From Mr. Harrison’s Confessions, _The Ladies’ Companion_.
A few days after the sale, I was in the consulting-room. The servant must
have left the folding-doors a little ajar, I think. Mrs. Munton came to
call on Mrs. Rose; and the former being deaf, I heard all the speeches
of the latter lady, as she was obliged to speak very loud in order to be
heard. She began:
“This is a great pleasure, Mrs. Munton, so seldom as you are well enough
to go out.”
Mumble, mumble, mumble, through the door.
“Oh, very well, thank you. Take this seat, and then you can admire my new
work-table, ma’am; a present from Mr. Harrison.”
Mumble, mumble.
“Who could have told you, ma’am? Miss Horsman? Oh, yes, I showed it Miss
Horsman.”
Mumble, mumble.
“I don’t quite understand you, ma’am.”
Mumble, mumble.
“I’m not blushing, I believe, I really am quite in the dark as to what
you mean.”
Mumble, mumble.
“Oh, yes, Mr. Harrison and I are most comfortable together. He reminds me
so of my dear Mr. Rose—just as fidgety and anxious in his profession.”
Mumble, mumble.
“I’m sure you are joking now, ma’am.” Then I heard a pretty loud:
“Oh, no;” mumble, mumble, mumble, for a long time.
“Did he really? Well, I’m sure I don’t know, I should be sorry to think
he was doomed to be unfortunate in so serious an affair; but you know my
undying regard for the late Mr. Rose.”
Another long mumble.
“You’re very kind, I’m sure. Mr. Rose always thought more of my happiness
than his own”—a little crying—“but the turtle-dove has always been my
ideal, ma’am.”
Mumble, mumble.
“No one could have been happier than I. As you say, it is a compliment to
matrimony.”
Mumble.
“Oh, you must not repeat such a thing! Mr. Harrison would not like it. He
can’t bear to have his affairs spoken about.”
Then there was a change of subject; an inquiry after some poor person, I
imagine. I heard Mrs. Rose say:
“She has got a mucous membrane, I’m afraid, ma’am.”
A commiserating mumble.
“Not always fatal. I believe Mr. Rose knew some cases that lived for
years after it was discovered that they had a mucous membrane.” A pause.
Then Mrs. Rose spoke in a different tone.
“Are you sure, ma’am, there is no mistake about what he said?”
Mumble.
“Pray don’t be so observant, Mrs. Munton; you find out too much. One can
have no little secrets.”
The call broke up; and I heard Mrs. Munton say in the passage, “I wish
you joy, ma’am, with all my heart. There’s no use denying it; for I’ve
seen all along what would happen.”
When I went in to dinner, I said to Mrs. Rose:
“You’ve had Mrs. Munton here, I think. Did she bring any news?” To my
surprise, she bridled and simpered, and replied, “Oh, you must not ask,
Mr. Harrison; such foolish reports!”
I did not ask, as she seemed to wish me not, and I knew there were silly
reports always about. Then I think she was vexed that I did not ask.
Altogether she went on so strangely that I could not help looking at her;
and then she took up a hand-screen, and held it between me and her. I
really felt rather anxious.
“Are you not feeling well?” said I innocently.
“Oh, thank you, I believe I’m quite well; only the room is rather warm,
is it not?”
“Let me put the blinds down for you? The sun begins to have a good deal
of power.” I drew down the blinds.
“You are so attentive, Mr. Harrison. Mr. Rose himself never did more for
my little wishes than you do.”
“I wish I could do more—I wish I could show you how much I feel”—her
kindness to John Brouncker, I was going to say; but I was just then
called out to a patient. Before I went I turned back, and said:
“Take care of yourself, my dear Mrs. Rose; you had better rest a little.”
“For your sake I will,” she said tenderly.
I did not care for whose sake she did it. Only I really thought she was
not quite well, and required rest. I thought she was more affected than
usual at tea-time; and could have been angry with her nonsensical ways
once or twice, but that I knew the real goodness of her heart. She said
she wished she had the power to sweeten my life as she could my tea. I
told her what a comfort she had been during my late time of anxiety;
and then I stole out to try if I could hear the evening singing at the
vicarage, by standing close to the garden wall.
* * * * *
“Oh, Mr. Harrison,” said she, “if you have really loved Caroline, do not
let a little paltry money make you desert her for another.”
I was struck dumb. Loved Miss Caroline! I loved Miss Tomkinson a great
deal better, and yet I disliked her. She went on:
“I have saved nearly three thousand pounds. If you think you are too poor
to marry without money, I will give it all to Caroline. I am strong, and
can go on working; but she is weak, and this disappointment will kill
her.” She sat down suddenly, and covered her face with her hands. Then
she looked up.
“You are unwilling, I see. Don’t suppose I would have urged you if it
had been for myself; but she has had so much sorrow.” And now she fairly
cried aloud. I tried to explain; but she would not listen, but kept
saying, “Leave the house, sir! leave the house!” But I would be heard.
“I have never had any feeling warmer than respect for Miss Caroline, and
I have never shown any different feeling. I never for an instant thought
of making her my wife, and she has had no cause in my behaviour to
imagine I entertained any such intention.”
“This is adding insult to injury,” said she. “Leave the house, sir, this
instant!”
* * * * *
I went, and sadly enough. In a small town such an occurrence is sure to
be talked about, and to make a great deal of mischief. When I went home
to dinner I was so full of it, and foresaw so clearly that I should need
some advocate soon to set the case in its right light, that I determined
on making a confidante of good Mrs. Rose. I could not eat. She watched me
tenderly, and sighed when she saw my want of appetite.
“I am sure you have something on your mind, Mr. Harrison. Would it
be—would it not be—a relief to impart it to some sympathising friend?”
It was just what I wanted to do.
“My dear kind Mrs. Rose,” said I, “I must tell you, if you will listen.”
She took up the hand-screen, and held it, as yesterday between me and her.
“The most unfortunate misunderstanding has taken place. Miss Tomkinson
thinks that I have been paying attentions to Miss Caroline; when, in
fact—may I tell you, Mrs. Rose?—my affections are placed elsewhere.
Perhaps you have found it out already?” for indeed I thought I had been
too much in love to conceal my attachment to Sophy from anyone who knew
my movements as well as Mrs. Rose.
She hung down her head, and said she believed she had found out my secret.
“Then only think how miserably I am situated. If I have any hope—oh, Mrs.
Rose, do you think I have any hope—?”
She put the hand-screen still more before her face, and after some
hesitation she said she thought “If I persevered—in time—I might have
hope.” And then she suddenly got up, and left the room.
* * * * *
That afternoon I met Mr. Bullock in the street. My mind was so full of
the affair with Miss Tomkinson that I should have passed him without
notice, if he had not stopped me short, and said that he must speak to
me; about my wonderful five hundred pounds, I supposed. But I did not
care for that now.
“What is this I hear,” he said severely, “about your engagement with Mrs.
Rose?”
“With Mrs. Rose!” said I, almost laughing, although my heart was heavy
enough.
“Yes! with Mrs. Rose!” said he sternly.
“I’m not engaged to Mrs. Rose,” I replied. “There is some mistake.”
“I’m glad to hear it, sir,” he answered, “very glad. It requires
some explanation, however. Mrs. Rose has been congratulated, and has
acknowledged the truth of the report. It is confirmed by many facts. The
work-table you bought, confessing your intention of giving it to your
future wife, is given to her. How do you account for these things, sir?”
I said I did not pretend to account for them. At present a good deal was
inexplicable; and, when I could give an explanation, I did not think I
should feel myself called upon to give it to him.…
He looked as if he would like to horsewhip me.
* * * * *
“Once for all, I am not engaged to anybody. Till you have seen your
daughter, and learnt the truth from her, I will wish you farewell.”
I bowed in a stiff, haughty manner and walked off homewards. But when I
got to my own door, I remembered Mrs. Rose, and all that Mr. Bullock had
said about her acknowledging the truth of the report of my engagement
to her. Where could I go to be safe? Mrs. Rose, Miss Bullock, Miss
Caroline—they lived, as it were, at the three points of an equilateral
triangle; here was I in the centre. I would go to Mr. Morgan’s, and drink
tea with him. There, at any rate, I was secure from anyone wanting to
marry me; and I might be as professionally bland as I liked, without
being misunderstood. But there, too, a contretemps awaited me.
Mr. Morgan was looking grave. After a minute or two of humming and
hawing, he said:
“I have been sent for to Miss Caroline Tomkinson. Mr. Harrison, I am
sorry to hear of this. I am grieved to find that there seems to have been
some trifling with the affections of a very worthy lady. Miss Tomkinson,
who is in sad distress, tells me that they had every reason to believe
that you were attached to her sister. May I ask if you do not intend to
marry her?”