CHAPTER 36
Domestic Diplomacy
The evening of the day on which Mr. Gibson
had been to see the squire, the three women were alone in the
drawing-room, for Mr. Gibson had had a long round and was not as
yet come in. They had had to wait dinner for him; and for some time
after his return there was nothing done or said but what related to
the necessary business of eating. Mr. Gibson was, perhaps, as well
satisfied with his day’s work as any of the four; for this visit to
the squire had been weighing on his mind ever since he heard of the
state of things between Roger and Cynthia. He did not like the
having to go and tell of a love-affair so soon after he had
declared his belief that no such thing existed; it was a confession
of fallibility which is distasteful to most men. If the squire had
not been of so unsuspicious and simple a nature, he might have
drawn his own conclusions from the apparent concealment of facts,
and felt doubtful of Mr. Gibson’s perfect honesty in the business;
but being what he was, there was no danger of such unjust
misapprehension. Still, Mr. Gibson knew the hot, hasty temper he
had to deal with, and had expected more violence of language than
he really encountered; and the last arrangement, by which Cynthia,
her mother, and Molly—who, as Mr. Gibson thought to himself, and
smiled at the thought, was sure to be a peacemaker, and a sweetener
of intercourse—were to go to the Hall and make acquaintance with
the squire, appeared like a great success to Mr. Gibson, for
achieving which he took not a little credit to himself Altogether,
he was more cheerful and bland than he had been for many days; and
when he came up into the drawing-room for a few minutes after
dinner, before going out again to see his town-patients, he
whistled a little under his breath, as he stood with his back to
the fire, looking at Cynthia, and thinking that he had not done her
justice when describing her to the squire. Now this soft, almost
tuneless whistling, was to Mr. Gibson what purring is to a cat. He
could no more have done it with an anxious case on his mind, or
when he was annoyed by human folly, or when he was hungry, than he
could have flown through the air. Molly knew all this by instinct,
and was happy without being aware of it, as soon as she heard the
low whistle, which was no music after all. But Mrs. Gibson did not
like this trick of her husband’s; it was not refined, she thought,
not even ‘artistic’; if she could have called it by this fine word
it would have compensated her for the want of refinement. To-night
it was particularly irritating to her nerves; but since her
conversation with Mr. Gibson about Cynthia’s engagement, she had
not felt herself in a sufficiently good position to complain.
Mr. Gibson began—‘Well, Cynthia; I’ve seen the
squire to-day, and made a clean breast of it.’
Cynthia looked up quickly, questioning with her
eyes; Molly stopped her netting to listen; no one spoke.
‘You’re all to go there on Thursday to lunch; he
asked you all, and I promised for you.’
Still no reply; natural, perhaps, but very
flat.
‘You’ll be glad of that, Cynthia, shan’t you?’
asked Mr. Gibson. ‘It may be a little formidable, but I hope it
will be the beginning of a good understanding between you.’
‘Thank you!’ said she, with an effort. ‘But—but
won’t it make it public? I do so wish not to have it known, or
talked about, not till he comes back or close upon the
marriage.’
‘I don’t see how it should make it public,’ said
Mr. Gibson. ‘My wife goes to lunch with my friend, and takes her
daughters with her—there’s nothing in that, is there?’
‘I am not sure that I shall go,’ put in Mrs.
Gibson. She did not know why she said it, for she fully intended to
go all the time; but having said it, she was bound to stick to it
for awhile; and, with such a husband as hers, the hard necessity
was sure to fall upon her of having to find a reason for her
saying. Then it came quick and sharp.
‘Why not?’ said he, turning round upon her.
‘Oh, because—because I think he ought to have
called on Cynthia first; I’ve that sort of sensitiveness I can’t
bear to think of her being slighted because she is poor.’
‘Nonsense!’ said Mr. Gibson. ‘I do assure you, no
slight whatever was intended. He does not wish to speak about the
engagement to any one—not even to Osborne—that’s your wish, too, is
it not, Cynthia? Nor does he intend to mention it to any of you
when you go there; but, naturally enough, he wants to make
acquaintance with his future daughter-in-law If he deviated so much
from his usual course as to come calling here
________’
‘I am sure I don’t want him to come calling here,’
said Mrs. Gibson, interrupting. ‘He was not so very agreeable the
only time he did come. But I am that sort of a character that I
cannot put up with any neglect of persons I love, just because they
are not smiled upon by fortune.’ She sighed a little ostentatiously
as she ended her sentence.
‘Well, then, you won’t go!’ said Mr. Gibson,
provoked, but not wishing to have a long discussion, especially as
he felt his temper going.
‘Do you wish it, Cynthia?’ said Mrs. Gibson,
anxious for an excuse to yield.
But her daughter was quite aware of this motive for
the question, and replied quietly—‘Not particularly, mamma. I am
quite willing to refuse the invitation.’
‘It is already accepted,’ said Mr. Gibson, almost
ready to vow that he would never again meddle in any affair in
which women were concerned, which would effectually shut him out
from all love-affairs for the future. He had been touched by the
squire’s relenting, pleased with what he had thought would give
others pleasure, and this was the end of it!
‘Oh, do go, Cynthia!’ said Molly, pleading with her
eyes as well as her words. ‘Do; I am sure you will like the squire;
and it is such a pretty place, and he’ll be so much
disappointed.’
‘I should not like to give up my dignity,’ said
Cynthia, demurely. ‘And you heard what mamma said!’
It was very malicious of her. She fully intended to
go, and was equally sure that her mother was already planning her
dress for the occasion in her own mind. Mr. Gibson, however, who,
surgeon though he was, had never learnt to anatomize a woman’s
heart, took it all literally, and was excessively angry both with
Cynthia and her mother; so angry that he did not dare to trust
himself to speak. He went quickly to the door, intending to leave
the room; but his wife’s voice arrested him; she said—
‘My dear, do you wish me to go? If you do, I will
put my own feelings on one side.’
‘Of course I do!’ he said, short and stern, and
left the room.
‘Then I’ll go!’ said she, in the voice of a
victim—those words were meant for him, but he hardly heard them.
‘And we’ll have a fly from the “George,” and get a livery-coat for
Thomas, which I’ve long been wanting, only dear Mr. Gibson did not
like it, but on an occasion like this I’m sure he won’t mind; and
Thomas shall go on the box, and———’
‘But, mamma, I’ve my feelings too,’ said
Cynthia.
‘Nonsense, child! when all is so nicely arranged
too.’
So they went on the day appointed. Mr. Gibson was
aware of the change of plans, and that they were going after all;
but he was so much annoyed by the manner in which his wife had
received an invitation which had appeared to him so much kinder
than he had expected from his previous knowledge of the squire, and
his wishes on the subject of his son’s marriage, that Mrs. Gibson
heard neither interest nor curiosity expressed by her husband as to
the visit itself, or the reception they met with. Cynthia’s
indifference as to whether the invitation was accepted or not had
displeased Mr. Gibson. He was not up to her ways with her mother,
and did not understand how much of this said indifference had been
assumed in order to countervent Mrs. Gibson’s affectation and false
sentiment. But for all his annoyance on the subject, he was, in
fact, very curious to know how the visit had gone off, and took the
first opportunity of being alone with Molly to question her about
the lunch of the day before at Hamley Hall.
‘And so you went to Hamley yesterday after
all?’
‘Yes; I thought you would have come. The squire
seemed quite to expect you.’
‘I thought of going there at first; but I changed
my mind like other people. I don’t see why women are to have a
monopoly of changeableness. Well! how did it go off? Pleasantly, I
suppose, for both your mother and Cynthia were in high spirits last
night.’
‘Yes. The dear old squire was in his best dress and
on his best behaviour, and was so prettily attentive to Cynthia,
and she looked so lovely, walking about with him, and listening to
all his talk about the garden and farm. Mamma was tired, and
stopped indoors, so they got on very well, and saw a great deal of
each other.’
‘And my little girl trotted behind?’
‘Oh, yes. You know I was almost at home, and
besides—of course——’ Molly went very red, and left the sentence
unfinished.
‘Do you think she’s worthy of him?’ asked her
father, just as if she had completed her speech.
‘Of Roger, papa? oh, who is? But she is very sweet,
and very, very charming.’
‘Very charming, if you will, but somehow I don’t
quite understand her. Why does she want all this secrecy? Why was
she not more eager to go and pay her duty to Roger’s father? She
took it as coolly as if I’d asked her to go to church!’
‘I don’t think she did take it coolly; I believe I
don’t quite understand her either, but I love her dearly all the
same.’
‘Umph; I like to understand people thoroughly; but
I know it’s not necessary to women. D’ye really think she’s worthy
of him?’
‘Oh, papa’—said Molly, and then she stopped; she
wanted to speak in favour of Cynthia, but somehow she could form no
reply that pleased her to this repeated inquiry. He did not seem
much to care if he got an answer or not, for he went on with his
own thoughts, and the result was that he asked Molly if Cynthia had
heard from Roger.
‘Yes; on Wednesday morning.’
‘Did she show it to you? But of course not.
Besides, I read the squire’s letter, which told all about
him.’
Now Cynthia, rather to Molly’s surprise, had told
her that she might read the letter if she liked, and Molly had
shrunk from availing herself of the permission, for Roger’s sake.
She thought that he would probably have poured out his heart to the
one sole person, and that it was not fair to listen, as it were, to
his confidences.
‘Was Osborne at home?’ asked Mr. Gibson. ‘The
squire said he did not think he would have come back; but the young
fellow is so uncertain———’
‘No, he was still from home.’ Then Molly blushed
all over crimson, for it suddenly struck her that Osborne was
probably with his wife—that mysterious wife, of whose existence she
was cognizant, but of whom she knew so little, and of whom her
father knew nothing. Mr. Gibson noticed the blush with anxiety.
What did it mean? It was troublesome enough to find that one of the
squire’s precious sons had fallen in love within the prohibited
ranks; and what would not have to be said and done if anything
fresh were to come out between Osborne and Molly. He spoke out at
once to relieve himself of this new apprehension.
‘Molly, I was taken by surprise by this affair
between Cynthia and Roger Hamley—if there’s anything more on the
tapisde let
me know at once, honestly and openly. I know it’s an awkward
question for you to reply to; but I would not ask it unless I had
good reasons.’ He took her hand as he spoke. She looked up at him
with clear, truthful eyes, which filled with tears as she spoke.
She did not know why the tears came; perhaps it was because she was
not so strong as formerly.
‘If you mean that you’re afraid that Osborne thinks
of me as Roger thinks of Cynthia, papa, you are quite mistaken.
Osborne and I are friends and nothing more, and never can be
anything more. That’s all I can tell you.’
‘It’s quite enough little one. It’s a great relief.
I don’t want to have my Molly carried off by any young man just
yet; I should miss her sadly.’ He could not help saying this in the
fulness of his heart just then, but he was surprised at the effect
these few tender words produced. Molly threw her arms round his
neck, and began to sob bitterly, her head lying on his shoulder.
‘There, there!’ said he, patting her on the back, and leading her
to the sofa, ‘that will do. I get quite enough of tears in the day,
shed for real causes, not to want them at home, where, I hope, they
are shed for no cause at all. There’s nothing really the matter, is
there, my dear?’ he continued, holding her a little away from him
that he might look in her face. She smiled at him through her
tears; and he did not see the look of sadness which returned to her
face after he had left her.
‘Nothing, dear, dear papa—nothing now. It is such a
comfort to have you all to myself—it makes me happy.’
Mr. Gibson knew all implied in these words, and
felt that there was no effectual help for the state of things which
had arisen from his own act. It was better for them both that they
should not speak out more fully. So he kissed her, and said—
‘That’s right, dear! I can leave you in comfort
now, and indeed, I’ve stayed too long already gossiping. Go out and
have a walk—take Cynthia with you, if you like. I must be off.
Good-bye, little one.’
His commonplace words acted like an astringent on
Molly’s relaxed feelings. He intended that they should do so; it
was the truest kindness to her; but he walked away from her with a
sharp pang at his heart, which he turned into numbness as soon as
he could by throwing himself violently into the affairs and cares
of others.