The evening, as she anticipated, was indeed tedious. Mrs. Drakelow took upon herself "the whole expense of the conversation," talked of cheap shops and dear shops, and specified the prices that had been given for almost every article of dress that had been purchased by her daughters or herself during the last year. She told a long story of a piece of linen which her friend Mrs. Willett had bought for her husband, and which went to pieces before it was made up, splitting down in streaks during the process of stroking the gathers. She told the rent that was given by all her acquaintances that lived in rented houses, and the precise price paid by those that had purchased their dwellings. She described minutely the particulars of several long illnesses that had taken place among her relations and friends; and the exact number of persons that attended their funerals when they died, as on those occasions she said she made it a rule always to count the company. She mentioned several circumstances which proved to demonstration, that the weather was usually cold in winter and warm in summer; and she gave a circumstantial history of her four last cats, with suitable episodes of rats and mice.
The old lady's garrulity was so incessant, her tone so monotonous, and her narratives so totally devoid of either point or interest, that Miss Heathcote caught herself several times on the verge of falling asleep. She frequently stole anxious glances at the time-piece, and when it was nine o'clock she roused herself by the excitement of hoping every moment for the arrival of Albert.
At length she heard the agreeable sound of the door-bell, but it was only a shoemaker's boy that had brought home a pair of new shoes for Mrs. Drakelow, who tried them on, and talked about them for half an hour, telling various stories of tight shoes and loose shoes, long shoes and short shoes. Finally, Albert Heathcote made his welcome appearance, and Harriet joyfully prepared for her departure; though the old lady entreated her "to sit awhile longer, and not to take away her brother so soon."
"You cannot imagine," said Mrs. Drakelow, "how disappointed the girls will feel, at happening to be from home on this afternoon above all others. If they had had the most distant idea of a visit from you to-day, they would, I am sure, have either deferred their shopping, or made it as short as possible. But do not be discouraged, my dear Miss Harriet," continued the good old lady, "I hope you will very soon favour us with another sociable visit. I really do not know when I have passed so pleasant an evening. It has seemed to me not more than half an hour since tea."
About a fortnight afterwards, Miss Heathcote went to take tea, sociably, with her friend Mrs. Rushbrook, who had been married about eighteen months, and whom she had known intimately for many years. This time, she went quite late, and was glad to be informed that Mrs. Rushbrook was at home. She was shown into the parlour, where she waited till long after the lamp was lighted, in momentary expectation of the appearance of her friend, who had sent down word that she would be with her in a few minutes. Occasionally, whenever the nursery door was opened, Harriet heard violent screams of the baby.
At length Mrs. Rushbrook came down, apologized to Miss Heathcote for making her wait, and said that poor little George was very unwell, and had been fretful and feverish all day; and that he had just been got to sleep with much difficulty, having cried incessantly for more than an hour. Harriet now regretted having chosen this day for her visit (the baby being so much indisposed), and she offered to conclude it immediately, only requesting that the servant-man might see her home, as it had long been quite dark. But Mrs. Rushbrook would not listen to Harriet's proposal of going away so soon, and insisted on her staying to tea as she had intended; saying that she had no doubt the baby would be much better when he awoke. At her pressing instances, Miss Heathcote concluded to remain. In a short time Mr. Rushbrook came home, and his wife detailed to him all the particulars of the baby's illness. Harriet, who was accustomed to children, saw that in all probability the complaint would be attended with no serious consequences. But young married people are very naturally prone to take alarm at the slightest ailment of their first child: a feeling which no one should censure, however far it may be carried, as it originates in the best affections of the human heart.
Though Mr. and Mrs. Rushbrook tried to entertain their visitor, and to listen to her when she talked, Harriet could not but perceive that their minds were all the time with the infant up-stairs; and they frequently called each other out of the room to consult about him.
After tea, the baby awoke and renewed its screams, and Mr. Rushbrook determined to go himself for the doctor, who had already been brought thither three times that day. Finding that it was a physician who lived in her immediate neighbourhood, Harriet wisely concluded to shorten her unlucky visit by availing herself of Mr. Rushbrook's protection to her own door. Mrs. Rushbrook took leave of our heroine with much civility, but with very evident satisfaction, and said to her at parting, "To tell you the truth, my dear Harriet, if I had known that you designed me the pleasure of a visit this evening, I would have candidly requested you to defer it till another time, as poor little George has been unwell since early in the morning."
Harriet's next sociable visit was to the two Miss Brandons, who had always appeared to her as very charming girls, and remarkable for their affectionate manner towards each other. Being left in affluent circumstances at the decease of their father (the mother died while they were children), Letitia and Charlotte Brandon lived together in a very genteel establishment, under the protection of an unmarried brother, who was just now absent on business in the West. Harriet had always imagined them in possession of an unusual portion of happiness, for they were young, handsome, rich, at their own disposal, with no one to control them, and, as she supposed, nothing to trouble them. She did not know, or rather she did not believe (for she had heard some whispers of the fact), that in reality the Miss Brandons lived half their time at open war; both having tempers that were very irritable, and also very implacable, for it is not true that the more easily anger is excited, the sooner it subsides. It so happened, however, that Miss Heathcote had only seen these young ladies during their occasional fits of good-humour, when they were at peace with each other, and with all the world; and at such times no women could possibly be more amiable.
On the morning before Harriet Heathcote's visit, a violent quarrel had taken place between the two sisters, and therefore they were not on speaking terms, nor likely to be so in less than a fortnight; that being the period they generally required to smooth down their angry passions, before they could find it in their hearts to resume the usual routine of even common civility. There was this difference in the two ladies: Charlotte was the most passionate, Letitia the most rancorous.