THE MOTHER'S MANŒUVRE.
Mr. Gibson was not at home at dinner—detained by some patient, most probably. This was not an occurrence; but it was an for Mrs. Gibson to go into the dining-room, and with him as he ate his when he came in an hour or two later. In general, she her easy-chair, or her of the sofa, in the drawing-room, though it was very that she would allow Molly to herself of her stepmother's neglected privilege. Molly would have gone and her father company every night that he had these meals; but for peace and she gave up her own on the matter.
Mrs. Gibson took a seat by the fire in the dining-room, and waited for the moment when Mr. Gibson, having satisfied his healthy appetite, from the table, and took his place by her side. She got up, and with attention moved the and so that he help himself without moving from his chair.
"There, now! are you comfortable? for I have a great piece of news to tell you!" said she, when all was arranged.
"I there was something on hand," said he, smiling. "Now for it!"
"Roger Hamley has been here this to us good-by."
"Good-by! Is he gone? I didn't know he was going so soon!" Mr. Gibson.
"Yes: mind, that's not it."
"But tell me; has he left this neighbourhood? I wanted to have him."
"Yes, yes. He left love and regret, and all that of thing for you. Now let me on with my story: he Cynthia alone, to her, and was accepted."
"Cynthia? Roger to her, and she him?" Mr. Gibson, slowly.
"Yes, to be sure. Why not? you speak as if it was something so very surprising."
"Did I? But I am surprised. He's a very fellow, and I wish Cynthia joy; but do you like it? It will have to be a very long engagement."
"Perhaps," said she, in a manner.
"At any he will be away for two years," said Mr. Gibson.
"A great may in two years," she replied.
"Yes! he will have to many risks, and go into many dangers, and will come no nearer to the power of a wife than when he out."
"I don't know that," she replied, still in the manner of one knowledge. "A little bird did tell me that Osborne's life is not so very secure; and then—what will Roger be? Heir to the estate."
"Who told you that about Osborne?" said he, upon her, and her with his of voice and manner. It as if fire came out of his long dark eyes. "Who told you, I say?"
She a into her playfulness.
"Why? can you it? Is it not the truth?"
"I ask you again, Hyacinth, who told you that Osborne Hamley's life is in more than mine—or yours?"
"Oh, don't speak in that way. My life is not in danger, I'm sure; yours either, love, I hope."
He gave an movement, and a wine-glass off the table. For the moment she for the diversion, and herself in up the fragments: "bits of were so dangerous," she said. But she was by a voice of command, such as she had yet from her husband.
"Never mind the glass. I ask you again, Hyacinth, who told you anything about Osborne Hamley's of health?"
"I am sure I wish no to him, and I he is in very good health, as you say," she, at last.
"Who told—?" he again, than ever.
"Well, if you will know, and will make such a about it," said she, to extremity, "it was you yourself—you or Dr. Nicholls, I am sure I which."
"I spoke to you on the subject, and I don't Nicholls did. You'd tell me at once what you're to, for I'm I'll have it out we this room."
"I wish I'd married again," she said, now crying, and looking the room, as if in search for a mouse-hole in which to herself. Then, as if the of the door into the store-room gave her courage, she and him.
"You should not talk your medical so loud then, if you don't want people to them. I had to go into the store-room that day Dr. Nicholls was here; cook wanted a of preserve, and stopped me just as I was going out—I am sure it was for no of mine, for I was sadly of my gloves—it was all that you might have a dinner."
She looked as if she was going to again, but he her to go on, saying,—
"Well! you our conversation, I suppose?"
"Not much," she answered eagerly, almost by being thus helped out in her confession. "Only a or two."
"What were they?" he asked.
"Why, you had just been saying something, and Dr. Nicholls said, 'If he has got of the his days are numbered.'"
"Well. Anything more?"
"Yes; you said, 'I to God I may be mistaken; but there is a clear of symptoms, in my opinion.'"
"How do you know we were speaking of Osborne Hamley?" he asked; in of her off the scent. But as soon as she that he was to her level of subterfuge, she took courage, and said in a different to the one which she had been using:
"Oh! I know. I his name mentioned by you I to listen."
"Then you own you did listen?"
"Yes," said she, a little now.
"And pray how do you come to so the name of the spoken of?"
"Because I went—now don't be angry, I can't see any in what I did—"
"Then, don't anger. You went—"
"Into the surgery, and looked it out. Why might not I?"
Mr. Gibson did not answer—did not look at her. His was very pale, and and were contracted. At length he himself, sighed, and said,—
"Well! I as one one must bake."
"I don't what you mean," she.
"Perhaps not," he replied. "I that it was what you on that occasion that you your to Roger Hamley? I've noticed how much more you were to him of late."
"If you that I have got to like him as much as Osborne, you are very much mistaken; no, not though he has offered to Cynthia, and is to be my son-in-law."
"Let me know the whole affair. You overheard,—I will own that it was Osborne about we were speaking, though I shall have something to say about that presently—and then, if I you rightly, you your to Roger, and him more welcome to this house than you had done before, him as to the Hamley estates?"
"I don't know what you by 'proximate.'"
"Go into the surgery, and look into the dictionary, then," said he, his for the time the conversation.
"I knew," said she through and tears, "that Roger had taken a to Cynthia; any one might see that; and as long as Roger was only a son, with no profession, and nothing but his fellowship, I it right to him, as any one would who had a of common in them; for a clumsier, more common, awkward, I saw—to be called 'county,' I mean."
"Take care; you'll have to eat your presently when you come to he'll have Hamley some day."
"No, I shan't," said she, not his exact drift. "You are now it is not Molly he's in love with; and I call it very and to my girl. I am sure I have always to Molly's as if she was my own daughter."
Mr. Gibson was too to this to take any notice of it. He returned to what was of more to him.
"The point I want to be clear about is this. Did you or did you not your to Roger in of what you of my professional with Dr. Nicholls? Have you not his to Cynthia since then, on the from that that he a good of Hamley?"
"I I did," said she, sulkily. "And if I did, I can't see any in it, that I should be questioned as if I were in a witness-box. He was in love with Cynthia long that conversation, and she liked him so much. It was not for me to the path of true love. I don't see how you would have a mother her love for her child if she may not turn to her advantage. Perhaps Cynthia might have died if she had been in love; her father was consumptive."
"Don't you know that all professional are confidential? That it would be the most thing possible for me to which I learn in the of my profession?"
"Yes, of course, you."
"Well! and are not you and I one in all these respects? You cannot do a act without my being in the disgrace. If it would be a for me to a professional secret, what would it be for me to on that knowledge?"
He was trying hard to be patient; but the was of that class which him insupportably.
"I don't know what you by trading. Trading in a daughter's is the last thing I should do; and I should have you would be than otherwise to Cynthia well married, and off your hands."
Mr. Gibson got up, and walked about the room, his hands in his pockets. Once or twice he to speak, but he stopped without going on.
"I don't know what to say to you," he said at length. "You either can't or won't see what I mean. I'm to have Cynthia here. I have her a true welcome, and I she will this house as much a home as my own does. But for the I must look out of my doors, and double-lock the if I am so as to— However, that's past and gone; and it with me to prevent its as as I can for the future. Now let us the present of affairs."
"I don't think I ought to tell you anything about it. It is a secret, just as much as your are."
"Very well; you have told me for me to act upon, which I most shall do. It was only the other day I promised the Squire to let him know if I anything—any love affair, or entanglement, much less an engagement, either of his sons and our girls."
"But this is not an engagement; he would not let it be so; if you would only to me, I tell you all. Only I do you won't go and tell the Squire and everybody. Cynthia did so that it might not be known. It is only my that has me into this scrape. I keep a from those I love."
"I must tell the Squire. I shall not mention it to any one else. And do you think it was with your to have what you did, and to have mentioned it to me? I have told you then that Dr. Nicholls' opinion was to mine, and that he that the about which I him on Osborne's was temporary. Dr. Nicholls would tell you that Osborne is as likely as any man to live and and children."
If there was any skill used by Mr. Gibson so to word this speech as to his own opinion, Mrs. Gibson was not to it out. She was dismayed, and Mr. Gibson her dismay; it him to something like his of mind.
"Let us this misfortune, for I see you it as such," said he.
"No, not a misfortune," said she. "But, certainly, if I had Dr. Nicholls' opinion—" she hesitated.
"You see the of always me," he gravely. "Here is Cynthia engaged—"
"Not engaged, I told you before. He would not allow it to be an on her part."
"Well, in a love-affair with a of three-and-twenty, with nothing his and a of an estate; no even, for two years, and I must go and tell his father all about it to-morrow."
"Oh dear! Pray say that, if he it, he has only to his opinion."
"I don't think you can act without Cynthia in the affair. And if I am not mistaken, Cynthia will have a will of her own on the subject."
"Oh, I don't think she for him very much; she is not one to be always in love, and she not take very to heart. But, of course, one would not do anything abruptly; two years' one of time to turn in."
"But a little while ago we were with and an early death if Cynthia's were thwarted."
"Oh, you dear creature, how you all my words! It might be, you know. Poor dear Mr. Kirkpatrick was consumptive, and Cynthia may have it, and a great might out the seeds. At times I am so fearful. But I it is not probable, for I don't think she takes very to heart."
"Then I'm at to give up the affair, acting as Cynthia's proxy, if the Squire of it?"
Poor Mrs. Gibson was in a at this question.
"No!" she said at last. "We cannot give it up. I am sure Cynthia would not; if she others were acting for her. And he is very much in love. I wish he were in Osborne's place."
"Shall I tell you what I should do?" said Mr. Gibson, in earnest. "However it may have been about, here are two people in love with each other. One is as a as breathed; the other a very pretty, lively, girl. The father of the man must be told, and it is most likely he will and oppose; for there is no it is an as as money goes. But let them be and patient, and a need no woman. I only wish it were Molly's good to meet with such another."
"I will try for her; I will indeed," said Mrs. Gibson, by his of tone.
"No, don't. That's one thing I forbid. I'll have no 'trying' for Molly."
"Well, don't be angry, dear! Do you know I was you were going to your at one time."
"It would have been of no use!" said he, gloomily, up as if to close the sitting. His wife was only too to make her escape. The had not been satisfactory to either. Mr. Gibson had been to and the fact, that the wife he had had a very different of from that which he had all his life, and had to have in his daughter. He was more than he to show; for there was so much of self-reproach in his that he it to himself, over it, and allowed a of with his wife to up in his mind, which itself by-and-by to the Cynthia, and his manner to mother and to assume a severity, which took the at any with surprise. But on the present occasion he his wife up to the drawing-room, and the Cynthia.
"Has told you?" said she, an at her mother. "It is an engagement; and we all ourselves to keep it a secret, among the rest!"
"But, my Cynthia, you not expect—you not have me to keep a from my husband?" Mrs. Gibson.
"No, not. At any rate, sir," said Cynthia, him with frankness, "I am you should know it. You have always been a most friend to me, and I I should have told you myself, but I did not want it named; if you please, it must still be a secret. In fact, it is an engagement—he" (she and a little at the euphuism, which that there was but one "he" present in her at the moment) "would not allow me to myself by any promise until his return!"
Mr. Gibson looked at her, to her looks, which at the moment him too of her mother's ways. Then he took her hand, and said, enough,—"I you are of him, Cynthia, for you have a prize. I have a or than Roger's; and I have him boy and man."
Molly as if she have thanked her father for this to the value of him who was gone away. But Cynthia a little she up in his face.
"You are not complimentary, are you, Mr. Gibson?" said she. "He thinks me worthy, I suppose; and if you have so high an opinion of him, you ought to respect his of me." If she to a she was disappointed, for Mr. Gibson let go her hand in an manner, and in an easy chair by the fire, at the as if to read the in them. Molly saw Cynthia's with tears, and her to the other end of the room, where she had gone to some materials.
"Dear Cynthia," was all she said; but she pressed her hand while trying to in the search.
"Oh, Molly, I am so of your father; what makes him speak so to me to-night?"
"I don't know," said Molly; "perhaps he's tired."
They were from by Mr. Gibson. He had himself from his reverie, and was now Cynthia.
"I you will not it a of confidence, Cynthia, but I must tell the Squire of—of what has taken place to-day you and his son. I have myself by a promise to him. He was afraid—it's as well to tell you the truth—he was afraid" (an on this last word) "of something of this his sons and one of you two girls. It was only the other day I him there was nothing of the on foot; and I told him then I would him at once if I saw any symptoms."
Cynthia looked annoyed.
"It was the one thing I for—secrecy."
"But why?" said Mr. Gibson. "I can your not to have it public under the present circumstances. But the nearest friends on sides! Surely you can have no to that?"
"Yes, I have," said Cynthia; "I would not have had any one know if I have helped it."
"I'm almost Roger will tell his father."
"No, he won't," said Cynthia; "I him promise, and I think he is one to respect a promise"—with a at her mother, who, herself in with husband and child, was a silence.
"Well, at any rate, the would come with so much a from him that I shall give him the chance; I won't go over to the Hall till the end of the week; he may have and told his father then."
Cynthia her for a little while. Then she said, with pettishness,—
"A man's promise is to a woman's wish, then, is it?"
"I don't see any why it should not."
"Will you trust in my when I tell you it will me a great of if it known?" She said this in so a voice, that if Mr. Gibson had not been and by his previous with her mother, he must have to her. As it was, he said, coldly,—"Telling Roger's father is not making it public. I don't like this for such secrecy, Cynthia. It to me as if something more than is was it."
"Come, Molly," said Cynthia, suddenly; "let us sing that I've been teaching you; it's than talking as we are doing."
It was a little French duet. Molly sang it carelessly, with at her heart; but Cynthia sang it with and merriment; only she in at last, and to her own room. Molly, nothing else—neither her father Mrs. Gibson's words—followed her, and the door of her locked, and for all reply to her to be allowed to come in, she Cynthia and crying.
It was more than a week after the just recorded Mr. Gibson himself at to call on the Squire; and he that long then, Roger's might have from Paris, telling his father the whole story. But he saw at the that the Squire had nothing to his equanimity. He was looking than he had done for months past; the light of was in his eyes, his of a healthy colour, by his of in the of the works, and the he had had through Roger's means, his blood to with regular vigour. He had Roger's going away, it is true; but the of with him pressed too upon him, he his pipe, and it out over a long, slow, deliberate, re-perusal of Lord Hollingford's letter, every word of which he by heart; but in which he a to himself of doubting, that he might have an for looking at his son's once again. The over, Mr. Gibson into his subject.
"Any news from Roger yet?"
"Oh, yes; here's his letter," said the Squire, producing his black leather case, in which Roger's had been along with the other very contents.
Mr. Gibson read it, the after he had by one himself that there was no mention of Cynthia in it.
"Hum! I see he doesn't name one very event that has him since he left you," said Mr. Gibson, on the that came. "I I'm a of on one side; but I'm going to keep the promise I the last time I was here. I there is something—something of the you apprehended—you understand—between him and my step-daughter, Cynthia Kirkpatrick. He called at our house to wish us good-by, while waiting for the London coach, her alone, and spoke to her. They don't call it an engagement, but of it is one."
"Give me the letter," said the Squire, in a of voice. Then he read it again, as if he had not its contents, and as if there might be some or he had overlooked.
"No!" he said at last, with a sigh. "He tells me nothing about it. Lads may play at with their fathers, but they keep a back." The Squire appeared more at not having of this from Roger than at the itself, Mr. Gibson thought. But he let him take his time.
"He's not the son," the Squire, talking as it were to himself. "But it's not the match I should have planned for him. How came you, sir," said he, on Mr. Gibson, suddenly—"to say when you were last here, that there was nothing my sons and either of your girls? Why, this must have been going on all the time!"
"I'm it was. But I was as about it as the unborn. I only of it on the of the day of Roger's departure."
"And that's a week ago, sir. What's you since?"
"I that Roger would tell you himself."
"That you've no sons. More than their life is unknown to their fathers. Why, Osborne there, we live together—that's to say, we have our together, and we sleep under the same roof—and yet—Well! well! life is as God has it. You say it's not an yet? But I wonder what I'm doing? Hoping for my lad's in the he's set his on—and just when he's been helping me. Is it a folly, or is it not? I ask you, Gibson, for you must know this girl. She hasn't much money, I suppose?"
"About thirty a year, at my her mother's life."
"Whew! It's well he's not Osborne. They'll have to wait. What family is she of? None of 'em in trade, I reckon, from her being so poor?"
"I her father was of a Sir Gerald Kirkpatrick. Her mother tells me it is an old baronetcy. I know nothing of such things."
"That's something. I do know something of such things, as you are pleased to call them. I like blood."
Mr. Gibson not help saying, "But I'm that only one-eighth of Cynthia's blood is honourable; I know nothing of her relations the that her father was a curate."
"Professional. That's a step above at any rate. How old is she?"
"Eighteen or nineteen."
"Pretty?"
"Yes, I think so; most people do; but it's all a of taste. Come, Squire, judge for yourself. Ride over and take with us any day you like. I may not be in; but her mother will be there, and you can make with your son's wife."
This was going too fast, however; too much on the with which the Squire had been him. Mr. Hamley his shell, and spoke in a manner as he replied,—
"Roger's 'future wife!' He'll be by the time he comes home. Two years among the black will have put more in him."
"Possible, but not probable, I should say," Mr. Gibson. "Black are not for their powers of reasoning, I believe, so that they haven't much of his opinion by argument, if they each other's language; and if he my taste, their of will only make him white skins the more."
"But you said it was no engagement," the Squire. "If he thinks of it, you won't keep him to it, will you?"
"If he to it off, I shall Cynthia to be willing, that's all I can say. And I see no for the at present. I've told you how I promised you I would, if I saw anything of this going on. But in the present condition of things, we can neither make mar; we can only wait." And he took up his to go. But the Squire was discontented.
"Don't go, Gibson. Don't take at what I've said, though I'm sure I don't know why you should. What's the girl like in herself?"
"I don't know what you mean," said Mr. Gibson. But he did; only he was vexed, and did not choose to understand.
"Is she—well, is she like your Molly?—sweet-tempered and sensible—with her always mended, and about the feet, and to do anything one her just as if doing it was the very thing she liked best in the world?"
Mr. Gibson's now, and he all the Squire's and meanings.
"She is much than Molly to with, and has very ways. She's always well-dressed and smart-looking, and I know she hasn't much to on her clothes, and always what she's asked to do, and is with her pretty, answers. I don't think I saw her out of temper; but then I'm not sure if she takes to heart, and a of goes a great way a for good temper, I've observed. Altogether I think Cynthia is one in a hundred."
The Squire a little. "Your Molly is one in a thousand, to my mind. But then, you see, she comes of no family at all,—and I don't she'll have a of much money." This he said as if he were aloud, and without to Mr. Gibson, but it the latter, and he impatiently,—
"Well, but as there's no question of Molly in this business, I don't see the use of her name in, and either her family or her fortune."
"No, to be sure not," said the Squire, up. "My had gone afield, and I'll own I was only what a it was she wouldn't do for Osborne. But, of course, it's out of the question—out of the question."
"Yes," said Mr. Gibson, "and if you will me, Squire, I must go now, and then you'll be at to send your uninterrupted." This time he was at the door the Squire called him back. He his top-boots with his riding-whip, waiting for the last words.
"I say, Gibson, we're old friends, and you're a if you take anything I say as an offence. Madam your wife and I didn't it off the only time I saw her. I won't say she was silly, but I think one of us was silly, and it wasn't me. However, we'll pass that over. Suppose you her, and this girl Cynthia (which is as a Christian name as I'd wish to hear), and little Molly out here to some day,—I'm more at my in my own house,—and I'm more sure to be civil, too. We need say nothing about Roger,—neither the me,—and you keep your wife's quiet, if you can. It will only be like a to you on your marriage, you know—and no one must take it for anything more. Mind, no or mention of Roger, and this piece of folly. I shall see the girl then, and I can judge her for myself; for, as you say, that will be the best plan. Osborne will be here too; and he's always in his talking to women. I sometimes think he's a woman himself, he so much money and is so unreasonable."
The Squire was pleased with his own speech and his own thought, and a little as he speaking. Mr. Gibson was pleased and amused; and he too, as he was to be gone. The next Thursday was soon upon as the day on which Mr. Gibson was to his out to the Hall. He that, on the whole, the had gone off a good than he had expected, and proud of the of which he was the bearer. Therefore Mrs. Gibson's manner of it was an to him. She, meanwhile, had been herself as an woman since the of the day of Roger's departure; what had any one had to speak as if the of Osborne's life being were small, if in the was uncertain? She liked Osborne extremely, much than Roger; and would have to secure him for Cynthia, if she had not from the of her daughter's a widow. For if Mrs. Gibson had anything it was the death of Mr. Kirkpatrick; and, as she was in most things, she from her to the same of which she herself had experienced. But if she had only Dr. Nicholls' opinion she would have Roger's suit; never. And then Mr. Gibson himself; why was he so cold and in his of her since that night of explanation? She had done nothing wrong; yet she was as though she were in disgrace. And about the house was just now. She missed the little of Roger's visits, and the of his to Cynthia. Cynthia too was enough; and as for Molly, she was and out of spirits, a of mind so to Mrs. Gibson just now, that she some of her upon the girl, from she neither repartee.
