‘I told him I would throw up the partnership. I threatened him with that, though, in fact, it was only what I felt I ought to do, and had resolved upon before Sophy’s illness, as I had lost the confidence of his patients. He only said –
‘“I cannot help it, sir. I shall regret it for your father’s sake; but I must do my duty. I dare not run the risk of giving Miss Sophy this violent medicine – a preparation of a deadly poison.”
‘I left him without a word. He was quite right in adhering to his own views, as I can see now; but at the time I thought him brutal and obstinate.
Chapter XXVII
‘I WENT HOME. I spoke rudely to Mrs Rose, who awaited my return at the door. I rushed past, and locked myself in my room. I could not go to bed.
‘The morning sun came pouring in, and enraged me, as everything did since Mr Morgan refused. I pulled the blind down so violently that the string broke. What did it signify? The light might come in. What was the sun to me? And then I remembered that that sun might be shining on her – dead.
‘I sat down and covered my face. Mrs Rose knocked at the door. I opened it. She had never been in bed, and had been crying too.
‘“Mr Morgan wants to speak to you, sir!”
‘I rushed back for my medicine, and went to him. He stood at the door, pale and anxious.
‘“She’s alive, sir,” said he, “but that’s all. We have sent for Dr Hamilton. I’m afraid he will not come in time. Do you know, sir, I think we should venture – with Dr —’s sanction – to give her that medicine. It is but a chance; but it is the only one, I’m afraid.” He fairly cried before he had ended.
‘“I’ve got it here,” said I, setting off to walk; but he could not go so fast.
‘“I beg your pardon, sir,” said he, “for my abrupt refusal last night.”
‘“Indeed, sir,” said I; “I ought much rather to beg your pardon. I was very violent.”
‘“Oh! never mind! never mind! Will you repeat what Dr — said?”
‘I did so; and then I asked, with a meekness that astonished myself, if I might not go in and administer it.
‘“No, sir,” said he, “I’m afraid not. I am sure your good heart would not wish to give pain. Besides, it might agitate her, if she has any consciousness before death. In her delirium she has often mentioned your name; and, sir, I’m sure you won’t name it again, as it may, in fact, be considered a professional secret; but I did hear our good Vicar speak a little strongly about you; in fact, sir, I did hear him curse you. You see the mischief it might make in the parish, I’m sure, if this were known.”
‘I gave him the medicine, and watched him in, and saw the door shut. I hung about the place all day. Poor and rich all came to inquire. The county people drove up in their carriages – the halt and the lame came on their crutches. Their anxiety did my heart good. Mr Morgan told me that she slept, and I watched Dr Hamilton into the house. The night came on. She slept. I watched round the house. I saw the light high up, burning still and steady. Then I saw it moved. It was the crisis, in one way or other.
Chapter XXVIII
‘MR MORGAN CAME out. Good old man! The tears were running down his cheeks: he could not speak; but kept shaking my hands. I did not want words. I understood that she was better.
‘“Dr Hamilton says, it was the only medicine that could have saved her. I was an old fool, sir. I beg your pardon. The Vicar shall know all. I beg your pardon, sir, if I was abrupt.”
‘Everything went on brilliantly from this time.
‘Mr Bullock called to apologise for his mistake, and consequent upbraiding. John Brouncker came home, brave and well.
‘There was still Miss Tomkinson in the ranks of the enemy; and Mrs Rose too much, I feared, in the ranks of the friends.
Chapter XXIX
‘ONE NIGHT SHE had gone to bed, and I was thinking of going. I had been studying in the back room, where I went for refuge from her in the present position of affairs – (I read a good number of surgical books about this time, and also Vanity Fair) – when I heard a loud, long-continued knocking at the door, enough to waken the whole street. Before I could get to open it, I heard that well-known bass of Jack Marshland’s, once heard never to be forgotten, pipe up the negro song –
‘“Who’s dat knocking at de door?”
‘Though it was raining hard at the time, and I stood waiting to let him in, he would finish his melody in the open air; loud and clear along the street it sounded. I saw Miss Tomkinson’s night-capped head emerge from a window. She called out “Police! police!”
‘Now there were no police, only a rheumatic constable in the town; but it was the custom of the ladies, when alarmed at night, to call an imaginary police, which had, they thought, an intimidating effect; but as every one knew the real state of the unwatched town, we did not much mind it in general. Just now, however, I wanted to regain my character. So I pulled Jack in, quavering as he entered.
‘“You’ve spoilt a good shake,” said he, “that’s what you have. I’m nearly up to Jenny Lind; and you see I’m a nightingale, like her.”
‘We sat up late; and I don’t know how it was, but I told him all my matrimonial and misadventures.
‘“I thought I could imitate your hand pretty well,” said he. “My word! it was a flaming valentine! No wonder she thought you loved her!”
‘“So that was your doing, was it? Now I’ll tell you what you shall do to make up for it. You shall write me a letter confessing your hoax – a letter that I can show.”
‘“Give me pen and paper, my boy! you shall dictate. ‘With a deeply penitent heart –’ Will that do for a beginning?”
‘I told him what to write; a simple, straightforward confession of his practical joke. I enclosed it in a few lines of regret that, unknown to me, any of my friends should have so acted.
Chapter XXX
‘ALL THIS TIME I knew that Sophy was slowly recovering. One day I met Miss Bullock, who had seen her.
‘“We have been talking about you,” said she, with a bright smile; for since she knew I disliked her, she felt quite at her ease, and could smile very pleasantly. I understood that she had been explaining the misunderstanding about herself to Sophy; so that when Jack Marshland’s note had been sent to Miss Tomkinson’s, I thought myself in a fair way to have my character established in two quarters. But the third was my dilemma. Mrs Rose had really so much of my true regard for her good qualities, that I disliked the idea of a formal explanation, in which a good deal must be said on my side to wound her. We had become very much estranged ever since I had heard of this report of my engagement to her. I saw that she grieved over it. While Jack Marshland stayed with us, I felt at my ease in the presence of a third person. But he told me confidentially he durst not stay long, for fear some of the ladies should snap him up, and marry him. Indeed I myself did not think it unlikely that he would snap one of them up if he could. For when we met Miss Bullock one day, and heard her hopeful, joyous account of Sophy’s progress (to whom she was a daily visitor), he asked me who that bright-looking girl was? And when I told him she was the Miss Bullock of whom I had spoken to him, he was pleased to observe that he thought I had been a great fool, and asked me if Sophy had anything like such splendid eyes. He made me repeat about Miss Bullock’s unhappy circumstances at home, and then became very thoughtful – a most unusual and morbid symptom in his case.
‘Soon after he went, by Mr Morgan’s kind offices and explanations, I was permitted to see Sophy. I might not speak much; it was prohibited, for fear of agitating her. We talked of the weather and the flowers; and we were silent. But her little white thin hand lay in mine; and we understood each other without words. I had a long interview with the Vicar afterwards; and came away glad and satisfied.
‘Mr Morgan called in the afternoon, evidently anxious, though he made no direct inquiries (he was too polite for that), to hear the result of my visit at the vicarage. I told him to give me joy. He shook me warmly by the hand; and then
rubbed his own together. I thought I would consult him about my dilemma with Mrs Rose who, I was afraid, would be deeply affected by my engagement.
‘“There is only one awkward circumstance,” said I – “about Mrs Rose.” I hesitated how to word the fact of her having received congratulations on her supposed engagement with me, and her manifest attachment; but, before I could speak, he broke in –
‘“My dear sir, you need not trouble yourself about that; she will have a home. In fact, sir,” said he, reddening a little, “I thought it would, perhaps, put a stop to those reports connecting my name with Miss Tomkinson’s, if I married some one else. I hoped it might prove an efficacious contradiction. And I was struck with admiration for Mrs Rose’s undying memory of her late husband. Not to be prolix, I have this morning obtained Mrs Rose’s consent to – to marry her, in fact, sir!” said he, jerking out the climax.
‘Here was an event! Then Mr Morgan had never heard the report about Mrs Rose and me. (To this day, I think she would have taken me, if I had proposed.) So much the better.
‘Marriages were in the fashion that year. Mr Bullock met me one morning, as I was going to ride with Sophy. He and I had quite got over our misunderstanding, thanks to Jemima, and were as friendly as ever. This morning he was chuckling aloud as he walked.
‘“Stop, Mr Harrison!” he said, as I went quickly past. “Have you heard the news? Miss Horsman has just told me Miss Caroline has eloped with young Hoggins! She is ten years older than he is! How can her gentility like being married to a tallow-chandler? It is a very good thing for her, though,” he added, in a more serious manner; “Old Hoggins is very rich; and though he’s angry just now, he will soon be reconciled.”
‘Any vanity I might have entertained on the score of the three ladies who were, at one time, said to be captivated by my charms, was being rapidly dispersed. Soon after Mr Hoggins’ marriage, I met Miss Tomkinson face to face, for the first time since our memorable conversation. She stopped me, and said –
‘“Don’t refuse to receive my congratulations, Mr Harrison, on your most happy engagement to Miss Hutton. I owe you an apology, too, for my behaviour when I last saw you at our house. I really did think Caroline was attached to you then; and it irritated me, I confess, in a very wrong and unjustifiable way. But I heard her telling Mr Hoggins only yesterday that she had been attached to him for years; ever since he was in pinafores, she dated it from; and when I asked her afterwards how she could say so, after her distress on hearing that false report about you and Mrs Rose, she cried, and said I never had understood her; and that the hysterics which alarmed me so much were simply caused by eating pickled cucumber. I am very sorry for my stupidity, and improper way of speaking; but I hope we are friends now, Mr Harrison, for I should wish to be liked by Sophy’s husband.”
‘Good Miss Tomkinson! to believe the substitution of indigestion for disappointed affection. I shook her warmly by the hand; and we have been all right ever since. I think I told you she is the baby’s godmother.
Chapter XXXI
‘I HAD SOME difficulty in persuading Jack Marshland to be groomsman; but when he heard all the arrangements, he came. Miss Bullock was bridesmaid. He liked us all so well, that he came again at Christmas, and was far better behaved than he had been the year before. He won golden opinions indeed. Miss Tomkinson said he was a reformed young man. We dined all together at Mr Morgan’s (the Vicar wanted us to go there; but, from what Sophy told me, Helen was not confident of the mincemeat, and rather dreaded so large a party). We had a jolly day of it. Mrs Morgan was as kind and motherly as ever. Miss Horsman certainly did set out a story that the Vicar was thinking of Miss Tomkinson for his second; or else, I think, we had no other report circulated in consequence of our happy, merry Christmas-day; and it is a wonder, considering how Jack Marshland went on with Jemima.’
Here Sophy came back from putting baby to bed; and Charles wakened up.
Cranford
Chapter I
OUR SOCIETY
IN THE FIRST place, Cranford is in possession of the Amazons; all the holders of houses, above a certain rent, are women. If a married couple come to settle in the town, somehow the gentleman disappears; he is either fairly frightened to death by being the only man in the Cranford evening parties, or he is accounted for by being with his regiment, his ship, or closely engaged in business all the week in the great neighbouring commercial town of Drumble, distant only twenty miles on a railroad. In short, whatever does become of the gentlemen, they are not at Cranford. What could they do if they were there? The surgeon has his round of thirty miles, and sleeps at Cranford; but every man cannot be a surgeon. For keeping the trim gardens full of choice flowers without a weed to speck them; for frightening away little boys, who look wistfully at the said flowers through the railings; for rushing out at the geese that occasionally venture into the gardens if the gates are left open; for deciding all questions of literature and politics without troubling themselves with unnecessary reasons or arguments; for obtaining clear and correct knowledge of everybody’s affairs in the parish; for keeping their neat maid-servants in admirable order; for kindness (somewhat dictatorial) to the poor, and real tender good offices to each other whenever they are in distress, the ladies of Cranford are quite sufficient. ‘A man,’ as one of them observed to me once, ‘is so in the way in the house!’ Although the ladies of Cranford know all each other’s proceedings, they are exceedingly indifferent to each other’s opinions. Indeed, as each has her own individuality, not to say eccentricity, pretty strongly developed, nothing is so easy as verbal retaliation; but somehow goodwill reigns among them to a considerable degree.
The Cranford ladies have only an occasional little quarrel, spirted out in a few peppery words and angry jerks of the head; just enough to prevent the even tenor of their lives from becoming too flat. Their dress is very independent of fashion; as they observe, ‘What does it signify how we dress here at Cranford, where everybody knows us?’ And if they go from home, their reason is equally cogent: ‘What does it signify how we dress here, where nobody knows us?’ The materials of their clothes are, in general, good and plain, and most of them are nearly as scrupulous as Miss Tyler, of cleanly memory; but I will answer for it, the last gigot, the last tight and scanty petticoat in wear in England, was seen in Cranford – and seen without a smile.
I can testify to a magnificent family red silk umbrella, under which a gentle little spinster, left alone of many brothers and sisters, used to patter to church on rainy days. Have you any red silk umbrellas in London? We had a tradition of the first that had ever been seen in Cranford; and the little boys mobbed it, and called it ‘a stick in petticoats.’ It might have been the very red silk one I have described, held by a strong father over a troop of little ones; the poor little lady – the survivor of all – could scarcely carry it.
Then there were rules and regulations for visiting and calls; and they were announced to any young people, who might be staying in the town, with all the solemnity with which the old Manx laws were read once a year on the Tinwald Mount.
‘Our friends have sent to inquire how you are after your journey to-night, my dear’ (fifteen miles, in a gentleman’s carriage); ‘they will give you some rest to-morrow, but the next day, I have no doubt, they will call; so be at liberty after twelve; – from twelve to three are our calling-hours.’
Then, after they had called,
‘It is the third day; I dare say your mamma has told you, my dear, never to let more than three days elapse between receiving a call and returning it; and also, that you are never to stay longer than a quarter of an hour.’
‘But am I to look at my watch? How am I to find out when a quarter of an hour has passed?’
‘You must keep thinking about the time, my dear, and not allow yourself to forget it in conversation.’
As everybody had this rule in their minds, whether they received or paid a call, of course no absorbing subject was ever spoken about. We kept ourselves
to short sentences of small talk, and were punctual to our time.
I imagine that a few of the gentlefolks of Cranford were poor, and had some difficulty in making both ends meet; but they were like the Spartans, and concealed their smart under a smiling face. We none of us spoke of money, because that subject savoured of commerce and trade, and though some might be poor, we were all aristocratic. The Cranfordians had that kindly esprit de corps which made them overlook all deficiencies in success when some among them tried to conceal their poverty. When Mrs Forrester, for instance, gave a party in her baby-house of a dwelling, and the little maiden disturbed the ladies on the sofa by a request that she might get the tea-tray out from underneath, every one took this novel proceeding as the most natural thing in the world; and talked on about household forms and ceremonies, as if we all believed that our hostess had a regular servants’ hall, second table, with housekeeper and steward, instead of the one little charity-school maiden, whose short ruddy arms could never have been strong enough to carry the tray upstairs, if she had not been assisted in private by her mistress, who now sat in state, pretending not to know what cakes were sent up, though she knew, and we knew, and she knew that we knew, and we knew that she knew that we knew, she had been busy all the morning making tea-bread and sponge-cakes.
There were one or two consequences arising from this general but unacknowledged poverty, and this very much acknowledged gentility, which were not amiss, and which might be introduced into many circles of society to their great improvement. For instance, the inhabitants of Cranford kept early hours, and clattered home in their pattens, under the guidance of a lantern-bearer, about nine o’clock at night; and the whole town was abed and asleep by half-past ten. Moreover, it was considered ‘vulgar’ (a tremendous word in Cranford) to give anything expensive, in the way of eatable or drinkable, at the evening entertainments. Wafer bread-and-butter and sponge-biscuits were all that the Honourable Mrs Jamieson gave; and she was sister-in-law to the late Earl of Glenmire, although she did practise such ‘elegant economy.’