The house mentioned in this incident is Church House,
Knutsford, where Mrs. Gaskell’s uncle, Dr. Holland, resided. It
is now known as Hollingford House.
The day of Roger’s departure came. Molly tried hard to forget it in the
working away at a cushion she was preparing as a present to Cynthia;
people did worsted-work in those days. One, two, three. One, two, three,
four, five, six, seven; all wrong; she was thinking of something else,
and had to unpick it. It was a rainy day, too; and Mrs. Gibson, who had
planned to go out and pay some calls, had to stay indoors. This made her
restless and fidgety. She kept going backwards and forwards to different
windows in the drawing-room to look at the weather, as if she imagined
that while it rained at one window, it might be fine weather at another.
“Molly—come here! who is that man wrapped up in a cloak,—there—near the
Park wall, under the beech-tree—he has been there this half-hour and
more, never stirring, and looking at this house all the time! I think
it’s very suspicious.”
Molly looked, and in an instant recognised Roger under all his wraps.
Her first instinct was to draw back. The next to come forwards, and say,
“Why, mamma, it’s Roger Hamley! Look now—he’s kissing his hand; he’s
wishing us good-bye in the only way he can!” And she responded to his
sign; but she was not sure if he perceived her modest, quiet movement,
for Mrs. Gibson became immediately so demonstrative that Molly fancied
that her eager, foolish pantomimic motions must absorb all his attention.
“I call this so attentive of him,” said Mrs. Gibson, in the midst of a
volley of kisses of her hand. “Really it is quite romantic. It reminds
me of former days—but he will be too late! I must send him away; it is
half-past twelve!” And she took out her watch and held it up, tapping
it with her forefinger, and occupying the very centre of the window.
Molly could only peep here and there, dodging now up, now down, now on
this side, now on that of the perpetually moving arms. She fancied she
saw something of a corresponding movement on Roger’s part. At length he
went away slowly, slowly, and often looking back, in spite of the tapped
watch. Mrs. Gibson at last retreated, and Molly quietly moved into her
place to see his figure once more before the turn of the road hid it from
her view. He, too, knew where the last glimpse of Mr. Gibson’s house
was to be obtained, and once more he turned, and his white handkerchief
floated in the air. Molly waved hers high up, with eager longing that
it should be seen. And then, he was gone! and Molly returned to her
worsted-work, happy, glowing, sad, content, and thinking to herself how
sweet is friendship!
When she came to a sense of the present, Mrs. Gibson was saying:
“Upon my word, though Roger Hamley has never been a great favourite
of mine, this little attention of his has reminded me very forcibly
of a very charming young man—a _soupirant_, as the French would call
him—Lieutenant Harper—you must have heard me speak of him, Molly?”
“I think I have!” said Molly absently.
“Well, you remember how devoted he was to me when I was at Mrs.
Duncombe’s, my first situation, and I only seventeen. And when the
recruiting party was ordered to another town, poor Mr. Harper came and
stood opposite the schoolroom window for nearly an hour, and I know it
was his doing that the band played ‘The girl I left behind me,’ when they
marched out the next day. Poor Mr. Harper! It was before I knew dear Mr.
Kirkpatrick! Dear me. How often my poor heart has had to bleed in this
life of mine! not but what dear papa is a very worthy man, and makes me
very happy. He would spoil me, indeed, if I would let him. Still, he is
not as rich as Mr. Henderson.”
That last sentence contained the germ of Mrs. Gibson’s present grievance.
Having married Cynthia, as her mother put it—taking credit to herself
as if she had had the principal part in the achievement—she now became
a little envious of her daughter’s good fortune in being the wife of
a young, handsome, rich, and moderately fashionable man, who lived in
London. She naïvely expressed her feelings on this subject to her husband
one day when she was really not feeling quite well, and when consequently
her annoyances were much more present to her mind than her sources of
happiness.
“It is such a pity!” said she, “that I was born when I was. I should so
have liked to belong to this generation.”
“That’s sometimes my own feeling,” said he. “So many new views seem to be
opened in science, that I should like, if it were possible, to live till
their reality was ascertained, and one saw what they led to. But I don’t
suppose that’s your reason, my dear, for wishing to be twenty or thirty
years younger.”
“No, indeed. And I did not put it in that hard, unpleasant way; I only
said I should like to belong to this generation. To tell the truth, I was
thinking of Cynthia. Without vanity, I believe I was as pretty as she
is—when I was a girl, I mean; I had not her dark eyelashes, but then my
nose was straighter. And now look at the difference! I have to live in a
little country town with three servants, and no carriage; and she with
her inferior good looks will live in Sussex Place, and keep a man and
a brougham, and I don’t know what. But the fact is, in this generation
there are so many more rich young men than there were when I was a girl.”
“Oh, oh! so that’s your reason, is it, my dear? If you had been young now
you might have married somebody as well off as Walter?”
“Yes!” said she. “I think that was my idea. Of course, I should have
liked him to be you. I always think if you had gone to the Bar you might
have succeeded better, and lived in London, too. I don’t think Cynthia
cares much where she lives, yet you see it has come to her.”
“What has—London?”
“Oh, you dear, facetious man. Now that’s just the thing to have
captivated a jury. I don’t believe Walter will ever be so clever as you
are. Yet he can take Cynthia to Paris, and abroad, and everywhere. I only
hope all this indulgence won’t develop the faults in Cynthia’s character.
It’s a week since we heard from her, and I did write so particularly to
ask her for the autumn fashions before I bought my new bonnet. But riches
are a great snare.”
“Be thankful you are spared temptation, my dear.”
“No, I’m not. Everybody likes to be tempted. And, after all, it’s very
easy to resist temptation, if one wishes.”
“I don’t find it so easy,” said her husband.
“Here’s medicine for you, mamma,” said Molly, entering with a letter
held up in her hand. “A letter from Cynthia.”
“Oh, you dear little messenger of good news! There was one of the heathen
deities in Mangnall’s Questions whose office it was to bring news. The
letter is dated from Calais. They’re coming home! She’s bought me a
shawl and a bonnet! The dear creature! Always thinking of others before
herself: good fortune cannot spoil her. They’ve a fortnight left of their
holiday! Their house is not quite ready; they’re coming here. Oh, now,
Mr. Gibson, we must have the new dinner-service at Watt’s I’ve set my
heart on so long! ‘Home’ Cynthia calls this house. I’m sure it has been a
home to her, poor darling! I doubt if there is another man in the world
who would have treated his step-daughter like dear papa! And, Molly, you
must have a new gown.”
“Come, come! Remember I belong to the last generation,” said Mr. Gibson.
“And Cynthia won’t mind what I wear,” said Molly, bright with pleasure at
the thought of seeing her again.
“No! but Walter will. He has such a quick eye for dress, and I think I
rival papa; if he is a good stepfather, I’m a good stepmother, and I
could not bear to see my Molly shabby, and not looking her best. I must
have a new gown too. It won’t do to look as if we had nothing but the
dresses which we wore at the wedding!”
But Molly stood out against the new gown for herself, and urged that if
Cynthia and Walter were to come to visit them often, they had better see
them as they really were, in dress, habits, and appointments. When Mr.
Gibson had left the room, Mrs. Gibson softly reproached Molly for her
obstinacy.
“You might have allowed me to beg for a new gown for you, Molly, when
you knew how much I admired that figured silk at Brown’s the other day.
And now, of course, I can’t be so selfish as to get it for myself, and
you to have nothing. You should learn to understand the wishes of other
people. Still, on the whole, you are a dear, sweet girl, and I only
wish—well, I know what I wish; only dear papa does not like it to be
talked about. And now cover me up close, and let me go to sleep, and
dream about my dear Cynthia and my new shawl!”