His arm was round her waist, and he was drawing her towards the door, his face all crimson with eagerness and hope. Just then the baby cried.
“Hark!” said she, starting away from Kinraid, “baby is crying for me. His child—yes, it is his child—I had forgotten that—forgotten all. I’ll make my vow now, lest I lose mysel’ again. I’ll niver forgive yon man, nor live with him as his wife again. All that’s done and ended. He’s spoilt my life—he’s spoilt it for as long as iver I live on this earth; but neither you nor him shall spoil my soul. It goes hard wi’ me, Charley, it does indeed. I’ll just give you one kiss—one little kiss—and then, so help me God, I’ll niver see nor hear till—no, not that, not that is needed—I’ll niver see—sure that’s enough—I’ll niver see yo’ again on this side heaven, so help me God! I’m bound and tied, but I have sworn my oath to him as well as yo’: there’s things I will do, and there’s things I won’t. Kiss me once more. God help me, he is gone!”
Roger Hamley’s Farewell
From Wives and Daughters, 1866
The house mentioned in this incident is Church House, Knutsford, where Mrs. Gaskell’s uncle, Dr. Holland, resided. It is now known as Hollingford House.
The day of Roger’s departure came. Molly tried hard to forget it in the 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 recognised 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-bye 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: