From _Cranford_.
But when she was gone, Miss Pole began a long congratulation to Miss
Matty that so far they had escaped marriage, which she noticed always
made people credulous to the last degree; indeed, she thought it argued
great natural credulity in a woman if she could not keep herself from
being married; and in what Lady Glenmire had said about Mr. Hoggins’s
robbery, we had a specimen of what people came to, if they gave way to
such a weakness; evidently, Lady Glenmire would swallow anything, if
she could believe the poor vamped-up story about a neck of mutton and
a pussy, with which he had tried to impose on Miss Pole, only she had
always been on her guard against believing too much of what men said.
We were thankful, as Miss Pole desired us to be, that we had never been
married; but I think, of the two, we were even more thankful that the
robbers had left Cranford; at least I judge so from a speech of Miss
Matty’s that evening, as we sat over the fire, in which she evidently
looked upon a husband as a great protector against thieves, burglars,
and ghosts; and said, that she did not think that she should dare to
be always warning young people against matrimony, as Miss Pole did
continually;—to be sure, marriage was a risk, as she saw now she had had
some experience; but she remembered the time when she had looked forward
to being married as much as anyone.
“Not to any particular person, my dear,” said she, hastily checking
herself up as if she were afraid of having admitted too much; “only
the old story, you know, of ladies always saying, ‘_When_ I marry,’ and
gentlemen, ‘_If_ I marry.’” It was a joke spoken in rather a sad tone,
and I doubt if either of us smiled; but I could not see Miss Matty’s face
by the flickering firelight. In a little while she continued:
“But after all I have not told you the truth. It is so long ago, and no
one ever knew how much I thought of it at the time, unless, indeed, my
dear mother guessed; but I may say that there was a time when I did not
think I should have been only Miss Matty Jenkyns all my life; for even
if I did meet anyone who wished to marry me now (and, as Miss Pole says,
one is never too safe), I could not take him—I hope he would not take it
too much to heart, but I could _not_ take him—or any one but the person
I once thought I should be married to, and he is dead and gone, and he
never knew how it all came about that I said ‘No,’ when I had thought
many and many a time——Well, it’s no matter what I thought. God ordains it
all, and I am very happy, my dear. No one has such kind friends as I,”
continued she, taking my hand and holding it in hers.
If I had never known of Mr. Holbrook, I could have said something in this
pause, but as I had, I could not think of anything that would come in
naturally, and so we both kept silence for a little time.
“My father once made us,” she began, “keep a diary, in two columns; on
one side we were to put down in the morning what we thought would be the
course and events of the coming day, and at night we were to put down
on the other side what really had happened. It would be to some people
rather a sad way of telling their lives”—(a tear dropped upon my hand at
these words)—“I don’t mean that mine has been sad, only so very different
to what I expected. I remember, one winter’s evening, sitting over our
bedroom fire with Deborah—I remember it as if it were yesterday—and we
were planning our future lives—both of us were planning, though only she
talked about it. She said she should like to marry an archdeacon, and
write his charges; and you know, my dear, she never was married, and, for
aught I know, she never spoke to an unmarried archdeacon in her life. I
never was ambitious, nor could I have written charges, but I thought I
could manage a house (my mother used to call me her right hand), and I
was always so fond of little children—the shyest babies would stretch out
their little arms to come to me; when I was a girl, I was half my leisure
time nursing in the neighbouring cottages—but I don’t know how it was,
when I grew sad and grave—which I did a year or two after this time—the
little things drew back from me, and I am afraid I lost the knack, though
I am just as fond of children as ever, and have a strange yearning at my
heart whenever I see a mother with a baby in her arms. Nay, my dear”—(and
by a sudden blaze which sprang up from a fall of the unstirred coals,
I saw that her eyes were full of tears—gazing intently on some vision
of what might have been)—“do you know, I dream sometimes that I have a
little child—always the same—a little girl of about two years old; she
never grows older, though I have dreamt about her for many years. I don’t
think I ever dream of any words or sound she makes; she is very noiseless
and still, but she comes to me when she is very sorry or very glad, and I
have wakened with the clasp of her dear little arms round my neck. Only
last night—perhaps because I had gone to sleep thinking of this ball for
Phoebe—my little darling came in my dream, and put up her mouth to be
kissed, just as I have seen real babies do to real mothers before going
to bed. But all this is nonsense, dear! only don’t be frightened by Miss
Pole from being married. I can fancy it may be a very happy state, and
a little credulity helps one on through life very smoothly—better than
always doubting and doubting, and seeing difficulties and disagreeables
in everything.”