From _Wives and Daughters_.
Lady Ritchie says: “To people of an elder generation re-reading
_Wives and Daughters_, now, strong, gentle, and full of fun and
wisdom, all youth seems to be in it; it is rest to live again
in the merry touching pages” (_Blackstick Papers_, 1908).
One day, for some reason or other, Mr. Gibson came home unexpectedly.
He was crossing the hall, having come in by the garden door—the garden
communicated with the stable-yard, where he had left his horse—when the
kitchen door opened, and the girl who was underling in the establishment
came quickly into the hall with a note in her hand, and made as if she
was taking it upstairs; but on seeing her master she gave a little start,
and turned back as if to hide herself in the kitchen. If she had not
made this movement, so conscious of guilt, Mr. Gibson, who was anything
but suspicious, would never have taken any notice of her. As it was,
he stepped quickly forwards, opened the kitchen door, and called out
“Bethia” so sharply that she could not delay coming forwards.
“Give me that note,” he said. She hesitated a little.
“It’s for Miss Molly,” she stammered out.
“Give it to me!” he repeated more quickly than before. She looked as if
she would cry; but still she kept the note tight held behind her back.
“He said as I was to give it into her own hands; and I promised as I
would, faithful.”
“Cook, go and find Miss Molly. Tell her to come here at once.”
He fixed Bethia with his eyes. It was of no use trying to escape: she
might have thrown it into the fire, but she had not presence of mind
enough. She stood immovable, only her eyes looked any way rather than
encounter her master’s steady gaze. “Molly, my dear!”
“Papa! I did not know you were at home,” said innocent, wondering Molly.
“Bethia, keep your word. Here is Miss Molly; give her the note.”
“Indeed, miss, I couldn’t help it!”
Molly took the note, but before she could open it, her father said:
“That’s all, my dear; you need not read it. Give it to me. Tell those who
sent you, Bethia, that all letters for Miss Molly must pass through my
hands. Now be off with you, goosey, and go back to where you came from.”
“Papa, I shall make you tell me who my correspondent is.”
“We’ll see about that, by and by.”
She went a little reluctantly, with ungratified curiosity, upstairs to
Miss Eyre, who was still her daily companion, if not her governess. He
turned into the empty dining-room, shut the door, broke the seal of the
note, and began to read it. It was a flaming love-letter from Mr. Coxe;
who professed himself unable to go on seeing her day after day without
speaking to her of the passion she had inspired—an “eternal passion,” he
called it; on reading which Mr. Gibson laughed a little. Would she not
look kindly at him? would she not think of him whose only thought was of
her? and so on, with a very proper admixture of violent compliments to
her beauty. She was fair, not pale; her eyes were lode-stars, her dimples
marks of Cupid’s fingers, etc.
Mr. Gibson finished reading it; and began to think about it in his own
mind. “Who would have thought the lad had been so poetical? but, to be
sure, there’s a _Shakespeare_ in the surgery library: I’ll take it away
and put _Johnson’s Dictionary_ instead. One comfort is the conviction
of her perfect innocence—ignorance, I should rather say—for it is easy
to see it’s the first “confession of his love,” as he calls it. But
it’s an awful worry—to begin with lovers so early. Why, she’s only just
seventeen—not seventeen, indeed, till July; not for six weeks yet.
Sixteen and three-quarters! Why, she’s quite a baby. To be sure—poor
Jeanie was not so old, and how I did love her!” (Mrs. Gibson’s name was
Mary, so he must have been referring to someone else). Then his thoughts
wandered back to other days, though he still held the open note in his
hand. By and by his eyes fell upon it again, and his mind came back to
bear upon the present time. “I’ll not be hard upon him. I’ll give him
a hint; he is quite sharp enough to take it. Poor laddie! if I send him
away, which would be the wisest course, I do believe he’s got no home to
go to.”
After a little more consideration in the same strain, Mr. Gibson went and
sat down at the writing-table and wrote the following formula:
_Master Coxe_
(“That ‘master’ will touch him to the quick,” said Mr. Gibson to himself
as he wrote the word).
℞. Verecundiae ℥j.
Fidelitatis Domesticae ℥j.
Reticentiae gr. iij.
M. Capiat hanc dosim ter die in aquâ purâ.