The Cranford Chronicles Read online

  ‘“Talking to the younger lady was, no doubt, more Mr Harrison’s vocation than assisting the elder one.” I dare say it was only the manner that made the words seem offensive. Miss Horsman sat opposite me, smiling away. Miss Bullock did not speak, but seemed more depressed than ever. At length, Miss Horsman and Mrs Bullock got to a war of innuendoes, which were completely unintelligible to me; and I was very much displeased with my situation. While, at the bottom of the table, Mr Morgan and Mr Bullock were making the young ones laugh most heartily. Part of the joke was Mr Morgan insisting upon making tea at that end; and Sophy and Helen were busy contriving every possible mistake for him. I thought honour was a very good thing, but merriment a better. Here was I in the place of distinction, hearing nothing but cross words. At last the time came for us to go home. As the evening was damp, the seats in the chaises were the best and most to be desired. And now Sophy offered to go in the cart; only she seemed anxious, and so was I, that Walter should be secured from the effects of the white wreaths of fog rolling up from the valley; but the little violent affectionate fellow would not be separated from Sophy. She made a nest for him on her knee in one corner of the cart, and covered him with her own shawl; and I hoped that he would take no harm. Miss Tomkinson, Mr Bullock, and some of the young ones walked; but I seemed chained to the windows of the chaise, for Miss Caroline begged me not to leave her, as she was dreadfully afraid of robbers; and Mrs Bullock implored me to see that the man did not overturn them in the bad roads, as he had certainly had too much to drink.

  ‘I became so irritable before I reached home, that I thought it was the most disagreeable day of pleasure I had ever had, and could hardly bear to answer Mrs Rose’s never-ending questions. She told me, however, that from my account the day was so charming that she thought she should relax in the rigour of her seclusion, and mingle a little more in the society of which I gave so tempting a description. She really thought her dear Mr Rose would have wished it; and his will should be law to her after his death, as it had ever been during his life. In compliance, therefore, with his wishes, she would even do a little violence to her own feelings.

  ‘She was very good and kind; not merely attentive to everything which she thought could conduce to my comfort, but willing to take any trouble in providing the broths and nourishing food which I often found it convenient to order, under the name of kitchen-physic, for my poorer patients; and I really did not see the use of her shutting herself up, in mere compliance with an etiquette, when she began to wish to mix in the little quiet society of Duncombe. Accordingly I urged her to begin to visit, and even when applied to as to what I imagined the late Mr Rose’s wishes on that subject would have been, answered for that worthy gentleman, and assured his widow that I was convinced he would have regretted deeply her giving way to immoderate grief, and would have been rather grateful than otherwise at seeing her endeavour to divert her thoughts by a few quiet visits. She cheered up, and said, “as I really thought so, she would sacrifice her own inclinations, and accept the very next invitation that came.”

  Chapter VII

  ‘I WAS ROUSED from my sleep in the middle of the night by a messenger from the vicarage. Little Walter had got the croup, and Mr Morgan had been sent for into the country. I dressed myself hastily, and went through the quiet little street. There was a light burning upstairs at the vicarage. It was in the nursery. The servant, who opened the door the instant I knocked, was crying sadly, and could hardly answer my inquiries as I went upstairs, two steps at a time, to see my little favourite.

  ‘The nursery was a great large room. At the farther end it was lighted by a common candle, which left the other end, where the door was, in shade, so I suppose the nurse did not see me come in, for she was speaking very crossly.

  ‘“Miss Sophy!” said she, “I told you over and over again it was not fit for him to go, with the hoarseness that he had, and you would take him. It will break your papa’s heart, I know; but it’s none of my doing.”

  ‘Whatever Sophy felt, she did not speak in answer to this. She was on her knees by the warm bath, in which the little fellow was struggling to get his breath, with a look of terror on his face that I have often noticed in young children when smitten by a sudden and violent illness. It seems as if they recognised something infinite and invisible, at whose bidding the pain and the anguish come, from which no love can shield them. It is a very heart-rending look to observe, because it comes on the faces of those who are too young to receive comfort from the words of faith, or the promises of religion. Walter had his arms tight round Sophy’s neck, as if she, hitherto his paradise-angel, could save him from the dread shadow of Death. Yes! of Death! I knelt down by him on the other side, and examined him. The very robustness of his little frame gave violence to the disease, which is always one of the most fearful by which children of his age can be attacked.

  ‘“Don’t tremble, Watty,” said Sophy, in a soothing tone; “it’s Mr Harrison, darling, who let you ride on his horse.” I could detect the quivering in the voice, which she tried to make so calm and soft to quiet the little fellow’s fears. We took him out of the bath, and I went for the leeches. While I was away, Mr Morgan came. He loved the vicarage children as if he were their uncle; but he stood still and aghast at the sight of Walter – so lately bright and strong – and now hurrying along to the awful change – to the silent mysterious land, where, tended and cared for as he had been on earth, he must go – alone. The little fellow! the darling!

  ‘We applied the leeches to his throat. He resisted at first; but Sophy, God bless her! put the agony of her grief on one side, and thought only of him, and began to sing the little songs he loved. We were all still. The gardener had gone to fetch the Vicar; but he was twelve miles off, and we doubted if he would come in time. I don’t know if they had any hope; but the first moment Mr Morgan’s eyes met mine, I saw that he, like me, had none. The ticking of the house-clock sounded through the dark quiet house. Walter was sleeping now, with the black leeches yet hanging to his fair, white throat. Still Sophy went on singing little lullabies, which she had sung under far different and happier circumstances. I remember one verse, because it struck me at the time as strangely applicable.

  ‘“Sleep, baby, sleep!

  Thy rest shall angels keep;

  While on the grass the lamb shall feed,

  And never suffer want or need.

  Sleep, baby, sleep.”

  The tears were in Mr Morgan’s eyes. I do not think either he or I could have spoken in our natural tones; but the brave girl went on clear though low. She stopped at last, and looked up.

  ‘“He is better, is he not, Mr Morgan?”

  ‘“No, my dear. He is – ahem” – he could not speak all at once. Then he said – “My dear! he will be better soon. Think of your mamma, my dear Miss Sophy. She will be very thankful to have one of her darlings safe with her, where she is.”

  ‘Still she did not cry. But she bent her head down on the little face, and kissed it long and tenderly.

  ‘“I will go for Helen and Lizzie. They will be sorry not to see him again.” She rose up and went for them. Poor girls, they came in, in their dressing-gowns, with eyes dilated with sudden emotion, pale with terror, stealing softly along, as if sound could disturb him. Sophy comforted them by gentle caresses. It was over soon.

  ‘Mr Morgan was fairly crying like a child. But he thought it necessary to apologize to me, for what I honoured him for. “I am a little overdone by yesterday’s work, sir. I have had one or two bad nights, and they rather upset me. When I was your age I was as strong and manly as any one, and would have scorned to shed tears.”

  ‘Sophy came up to where we stood.

  ‘“Mr Morgan! I am so sorry for papa. How shall I tell him?” She was struggling against her own grief for her father’s sake. Mr Morgan offered to await his coming home; and she seemed thankful for the proposal. I, new friend, almost stranger, might stay no longer. The street was as quiet as ever; not a shadow was changed; for it was not yet four o’clock. But during the night a soul had departed.

  ‘From all I could see, and all I could learn, the Vicar and his daughter strove which should comfort the other the most. Each thought of the other’s grief – each prayed for the other rather than for themselves. We saw them walking out, countrywards; and we heard of them in the cottages of the poor. But it was some time before I happened to meet either of them again. And then I felt, from something indescribable in their manner towards me, that I was one of the

  ‘“Peculiar people, whom Death had made dear.”

  That one day at the old hall had done this. I was, perhaps, the last person who had given the little fellow any unusual pleasure. Poor Walter! I wish I could have done more to make his short life happy!

  Chapter VIII

  ‘THERE WAS A little lull, out of respect to the Vicar’s grief, in the visiting. It gave time to Mrs Rose to soften down the anguish of her weeds.

  ‘At Christmas, Miss Tomkinson sent out invitations for a party. Miss Caroline had once or twice apologized to me because such an event had not taken place before; but, as she said, “the avocations of their daily life prevented their having such little réunions except in the vacations.” And, sure enough, as soon as the holidays began, came the civil little note:

  ‘“The Misses Tomkinsons request the pleasure of Mrs Rose’s and Mr Harrison’s company at tea, on the evening of Monday, the 23rd inst. Tea at five o’clock.”

  ‘Mrs Rose’s spirit roused, like a war-horse at the sound of the trumpet, at this. She was not of a repining disposition, but I do think she believed the party-giving population of Duncombe had given up inviting her, as soon as she had determined to relent, and accept the invitations, in compliance with the late Mr Rose’s wishes.

  ‘Such snippings of white love-ribbon as I found everywhere, making the carpet untidy! One day, too, unluckily, a small box was brought to me by mistake. I did not look at the direction, for I never doubted it was some hyoscyamus which I was expecting from London; so I tore it open, and saw inside a piece of paper, with “No more grey hair,” in large letters, upon it. I folded it up in a hurry, and sealed it afresh, and gave it to Mrs Rose; but I could not refrain from asking her, soon after, if she could recommend me anything to keep my hair from turning grey, adding that I thought prevention was better than cure. I think she made out the impression of my seal on the paper after that; for I learned that she had been crying, and that she talked about there being no sympathy left in the world for her since Mr Rose’s death; and that she counted the days until she could rejoin him in the better world. I think she counted the days to Miss Tomkinson’s party, too; she talked so much about it.

  ‘The covers were taken off Miss Tomkinson’s chairs, and curtains, and sofas; and a great jar full of artificial flowers was placed in the centre of the table, which, as Miss Caroline told me, was all her doing, as she doated on the beautiful and artistic in life. Miss Tomkinson stood, erect as a grenadier, close to the door, receiving her friends, and heartily shaking them by the hand as they entered: she said she was truly glad to see them. And so she really was.

  ‘We had just finished tea, and Miss Caroline had brought out a little pack of conversation cards – sheaves of slips of cardboard, with intellectual or sentimental questions on one set; and equally intellectual and sentimental answers on the other; and as the answers were fit to any and all the questions, you may think they were a characterless and “wersh” set of things. I had just been asked by Miss Caroline –

  ‘“Can you tell what those dearest to you think of you at this present time?” and had answered –

  ‘“How can you expect me to reveal such a secret to the present company!” when the servant announced that a gentleman, a friend of mine, wished to speak to me downstairs.

  ‘“Oh, show him up, Martha; show him up!” said Miss Tomkinson, in her hospitality.

  ‘“Any friend of our friend is welcome,” said Miss Caroline, in an insinuating tone.

  ‘I jumped up, however, thinking it might be some one on business; but I was so penned in by the spider-legged tables, stuck out on every side, that I could not make the haste I wished; and before I could prevent it, Martha had shown up Jack Marshland, who was on his road home for a day or two at Christmas.

  ‘He came up in a hearty way, bowing to Miss Tomkinson, and explaining that he had found himself in my neighbourhood, and had come over to pass a night with me, and that my servant had directed him where I was.

  ‘His voice, loud at all times, sounded like Stentor’s, in that little room, where we all spoke in a kind of purring way. He had no swell in his tones; they were forte from the beginning. At first it seemed like the days of my youth come back again, to hear full manly speaking; I felt proud of my friend, as he thanked Miss Tomkinson for her kindness in asking him to stay the evening. By-and-by he came up to me, and I dare say he thought he had lowered his voice, for he looked as if speaking confidentially, while in fact the whole room might have heard him.

  ‘“Frank, my boy, when shall we have dinner at this good old lady’s? I’m deuced hungry.”

  ‘“Dinner! Why, we had had tea an hour ago.” While he yet spoke, Martha came in with a little tray, on which was a single cup of coffee and three slices of wafer bread-and-butter. His dismay, and his evident submission to the decrees of Fate, tickled me so much, that I thought he should have a further taste of the life I led from month’s end to month’s end, and I gave up my plan of taking him home at once, and enjoyed the anticipation of the hearty laugh we should have together at the end of the evening. I was famously punished for my determination.

  ‘“Shall we continue our game?” asked Miss Caroline, who had never relinquished her sheaf of questions.

  ‘We went on questioning and answering, with little gain of information to either party.

  ‘“No such thing as heavy betting in this game, eh Frank?” asked Jack, who had been watching us. “You don’t lose ten pounds at a sitting, I guess, as you used to do at Short’s. Playing for love, I suppose you call it?”

  ‘Miss Caroline simpered, and looked down. Jack was not thinking of her. He was thinking of the days we had had at the “Mermaid.” Suddenly he said, “Where were you this day last year, Frank?”

  ‘“I don’t remember!” said I.

  ‘“Then I’ll tell you. It’s the 23rd – the day you were taken up for knocking down the fellow in Long Acre, and that I had to bail you out ready for Christmas-day. You are in more agreeable quarters to-night.”

  ‘He did not intend this reminiscence to be heard, but was not in the least put out when Miss Tomkinson, with a face of dire surprise, asked –

  ‘“Mr Harrison taken up, sir?”

  ‘“Oh, yes, ma’am; and you see it was so common an affair with him to be locked up that he can’t remember the dates of his different imprisonments.”

  ‘He laughed heartily; and so should I, but that I saw the impression it made. The thing was, in fact, simple enough, and capable of easy explanation. I had been made angry by seeing a great hulking fellow, out of mere wantonness, break the crutch from under a cripple; and I struck the man more violently than I intended, and down he went, yelling out for the police, and I had to go before the magistrate to be released. I disdained giving this explanation at the time. It was no business of theirs what I had been doing over a year ago; but still Jack might have held his tongue. However, that unruly member of his was set a-going, and he told me afterwards he was resolved to let the old ladies into a little of life; and accordingly he remembered every practical joke we had ever had, and talked and laughed, and roared again. I tried to converse with Miss Caroline – Mrs Munton – any one; but Jack was the hero of the evening, and every one was listening to him.

  ‘“Then he has never sent any hoaxing letters since he came here, has he? Good boy! He has turned over a new leaf. He was the deepest dog at that I ever met with. Such anonymous letters as he used to send! Do you remember that to Mrs Walbrook, eh, Frank? That was too bad!” (the wretch was laughing all the time). “No; I won’t tell about it – don’t be afraid. Such a shameful hoax!” (laughing again).

  ‘“Pray do tell,” I called out; for he made it seem far worse than it was.

  ‘“Oh no, no; you’ve established a better character – I would not for the world nip your budding efforts. We’ll bury the past in oblivion.”

  ‘I tried to tell my neighbours the story to which he alluded; but they were attracted by the merriment of Jack’s manner, and did not care to hear the plain matter of fact.

  ‘Then came a pause; Jack was talking almost quietly to Miss Horsman. Suddenly he called across the room – “How many times have you been out with the hounds? The hedges were blind very late this year, but you must have had some good mild days since.”

  ‘“I have never been out,” said I, shortly.

  ‘“Never! – whew –! Why, I thought that was the great attraction to Duncombe.”

  ‘Now was not he provoking? He would condole with me, and fix the subject in the minds of every one present.

  ‘The supper trays were brought in, and there was a shuffling of situations. He and I were close together again.

  ‘“I say, Frank, what will you lay me that I don’t clear that tray before people are ready for their second helping? I’m as hungry as a hound.”

  ‘“You shall have a round of beef and a raw leg of mutton when you get home. Only do behave yourself here.”

  ‘“Well, for your sake; but keep me away from those trays, or I’ll not answer for myself. ‘Hould me, or I’ll fight,’ as the Irishman said. I’ll go and talk to that little old lady in blue, and sit with my back to those ghosts of eatables.”

  ‘He sat down by Miss Caroline, who would not have liked his description of her; and began an earnest, tolerably quiet conversation. I tried to be as agreeable as I could, to do away with the impression he had given of me; but I found that every one drew up a little stiffly at my approach, and did not encourage me to make any remarks.