CHAPTER LX.

ROGER HAMLEY'S CONFESSION.

Roger had a great deal to think of as he turned away from looking

after the carriage as long as it could be seen. The day before,

he had believed that Molly had come to view all the symptoms of

his growing love for her,--symptoms which he thought had been so

patent,--as disgusting inconstancy to the inconstant Cynthia; that

she had felt that an attachment which could be so soon transferred to

another was not worth having; and that she had desired to mark all

this by her changed treatment of him, and so to nip it in the bud.

But this morning her old sweet, frank manner had returned--in their

last interview, at any rate. He puzzled himself hard to find out what

could have distressed her at breakfast-time. He even went so far as

to ask Robinson whether Miss Gibson had received any letters that

morning; and when he heard that she had had one, he tried to believe

that the letter was in some way the cause of her sorrow. So far

so good. They were friends again after their unspoken difference;

but that was not enough for Roger. He felt every day more and more

certain that she, and she alone, could make him happy. He had felt

this, and had partly given up all hope, while his father had been

urging upon him the very course he most desired to take. No need for

"trying" to love her, he said to himself,--that was already done. And

yet he was very jealous on her behalf. Was that love worthy of her

which had once been given to Cynthia? Was not this affair too much

a mocking mimicry of the last--again just on the point of leaving

England for a considerable time--if he followed her now to her own

home,--in the very drawing-room where he had once offered to Cynthia?

And then by a strong resolve he determined on this course. They

were friends now, and he kissed the rose that was her pledge of

friendship. If he went to Africa, he ran some deadly chances; he knew

better what they were now than he had done when he went before. Until

his return he would not even attempt to win more of her love than

he already had. But once safe home again, no weak fancies as to

what might or might not be her answer should prevent his running

all chances to gain the woman who was to him the one who excelled

all. His was not the poor vanity that thinks more of the possible

mortification of a refusal than of the precious jewel of a bride that

may be won. Somehow or another, please God to send him back safe, he

would put his fate to the touch. And till then he would be patient.

He was no longer a boy to rush at the coveted object; he was a man

capable of judging and abiding.

Molly sent her father, as soon as she could find him, to the Hall;

and then sate down to the old life in the home drawing-room, where

she missed Cynthia's bright presence at every turn. Mrs. Gibson was

in rather a querulous mood, which fastened itself upon the injury of

Cynthia's letter being addressed to Molly, and not to herself.

"Considering all the trouble I had with her trousseau, I think she

might have written to me."

"But she did--her first letter was to you, mamma," said Molly, her

real thoughts still intent upon the Hall--upon the sick child--upon

Roger, and his begging for the flower.

"Yes, just a first letter, three pages long, with an account of her

crossing; while to you she can write about fashions, and how the

bonnets are worn in Paris, and all sorts of interesting things. But

poor mothers must never expect confidential letters, I have found

that out."

"You may see my letter, mamma," said Molly, "there is really nothing

in it."

"And to think of her writing, and crossing to you who don't value it,

while my poor heart is yearning after my lost child! Really, life is

somewhat hard to bear 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 does not mention her often; hardly ever, I think."

"I never thought he had much feeling. If he had had, he would not

have let her go so easily."

"I don't see how he could help it. When he came to see her after his

return, she was already engaged to Mr. Henderson--he had come down

that very day," said Molly, with perhaps more heat than the occasion

required.

"My poor head!" said Mrs. Gibson, putting her hands up to her head.

"One may see you've been stopping with people of robust health,

and--excuse my saying it, Molly, of your friends--of unrefined

habits, you've got to talk in so loud a voice. But do remember my

head, Molly. So Roger has quite forgotten Cynthia, has he? Oh! what

inconstant creatures men are! He will be falling in love with some

grandee next, mark my words! They are making a pet and a lion of him,

and he's just the kind of weak young man to have his head turned by

it all; and to propose to some fine 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

sensible for anything of the kind."

"That's just the fault I always found with him; sensible and

cold-hearted! Now, that's a kind of character which may be very

valuable, but which revolts me. Give me warmth of heart, even with a

little of that extravagance of feeling which misleads the judgment,

and conducts into romance. Poor Mr. Kirkpatrick! That was just

his character. I used to tell him that his love for me was quite

romantic. I think I have told you about his walking five miles in the

rain to get me a muffin once when I was ill?"

"Yes!" said Molly. "It was very kind of him."

"So imprudent, too! Just what one of your sensible, cold-hearted,

commonplace people would never have thought of doing. With his cough

and all."

"I hope he didn't suffer for it?" replied Molly, anxious at any

cost to keep off the subject of the Hamleys, upon which she and her

stepmother always disagreed, and on which she found it difficult to

keep her temper.

"Yes, indeed, he did! I don't think he ever got over the cold he

caught that day. I wish you had known him, Molly. I sometimes wonder

what would have happened if you had been my real daughter, and

Cynthia dear papa's, and Mr. Kirkpatrick and your own dear mother had

all lived. People talk a good deal about natural affinities. It would

have been a question for a philosopher." She began to think on the

impossibilities she had suggested.

"I wonder how the poor little boy is?" said Molly, after a pause,

speaking out her thought.

"Poor little child! When one thinks how little his prolonged

existence is to be desired, one feels that his death would be a

boon."

"Mamma! what do you mean?" asked Molly, much shocked. "Why, every one

cares for his life as the most precious thing! You have never seen

him! He is the bonniest, sweetest little fellow that can be! What do

you mean?"

"I should have thought that the Squire would have desired a

better-born heir than the offspring of a servant,--with all his ideas

about descent and blood and family. And I should have thought that it

was a little mortifying to Roger--who must naturally have looked upon

himself as his brother's heir--to find a little interloping child,

half French, half English, stepping into his shoes!"

"You don't know how fond they are of him,--the Squire looks upon him

as the apple of his eye."

"Molly! Molly! pray don't let me hear you using such vulgar

expressions. When shall I teach you true refinement--that refinement

which consists in never even thinking a vulgar, commonplace thing!

Proverbs and idioms are never used by people of education. 'Apple of

his eye!' I am really shocked."

"Well, mamma, I'm very sorry; but after all, what I wanted to say

as strongly as I could was, that the Squire loves the little boy as

much as his own child; and that Roger--oh! what a shame to think that

Roger--" And she stopped suddenly 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 felt at your age. But one learns the

baseness of human nature with advancing years. I was wrong, though,

to undeceive you so early--but depend upon it, the thought I alluded

to has crossed Roger Hamley's mind!"

"All sorts of thoughts cross one's mind--it depends upon whether one

gives them harbour 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 interesting subject. I asked Cynthia to

buy me a silk gown in Paris, and I said I would send her word what

colour I fixed upon--I think dark blue is the most becoming to my

complexion; what do you say?"

Molly agreed, sooner than take the trouble of thinking about the

thing at all; she was far too full of her silent review of all the

traits in Roger's character which had lately come under her notice,

and that gave the lie direct to her stepmother's supposition. Just

then they heard Mr. Gibson's step downstairs. But it was some time

before he made his entrance into the room where they were sitting.

"How is little Roger?" said Molly, eagerly.

"Beginning with scarlet fever, I'm afraid. It's well you left when

you did, Molly. You've never had it. We must stop up all intercourse

with the Hall for a time. If there's one illness I dread, it is

this."

"But you go and come back to us, papa."

"Yes. But I always take plenty of precautions. However, no need to

talk about risks that lie in the way of one's duty. It is unnecessary

risks that we must avoid."

"Will he have it badly?" asked Molly.

"I can't tell. I shall do my best for the wee laddie."

Whenever Mr. Gibson's feelings were touched, he was apt to recur to

the language of his youth. Molly knew now that he was much interested

in the case.

For some days there was imminent danger to the little boy; for some

weeks there was a more chronic form of illness to contend with; but

when the immediate danger was over and the warm daily interest was

past, Molly began to realize that, from the strict quarantine her

father evidently thought it necessary to establish between the two

houses, she was not likely to see Roger again before his departure

for Africa. Oh! if she had but made more of the uncared-for days that

she had passed with him at the Hall! Worse than uncared for; days on

which she had avoided him; refused to converse freely with him; given

him pain by her change of manner; for she had read in his eyes, heard

in his voice, that he had been perplexed and pained, and now her

imagination dwelt on and exaggerated the expression of his tones and

looks.

One evening after dinner, her father said,--

"As the country-people say, I've done a stroke of work to-day. Roger

Hamley and I have laid our heads together, and we've made a plan by

which Mrs. Osborne and her boy will leave the Hall."

"What did I say the other day, Molly?" said Mrs. Gibson,

interrupting, and giving Molly a look of extreme intelligence.

"And go into lodgings at Jennings' farm; not four hundred yards from

the Park-field gate," continued Mr. Gibson. "The Squire and his

daughter-in-law have got to be much better friends over the little

fellow's sick-bed; and I think he sees now how impossible it would

be for the mother to leave her child, and go and be happy in France,

which has been the notion running in his head all this time. To buy

her off, in fact. But that one night, when I was very uncertain

whether I could bring him through, they took to crying together,

and condoling with each other; and it was just like tearing down a

curtain that had been between them; they have been rather friends

than otherwise ever since. Still Roger"--(Molly's cheeks grew warm

and her eyes soft and bright; it was such a pleasure to hear his

name)--"and I both agree that his mother knows much better how to

manage the boy than his grandfather does. I suppose that was the

one good thing she got from that hard-hearted mistress of hers. She

certainly has been well trained in the management of children. And

it makes her impatient, and annoyed, and unhappy, when she sees

the Squire giving the child nuts and ale, and all sorts of silly

indulgences, and spoiling 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 pretty rooms they are, too; we went to

see them, and Mrs. Jennings promises to attend well to Mrs. Osborne

Hamley, and is very much honoured, and all that sort of thing--not

ten minutes' walk from the Hall, too, so that she and the little chap

may easily go backwards and forwards as often as they like, and yet

she may keep the control over the child's discipline and diet. In

short, I think I've done a good day's work," he continued, stretching

himself a little; and then with a shake rousing himself, and making

ready to go out again, to see a patient who had sent for him in his

absence.

"A good day's work!" he repeated 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 between him and Roger. Roger had begun a fresh

subject of conversation just as Mr. Gibson was hastening away from

the Hall, after completing the new arrangement for AimŽe 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 hope you'll be as successful in all your scientific

objects as you were the last time, and have no sorrows awaiting you

when you come back."

"Thank you. Yes. I hope so. You don't think there's any danger of

infection now, do you?"

"No! If the disease were to spread through the household, I think

we should have had some signs of it before now. One is never sure,

remember, with scarlet fever."

Roger was silent for a minute or two. "Should you be afraid," he said

at length, "of seeing me at your house?"

"Thank you; but I think I would rather decline the pleasure of your

society there at present. It's only three weeks or a month since

the child began. Besides, I shall be over here again before you go.

I'm always on my guard against symptoms of dropsy. I have known it

supervene."

"Then I shall not see Molly again!" said Roger, in a tone and with a

look of great disappointment.

Mr. Gibson turned his keen, observant eyes upon the young man, and

looked at him in as penetrating a manner as if he had been beginning

with an unknown illness. Then the doctor and the father compressed

his lips and gave vent to a long intelligent whistle. "Whew!" said

he.

Roger's bronzed cheeks took a deeper 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 between any young man

and young woman. I'll tell my womenkind I forbade you to come near

the house, and that you're sorry to go away without bidding good-by.

That's all I shall say."

"But you do not disapprove?--I see you guess why. Oh! Mr. Gibson,

just speak to me one word of what must be in your heart, though you

are pretending not to understand why I would give worlds to see Molly

again before I go."

"My dear boy!" said Mr. Gibson, more affected than he liked to show,

and laying his hand on Roger's shoulder. Then he pulled himself up,

and said gravely enough,--

"Mind, Molly is not Cynthia. If she were to care for you, she is not

one who could transfer her love to the next comer."

"You mean not as readily as I have done," replied Roger. "I only wish

you could know what a different feeling this is to my boyish love for

Cynthia."

"I wasn't thinking of you when I spoke; but, however, as I might have

remembered afterwards that you were not a model of constancy, let us

hear what you have to say for yourself."

"Not much. I did love Cynthia very much. Her manners and her beauty

bewitched me; but her letters,--short, hurried letters,--sometimes

showing that she really hadn't taken the trouble to read mine

through,--I cannot tell you the pain they gave me! Twelve months'

solitude, in frequent danger of one's life--face to face with

death--sometimes ages a man like many years' experience. Still I

longed for the time when I should see her sweet face again, and hear

her speak. Then the letter at the Cape!--and still I hoped. But you

know how I found her, when I went to have the interview which I

trusted might end in the renewal of our relations,--engaged to Mr.

Henderson. I saw her walking with him in your garden, coquetting with

him about a flower, just as she used to do with me. I can see the

pitying look in Molly's eyes as she watched me; I can see it now. And

I could beat myself for being such a blind fool as to-- What must she

think of me? how she must despise me, choosing the false Duessa."

"Come, come! Cynthia isn't so bad as that. She's a very fascinating,

faulty creature."

"I know! I know! I will never allow any one to say a word against

her. If I called her the false Duessa it was because I wanted to

express my sense of the difference between her and Molly as strongly

as I could. You must allow for a lover's exaggeration. Besides, all I

wanted to say was,--Do you think that Molly, after seeing and knowing

that I had loved a person so inferior to herself, could ever be

brought to listen to me?"

"I don't know. I can't tell. And even if I could, I wouldn't. Only if

it's any comfort to you, I may say what my experience has taught me.

Women are queer, unreasoning creatures, and are just as likely as not

to love a man who has been throwing away his affection."

"Thank you, sir!" said Roger, interrupting him. "I see you mean to

give me encouragement. And I had resolved never to give Molly a hint

of what I felt till I returned,--and then to try and win her by every

means in my power. I determined not to repeat the former scene in the

former place,--in your drawing-room,--however I might be tempted. And

perhaps, after all, she avoided me when she was here last."

"Now, Roger, I've listened to you long enough. If you've nothing

better to do with your time than to talk about my daughter, I have.

When you come back it will be time enough to inquire how far your

father would approve of such an engagement."

"He himself urged it upon me the other day--but then I was in

despair--I thought it was too late."

"And what means you are likely to have of maintaining a wife?--I

always thought that point was passed too lightly over when you formed

your hurried engagement to Cynthia. I'm not mercenary,--Molly has

some money independently of me,--that she by the way knows nothing

of,--not much;--and I can allow her something. But all these things

must be left till your return."

"Then you sanction my attachment?"

"I don't know what you mean by sanctioning it. I can't help it. I

suppose losing one's daughter is a necessary evil. Still"--seeing the

disappointed expression on Roger's face--"it is but fair to you to

say, I'd rather give my child,--my only child, remember!--to you,

than to any man in the world!"

"Thank you!" said Roger, shaking hands with Mr. Gibson, almost

against the will of the latter. "And I may see her, just once, before

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 separate them. I will

not in the slightest way be a go-between."

"Very well," said Roger. "Tell them both as strongly as you can how

I regret your prohibition. I see I must submit. But if I don't come

back, I'll haunt you for having been so cruel."

"Come, I like that. Give me a wise man of science in love! No one

beats 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 heave such

portentous sighs at the thought."

Mr. Gibson gave Roger's message to his wife and to Molly that evening

at dinner. It was but what the latter had expected, after all her

father had said of the very great danger of infection; but now that

her expectation came in the shape of a final decision, it took away

her appetite. She submitted in silence; but her observant father

noticed that after this speech of his, she only played with the food

on her plate, and concealed a good deal of it under her knife and

fork.

"Lover _versus_ father!" thought he, half sadly. "Lover wins." And

he, too, became indifferent to all that remained of his dinner. Mrs.

Gibson pattered on; and nobody listened.

The day of Roger's departure came. Molly tried hard to forget it

in 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 recognized 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-by 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 na•vely 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, ho! 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 develope 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 Watts'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 will not notice 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's 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 had 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!"

* * * * * *

CONCLUDING REMARKS:

[By the Editor of _The Cornhill Magazine_.]

Here the story is broken off, and it can never be finished. What

promised to be the crowning work of a life is a memorial of death. A

few days longer, and it would have been a triumphal column, crowned

with a capital of festal leaves and flowers: now it is another sort

of column--one of those sad white pillars which stand broken in the

churchyard.

But if the work is not quite complete, little remains to be added

to it, and that little has been distinctly reflected into our minds.

We know that Roger Hamley will marry Molly, and that is what we are

most concerned about. Indeed, there was little else to tell. Had the

writer lived, she would have sent her hero back to Africa forthwith;

and those scientific parts of Africa are a long way from Hamley; and

there is not much to choose between a long distance and a long time.

How many hours are there in twenty-four when you are all alone in

a desert place, a thousand miles from the happiness which might be

yours to take--if you were there to take it? How many, when from the

sources of the Topinambo your heart flies back ten times a day, like

a carrier-pigeon, to the one only source of future good for you, and

ten times a day returns with its message undelivered? Many more than

are counted on the calendar. So Roger found. The days were weeks that

separated him from the time when Molly gave him a certain little

flower, and months from the time which divorced him from Cynthia,

whom he had begun to doubt before he knew for certain that she was

never much worth hoping for. And if such were his days, what was

the slow procession of actual weeks and months in those remote and

solitary places? They were like years of a stay-at-home life, with

liberty and leisure to see that nobody was courting Molly meanwhile.

The effect of this was, that long before the term of his engagement

was ended all that Cynthia had been to him was departed from Roger's

mind, and all that Molly was and might be to him filled it full.

He returned; but when he saw Molly again he remembered that to

her the time of his absence might not have seemed so long, and

was oppressed with the old dread that she would think him fickle.

Therefore this young gentleman, so self-reliant and so lucid in

scientific matters, found it difficult after all to tell Molly how

much he hoped she loved him; and might have blundered if he had not

thought of beginning by showing her the flower that was plucked from

the nosegay. How charmingly that scene would have been drawn, had

Mrs. Gaskell lived to depict 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 happier than

the other, it is Molly. Her husband has no need to draw upon the

little fortune which is to go to poor Osborne's boy, for he becomes

professor at some great scientific institution, and wins his way in

the world handsomely. The squire is almost as happy in this marriage

as his son. If any one suffers for it, it is Mr. Gibson. But he takes

a partner, so as to get a chance of running up to London to stay with

Molly for a few days now and then, and "to get a little rest from

Mrs. Gibson." Of what was to happen to Cynthia after her marriage the

author was not heard to say much; and, indeed, it does not seem 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 first time, through an innocent casual remark of

Mr. Gibson's, that the famous traveller, Roger Hamley, was known to

the family. Cynthia had never happened to mention it. How well that

little incident, too, would have been described!

But it is useless to speculate upon what would have been done by the

delicate strong hand which can create no more Molly Gibsons--no more

Roger Hamleys. We have repeated, in this brief note, all that is

known of her designs for the story, which would have been completed

in another chapter. There is not so much to regret, then, so far as

this novel is concerned; indeed, the regrets of those who knew her

are less for the loss of the novelist than of the woman--one of the

kindest and wisest of her time. But yet, for her own sake _as_ a

novelist alone, her untimely death is a matter for deep regret. It is

clear in this novel of _Wives and Daughters_, in the exquisite little

story that preceded it, _Cousin Phillis_, and in _Sylvia's Lovers_,

that Mrs. Gaskell had within these five years started upon a new

career with all the freshness of youth, and with a mind which seemed

to have put off its clay and to have been born again. But that "put

off its clay" must be taken in a very narrow sense. All minds are

tinctured more or less with the "muddy vesture" in which they are

contained; but few minds ever showed less of base earth than Mrs.

Gaskell's. It was so at all times; but lately even the original

slight tincture seemed to disappear. While you read any one of the

last three books we have named, you feel yourself caught out of an

abominable wicked world, crawling with selfishness and reeking with

base passions, into one where there is much weakness, many mistakes,

sufferings long and bitter, but where it is possible for people to

live calm and wholesome lives; and, what is more, you feel that this

is at least as real a world as the other. The kindly spirit which

thinks no ill looks out of her pages irradiate; and while we read

them, we breathe the purer intelligence which prefers to deal with

emotions and passions which have a living root in minds within the

pale of salvation, and not with those which rot without it. This

spirit is more especially declared in _Cousin Phillis_ and _Wives and

Daughters_--their author's latest works; they seem to show that for

her the end of life was not descent amongst the clods of the valley,

but ascent into the purer air of the heaven-aspiring hills.

We are saying nothing now of the merely intellectual qualities

displayed in these later works. Twenty years to come, that may be

thought the more important question of the two; in the presence of

her grave we cannot think so; but it is true, all the same, that

as mere works of art and observation, these later novels of Mrs.

Gaskell's are among the finest of our time. There is a scene in

_Cousin Phyllis_--where Holman, making hay with his men, ends the

day with a psalm--which is not excelled as a picture in all modern

fiction; and the same may be said of that chapter of this last story

in which Roger smokes a pipe with the Squire after the quarrel with

Osborne. There is little in either of these scenes, or in a score

of others which succeed each other like gems in a cabinet, which

the ordinary novel-maker could "seize." There is no "material" for

_him_ in half-a-dozen farming men singing hymns in a field, or a

discontented old gentleman smoking tobacco with his son. Still less

could he avail himself of the miseries of a little girl sent to

be happy in a fine house full of fine people; but it is just in

such things as these that true genius appears brightest and most

unapproachable. It is the same with the personages in Mrs. Gaskell's

works. Cynthia is one of the most difficult characters which have

ever been attempted in our time. Perfect art always obscures the

difficulties it overcomes; and it is not till we try to follow the

processes by which such a character as the Tito of _Romola_ is

created, for instance, that we begin to understand what a marvellous

piece of work it is. To be sure, Cynthia was not so difficult, nor is

it nearly so great a creation as that splendid achievement of art and

thought--of the rarest art, of the profoundest thought. But she also

belongs to the kind of characters which are conceived only in minds

large, clear, harmonious and just, and which can be portrayed fully

and without flaw only by hands obedient to the finest motions of the

mind. Viewed in this light, Cynthia is a more important piece of work

even than Molly, delicately as she is drawn, and true and harmonious

as that picture is also. And what we have said of Cynthia may be

said with equal truth of Osborne Hamley. The true delineation of a

character like that is as fine a test of art as the painting of a

foot or a hand, which also seems so easy, and in which perfection is

most rare. In this case the work is perfect. Mrs. Gaskell has drawn

a dozen characters more striking than Osborne since she wrote _Mary

Barton_, but not one which shows more exquisite finish.

Another thing we may be permitted to notice, because it has a great

and general significance. It may be true that this is not exactly

the place for criticism, but since we are writing of Osborne Hamley,

we cannot resist pointing out a peculiar instance of the subtler

conceptions which underlie all really considerable works. Here are

Osborne and Roger, two men who, in every particular that can be

seized for _description_, are totally different creatures. Body and

mind they are quite unlike. They have different tastes; they take

different ways: they are men of two sorts which, in the society

sense, never "know" each other; and yet, never did brotherly blood

run more manifest than in the veins of those two. To make that

manifest without allowing the effort to peep out for a single moment,

would be a triumph of art; but it is a "touch beyond the reach of

art" to make their likeness in unlikeness so natural a thing that we

no more wonder about it than we wonder at seeing the fruit and the

bloom on the same bramble: we have always seen them there together in

blackberry season, and do not wonder about it nor think about it at

all. Inferior writers, even some writers who are highly accounted,

would have revelled in the "contrast," persuaded that they were

doing a fine anatomical dramatic thing by bringing it out at every

opportunity. To the author of _Wives and Daughters_ this sort of

anatomy was mere dislocation. She began by having the people of her

story born in the usual way, and not built 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 diverse as

the fruit and the bloom on the bramble. "It goes without speaking."

These differences are precisely what might have been expected

from the union of Squire Hamley with the town-bred, refined,

delicate-minded woman whom he married; and the affection of the young

men, their kindness (to use the word in its old and new meanings at

once) is nothing but a reproduction of those impalpable threads of

love which bound the equally diverse father and mother in bonds

faster than the ties of blood.

But we will not permit ourselves to write any more in this vein. It

is unnecessary to demonstrate to those who know what is and what

is not true literature that Mrs. Gaskell was gifted with some of

the choicest faculties bestowed upon mankind; that these grew into

greater strength and ripened into greater beauty in the decline of

her days; and that she has gifted us with some of the truest, purest

works of fiction in the language. And she was herself what her works

show her to have been--a wise, good woman.