ROGER HAMLEY'S CONFESSION.
Roger had a great to think of as he away from looking after the as long as it be seen. The day before, he had that Molly had come to view all the of his love for her,—symptoms which he had been so patent,—as to the Cynthia; that she had that an which be so soon transferred to another was not having; and that she had to mark all this by her of him, and so to it in the bud. But this her old sweet, manner had returned—in their last interview, at any rate. He puzzled himself hard to out what have her at breakfast-time. He so as to ask Robinson Miss Gibson had any that morning; and when he that she had had one, he to that the was in some way the of her sorrow. So so good. They were friends again after their difference; but that was not for Roger. He every day more and more that she, and she alone, make him happy. He had this, and had up all hope, while his father had been upon him the very he most to take. No need for "trying" to love her, he said to himself,—that was already done. And yet he was very on her behalf. Was that love of her which had once been to Cynthia? Was not this too much a of the last—again just on the point of England for a time—if he her now to her own home,—in the very drawing-room where he had once offered to Cynthia? And then by a he on this course. They were friends now, and he the rose that was her of friendship. If he to Africa, he ran some chances; he what they were now than he had done when he before. Until his return he would not attempt to win more of her love than he already had. But once safe home again, no weak as to what might or might not be her answer should prevent his all to the woman who was to him the one who all. His was not the that thinks more of the possible of a than of the of a that may be won. Somehow or another, God to send him safe, he would put his to the touch. And till then he would be patient. He was no longer a boy to at the object; he was a man of and abiding.
Molly sent her father, as soon as she him, to the Hall; and then to the old life in the home drawing-room, where she missed Cynthia's presence at every turn. Mrs. Gibson was in a mood, which itself upon the of Cynthia's being to Molly, and not to herself.
"Considering all the trouble I had with her trousseau, I think she might have to me."
"But she did—her was to you, mamma," said Molly, her still upon the Hall—upon the child—upon Roger, and his for the flower.
"Yes, just a letter, three pages long, with an account of her crossing; while to you she can about fashions, and how the are in Paris, and all of things. But mothers must letters, I have that out."
"You may see my letter, mamma," said Molly, "there is nothing in it."
"And to think of her writing, and to you who don't value it, while my is after my child! Really, life is hard to at times."
Then there was silence—for a while.
"Do tell me something about your visit, Molly. Is Roger very heart-broken? Does he talk much about Cynthia?"
"No. He not mention her often; ever, I think."
"I he had much feeling. If he had had, he would not have let her go so easily."
"I don't see how he help it. When he came to see her after his return, she was already to Mr. Henderson—he had come that very day," said Molly, with more than the occasion required.
"My head!" said Mrs. Gibson, her hands up to her head. "One may see you've been stopping with people of health, and—excuse my saying it, Molly, of your friends—of habits, you've got to talk in so loud a voice. But do my head, Molly. So Roger has Cynthia, has he? Oh! what men are! He will be in love with some next, mark my words! They are making a and a lion of him, and he's just the of weak man to have his by it all; and to to some lady of rank, who would no more think of marrying him than of marrying her footman."
"I don't think it is likely," said Molly, stoutly. "Roger is too for anything of the kind."
"That's just the fault I always with him; and cold-hearted! Now, that's a of which may be very valuable, but which me. Give me of heart, with a little of that of which the judgment, and into romance. Poor Mr. Kirkpatrick! That was just his character. I used to tell him that his love for me was romantic. I think I have told you about his walking five miles in the rain to me a once when I was ill?"
"Yes!" said Molly. "It was very of him."
"So imprudent, too! Just what one of your sensible, cold-hearted, people would have of doing. With his and all."
"I he didn't for it?" Molly, at any cost to keep off the of the Hamleys, upon which she and her always disagreed, and on which she it difficult to keep her temper.
"Yes, indeed, he did! I don't think he got over the cold he that day. I wish you had him, Molly. I sometimes wonder what would have if you had been my daughter, and Cynthia dear papa's, and Mr. Kirkpatrick and your own dear mother had all lived. People talk a good about natural affinities. It would have been a question for a philosopher." She to think on the she had suggested.
"I wonder how the little boy is?" said Molly, after a pause, speaking out her thought.
"Poor little child! When one thinks how little his is to be desired, one that his death would be a boon."
"Mamma! what do you mean?" asked Molly, much shocked. "Why, every one for his life as the most thing! You have him! He is the bonniest, little that can be! What do you mean?"
"I should have that the Squire would have a better-born than the of a servant,—with all his ideas about and blood and family. And I should have that it was a little to Roger—who must naturally have looked upon himself as his brother's heir—to a little child, French, English, into his shoes!"
"You don't know how they are of him,—the Squire looks upon him as the apple of his eye."
"Molly! Molly! pray don't let me you using such expressions. When shall I teach you true refinement—that which in a vulgar, thing! Proverbs and are used by people of education. 'Apple of his eye!' I am shocked."
"Well, mamma, I'm very sorry; but after all, what I wanted to say as as I was, that the Squire loves the little boy as much as his own child; and that Roger—oh! what a to think that Roger—" And she stopped short, as if she were choked.
"I don't wonder at your indignation, my dear!" said Mrs. Gibson. "It is just what I should have at your age. But one the of nature with years. I was wrong, though, to you so early—but upon it, the I to has Roger Hamley's mind!"
"All of one's mind—it upon one them and encouragement," said Molly.
"My dear, if you must have the last word, don't let it be a truism. But let us talk on some more subject. I asked Cynthia to me a in Paris, and I said I would send her word what colour I upon—I think dark is the most to my complexion; what do you say?"
Molly agreed, sooner than take the trouble of about the thing at all; she was too full of her of all the in Roger's which had come under her notice, and that gave the direct to her stepmother's supposition. Just then they Mr. Gibson's step downstairs. But it was some time he his entrance into the room where they were sitting.
"How is little Roger?" said Molly, eagerly.
"Beginning with fever, I'm afraid. It's well you left when you did, Molly. You've had it. We must stop up all with the Hall for a time. If there's one I dread, it is this."
"But you go and come to us, papa."
"Yes. But I always take of precautions. However, no need to talk about that in the way of one's duty. It is that we must avoid."
"Will he have it badly?" asked Molly.
"I can't tell. I shall do my best for the laddie."
Whenever Mr. Gibson's were touched, he was to to the language of his youth. Molly now that he was much in the case.
For some days there was to the little boy; for some there was a more of to with; but when the was over and the warm daily was past, Molly to that, from the her father it necessary to the two houses, she was not likely to see Roger again his for Africa. Oh! if she had but more of the uncared-for days that she had passed with him at the Hall! Worse than for; days on which she had him; to with him; him pain by her of manner; for she had read in his eyes, in his voice, that he had been and pained, and now her on and the of his and looks.
One after dinner, her father said,—
"As the country-people say, I've done a of work to-day. Roger Hamley and I have our together, and we've a plan by which Mrs. Osborne and her boy will the Hall."
"What did I say the other day, Molly?" said Mrs. Gibson, interrupting, and Molly a look of intelligence.
"And go into at Jennings' farm; not four hundred yards from the Park-field gate," Mr. Gibson. "The Squire and his daughter-in-law have got to be much friends over the little fellow's sick-bed; and I think he sees now how it would be for the mother to her child, and go and be happy in France, which has been the in his all this time. To her off, in fact. But that one night, when I was very I him through, they took to together, and with each other; and it was just like a that had been them; they have been friends than otherwise since. Still Roger"—(Molly's warm and her soft and bright; it was such a to his name)—"and I agree that his mother much how to manage the boy than his does. I that was the one good thing she got from that hard-hearted of hers. She has been well in the management of children. And it makes her impatient, and annoyed, and unhappy, when she sees the Squire the child nuts and ale, and all of indulgences, and him in every possible way. Yet she's a coward, and doesn't speak out her mind. Now by being in lodgings, and having her own servants—nice rooms they are, too; we to see them, and Mrs. Jennings promises to well to Mrs. Osborne Hamley, and is very much honoured, and all that of thing—not ten minutes' walk from the Hall, too, so that she and the little may easily go and as often as they like, and yet she may keep the over the child's and diet. In short, I think I've done a good day's work," he continued, himself a little; and then with a shake himself, and making to go out again, to see a patient who had sent for him in his absence.
"A good day's work!" he to himself as he ran downstairs. "I don't know when I have been so happy!" For he had not told Molly all that had passed him and Roger. Roger had a fresh of just as Mr. Gibson was away from the Hall, after the new for Aimée and her child.
"You know that I set off next Tuesday, Mr. Gibson, don't you?" said Roger, a little abruptly.
"To be sure. I you'll be as successful in all your scientific objects as you were the last time, and have no you when you come back."
"Thank you. Yes. I so. You don't think there's any of now, do you?"
"No! If the were to spread through the household, I think we should have had some of it now. One is sure, remember, with fever."
Roger was for a minute or two. "Should you be afraid," he said at length, "of me at your house?"
"Thank you; but I think I would the of your there at present. It's only three or a month since the child began. Besides, I shall be over here again you go. I'm always on my against of dropsy. I have it supervene."
"Then I shall not see Molly again!" said Roger, in a and with a look of great disappointment.
Mr. Gibson his keen, upon the man, and looked at him in as a manner as if he had been with an unknown illness. Then the doctor and the father his and gave to a long whistle. "Whew!" said he.
Roger's took a shade.
"You will take a message to her from me, won't you? A message of farewell?" he pleaded.
"Not I. I'm not going to be a message-carrier any man and woman. I'll tell my I you to come near the house, and that you're sorry to go away without good-by. That's all I shall say."
"But you do not disapprove?—I see you why. Oh! Mr. Gibson, just speak to me one word of what must be in your heart, though you are not to why I would give worlds to see Molly again I go."
"My dear boy!" said Mr. Gibson, more than he liked to show, and his hand on Roger's shoulder. Then he himself up, and said enough,—
"Mind, Molly is not Cynthia. If she were to for you, she is not one who transfer her love to the next comer."
"You not as as I have done," Roger. "I only wish you know what a different this is to my love for Cynthia."
"I wasn't of you when I spoke; but, however, as I might have that you were not a model of constancy, let us what you have to say for yourself."
"Not much. I did love Cynthia very much. Her manners and her me; but her letters,—short, letters,—sometimes that she hadn't taken the trouble to read mine through,—I cannot tell you the pain they gave me! Twelve months' solitude, in of one's life—face to with death—sometimes a man like many years' experience. Still I for the time when I should see her sweet again, and her speak. Then the at the Cape!—and still I hoped. But you know how I her, when I to have the which I might end in the of our relations,—engaged to Mr. Henderson. I saw her walking with him in your garden, with him about a flower, just as she used to do with me. I can see the look in Molly's as she me; I can see it now. And I myself for being such a as to— What must she think of me? how she must me, the false Duessa."
"Come, come! Cynthia isn't so as that. She's a very fascinating, creature."
"I know! I know! I will allow any one to say a word against her. If I called her the false Duessa it was I wanted to my of the her and Molly as as I could. You must allow for a lover's exaggeration. Besides, all I wanted to say was,—Do you think that Molly, after and that I had loved a person so to herself, be to to me?"
"I don't know. I can't tell. And if I could, I wouldn't. Only if it's any to you, I may say what my has me. Women are queer, creatures, and are just as likely as not to love a man who has been away his affection."
"Thank you, sir!" said Roger, him. "I see you to give me encouragement. And I had to give Molly a hint of what I till I returned,—and then to try and win her by every means in my power. I not to repeat the in the place,—in your drawing-room,—however I might be tempted. And perhaps, after all, she me when she was here last."
"Now, Roger, I've to you long enough. If you've nothing to do with your time than to talk about my daughter, I have. When you come it will be time to how your father would approve of such an engagement."
"He himself it upon me the other day—but then I was in despair—I it was too late."
"And what means you are likely to have of a wife?—I always that point was passed too over when you your to Cynthia. I'm not mercenary,—Molly has some money of me,—that she by the way nothing of,—not much;—and I can allow her something. But all these must be left till your return."
"Then you my attachment?"
"I don't know what you by it. I can't help it. I one's is a necessary evil. Still"—seeing the on Roger's face—"it is but to you to say, I'd give my child,—my only child, remember!—to you, than to any man in the world!"
"Thank you!" said Roger, hands with Mr. Gibson, almost against the will of the latter. "And I may see her, just once, I go?"
"Decidedly not. There I come in as doctor as well as father. No!"
"But you will take a message, at any rate?"
"To my wife and to her conjointly. I will not them. I will not in the way be a go-between."
"Very well," said Roger. "Tell them as as you can how I your prohibition. I see I must submit. But if I don't come back, I'll you for having been so cruel."
"Come, I like that. Give me a wise man of science in love! No one him in folly. Good-by."
"Good-by. You will see Molly this afternoon!"
"To be sure. And you will see your father. But I don't such at the thought."
Mr. Gibson gave Roger's message to his wife and to Molly that at dinner. It was but what the had expected, after all her father had said of the very great of infection; but now that her came in the shape of a final decision, it took away her appetite. She submitted in silence; but her father noticed that after this speech of his, she only played with the food on her plate, and a good of it under her knife and fork.
"Lover father!" he, sadly. "Lover wins." And he, too, to all that of his dinner. Mrs. Gibson on; and nobody listened.
The day of Roger's came. Molly hard to it in away at a 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 of something else, and had to it. It was a rainy day, too; and Mrs. Gibson, who had planned to go out and pay some calls, had to indoors. This her and fidgety. She going and to different in the drawing-room to look at the weather, as if she that while it at one window, it might be weather at another.
"Molly—come here! who is that man up in a cloak,—there,—near the Park wall, under the beech-tree—he has been there this half-hour and more, stirring, and looking at this house all the time! I think it's very suspicious."
Molly looked, and in an Roger under all his wraps. Her was to back. The next to come forwards, and say—"Why, mamma, it's Roger Hamley! Look now—he's his hand; he's us good-by in the only way he can!" And she to his sign; but she was not sure if he her movement, for Mrs. Gibson so that Molly that her must all his attention.
"I call this so of him," said Mrs. Gibson, in the of a of of her hand. "Really, it is romantic. It me of days—but he will be too late! I must send him away; it is half-past twelve!" And she took out her watch and it up, it with her forefinger, and the very centre of the window. Molly only here and there, now up, now down, now on this side, now on that, of the perpetually-moving arms. She she saw something of a movement on Roger's part. At length he away slowly, slowly, and often looking back, in of the watch. Mrs. Gibson at last retreated, and Molly moved into her place to see his once more the turn of the road it from her view. He, too, where the last of Mr. Gibson's house was to be obtained, and once more he turned, and his white in the air. Molly hers high up, with that it should be seen. And then, he was gone! and Molly returned to her worsted-work, happy, glowing, sad, content, and to herself how sweet is—friendship!
When she came to a of the present, Mrs. Gibson was saying,—
"Upon my word, though Roger Hamley has been a great of mine, this little attention of his has me very of a very man—a soupirant, as the French would call him—Lieutenant Harper—you must have me speak of him, Molly?"
"I think I have!" said Molly, absently.
"Well, you how he was to me when I was at Mrs. Duncombe's, my situation, and I only seventeen. And when the party was ordered to another town, Mr. Harper came and opposite the window for nearly an hour, and I know it was his doing that the played 'The girl I left me,' when they out the next day. Poor Mr. Harper! It was I dear Mr. Kirkpatrick! Dear me. How often my has had to in this life of mine! not but what dear papa is a very man, and makes me very happy. He would me, indeed, if I would let him. Still he is not as rich as Mr. Henderson."
That last the of Mrs. Gibson's present grievance. Having married Cynthia, as her mother put it—taking to herself as if she had had the part in the achievement—she now a little of her daughter's good in being the wife of a young, handsome, rich, and man, who in London. She naïvely her on this to her husband one day when she was not well, and when her were much more present to her mind than her of happiness.
"It is such a pity!" said she, "that I was when I was. I should so have liked to to this generation."
"That's sometimes my own feeling," said he. "So many new views to be opened in science, that I should like, if it were possible, to live till their was ascertained, and one saw what they to. But I don't that's your reason, my dear, for to be twenty or thirty years younger."
"No, indeed. And I did not put it in that hard way; I only said I should like to to this generation. To tell the truth, I was of Cynthia. Without vanity, I I was as 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 good looks will live in Sussex Place, and keep a man and a brougham, and I don't know what. But the is, in this there are so many more rich men than there were when I was a girl."
"Oh, ho! so that's your reason, is it, my dear? If you had been now you might have married somebody as well off as Walter?"
"Yes!" said she. "I think that was my idea. Of I should have liked him to be you. I always think if you had gone to the you might have succeeded better, and in London, too. I don't think Cynthia much where she lives, yet you see it has come to her."
"What has—London?"
"Oh, you dear, man. Now that's just the thing to have a jury. I don't Walter will be so as you are. Yet he can take Cynthia to Paris, and abroad, and everywhere. I only all this won't the in Cynthia's character. It's a week since we from her, and I did so particularly to ask her for the autumn fashions I my new bonnet. But are a great snare."
"Be you are temptation, my dear."
"No, I'm not. Everybody to be tempted. And, after all, it's very easy to temptation, if one wishes."
"I don't it so easy," said her husband.
"Here's medicine for you, mamma," said Molly, entering with a up in her hand. "A from Cynthia."
"Oh, you dear little messenger of good news! There was one of the in Mangnall's Questions office it was to news. The is from Calais. They're home! She's me a and a bonnet! The dear creature! Always of others herself: good cannot her. They've a left of their holiday! Their house is not ready; they're here. Oh, now, Mr. Gibson, we must have the new dinner-service at Watts's I've set my on so long! 'Home' Cynthia calls this house. I'm sure it has been a home to her, darling! I if there is another man in the world who would have his step-daughter like dear papa! And, Molly, you must have a new gown."
"Come, come! Remember I to the last generation," said Mr. Gibson.
"And Cynthia will not notice what I wear," said Molly, with at the of her again.
"No! but Walter will. He has such a quick for dress, and I think I papa; if he's a good stepfather, I'm a good stepmother, and I not to see my Molly shabby, and not looking her best. I must have a new too. It won't do to look as if we had nothing but the which we at the wedding!"
But Molly out against the new for herself, and that if Cynthia and Walter were to come to visit them often, they had see them as they were, in dress, habits, and appointments. When Mr. Gibson had left the room, Mrs. Gibson Molly for her obstinacy.
"You might have allowed me to for a new for you, Molly, when you how much I had that at Brown's the other day. And now, of course, I can't be so selfish as to it for myself, and you to have nothing. You should learn to the 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 not like it to be talked about. And now me up close, and let me go to sleep, and about my dear Cynthia and my new shawl!"
CONCLUDING REMARKS:
[By the Editor of The Cornhill Magazine.]
Here the is off, and it can be finished. What promised to be the work of a life is a of death. A days longer, and it would have been a column, with a of and flowers: now it is another of column—one of those sad white which in the churchyard.
But if the work is not complete, little to be added to it, and that little has been into our minds. We know that Roger Hamley will Molly, and that is what we are most about. Indeed, there was little else to tell. Had the lived, she would have sent her hero to Africa forthwith; and those scientific parts of Africa are a long way from Hamley; and there is not much to choose a long and a long time. How many hours are there in twenty-four when you are all alone in a place, a thousand miles from the which might be yours to take—if you were there to take it? How many, when from the of the Topinambo your ten times a day, like a carrier-pigeon, to the one only of good for you, and ten times a day returns with its message undelivered? Many more than are on the calendar. So Roger found. The days were that him from the time when Molly gave him a little flower, and months from the time which him from Cynthia, he had to he for that she was much for. And if such were his days, what was the slow of and months in those and places? They were like years of a stay-at-home life, with and to see that nobody was Molly meanwhile. The of this was, that long the term of his was ended all that Cynthia had been to him was from Roger's mind, and all that Molly was and might be to him it full.
He returned; but when he saw Molly again he that to her the time of his might not have so long, and was with the old that she would think him fickle. Therefore this gentleman, so self-reliant and so in scientific matters, it difficult after all to tell Molly how much he she loved him; and might have if he had not of by her the flower that was from the nosegay. How that would have been drawn, had Mrs. Gaskell to it, we can only imagine: that it would have been charming—especially in what Molly did, and looked, and said—we know.
Roger and Molly are married; and if one of them is than the other, it is Molly. Her husband has no need to upon the little which is to go to Osborne's boy, for he at some great scientific institution, and his way in the world handsomely. The is almost as happy in this marriage as his son. If any one for it, it is Mr. Gibson. But he takes a partner, so as to a of up to London to with Molly for a days now and then, and "to a little from Mrs. Gibson." Of what was to to Cynthia after her marriage the author was not to say much; and, indeed, it not that anything needs to be added. One little anecdote, however, was told of her by Mrs. Gaskell, which is very characteristic. One day, when Cynthia and her husband were on a visit to Hollingford, Mr. Henderson learned for the time, through an of Mr. Gibson's, that the famous traveller, Roger Hamley, was to the family. Cynthia had to mention it. How well that little incident, too, would have been described!
But it is to upon what would have been done by the hand which can create no more Molly Gibsons—no more Roger Hamleys. We have repeated, in this note, all that is of her designs for the story, which would have been in another chapter. There is not so much to regret, then, so as this is concerned; indeed, the of those who her are less for the of the than of the woman—one of the and of her time. But yet, for her own as a alone, her death is a for regret. It is clear in this of Wives and Daughters, in the little that it, Cousin Phillis, and in Sylvia's Lovers, that Mrs. Gaskell had these five years started upon a new career with all the of youth, and with a mind which to have put off its and to have been again. But that "put off its clay" must be taken in a very narrow sense. All minds are more or less with the "muddy vesture" in which they are contained; but minds less of earth than Mrs. Gaskell's. It was so at all times; but the original to disappear. While you read any one of the last three books we have named, you out of an world, with selfishness and with passions, into one where there is much weakness, many mistakes, long and bitter, but where it is possible for people to live and lives; and, what is more, you that this is at least as a world as the other. The which thinks no looks out of her pages irradiate; and while we read them, we breathe the which to with and which have a in minds the of salvation, and not with those which without it. This is more in Cousin Phillis and Wives and Daughters—their author's latest works; they to that for her the end of life was not the of the valley, but into the air of the heaven-aspiring hills.
We are saying nothing now of the in these later works. Twenty years to come, that may be the more question of the two; in the presence of her we cannot think so; but it is true, all the same, that as of art and observation, these later of Mrs. Gaskell's are among the of our time. There is a in Cousin Phyllis—where Holman, making with his men, ends the day with a psalm—which is not as a picture in all modern fiction; and the same may be said of that chapter of this last in which Roger a pipe with the Squire after the with Osborne. There is little in either of these scenes, or in a score of others which succeed each other like in a cabinet, which the ordinary novel-maker "seize." There is no "material" for him in half-a-dozen men in a field, or a old tobacco with his son. Still less he himself of the of a little girl sent to be happy in a house full of people; but it is just in such as these that true and most unapproachable. It is the same with the in Mrs. Gaskell's works. Cynthia is one of the most difficult which have been in our time. Perfect art always the it overcomes; and it is not till we try to the by which such a as the Tito of Romola is created, for instance, that we to what a piece of work it is. To be sure, Cynthia was not so difficult, is it nearly so great a as that of art and thought—of the art, of the thought. But she also to the of which are only in minds large, clear, and just, and which can be and without only by hands to the of the mind. Viewed in this light, Cynthia is a more piece of work than Molly, as she is drawn, and true and as that picture is also. And what we have said of Cynthia may be said with equal truth of Osborne Hamley. The true of a like that is as a test of art as the painting of a or a hand, which also so easy, and in which perfection is most rare. In this case the work is perfect. Mrs. Gaskell has a dozen more than Osborne since she Mary Barton, but not one which more finish.
Another thing we may be permitted to notice, it has a great and significance. It may be true that this is not the place for criticism, but since we are of Osborne Hamley, we cannot pointing out a of the which all works. Here are Osborne and Roger, two men who, in every particular that can be for description, are totally different creatures. Body and mind they are unlike. They have different tastes; they take different ways: they are men of two which, in the sense, "know" each other; and yet, did blood more than in the of those two. To make that without the to out for a single moment, would be a of art; but it is a "touch the of art" to make their in so natural a thing that we no more wonder about it than we wonder at the fruit and the on the same bramble: we have always them there together in season, and do not wonder about it think about it at all. Inferior writers, some who are accounted, would have in the "contrast," that they were doing a thing by it out at every opportunity. To the author of Wives and Daughters this of was dislocation. She by having the people of her in the way, and not up like the Frankenstein monster; and thus when Squire Hamley took a wife, it was then provided that his two boys should be as naturally one and as the fruit and the on the bramble. "It goes without speaking." These are what might have been from the of Squire Hamley with the town-bred, refined, delicate-minded woman he married; and the of the men, their (to use the word in its old and new at once) is nothing but a of those of love which the father and mother in than the of blood.
But we will not permit ourselves to any more in this vein. It is to to those who know what is and what is not true that Mrs. Gaskell was with some of the upon mankind; that these into and into in the of her days; and that she has us with some of the truest, purest of in the language. And she was herself what her her to have been—a wise, good woman.
