Wives and Daughters ELIZABETH GASKELL CHAPTER 53-p2 pptx

Wives and Daughters ELIZABETH GASKELL CHAPTER 53-p2 'Hamley Hall!' said the innkeeper. 'Eh! there's a deal of trouble there just now.' 'I know, I know,' said she, hastening off after the wheelbarrow in which her trunk was going, and breathlessly struggling to keep up with it, her heavy child asleep in her arms. Her pulses beat all over her body; she could hardly see out of her eyes. To her, a foreigner, the drawn blinds of the house, when she came in sight of it, had no significance; she hurried, stumbled on. 'Back door or front, missus?' asked the boots from the inn. 'The most nearest,' said she. And the front door was 'the most nearest.' Molly was sitting with the squire in the darkened drawing-room, reading out her translations of Aimee's letters to her husband. The squire was never weary of hearing them; the very sound of Molly's voice soothed and comforted him, it was so sweet and low. And he pulled her up, much as a child does, if on a second reading of the same letter she substituted one word for another. The house was very still this afternoon, still as it had been now for several days; every servant in it, however needless, moving about on tiptoe, speaking below the breath, and shutting doors as softly as might be The nearest noise or stir of active life was that of the rooks in the trees, who were beginning their spring chatter of business. Suddenly, through this quiet, there came a ring at the front- door bell that sounded, and went on sounding, through the house, pulled by an ignorant vigorous hand. Molly stopped reading; she and the squire looked at each other in surprised dismay. Perhaps a thought of Roger's sudden (and impossible) return was in the mind of each; but neither spoke. They heard Robinson hurrying to answer the unwonted summons. They listened; but they heard no more. There was little more to hear. When the old servant opened the door, a lady with a child in her arms stood there. She gasped out her ready- prepared English sentence, - 'Can I see Mr Osborne Hamley? He is ill, I know; but I am his wife.' Robinson had been aware that there was some mystery, long suspected by the servants, and come to light at last to the master, - he had guessed that there was a young woman in the case; but when she stood there before him, asking for her dead husband as if he were living, any presence of mind Robinson might have had forsook him; he could not tell her the truth, - he could only leave the door open, and say to her, 'Wait awhile, I'll come back,' and betake himself to the drawing-room where Molly was, he knew. He went up to her in a flutter and a hurry, and whispered something to her which turned her white with dismay. 'What is it? What is it?' said the squire, trembling with excitement. 'Don't keep it from me. I can bear it. Roger ' They both thought he was going to faint; he had risen up and come close to Molly; suspense would be worse than anything. 'Mrs Osborne Hamley is here,' said Molly. 'I wrote to tell her her husband was very ill, and she has come.' 'She does not know what has happened, seemingly,' said Robinson. 'I can't see her - I can't see her,' said the squire, shrinking away into a corner. 'You will go, Molly, won't you? You'll go.' Molly stood for a moment or two, irresolute. She, too, shrank from the interview. Robinson put in his word, - 'She looks but a weakly thing, and has carried a big baby, choose how far, I did not stop to ask.' At this instant the door softly opened, and right into the midst of them came the little figure in grey, looking ready to fall with the weight of her child. 'You are Molly,' said she, not seeing the squire at once. 'The lady who wrote the letter; he spoke of you sometimes. You will let me go to him.' Molly did not answer, except that at such moments the eyes speak solemnly and comprehensively. Aimee read their meaning. All she said was, - 'He is not - oh, my husband - my husband!' Her arms relaxed, her figure swayed, the child screamed and held out his arms for help. That help was given him by his grandfather, just before Aimee fell senseless on the floor. 'Maman, maman!' cried the little fellow, now striving and fighting to get back to her, where she lay; he fought so lustily that the squire had to put him down, and he crawled to the poor inanimate body, behind which sate Molly, holding the head; whilst Robinson rushed away for water, wine, and more womankind. 'Poor thing, poor thing!' said the squire, bending over her, and crying afresh over her suffering. 'She is but young, Molly, and she must ha' loved him dearly.' 'To be sure!' said Molly, quickly. She was untying the bonnet, and taking off the worn, but neatly mended gloves; there was the soft luxuriant black hair, shading the pale, innocent face, - the little notable-looking brown hands, with the wedding-ring for sole ornament. The child clustered his fingers round one of hers, and nestled up against her with his plaintive cry, getting more and more into a burst of wailing: 'Maman, maman!' At the growing acuteness of his imploring, her hand moved, her lips quivered, consciousness came partially back. She did not open her eyes, but great heavy tears stole out from beneath her eyelashes. Molly held her head against her own breast; and they tried to give her wine, - which she shrank from - water, which she did not reject; that was all. At last she tried to speak. 'Take me away,' she said, 'into the dark. Leave me alone.' So Molly and the woman lifted her up and carried her away, and laid her on the bed, in the best bed-chamber in the house, and darkened the already shaded light. She was like an unconscious corpse herself, in that she offered neither assistance nor resistance to all that they were doing. But just before Molly was leaving the room to take up her watch outside the door, she felt rather than heard that Aimee spoke to her. 'Food - bread and milk for baby.' But when they brought her food herself, she only shrank away and turned her face to the wall without a word. In the hurry the child had been left with Robinson and the squire. For some unknown, but most fortunate reason, he took a dislike to Robinson's red face and hoarse voice, and showed a most decided preference for his grandfather. When Molly came down she found the squire feeding the child, with more of peace upon his face than there had been for all these days. The boy was every now and then leaving off taking his bread and milk to show his dislike to Robinson by word and gesture: a proceeding which only amused the old servant, while it highly delighted the more favoured squire. 'She is lying very still, but she will neither speak nor eat. I don't even think she is crying,' said Molly, volunteering this account, for the squire was for the moment too much absorbed in his grandson to ask many questions. Robinson put in his word, - 'Dick Hayward, he's Boots at the Hamley Arms, says the coach she come by started at five this morning from London, and the passengers said she'd been crying a deal on the road, when she thought folks were not noticing; and she never came in to meals with the rest, but stopped feeding her child.' 'She'll be tired out; we must let her rest,' said the squire. 'And I do believe this little chap is going to sleep in my arms. God bless him.' But Molly stole out, and sent off a lad to Hollingford with a note to her father. Her heart had warmed towards the poor stranger, and she felt uncertain as to what ought to be the course pursued in her case. She went up from time to time to look at the girl, scarce older than herself, who lay there with her eyes open, but as motionless as death. She softly covered her over, and let her feel the sympathetic presence from time to time; and that was all she was allowed to do. The squire was curiously absorbed in the child; but Molly's supreme tenderness was for the mother. Not but what she admired the sturdy, gallant, healthy little fellow, whose every limb, and square inch of clothing, showed the tender and thrifty care that had been taken of him. By-and- by the squire said in a whisper, - 'She is not like a Frenchwoman, is she, Molly?' 'I don't know. I don't know what Frenchwomen are like. People say Cynthia is French.' 'And she did not look like a servant? We won't speak of Cynthia since she's served my Roger so. Why, I began to think, as soon as I could think after that, how I would make Roger and her happy, and have them married at once; and then came that letter! I never wanted her for a daughter-in-law, not I. But he did, it seems; and he was not one for wanting many things for himself. But it's all over now; only we won't talk of her; and maybe, as you say, she was more French than English. The poor thing looks like a gentlewoman, I think. I hope she's got friends who'll take care of her, - she can't be above twenty. I thought she must be older than my poor lad!' 'She's a gentle, pretty creature,' said Molly. 'But - but I sometimes think it has killed her; she lies like one dead.' And Molly could not keep from crying softly at the thought. 'Nay, nay!' said the squire. 'It's not so easy to break one's heart. Sometimes I've wished it were. But one has to go on living - all the appointed days, as it says in the Bible.' But we'll do our best for her. We'll not think of letting her go away till she's fit to travel.' Molly wondered in her heart about this going away, on which the squire seemed fully resolved. She was sure that he intended to keep the child; perhaps he had a legal right to do so; - but would the mother ever part from it? Her father, however, would solve the difficulty, - her father, whom she always looked to as so clear-seeing and experienced. She watched and waited for his coming. The February evening drew on; the child lay asleep in the squire's arms till his grandfather grew tired, and laid him down on the sofa: the large square-cornered yellow sofa upon which Mrs Hamley used to sit, supported by pillows in a half- reclining position. Since her time it had been placed against the wall, and had served merely as a piece of furniture to fill up the room. But once again a human figure was lying upon it; a little human creature, like a cherub in some old Italian picture. The squire, remembered his wife as he put the child down. He thought of her as he said to Molly, - 'How pleased she would have been!' But Molly thought of the young widow upstairs. Aimee was her 'she' at the first moment. Presently, - but it seemed a long long time first, - she heard the quick prompt sounds, which told of her father's arrival. In he came - to the room as yet only lighted by the fitful blaze of the fire. . Wives and Daughters ELIZABETH GASKELL CHAPTER 53-p2 'Hamley Hall!' said the innkeeper. 'Eh! there's. door open, and say to her, 'Wait awhile, I'll come back,' and betake himself to the drawing-room where Molly was, he knew. He went up to her in a flutter and a hurry, and whispered. solemnly and comprehensively. Aimee read their meaning. All she said was, - 'He is not - oh, my husband - my husband!' Her arms relaxed, her figure swayed, the child screamed and held