Delphi Complete Works of Elizabeth Gaskell

by Elizabeth Gaskell

  CHAPTER XXII

  ‘I was very cowardly. I positively dared not go home; but at length I was obliged to. I had done all I could to console Mr. Morgan, but he refused to he comforted. I went at last. I rang at the bell. I don’t know who opened the door, but I think it was Mrs. Rose. I kept a handkerchief to my face, and, muttering something about having a dreadful toothache, I flew up to my room and bolted the door. I had no candle; but what did that signify. I was safe. I could not sleep; and when I did fall into a sort of doze, it was ten times worse wakening up. I could not remember whether I was engaged or not. If I was engaged, who was the lady? I had always considered myself as rather plain than otherwise; but surely I had made a mistake. Fascinating I certainly must be; but perhaps I was handsome. As soon as day dawned, I got up to ascertain the fact at the looking-glass. Even with the best disposition to be convinced, I could not see any striking beauty in my round face, with an unshaven beard and a nightcap like a fool’s cap at the top. No! I must be content to be plain, but agreeable. All this I tell you in confidence. I would not have my little bit of vanity known for the world. I fell asleep towards morning. I was awakened by a tap at my door. It was Peggy: she put in a hand with a note. I took it.

  ‘“It is not from Miss Horsman?” said I, half in joke, half in very earnest fright.

  ‘“No, sir; Mr. Morgan’s man brought it.”

  ‘I opened it. It ran thus:

  ‘“MY DEAR SIR, - It is now nearly twenty years since I have had a little relaxation, and I find that my health requires it. I have also the utmost confidence in you, and I am sure this feeling is shared by our patients. I have, therefore, no scruple in putting in execution a hastily-formed plan, and going to Chesterton to catch the early train on my way to Paris. If your accounts are good, I shall remain away probably a fortnight. Direct to Meurice’s. - Yours most truly.

  J. MORGAN.

  “P.S. - Perhaps it may be as well not to name where I am gone, especially to Miss Tomkinson.”

  ‘He had deserted me. He - with only one report - had left me to stand my ground with three.

  ‘“Mrs. Rose’s kind regards, sir, and it’s nearly nine o’clock. Breakfast has been ready this hour, sir.”

  ‘“Tell Mrs. Rose I don’t want any breakfast. Or stay” (for I was very hungry), “I will take a cup of tea and some toast up here.”

  ‘Peggy brought the tray to the door.

  ‘“I hope you’re not ill, sir?” said she kindly.

  ‘“Not very, I shall be better when I get into the air.”

  ‘“Mrs. Rose seems sadly put about,” said she; “she seems so grieved like.”

  ‘I watched my opportunity, and went out by the side-door in the garden.

  CHAPTER XXIII

  ‘I had intended to ask Mr. Morgan to call at the vicarage, and give his parting explanation before they could hear the report. Now I thought that, if I could see Sophy, I would speak to her myself; but I did not wish to encounter the Vicar. I went along the lane at the back of the vicarage, and came suddenly upon Miss Bullock. She coloured, and asked me if I would allow her to speak to me. I could only be resigned; but I thought I could probably set one report at rest by this conversation.

  ‘She was almost crying.

  ‘“I must tell you, Mr. Harrison, I have watched you here in order to speak to you. I heard with the greatest regret of papa’s conversation with you yesterday.” She was fairly crying. “I believe Mrs. Bullock finds me in her way, and wants to have me married. It is the only way in which I can account for such a complete misrepresentation as she had told papa. I don’t care for you, in the least, sir. You never paid me any attentions. You’ve been almost rude to me; and I have liked you the better. That’s to say, I never have liked you.”

  ‘“I am truly glad to hear what you say,” answered I. “Don’t distress yourself. I was sure there was some mistake.”

  ‘But she cried bitterly.

  ‘“It is so hard to feel that my marriage - my absence - is desired so earnestly at home. I dread every new acquaintance we form with any gentleman. It is sure to be the beginning of a series of attacks on him, of which everybody must be aware, and to which they may think I am a willing party. But I should not much mind if it were not for the conviction that she wishes me so earnestly away. Oh, my own dear mamma, you would never - “

  ‘She cried more than ever. I was truly sorry for her, and had just taken her hand, and began - “My dear Miss Bullock” - when the door in the wall of the vicarage garden opened. It was the Vicar letting out Miss Tomkinson, whose face was all swelled with crying. He saw me; but he did not bow, or make any sign. On the contrary, he looked down as from a severe eminence, and shut the door hastily. I turned to Miss Bullock.

  ‘“I am afraid the Vicar has been hearing something to my disadvantage from Miss Tomkinson, and it is very awkward” - she finished my sentence - “To have found us here together. Yes; but, as long as we understand that we do not care for each other, it does not signify what people say.”

  ‘“Oh, but to me it does,” said I. “I may, perhaps, tell you - but do not mention it to a creature - I am attached to Miss Hutton.”

  ‘“To Sophy! Oh, Mr. Harrison, I am so glad; she is such a sweet creature. Oh, I wish you joy.”

  ‘“Not yet; I have never spoken about it.”

  ‘“Oh, but it is certain to happen.” She jumped with a woman’s rapidity to a conclusion. And then she began to praise Sophy. Never was a man yet who did not like to hear the praises of his mistress. I walked by her side; we came past the front of the vicarage together. I looked up, and saw Sophy there, and she saw me.

  ‘That afternoon she was sent away - sent to visit her aunt ostensibly; in reality, because of the reports of my conduct, which were showered down upon the Vicar, and one of which he saw confirmed by his own eyes.

  CHAPTER XXIV

  ‘I heard of Sophy’s departure as one heard of everything, soon after it had taken place. I did not care for the awkwardness of my situation, which had so perplexed and amused me in the morning. I felt that something was wrong; that Sophy was taken away from me. I sank into despair. If anybody liked to marry me, they might. I was willing to be sacrificed. I did not speak to Mrs. Rose. She wondered at me, and grieved over my coldness, I saw; but I had left off feeling anything. Miss Tomkinson cut me in the street; and it did not break my heart. Sophy was gone away; that was all I cared for. Where had they sent her to? Who was her aunt that she should go and visit her? One day I met Lizzie, who looked as though she had been told not to speak to me; but I could not help doing so.

  ‘“Have your heard from your sister?” said I.

  ‘“Yes.”

  ‘“Where is she? I hope she is well.”

  ‘“She is at the Leoms” - I was not much wiser. “Oh, yes, she is very well. Fanny says she was at the Assembly last Wednesday, and danced all night with the officers.”

  ‘I thought I would enter myself a member of the Peace Society at once. She was a little flirt, and a hardhearted creature. I don’t think I wished Lizzie goodbye.

  CHAPTER XXV

  ‘What most people would have considered a more serious evil than Sophy’s absence, befell me. I found that my practice was falling off. The prejudice of the town ran strongly against me. Mrs. Munton told me all that was said. She heard it through Miss Horsman. It was said - cruel little town - that my negligence or ignorance had been the cause of Walter’s death; that Miss Tyrrell had become worse under my treatment; and that John Brouncker was all but dead, if he was not quite, from my mismanagement. All Jack Marshland’s jokes and revelations, which had, I thought, gone to oblivion, were raked up to my discredit. He himself, formerly, to my astonishment, rather a favourite with the good people of Duncombe, was spoken of as one of my disreputable friends.

  ‘In short, so prejudiced were the good people of Duncombe that I believe a very little would have made them suspect me of a brutal highway robbery, which took place in the neighbourhood about t
his time. Mrs. Munton told me, à propos of the robbery, that she had never yet understood the cause of my year’s imprisonment in Newgate; she had no doubt, from what Mr. Morgan had told her, there was some good reason for it; but if I would tell her the particulars, she should like to know them.

  ‘Miss Tomkinson sent for Mr. White, from Chesterton, to see Miss Caroline; and, as he was coming over, all our old patients seemed to take advantage of it, and send for him too.

  ‘But the worst of all was the Vicar’s manner to me. If he had cut me, I could have asked him why he did so. But the freezing change in his behaviour was indescribable, though bitterly felt. I heard of Sophy’s gaiety from Lizzie. I thought of writing to her. Just then Mr. Morgan’s fortnight of absence expired. I was wearied out by Mrs. Rose’s tender vagaries, and took no comfort from her sympathy, which indeed I rather avoided. Her tears irritated, instead of grieving me. I wished I could tell her at once that I had no intention of marrying her.

  CHAPTER XXVI

  ‘Mr. Morgan had not been at home above two hours before he was sent for to the vicarage. Sophy had come back, and I had never heard of it. She had come home ill and weary, and longing for rest: and the rest seemed approaching with awful strides. Mr. Morgan forgot all his Parisian adventures, and all his terror of Miss Tomkinson, when he was sent for to see her. She was ill of a fever, which made fearful progress. When he told me, I wished to force the vicarage door, if I might but see her. But I controlled myself, and only cursed my weak indecision, which had prevented my writing to her. It was well I had no patients: they would have had but a poor chance of attention. I hung about Mr. Morgan, who might see her, and did see her. But, from what he told me, I perceived that the measures he was adopting were powerless to check so sudden and violent an illness. Oh! if they would but let me see her! But that was out of the question. It was not merely that the Vicar had heard of my character as a gay Lothario, but that doubts had been thrown out of my medical skill. The accounts grew worse. Suddenly my resolution was taken. Mr. Morgan’s very regard for Sophy made him more thin usually timid in his practice. I had my horse saddled, and galloped to Chesterton. I took the express train to town. I went to Dr. -. I told him every particular of the case. He listened; but shook his head. He wrote down a prescription, and recommended a new preparation, not yet in full use - a preparation of a poison, in fact,

  ‘“It may save her,” said he. “It is a chance, in such a state of things as you describe. It must be given on the fifth day, if the pulse will bear it. Crabbe makes up the preparation most skilfully. Let me hear from you, I beg.”

  ‘I went to Crabbe’s; I begged to make it up myself; but my hands trembled, so that I could not weigh the quantities. I asked the young man to do it for me. I went, without touching food, to the station, with my medicine and my prescription in my pocket. Back we flew through the country. I sprang on Bay Maldon, which my groom had in waiting, and galloped across the country to Duncombe.

  ‘But I drew bridle when I came to the top of the hill - the hill above the old hall, from which we catch the first glimpse of the town, for I thought within myself that she might be dead; and I dreaded to come near certainty. The hawthorns were out in the woods, the young Jambs were in the meadows, the song of the thrushes filled the air; but it only made the thought the more terrible.

  ‘“What if, in this world of hope and life, she lies dead!” I heard the church bells soft and clear. I sickened to listen. Was it the passing bell? No! it was ringing eight o’clock. I put spurs to my horse, down hill as it was. We dashed into the town. I turned him, saddle and bridle, into the stable-yard, and went off to Mr. Morgan’s.

  ‘“Is she - “ said I. “How is she?”

  ‘“Very ill. My poor fellow, I see how it is with you. She may live - but I fear. My dear sir, I am very much afraid.”

  ‘I told, him of my journey and consultation with Dr. -, and showed him the prescription. His hands trembled as he put on his spectacles to read it.

  ‘“This is a very dangerous medicine, sir,” said he, with his finger under the name of the poison.

  ‘“It is a new preparation,” said I. “Dr. - relies much upon it.”

  ‘“I dare not administer it,” he replied. “I have never tried it. It must be very powerful. I dare not play tricks in this case.”

  ‘I believe I stamped with impatience; but it was all of no use. My journey had been in vain. The more I urged the imminent danger of the case requiring some powerful remedy, the more nervous he became.

  ‘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 b
rilliantly 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 it open, 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 everyone 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 misadventures.