that,
if not absolutely dirty, was anything but fresh in its splashed and
rumpled condition, and compared it in his own mind with the dainty
delicacy with which even a loaf of brown bread was served up at
his guest's home. He did not apologize directly, but, after dinner,
just as they were parting, he said,--"You see a man like me--a
widower--with a daughter who cannot always be at home--has not the
regulated household which would enable me to command the small
portions of time I can spend there."
He made no allusion to the comfortless meal of which they had both
partaken, though it was full in his mind. Nor was it absent from Lord
Hollingford's as he made reply,--
"True, true. Yet a man like you ought to be free from any thought of
household cares. You ought to have somebody. How old is Miss Gibson?"
"Seventeen. It's a very awkward age for a motherless girl."
"Yes; very. I have only boys, but it must be very awkward with
a girl. Excuse me, Gibson, but we're talking like friends. Have
you never thought of marrying again? It wouldn't be like a first
marriage, of course; but if you found a sensible, agreeable woman of
thirty or so, I really think you couldn't do better than take her to
manage your home, and so save you either discomfort or worry; and,
besides, she would be able to give your daughter that kind of tender
supervision which, I fancy, all girls of that age require. It's a
delicate subject, but you'll excuse my having spoken frankly."
Mr. Gibson had thought of this advice several times since it was
given; but it was a case of "first catch your hare." Where was the
"sensible and agreeable woman of thirty or so?" Not Miss Browning,
nor Miss Phoebe, nor Miss Goodenough. Among his country patients
there were two classes pretty distinctly marked: farmers, whose
children were unrefined and uneducated; squires, whose daughters
would, indeed, think the world was coming to a pretty pass, if they
were to marry a country surgeon.
But the first day on which Mr. Gibson paid his visit to Lady Cumnor,
he began to think it possible that Mrs. Kirkpatrick was his "hare."
He rode away with slack rein, thinking over what he knew of her,
more than about the prescriptions he should write, or the way he was
going. He remembered her as a very pretty Miss Clare: the governess
who had the scarlet fever; that was in his wife's days, a long time
ago; he could hardly understand Mrs. Kirkpatrick's youthfulness
of appearance when he thought how long. Then he had heard of her
marriage to a curate; and the next day (or so it seemed, he could not
recollect the exact duration of the interval), of his death. He knew,
in some way, that she had been living ever since as a governess in
different families; but that she had always been a great favourite
with the family at the Towers, for whom, quite independent of their
rank, he had a true respect. A year or two ago he had heard that she
had taken the good-will of a school at Ashcombe; a small town close
to another property of Lord Cumnor's, in the same county. Ashcombe
was a larger estate than that near Hollingford, but the old
Manor-house there was not nearly so good a residence as the Towers;
so it was given up to Mr. Preston, the land-agent for the Ashcombe
property, just as Mr. Sheepshanks was for that at Hollingford.
There were a few rooms at the Manor-house reserved for the
occasional visits of the family, otherwise Mr. Preston, a handsome
young bachelor, had it all to himself. Mr. Gibson knew that Mrs.
Kirkpatrick had one child, a daughter, who must be much about the
same age as Molly. Of course she had very little, if any, property.
But he himself had lived carefully, and had a few thousands well
invested; besides which, his professional income was good, and
increasing rather than diminishing every year. By the time he had
arrived at this point in his consideration of the case, he was at the
house of the next patient on his round, and he put away all thought
of matrimony and Mrs. Kirkpatrick for the time. Once again, in the
course of the day, he remembered with a certain pleasure that Molly
had told him some little details connected with her unlucky detention
at the Towers five or six years ago, which had made him feel at the
time as if Mrs. Kirkpatrick had behaved very kindly to his little
girl. So there the matter rested for the present, as far as he was
concerned.
Lady Cumnor was out of health; but not so ill as she had been
fancying herself during all those days when the people about her
dared not send for the doctor. It was a great relief to her to have
Mr. Gibson to decide for her what she was to do; what to eat, drink,
avoid. Such decisions _ab extra_, are sometimes a wonderful relief
to those whose habit it has been to decide, not only for themselves,
but for every one else; and occasionally the relaxation of the strain
which a character for infallible wisdom brings with it, does much to
restore health. Mrs. Kirkpatrick thought in her secret soul that she
had never found it so easy to get on with Lady Cumnor; and Bradley
and she had never done singing the praises of Mr. Gibson, "who always
managed my lady so beautifully."
Reports were duly sent up to my lord, but he and his daughters were
strictly forbidden to come down. Lady Cumnor wished to be weak
and languid, and uncertain both in body and mind, without family
observation. It was a condition so different to anything she had
ever been in before, that she was unconsciously afraid of losing her
prestige, if she was seen in it. Sometimes she herself wrote the
daily bulletins; at other times she bade Clare do it, but she would
always see the letters. Any answers she received from her daughters
she used to read herself, occasionally imparting some of their
contents to "that good Clare." But anybody might read my lord's
letters. There was no great fear of family secrets oozing out in his
sprawling lines of affection. But once Mrs. Kirkpatrick came upon a
sentence in a letter from Lord Cumnor, which she was reading out loud
to his wife, that caught her eye before she came to it, and if she
could have skipped it and kept it for private perusal, she would
gladly have done so. My lady was too sharp for her, though. In her
opinion "Clare was a good creature, but not clever," the truth
being that she was not always quick at resources, though tolerably
unscrupulous in the use of them.
"Read on. What are you stopping for? There is no bad news, is there,
about Agnes?--Give me the letter."
Lady Cumnor read, half aloud,--
"'How are Clare and Gibson getting on? You despised my advice to help
on that affair, but I really think a little match-making would be a
very pleasant amusement now that you are shut up in the house; and I
cannot conceive any marriage more suitable.'"
"Oh!" said Lady Cumnor, laughing, "it was awkward for you to come
upon that, Clare: I don't wonder you stopped short. You gave me a
terrible fright, though."
"Lord Cumnor is so fond of joking," said Mrs. Kirkpatrick, a little
flurried, yet quite recognizing the truth of his last words,--"I
cannot conceive any marriage more suitable." She wondered what Lady
Cumnor thought of it. Lord Cumnor wrote as if there was really a
chance. It was not an unpleasant idea; it brought a faint smile out
upon her face, as she sat by Lady Cumnor, while the latter took her
afternoon nap.