Part 13

“He will have it, will he?” thought Mr. Gibson to himself; and he girded up his loins for the battle. He did not follow Molly and Miss Eyre into the drawing-room as he usually did. He remained where he was, pretending to read the newspaper, while Bethia, her face swelled up with crying, and with an aggrieved and offended aspect, removed the tea-things. Not five minutes after the room was cleared, came the expected tap at the door. “May I speak to you, sir?’ said the invisible Mr. Coxe, from outside.

“To be sure. Come in, Mr. Coxe. I was rather wanting to talk to you about that bill of Corbyn’s. Pray sit down.”

“It is about nothing of that kind, sir, that I wanted—that I wished—No, thank you—I would rather not sit down.” He, accordingly, stood in offended dignity. “It is about that letter, sir—that letter with the insulting prescription, sir.”

“Insulting prescription! I am surprised at such a word being applied to any prescription of mine—though, to be sure, patients are sometimes offended at being told the nature of their illnesses; and, I daresay, they may take offence at the medicines which their cases require.”

“I did not ask you to prescribe for me.”

“Oh, no! Then you are the Master Coxe who sent the note through Bethia! Let me tell you it has cost her her place, and was a very silly letter into the bargain.”

“It was not the conduct of a gentleman, sir, to intercept it, and to open it, and to read words never addressed to you, sir.”

“No!” said Mr. Gibson, with a slight twinkle in his eye and a curl on his lips, not unnoticed by the indignant Mr. Coxe. “I believe I was once considered tolerably good-looking, and I daresay I was as great a coxcomb as anyone at twenty; but I don’t think that even then I should quite have believed that all those pretty compliments were addressed to myself.”

“It was not the conduct of a gentleman, sir,” repeated Mr. Coxe, stammering over his words—he was going on to say something more, when Mr. Gibson broke in.

“And let me tell you, young man,” replied Mr. Gibson, with a sudden sternness in his voice, “that what you have done is only excusable in consideration of your youth and extreme ignorance of what are considered the laws of domestic honour. I receive you into my house as a member of the family—you induce one of my servants—corrupting her with a bribe, I have no doubt——”

“Indeed, sir! I never gave her a penny.”

“Then you ought to have done. You should always pay those who do your dirty work.”

“Just now, sir, you called it corrupting with a bribe,” muttered Mr. Coxe.

Mr. Gibson took no notice of this speech, but went on—“Inducing one of my servants to risk her place, without offering her the slightest equivalent, by begging her to convey a letter clandestinely to my daughter—a mere child.”

“Miss Gibson, sir, is nearly seventeen! I heard you say so only the other day,” said Mr. Coxe, aged twenty. Again Mr. Gibson ignored the remark.

“A letter which you were unwilling to have seen by her father, who had tacitly trusted to your honour, by receiving you as an inmate of this house. Your father’s son—I know Major Coxe well—ought to have come to me, and have said out openly, ‘Mr. Gibson, I love—or I fancy that I love—your daughter; I do not think it right to conceal this from you, although unable to earn a penny; and with no prospect of an unassisted livelihood, even for myself, for several years, I shall not say a word about my feelings—or fancied feelings—to the very young lady herself.’ That is what your father’s son ought to have said; if, indeed, a couple of grains of reticent silence would not have been better still.”

“And if I had said it, sir—perhaps I ought to have said it,” said Mr. Coxe, in a hurry of anxiety, “what would have been your answer? Would you have sanctioned my passion, sir?”

“I would have said, most probably—I will not be certain of my exact words in a supposititious case—that you were a young fool, but not a dishonourable young fool, and I should have told you not to let your thoughts run upon a calf-love until you had magnified it into a passion. And I daresay, to make up for the mortification I should have given you, I should have prescribed your joining the Hollingford Cricket Club, and set you at liberty as often as I could, on the Saturday afternoons. As it is, I must write to your father’s agent in London, and ask him to remove you out of my household, repaying the premium, of course, which will enable you to start afresh in some other doctor’s surgery.”

“It will so grieve my father,” said Mr. Coxe, startled into dismay, if not repentance.

“I see no other course open. It will give Major Coxe some trouble (I shall take care that he is at no extra expense), but what I think will grieve him the most is the betrayal of confidence; for I trusted you, Edward, like a son of my own!” There was something in Mr. Gibson’s voice when he spoke seriously, especially when he referred to any feeling of his own—he who so rarely betrayed what was passing in his heart—that was irresistible to most people: the change from joking and sarcasm to tender gravity.

Mr. Coxe hung his head a little, and meditated.

“I do love Miss Gibson,” said he, at length. “Who could help it?”

“Mr. Wynne, I hope!” said Mr. Gibson.

“His heart is pre-engaged,” replied Mr. Coxe. “Mine was free as air till I saw her.”

“Would it tend to cure your—well! passion, we’ll say—if she wore blue spectacles at meal-times? I observe you dwell much on the beauty of her eyes.”

“You are ridiculing my feelings, Mr. Gibson. Do you forget that you yourself were young once?”

“Poor Jeanie” rose before Mr. Gibson’s eyes; and he felt a little rebuked.

“Come, Mr. Coxe, let us see if we can’t make a bargain,” said he, after a minute or so of silence. “You have done a really wrong thing, and I hope you are convinced of it in your heart, or that you will be when the heat of this discussion is over, and you come to think a little about it. But I won’t lose all respect for your father’s son. If you will give me your word that, as long as you remain a member of my family—pupil, apprentice, what you will—you won’t again try to disclose your passion—you see I am careful to take your view of what I should call a mere fancy—by word or writing, looks or acts, in any manner whatever, to my daughter, or to talk about your feelings to anyone else, you shall remain here. If you cannot give me your word, I must follow out the course I named, and write to your father’s agent.”

Mr. Coxe stood irresolute.

“Mr. Wynne knows all I feel for Miss Gibson, sir. He and I have no secrets from each other.”

“Well, I suppose he must represent the reeds. You know the story of King Midas’s barber, who found out that his royal master had the ears of an ass beneath his hyacinthine curls. So the barber, in default of a Mr. Wynne, went to the reeds that grew on the shores of a neighbouring lake and whispered to them, ‘King Midas has the ears of an ass.’ But he repeated it so often that the reeds learnt the words, and kept on saying them all day long, till at last the secret was no secret at all. If you keep on telling your tale to Mr. Wynne, are you sure he won’t repeat it in his turn?”

“If I pledge my word as a gentleman, sir, I pledge it for Mr. Wynne as well.”

“I suppose I must run the risk. But remember how soon a young girl’s name may be breathed upon, and sullied. Molly has no mother, and for that very reason she ought to move among you all as unharmed as Una herself.”

“Mr. Gibson, if you wish it, I’ll swear it on the Bible,” cried the excitable young man.

“Nonsense. As if your word, if it’s worth anything, was not enough! We’ll shake hands upon it, if you like.”

Mr. Coxe came forward eagerly, and almost squeezed Mr. Gibson’s ring into his finger.

As he was leaving the room, he said, a little uneasily, “May I give Bethia a crown-piece?”

“No, indeed! Leave Bethia to me. I hope you won’t say another word to her while she is here. I shall see that she gets a respectable place when she goes away.”

Heart Trouble

From Mr. Harrison’s Confessions, _The Ladies’ Companion_, 1851

Miss Caroline always received me, and kept me talking in her washed-out style, after I had seen my patient. One day she told me she thought she had a weakness about the heart, and would be glad if I would bring my stethoscope the next time, which I accordingly did! and, while I was on my hands and knees listening to the pulsations, one of the young ladies came in. She said:

“Oh, dear! I never! I beg your pardon, ma’am,” and scuttled out. There was not much the matter with Miss Caroline’s heart: a little feeble in action or so, a mere matter of weakness and general languor. When I went down I saw two or three of the girls peeping out of the half-closed schoolroom door, but they shut it immediately, and I heard them laughing. The next time I called, Miss Tomkinson was sitting in state to receive me.

“Miss Tyrrell’s throat does not seem to make much progress. Do you understand the case, Mr. Harrison, or should we have further advice. I think Mr. Morgan would probably know more about it.”

I assured her it was the simplest thing in the world; that it always implied a little torpor in the constitution, and that we preferred working through the system, which of course was a slow process; and that the medicine the young lady was taking (iodide of iron) was sure to be successful, although the progress would not be rapid. She bent her head and said, “It might be so; but she confessed she had more confidence in medicines which had some effect.”

She seemed to expect me to tell her something; but I had nothing to say, and accordingly I bade good-bye. Somehow, Miss Tomkinson always managed to make me feel very small, by a succession of snubbings; and, whenever I left her I had always to comfort myself under her contradictions by saying to myself, “Her saying it is so, does not make it so.” Or I invented good retorts which I might have made to her brusque speeches, if I had but thought of them at the right time. But it was provoking that I had not had the presence of mind to recollect them just when they were wanted.

The Young Doctor’s Dilemma

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?”

I said nothing was farther from my thoughts.

“My dear sir,” said Mr. Morgan, rather agitated, “do not express yourself so strongly and vehemently. It is derogatory to the sex to speak so. It is more respectful to say, in these cases, that you do not venture to entertain a hope; such a manner is generally understood and does not sound like such positive objection.”

“I cannot help it, sir; I must talk in my own natural manner. I would not speak disrespectfully of any woman; but nothing should induce me to marry Miss Caroline Tomkinson; not if she were Venus herself, and Queen of England in the bargain. I cannot understand what has given rise to the idea.”

“Indeed, sir; I think that is very plain. You have a trifling case to attend to in the house, and you invariably make it a pretext for seeing and conversing with the lady.”

“That was her doing, not mine!” said I vehemently.

* * * * *

“But, my dear sir, I had no idea that you would carry it out to such consequences. ‘Philandering,’ Miss Tomkinson called it. That is a hard word, sir. My manner has been always tender and sympathetic, but I am not aware that I ever excited any hopes; there never was any report about me. I believe no lady was ever attached to me. You must strive after this happy medium, sir.”

I was still distressed. Mr. Morgan had only heard of one, but there were three ladies (including Miss Bullock) hoping to marry me. He saw my annoyance.

“Don’t be too much distressed about it, my dear sir; I was sure you were too honourable a man from the first. With a conscience like yours, I would defy the world.”

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 be comforted. I went at last. I rang 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 waking 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.

Family Prayer at Hope Farm

From _Cousin Phillis_, 1865

As soon as supper was done, the household assembled for prayer. It was a long impromptu evening prayer; and it would have seemed desultory enough had I not had a glimpse of the kind of day that preceded it, and so been able to find a clue to the thoughts that preceded the disjointed utterances; for he kept there kneeling down in the centre of a circle, his eyes shut, his outstretched hands pressed palm to palm—sometimes with a long pause of silence, as if waiting to see if there was anything else he wished to “lay before the Lord” (to use his own expression) before he concluded with the blessing. He prayed for the cattle and live creatures, rather to my surprise; for my attention had begun to wander, till it was recalled by the familiar words.