breakfast-table that Tuesday morning. Mine was from my father. Miss
Matty’s was printed. My father’s was just a man’s letter; I mean it was
very dull, and gave no information beyond that he was well, that they
had had a good deal of rain, that trade was very stagnant, and there
were many disagreeable rumours afloat. He then asked me if I knew
whether Miss Matty still retained her shares in the Town and County
Bank, as there were very unpleasant reports about it; though nothing
more than he had always foreseen, and had prophesied to Miss Jenkyns
years ago, when she would invest their little property in it—the only
unwise step that clever woman had ever taken, to his knowledge (the only
time she ever acted against his advice, I knew). However, if anything
had gone wrong, of course I was not to think of leaving Miss Matty while
I could be of any use, etc.
‘Who is your letter from, my dear? Mine is a very civil invitation,
signed “Edwin Wilson,” asking me to attend an important meeting of the
shareholders of the Town and County Bank, to be held in Drumble, on
Thursday the twenty-first. I am sure, it is very attentive of them to
remember me.’
I did not like to hear of this ‘important meeting,’ for, though I did
not know much about business, I feared it confirmed what my father said:
however, I thought, ill news always came fast enough, so I resolved to
say nothing about my alarm, and merely told her that my father was well,
and sent his kind regards to her. She kept turning over and admiring her
letter. At last she spoke—
‘I remember their sending one to Deborah just like this; but that I did
not wonder at, for everybody knew she was so clear-headed. I am afraid I
could not help them much; indeed, if they came to accounts, I should be
quite in the way, for I never could do sums in my head. Deborah, I know,
rather wished to go, and went so far as to order a new bonnet for the
occasion; but when the time came she had a bad cold; so they sent her a
very polite account of what they had done. Chosen a director, I think it
was. Do you think they want me to help them to choose a director? I am
sure I should choose your father at once.’
‘My father has no shares in the bank,’ said I.
‘Oh no! I remember. He objected very much to Deborah’s buying any, I
believe. But she was quite the woman of business, and always judged for
herself; and here, you see, they have paid eight per cent all these
years.’
It was a very uncomfortable subject to me, with my half-knowledge; so I
thought I would change the conversation, and I asked at what time she
thought we had better go and see the fashions. ‘Well, my dear,’ she
said, ‘the thing is this: it is not etiquette to go till after twelve;
but then, you see, all Cranford will be there, and one does not like to
be too curious about dress and trimmings and caps with all the world
looking on. It is never genteel to be over-curious on these occasions.
Deborah had the knack of always looking as if the latest fashion was
nothing new to her; a manner she had caught from Lady Arley, who did see
all the new modes in London, you know. So I thought we would just slip
down this morning, soon after breakfast—for I do want half a pound of
tea—and then we could go up and examine the things at our leisure, and
see exactly how my new silk gown must be made; and then, after twelve,
we could go with our minds disengaged, and free from thoughts of dress.’
We began to talk of Miss Matty’s new silk gown. I discovered that it
would be really the first time in her life that she had had to choose
anything of consequence for herself: for Miss Jenkyns had always been
the more decided character, whatever her taste might have been; and it
is astonishing how such people carry the world before them by the mere
force of will. Miss Matty anticipated the sight of the glossy folds with
as much delight as if the five sovereigns, set apart for the purchase,
could buy all the silks in the shop; and (remembering my own loss of two
hours in a toy-shop before I could tell on what wonder to spend a silver
threepence) I was very glad that we were going early, that dear Miss
Matty might have leisure for the delights of perplexity.
If a happy sea-green could be met with, the gown was to be sea-green: if
not, she inclined to maize, and I to silver gray; and we discussed the
requisite number of breadths until we arrived at the shop-door. We were
to buy the tea, select the silk, and then clamber up the iron corkscrew
stairs that led into what was once a loft, though now a fashion
show-room.
[Illustration: ‘_Over the counter._’]
The young men at Mr. Johnson’s had on their best looks, and their best
cravats, and pivoted themselves over the counter with surprising
activity. They wanted to show us upstairs at once; but on the principle
of business first and pleasure afterwards, we stayed to purchase the
tea. Here Miss Matty’s absence of mind betrayed itself. If she was made
aware that she had been drinking green tea at any time, she always
thought it her duty to lie awake half through the night afterward (I
have known her take it in ignorance many a time without such effects),
and consequently green tea was prohibited the house; yet to-day she
herself asked for the obnoxious article, under the impression that she
was talking about the silk. However, the mistake was soon rectified; and
then the silks were unrolled in good truth. By this time the shop was
pretty well filled, for it was Cranford market-day, and many of the
farmers and country people from the neighbourhood round came in,
sleeking down their hair, and glancing shyly about, from under their
eyelids, as anxious to take back some notion of the unusual gaiety to
the mistress or the lasses at home, and yet feeling that they were out
of place among the smart shopmen and gay shawls and summer prints. One
honest-looking man, however, made his way up to the counter at which we
stood, and boldly asked to look at a shawl or two. The other country
folk confined themselves to the grocery side; but our neighbour was
evidently too full of some kind intention towards mistress, wife, or
daughter, to be shy; and it soon became a question with me, whether he
or Miss Matty would keep their shopman the longest time. He thought each
shawl more beautiful than the last; and, as for Miss Matty, she smiled
and sighed over each fresh bale that was brought out; one colour set off
another, and the heap together would, as she said, make even the rainbow
look poor.
[Illustration: ‘_The country people came in._’]
‘I am afraid,’ said she, hesitating, ‘whichever I choose I shall wish I
had taken another. Look at this lovely crimson! it would be so warm in
winter. But spring is coming on, you know. I wish I could have a gown
for every season,’ said she, dropping her voice—as we all did in
Cranford whenever we talked of anything we wished for but could not
afford. ‘However,’ she continued, in a louder and more cheerful tone,
‘it would give me a great deal of trouble to take care of them if I had
them; so, I think, I’ll only take one. But which must it be, my dear?’
[Illustration: ‘_Our neighbour._’]
And now she hovered over a lilac with yellow spots, while I pulled out a
quiet sage-green that had faded into insignificance under the more
brilliant colours, but which was nevertheless a good silk in its humble
way. Our attention was called off to our neighbour. He had chosen a
shawl of about thirty shillings’ value; and his face looked broadly
happy, under the anticipation, no doubt, of the pleasant surprise he
should give to some Molly or Jenny at home; he had tugged a leathern
purse out of his breeches-pocket, and had offered a five-pound note in
payment for the shawl, and for some parcels which had been brought round
to him from the grocery counter; and it was just at this point that he
attracted our notice. The shopman was examining the note with a puzzled,
doubtful air.
‘Town and County Bank! I am not sure, sir, but I believe we have
received a warning against notes issued by this bank only this morning.
I will just step and ask Mr. Johnson, sir; but I’m afraid I must trouble
you for payment in cash, or in a note of a different bank.’
I never saw a man’s countenance fall so suddenly into dismay and
bewilderment. It was almost piteous to see the rapid change.
‘Dang it!’ said he, striking his fist down on the table, as if to try
which was the harder, ‘the chap talks as if notes and gold were to be
had for the picking up.’
[Illustration: ‘_“Dang it!” said he._’]
Miss Matty had forgotten her silk gown in her interest for the man. I
don’t think she had caught the name of the bank, and in my nervous
cowardice I was anxious that she should not; and so I began admiring the
yellow-spotted lilac gown that I had been utterly condemning only a
minute before. But it was of no use.
‘What bank was it? I mean, what bank did your note belong to?’
‘Town and County Bank.’
‘Let me see it,’ said she quietly to the shopman, gently taking it out
of his hand, as he brought it back to return it to the farmer.
Mr. Johnson was very sorry, but, from information he had received, the
notes issued by that bank were little better than waste paper.
‘I don’t understand it,’ said Miss Matty to me in a low voice. ‘That is
our bank, is it not?—the Town and County Bank?’
‘Yes,’ said I. ‘This lilac silk will just match the ribbons in your new
cap, I believe,’ I continued, holding up the folds so as to catch the
light, and wishing that the man would make haste and be gone, and yet
having a new wonder, that had only just sprung up, how far it was wise
or right in me to allow Miss Matty to make this expensive purchase if
the affairs of the bank were really so bad as the refusal of the note
implied.
But Miss Matty put on the soft dignified manner peculiar to her, rarely
used, and yet which became her so well, and laying her hand gently on
mine, she said—
‘Never mind the silks for a few minutes, dear. I don’t understand you,
sir,’ turning now to the shopman, who had been attending to the farmer.
‘Is this a forged note?’
‘Oh no, ma’am. It is a true note of its kind; but you see, ma’am, it is
a joint-stock bank, and there are reports out that it is likely to
break. Mr. Johnson is only doing his duty, ma’am, as I am sure Mr.
Dobson knows.’
But Mr. Dobson could not respond to the appealing bow by any answering
smile. He was turning the note absently over in his fingers, looking
gloomily enough at the parcel containing the lately-chosen shawl.
‘It’s hard upon a poor man,’ said he, ‘as earns every farthing with the
sweat of his brow. However, there’s no help for it. You must take back
your shawl, my man; Lizzie must do on with her cloak for a while. And
yon figs for the little ones—I promised them to ’em—I’ll take them; but
the ’bacco, and the other things——’
‘I will give you five sovereigns for your note, my good man,’ said Miss
Matty. ‘I think there is some great mistake about it, for I am one of
the shareholders, and I’m sure they would have told me if things had not
been going on right.’
The shopman whispered a word or two across the table to Miss Matty. She
looked at him with a dubious air.
‘Perhaps so,’ said she. ‘But I don’t pretend to understand business; I
only know that if it is going to fail, and if honest people are to lose
their money because they have taken our notes—I can’t explain myself,’
said she, suddenly becoming aware that she had got into a long sentence
with four people for audience; ‘only I would rather exchange my gold for
the note, if you please,’ turning to the farmer, ‘and then you can take
your wife the shawl. It is only going without my gown a few days
longer,’ she continued, speaking to me. ‘Then, I have no doubt,
everything will be cleared up.’
‘But if it is cleared up the wrong way?’ said I.
‘Why, then it will only have been common honesty in me, as a
shareholder, to have given this good man the money. I am quite clear
about it in my own mind; but, you know, I can never speak quite as
comprehensively as others can; only you must give me your note, Mr.
Dobson, if you please, and go on with your purchases with these
sovereigns.’
[Illustration: ‘_He hung back._’]
The man looked at her with silent gratitude—too awkward to put his
thanks into words; but he hung back for a minute or two, fumbling with
his note.
‘I’m loth to make another one lose instead of me, if it is a loss; but,
you see, five pounds is a deal of money to a man with a family; and, as
you say, ten to one in a day or two the note will be as good as gold
again.’
‘No hope of that, my friend,’ said the shopman.
‘The more reason why I should take it,’ said Miss Matty quietly. She
pushed her sovereigns towards the man, who slowly laid his note down in
exchange. ‘Thank you. I will wait a day or two before I purchase any of
these silks; perhaps you will then have a greater choice. My dear, will
you come upstairs?’
We inspected the fashions with as minute and curious an interest as if
the gown to be made after them had been bought. I could not see that the
little event in the shop below had in the least damped Miss Matty’s
curiosity as to the make of sleeves or the sit of skirts. She once or
twice exchanged congratulations with me on our private and leisurely
view of the bonnets and shawls; but I was, all the time, not so sure
that our examination was so utterly private, for I caught glimpses of a
figure dodging behind the cloaks and mantles; and, by a dexterous move,
I came face to face with Miss Pole, also in morning costume (the
principal feature of which was her being without teeth, and wearing a
veil to conceal the deficiency), come on the same errand as ourselves.
But she quickly took her departure, because, as she said, she had a bad
headache, and did not feel herself up to conversation.
[Illustration: ‘_The civil Mr. Johnson._’]
As we came down through the shop, the civil Mr. Johnson was awaiting us;
he had been informed of the exchange of the note for gold, and with much
good feeling and real kindness, but with a little want of tact, he
wished to condole with Miss Matty, and impress upon her the true state
of the case. I could only hope that he had heard an exaggerated rumour,
for he said that her shares were worse than nothing, and that the bank
could not pay a shilling in the pound. I was glad that Miss Matty seemed
still a little incredulous; but I could not tell how much of this was
real or assumed, with that self-control which seemed habitual to ladies
of Miss Matty’s standing in Cranford, who would have thought their
dignity compromised by the slightest expression of surprise, dismay, or
any similar feeling to an inferior in station, or in a public shop.
However, we walked home very silently. I am ashamed to say, I believe I
was rather vexed and annoyed at Miss Matty’s conduct in taking the note
to herself so decidedly. I had so set my heart upon her having a new
silk gown, which she wanted sadly; in general she was so undecided
anybody might turn her round; in this case I had felt that it was no use
attempting it, but I was not the less put out at the result.
Somehow, after twelve o’clock, we both acknowledged to a sated curiosity
about the fashions, and to a certain fatigue of body (which was, in
fact, depression of mind) that indisposed us to go out again. But still
we never spoke of the note; till, all at once, something possessed me to
ask Miss Matty if she would think it her duty to offer sovereigns for
all the notes of the Town and County Bank she met with? I could have
bitten my tongue out the minute I had said it. She looked up rather
sadly, and as if I had thrown a new perplexity into her already
distressed mind; and for a minute or two she did not speak. Then she
said—my own dear Miss Matty—without a shade of reproach in her voice—
‘My dear, I never feel as if my mind was what people call very strong;
and it’s often hard enough work for me to settle what I ought to do with
the case right before me. I was very thankful to—I was very thankful,
that I saw my duty this morning, with the poor man standing by me; but
it’s rather a strain upon me to keep thinking and thinking what I should
do if such and such a thing happened; and, I believe, I had rather wait
and see what really does come; and I don’t doubt I shall be helped then,
if I don’t fidget myself, and get too anxious beforehand. You know,
love, I’m not like Deborah. If Deborah had lived, I’ve no doubt she
would have seen after them, before they had got themselves into this
state.’
[Illustration: ‘_The account-books._’]
We had neither of us much appetite for dinner, though we tried to talk
cheerfully about indifferent things. When we returned into the
drawing-room, Miss Matty unlocked her desk and began to look over her
account-books. I was so penitent for what I had said in the morning,
that I did not choose to take upon myself the presumption to suppose
that I could assist her; I rather left her alone, as, with puzzled brow,
her eye followed her pen up and down the ruled page. By and by she shut
the book, locked her desk, and came and drew a chair to mine, where I
sat in moody sorrow over the fire. I stole my hand into hers; she
clasped it, but did not speak a word. At last she said, with forced
composure in her voice, ‘If that bank goes wrong, I shall lose one
hundred and forty-nine pounds thirteen shillings and fourpence a year; I
shall only have thirteen pounds a year left.’ I squeezed her hand hard
and tight. I did not know what to say. Presently (it was too dark to see
her face) I felt her fingers work convulsively in my grasp; and I knew
she was going to speak again. I heard the sobs in her voice as she said,
‘I hope it’s not wrong—not wicked—but, oh! I am so glad poor Deborah is
spared this. She could not have borne to come down in the world—she had
such a noble, lofty spirit.’
This was all she said about the sister who had insisted upon investing
their little property in that unlucky bank. We were later in lighting
the candle than usual that night, and until that light shamed us into
speaking, we sat together very silently and sadly.
However, we took to our work after tea with a kind of forced
cheerfulness (which soon became real as far as it went), talking of that
never-ending wonder, Lady Glenmire’s engagement. Miss Matty was almost
coming round to think it a good thing.
‘I don’t mean to deny that men are troublesome in a house. I don’t judge
from my own experience, for my father was neatness itself, and wiped his
shoes on coming in as carefully as any woman; but still a man has a sort
of knowledge of what should be done in difficulties, that it is very
pleasant to have one at hand ready to lean upon. Now, Lady Glenmire,
instead of being tossed about, and wondering where she is to settle,
will be certain of a home among pleasant and kind people, such as our
good Miss Pole and Mrs. Forrester. And Mr. Hoggins is really a very
personable man; and as for his manners, why, if they are not very
polished, I have known people with very good hearts, and very clever
minds too, who were not what some people reckoned refined, but who were
both true and tender.’
She fell off into a soft reverie about Mr. Holbrook, and I did not
interrupt her, I was so busy maturing a plan I had had in my mind for
some days, but which this threatened failure of the bank had brought to
a crisis. That night, after Miss Matty went to bed, I treacherously
lighted the candle again, and sat down in the drawing-room to compose a
letter to the Aga Jenkyns, a letter which should affect him if he were
Peter, and yet seem a mere statement of dry facts if he were a stranger.
The church clock pealed out two before I had done.
The next morning news came, both official and otherwise, that the Town
and County Bank had stopped payment. Miss Matty was ruined.
She tried to speak quietly to me; but when she came to the actual fact
that she would have but about five shillings a week to live upon, she
could not restrain a few tears.
‘I am not crying for myself, dear,’ said she, wiping them away; ‘I
believe I am crying for the very silly thought of how my mother would
grieve if she could know; she always cared for us so much more than for
herself. But many a poor person has less, and I am not very extravagant,
and, thank God, when the neck of mutton, and Martha’s wages, and the
rent are paid, I have not a farthing owing. Poor Martha! I think she’ll
be sorry to leave me.’
Miss Matty smiled at me through her tears, and she would fain have had
me see only the smile, not the tears.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter 14
Friends in Need
[Illustration: Chapter 14: Friends in Need]
It was an example to me, and I fancy it might be to many others, to see
how immediately Miss Matty set about the retrenchment which she knew to
be right under her altered circumstances. While she went down to speak
to Martha, and break the intelligence to her, I stole out with my letter
to the Aga Jenkyns, and went to the signor’s lodgings to obtain the
exact address. I bound the signora to secrecy; and indeed her military
manners had a degree of shortness and reserve in them which made her
always say as little as possible, except when under the pressure of
strong excitement. Moreover (which made my secret doubly sure), the
signor was now so far recovered as to be looking forward to travelling
and conjuring again in the space of a few days, when he, his wife, and
little Phœbe would leave Cranford. Indeed, I found him looking over a
great black and red placard, in which the Signor Brunoni’s
accomplishments were set forth, and to which only the name of the town
where he would next display them was wanting. He and his wife were so
much absorbed in deciding where the red letters would come in with most
effect (it might have been the Rubric for that matter), that it was some
time before I could get my question asked privately, and not before I
had given several decisions, the wisdom of which I questioned afterwards
with equal sincerity as soon as the signor threw in his doubts and
reasons on the important subject. At last I got the address, spelt by
sound, and very queer it looked. I dropped it in the post on my way
home, and then for a minute I stood looking at the wooden pane with a
gaping slit which divided me from the letter but a moment ago in my
hand. It was gone from me like life, never to be recalled. It would get
tossed about on the sea, and stained with sea-waves perhaps, and be
carried among palm-trees, and scented with all tropical fragrance; the
little piece of paper but an hour ago so familiar and commonplace, had
set out on its race to the strange wild countries beyond the Ganges! But
I could not afford to lose much time on this speculation. I hastened
home, that Miss Matty might not miss me. Martha opened the door to me,
her face swollen with crying. As soon as she saw me she burst out
afresh, and taking hold of my arm she pulled me in, and banged the door
to, in order to ask me if indeed it was all true that Miss Matty had
been saying.
[Illustration: ‘_Posting the letter._’]
‘I’ll never leave her! No; I won’t. I telled her so, and said I could
not think how she could find in her heart to give me warning. I could
not have had the face to do it, if I’d been her. I might ha’ been just
as good for nothing as Mrs. Fitz-Adam’s Rosy, who struck for wages after
living seven years and a half in one place. I said I was not one to go
and serve Mammon at that rate; that I knew when I’d got a good missus,
if she didn’t know when she’d got a good servant——’
‘But, Martha,’ said I, cutting in while she wiped her eyes.
‘Don’t “but Martha” me,’ she replied to my deprecatory tone.
‘Listen to reason’——
‘I’ll not listen to reason,’ she said, now in full possession of her
voice, which had been rather choked with sobbing. ‘Reason always means
what some one else has got to say. Now I think what I’ve got to say is
good enough reason; but reason or not, I’ll say it, and I’ll stick to
it. I’ve money in the Savings Bank, and I’ve a good stock of clothes,
and I’m not going to leave Miss Matty. No, not if she gives me warning
every hour in the day!’
[Illustration: ‘_Don’t “but Martha” me._’]
She put her arms akimbo, as much as to say she defied me; and, indeed, I
could hardly tell how to begin to remonstrate with her, so much did I
feel that Miss Matty, in her increasing infirmity, needed the attendance
of this kind and faithful woman.
‘Well—’ said I at last.
‘I’m thankful you begin with “well!” If you’d ha’ begun with “but,” as
you did afore, I’d not ha’ listened to you. Now you may go on.’
‘I know you would be a great loss to Miss Matty, Martha——’
‘I telled her so. A loss she’d never cease to be sorry for,’ broke in
Martha triumphantly.
‘Still, she will have so little—so very little—to live upon, that I
don’t see just now how she could find you food—she will even be pressed
for her own. I tell you this, Martha, because I feel you are like a
friend to dear Miss Matty, but you know she might not like to have it
spoken about.’
Apparently this was even a blacker view of the subject than Miss Matty
had presented to her, for Martha just sat down on the first chair that
came to hand, and cried out loud (we had been standing in the kitchen).
At last she put her apron down, and looking me earnestly in the face,
asked, ‘Was that the reason Miss Matty wouldn’t order a pudding to-day?
She said she had no great fancy for sweet things, and you and she would
just have a mutton-chop. But I’ll be up to her. Never you tell, but I’ll
make her a pudding, and a pudding she’ll like, too, and I’ll pay for it
myself; so mind you see she eats it. Many a one has been comforted in
their sorrow by seeing a good dish come upon the table.’
I was rather glad that Martha’s energy had taken the immediate and
practical direction of pudding-making, for it staved off the quarrelsome
discussion as to whether she should or should not leave Miss Matty’s
service. She began to tie on a clean apron, and otherwise prepare
herself for going to the shop for the butter, eggs, and what else she
might require. She would not use a scrap of the articles already in the
house for her cookery, but went to an old tea-pot in which her private
store of money was deposited, and took out what she wanted.
I found Miss Matty very quiet, and not a little sad; but by and by she
tried to smile for my sake. It was settled that I was to write to my
father, and ask him to come over and hold a consultation, and as soon as
this letter was despatched we began to talk over future plans. Miss
Matty’s idea was to take a single room, and retain as much of her
furniture as would be necessary to fit up this, and sell the rest, and
there to quietly exist upon what would remain after paying the rent. For
my part, I was more ambitious and less contented. I thought of all the
things by which a woman past middle age, and with the education common
to ladies fifty years ago, could earn or add to a living without
materially losing caste; but at length I put even this last clause on
one side, and wondered what in the world Miss Matty could do.
Teaching was, of course, the first thing that suggested itself. If Miss
Matty could teach children anything, it would throw her among the little
elves in whom her soul delighted. I ran over her accomplishments. Once
upon a time I had heard her say she could play ‘Ah! vous dirai-je,
maman?’ on the piano, but that was long, long ago; that faint shadow of
musical acquirement had died out years before. She had also once been
able to trace out patterns very nicely for muslin embroidery, by dint of
placing a piece of silver-paper over the design to be copied, and
holding both against the window-pane while she marked the scollop and
eyelet-holes. But that was her nearest approach to the accomplishment of
drawing, and I did not think it would go very far. Then again, as to the
branches of a solid English education—fancy work and the use of the
globes—such as the mistress of the Ladies’ Seminary, to which all the
tradespeople in Cranford sent their daughters, professed to teach. Miss
Matty’s eyes were failing her, and I doubted if she could discover the
number of threads in a worsted-work pattern, or rightly appreciate the
different shades required for Queen Adelaide’s face in the loyal
wool-work now fashionable in Cranford. As for the use of the globes, I
had never been able to find it out myself, so perhaps I was not a good
judge of Miss Matty’s capability of instructing in this branch of
education; but it struck me that equators and tropics, and such mystical
circles, were very imaginary lines indeed to her, and that she looked
upon the signs of the Zodiac as so many remnants of the Black Art.
What she piqued herself upon, as arts in which she excelled, was making
candle-lighters, or ‘spills’ (as she preferred calling them), of
coloured paper, cut so as to resemble feathers, and knitting garters in
a variety of dainty stitches. I had once said, on receiving a present of
an elaborate pair, that I should feel quite tempted to drop one of them
in the street, in order to have it admired; but I found this little joke
(and it was a very little one) was such a distress to her sense of
propriety, and was taken with such anxious, earnest alarm, lest the
temptation might some day prove too strong for me, that I quite
regretted having ventured upon it. A present of these delicately-wrought
garters, a bunch of gay ‘spills,’ or a set of cards on which sewing-silk
was wound in a mystical manner, were the well-known tokens of Miss
Matty’s favour. But would any one pay to have their children taught
these arts? or, indeed, would Miss Matty sell, for filthy lucre, the
knack and the skill with which she made trifles of value to those who
loved her?
I had to come down to reading, writing, and arithmetic; and, in reading
the chapter every morning, she always coughed before coming to long
words. I doubted her power of getting through a genealogical chapter,
with any number of coughs. Writing she did well and delicately—but
spelling! She seemed to think that the more out-of-the-way this was, and
the more trouble it cost her, the greater the compliment she paid to her
correspondent; and words that she would spell quite correctly in her
letters to me became perfect enigmas when she wrote to my father.
No! there was nothing she could teach to the rising generation of
Cranford, unless they had been quick learners and ready imitators of her
patience, her humility, her sweetness, her quiet contentment with all
that she could not do. I pondered and pondered until dinner was
announced by Martha, with a face all blubbered and swollen with crying.
Miss Matty had a few little peculiarities which Martha was apt to regard
as whims below her attention, and appeared to consider as childish
fancies of which an old lady of fifty-eight should try and cure herself.
But to-day everything was attended to with the most careful regard. The
bread was cut to the imaginary pattern of excellence that existed in
Miss Matty’s mind, as being the way which her mother had preferred, the
curtain was drawn so as to exclude the dead brick-wall of a neighbour’s
stables, and yet left so as to show every tender leaf of the poplar
which was bursting into spring beauty. Martha’s tone to Miss Matty was
just such as that good, rough-spoken servant usually kept sacred for
little children, and which I had never heard her use to any grown-up
person.
[Illustration: ‘_There!_’]
I had forgotten to tell Miss Matty about the pudding, and I was afraid
she might not do justice to it, for she had evidently very little
appetite this day; so I seized the opportunity of letting her into the
secret while Martha took away the meat. Miss Matty’s eyes filled with
tears, and she could not speak, either to express surprise or delight,
when Martha returned bearing it aloft, made in the most wonderful
representation of a lion _couchant_ that ever was moulded. Martha’s face
gleamed with triumph as she set it down before Miss Matty with an
exultant ‘There!’ Miss Matty wanted to speak her thanks, but could not;
so she took Martha’s hand and shook it warmly, which set Martha off
crying, and I myself could hardly keep up the necessary composure.
Martha burst out of the room, and Miss Matty had to clear her voice once
or twice before she could speak. At last she said, ‘I should like to
keep this pudding under a glass shade, my dear!’ and the notion of the
lion _couchant_, with his currant eyes, being hoisted up to the place of
honour on a mantelpiece, tickled my hysterical fancy, and I began to
laugh, which rather surprised Miss Matty.
‘I am sure, dear, I have seen uglier things under a glass shade before
now,’ said she.
So had I, many a time and oft, and I accordingly composed my countenance
(and now I could hardly keep from crying), and we both fell to upon the
pudding, which was indeed excellent—only every morsel seemed to choke
us, our hearts were so full.
We had too much to think about to talk much that afternoon. It passed
over very tranquilly. But when the tea-urn was brought in a new thought
came into my head. Why should not Miss Matty sell tea—be an agent to the
East India Tea Company which then existed? I could see no objections to
this plan, while the advantages were many—always supposing that Miss
Matty could get over the degradation of condescending to anything like
trade. Tea was neither greasy nor sticky—grease and stickiness being two
of the qualities which Miss Matty could not endure. No shop-window would
be required. A small, genteel notification of her being licensed to sell
tea would, it is true, be necessary, but I hoped that it could be placed
where no one would see it. Neither was tea a heavy article, so as to tax
Miss Matty’s fragile strength. The only thing against my plan was the
buying and selling involved.
While I was giving but absent answers to the questions Miss Matty was
putting—almost as absently—we heard a clumping sound on the stairs, and
a whispering outside the door, which indeed once opened and shut as if
by some invisible agency. After a little while Martha came in, dragging
after her a great tall young man, all crimson with shyness, and finding
his only relief in perpetually sleeking down his hair.
‘Please, ma’am, he’s only Jem Hearn,’ said Martha, by way of an
introduction; and so out of breath was she that I imagine she had had
some bodily struggle before she could overcome his reluctance to be
presented on the courtly scene of Miss Matilda Jenkyns’s drawing-room.
‘And please, ma’am, he wants to marry me off-hand. And please, ma’am, we
want to take a lodger—just one quiet lodger, to make our two ends meet;
and we’d take any house conformable; and, oh dear Miss Matty, if I may
be so bold, would you have any objections to lodging with us? Jem wants
it as much as I do.’ [To Jem:]—‘You great oaf! why can’t you back
me?—But he does want it all the same, very bad—don’t you, Jem?—only, you
see, he’s dazed at being called on to speak before quality.’
[Illustration: ‘_He’s only Jem Hearn._’]
‘It’s not that,’ broke in Jem. ‘It’s that you’ve taken me all on a
sudden, and I didn’t think for to get married so soon—and such quick
work does flabbergast a man. It’s not that I’m against it, ma’am’
(addressing Miss Matty), ‘only Martha has such quick ways with her when
once she takes a thing into her head; and marriage, ma’am—marriage nails
a man, as one may say. I daresay I shan’t mind it after it’s once over.’
‘Please, ma’am,’ said Martha—who had plucked at his sleeve, and nudged
him with her elbow, and otherwise tried to interrupt him all the time he
had been speaking—‘don’t mind him, he’ll come to; ’twas only last night
he was an-axing me, and an-axing me, and all the more because I said I
could not think of it for years to come, and now he’s only taken aback
with the suddenness of the joy; but you know, Jem, you are just as full
as me about wanting a lodger.’ (Another great nudge.)
‘Ay! if Miss Matty would lodge with us—otherwise I’ve no mind to be
cumbered with strange folk in the house,’ said Jem, with a want of tact
which I could see enraged Martha, who was trying to represent a lodger
as the great object they wished to obtain, and that, in fact, Miss Matty
would be smoothing their path and conferring a favour, if she would only
come and live with them.
Miss Matty herself was bewildered by the pair; their, or rather Martha’s
sudden resolution in favour of matrimony staggered her, and stood
between her and the contemplation of the plan which Martha had at heart.
Miss Matty began—
‘Marriage is a very solemn thing, Martha.’
‘It is indeed, ma’am,’ quoth Jem. ‘Not that I’ve no objections to
Martha.’
‘You’ve never let me a-be for asking me for to fix when I would be
married,’ said Martha—her face all a-fire, and ready to cry with
vexation—‘and now you’re shaming me before my missus and all.’
‘Nay, now! Martha, don’t ee! don’t ee! only a man likes to have
breathing-time,’ said Jem, trying to possess himself of her hand, but in
vain. Then seeing that she was more seriously hurt than he had imagined,
he seemed to try to rally his scattered faculties, and with more
straightforward dignity than, ten minutes before, I should have thought
it possible for him to assume, he turned to Miss Matty, and said, ‘I
hope, ma’am, you know that I am bound to respect every one who has been
kind to Martha. I always looked on her as to be my wife—some time; and
she has often and often spoken of you as the kindest lady that ever was;
and though the plain truth is, I would not like to be troubled with
lodgers of the common run, yet if, ma’am, you’d honour us by living with
us, I’m sure Martha would do her best to make you comfortable; and I’d
keep out of your way as much as I could, which I reckon would be the
best kindness such an awkward chap as me could do.’
Miss Matty had been very busy with taking off her spectacles, wiping
them, and replacing them; but all she could say was, ‘Don’t let any
thought of me hurry you into marriage: pray don’t! Marriage is such a
very solemn thing!’
‘But Miss Matilda will think of your plan, Martha,’ said I, struck with
the advantages that it offered, and unwilling to lose the opportunity of
considering about it. ‘And I’m sure neither she nor I can ever forget
your kindness; nor yours either, Jem.’
‘Why, yes, ma’am! I’m sure I mean kindly, though I’m a bit fluttered by
being pushed straight a-head into matrimony, as it were, and mayn’t
express myself conformable. But I’m sure I’m willing enough, and give me
time to get accustomed; so, Martha, wench, what’s the use of crying so,
and slapping me if I come near?’
[Illustration: ‘_Soothed by her lover._’]
This last was _sotto voce_, and had the effect of making Martha bounce
out of the room, to be followed and soothed by her lover. Whereupon Miss
Matty sat down and cried very heartily, and accounted for it by saying
that the thought of Martha being married so soon gave her quite a shock,
and that she should never forgive herself if she thought she was
hurrying the poor creature. I think my pity was more for Jem, of the
two; but both Miss Matty and I appreciated to the full the kindness of
the honest couple, although we said little about this, and a good deal
about the chances and dangers of matrimony.
The next morning, very early, I received a note from Miss Pole, so
mysteriously wrapped up, and with so many seals on it to secure secrecy,
that I had to tear the paper before I could unfold it. And when I came
to the writing I could hardly understand the meaning, it was so involved
and oracular. I made out, however, that I was to go to Miss Pole’s at
eleven o’clock; the number _eleven_ being written in full length as well
as in numerals, and _A.M._ twice dashed under, as if I were very likely
to come at eleven at night, when all Cranford was usually a-bed and
asleep by ten. There was no signature except Miss Pole’s initials
reversed, P. E.; but as Martha had given me the note, ‘with Miss Pole’s
kind regards,’ it needed no wizard to find out who sent it; and if the
writer’s name was to be kept secret, it was very well that I was alone
when Martha delivered it.
[Illustration: ‘_Mrs. Fitz-Adam._’]
I went as requested to Miss Pole’s. The door was opened to me by her
little maid Lizzie in Sunday trim, as if some grand event was impending
over this workday. And the drawing-room upstairs was arranged in
accordance with this idea. The table was set out with the best green
card-cloth, and writing materials upon it. On the little chiffonier was
a tray with a newly-decanted bottle of cowslip-wine, and some
ladies’-finger biscuits. Miss Pole herself was in solemn array, as if to
receive visitors, although it was only eleven o’clock. Mrs. Forrester
was there, crying quietly and sadly, and my arrival seemed only to call
forth fresh tears. Before we had finished our greetings, performed with
lugubrious mystery of demeanour, there was another rat-tat-tat, and Mrs.
Fitz-Adam appeared, crimson with walking and excitement. It seemed as if
this was all the company expected; for now Miss Pole made several
demonstrations of being about to open the business of the meeting, by
stirring the fire, opening and shutting the door, and coughing and
blowing her nose. Then she arranged us all round the table, taking care
to place me opposite to her; and last of all, she inquired of me if the
sad report was true, as she feared it was, that Miss Matty had lost all
her fortune?
Of course, I had but one answer to make; and I never saw more unaffected
sorrow depicted on any countenances than I did there on the three before
me.
‘I wish Mrs. Jamieson was here!’ said Mrs. Forrester at last; but to
judge from Mrs. Fitz-Adam’s face, she could not second the wish.
‘But without Mrs. Jamieson,’ said Miss Pole, with just a sound of
offended merit in her voice, ‘we, the ladies of Cranford, in my
drawing-room assembled, can resolve upon something. I imagine we are
none of us what may be called rich, though we all possess a genteel
competency, sufficient for tastes that are elegant and refined, and
would not, if they could, be vulgarly ostentatious.’ (Here I observed
Miss Pole refer to a small card concealed in her hand, on which I
imagine she had put down a few notes.)
‘Miss Smith,’ she continued, addressing me (familiarly known as ‘Mary’
to all the company assembled, but this was a state occasion), ‘I have
conversed in private—I made it my business to do so yesterday
afternoon—with these ladies on the misfortune which has happened to our
friend, and one and all of us have agreed that while we have a
superfluity, it is not only a duty, but a pleasure—a true pleasure,
Mary!’—her voice was rather choked just here, and she had to wipe her
spectacles before she could go on—‘to give what we can to assist
her—Miss Matilda Jenkyns. Only in consideration of the feelings of
delicate independence existing in the mind of every refined female’—I
was sure she had got back to the card now—‘we wish to contribute our
mites in a secret and concealed manner, so as not to hurt the feelings I
have referred to. And our object in requesting you to meet us this
morning is that, believing you are the daughter—that your father is, in
fact, her confidential adviser in all pecuniary matters, we imagined
that, by consulting with him, you might devise some mode in which our
contribution could be made to appear the legal due which Miss Matilda
Jenkyns ought to receive from ——. Probably, your father, knowing her
investments, can fill up the blank.’
Miss Pole concluded her address, and looked round for approval and
agreement.
‘I have expressed your meaning, ladies, have I not? And while Miss Smith
considers what reply to make, allow me to offer you some little
refreshment.’
I had no great reply to make; I had more thankfulness at my heart for
their kind thoughts than I cared to put into words; and so I only
mumbled out something to the effect ‘that I would name what Miss Pole
had said to my father, and that if anything could be arranged for dear
Miss Matty,’—and here I broke down utterly, and had to be refreshed with
a glass of cowslip wine before I could check the crying which had been
repressed for the last two or three days. The worst was, all the ladies
cried in concert. Even Miss Pole cried, who had said a hundred times
that to betray emotion before any one was a sign of weakness and want of
self-control. She recovered herself into a slight degree of impatient
anger, directed against me, as having set them all off; and, moreover, I
think she was vexed that I could not make a speech back in return for
hers; and if I had known beforehand what was to be said, and had a card
on which to express the probable feelings that would rise in my heart, I
would have tried to gratify her. As it was, Mrs. Forrester was the
person to speak when we had recovered our composure.
‘I don’t mind, among friends, stating that I—no! I’m not poor exactly,
but I don’t think I’m what you may call rich; I wish I were, for dear
Miss Matty’s sake—but, if you please, I’ll write down in a sealed paper
what I can give. I only wish it was more: my dear Mary, I do indeed.’
Now I saw why paper, pens, and ink were provided. Every lady wrote down
the sum she could give annually, signed the paper, and sealed it
mysteriously. If their proposal was acceded to, my father was to be
allowed to open the papers, under pledge of secrecy. If not, they were
to be returned to their writers.
When this ceremony had been gone through, I rose to depart; but each
lady seemed to wish to have a private conference with me. Miss Pole kept
me in the drawing-room to explain why, in Mrs. Jamieson’s absence, she
had taken the lead in this ‘movement,’ as she was pleased to call it,
and also to inform me that she had heard from good sources that Mrs.
Jamieson was coming home directly in a state of high displeasure against
her sister-in-law, who was forthwith to leave her house, and was, she
believed, to return to Edinburgh that very afternoon. Of course this
piece of intelligence could not be communicated before Mrs. Fitz-Adam,
more especially as Miss Pole was inclined to think that Lady Glenmire’s
engagement to Mr. Hoggins could not possibly hold against the blaze of
Mrs. Jamieson’s displeasure. A few hearty inquiries after Miss Matty’s
health concluded my interview with Miss Pole.
On coming downstairs I found Mrs. Forrester waiting for me at the
entrance to the dining-parlour; she drew me in, and when the door was
shut, she tried two or three times to begin on some subject, which was
so unapproachable apparently, that I began to despair of our ever
getting to a clear understanding. At last out it came; the poor old lady
trembling all the time, as if it were a great crime which she was
exposing to daylight, in telling me how very, very little she had to
live upon; a confession which she was brought to make from a dread lest
we should think that the small contribution named in her paper bore any
proportion to her love and regard for Miss Matty. And yet that sum which
she so eagerly relinquished was, in truth, more than a twentieth part of
what she had to live upon, and keep house, and a little serving-maid,
all as became one born a Tyrrell. And when the whole income does not
nearly amount to a hundred pounds, to give up a twentieth of it will
necessitate many careful economies, and many pieces of self-denial,
small and insignificant in the world’s account, but bearing a different
value in another account-book that I have heard of. She did so wish she
was rich, she said, and this wish she kept repeating, with no thought of
herself in it, only with a longing, yearning desire to be able to heap
up Miss Matty’s measure of comforts.
It was some time before I could console her enough to leave her; and
then, on quitting the house, I was waylaid by Mrs. Fitz-Adam, who had
also her confidence to make of pretty nearly the opposite description.
She had not liked to put down all that she could afford and was ready to
give. She told me she thought she never could look Miss Matty in the
face again if she presumed to be giving her so much as she should like
to do. ‘Miss Matty!’ continued she, ‘that I thought was such a fine
young lady when I was nothing but a country girl, coming to market with
eggs and butter and such like things. For my father, though well-to-do,
would always make me go on as my mother had done before me, and I had to
come into Cranford every Saturday, and see after sales, and prices, and
what not. And one day, I remember, I met Miss Matty in the lane that
leads to Combehurst; she was walking on the footpath, which, you know,
is raised a good way above the road, and a gentleman rode beside her,
and was talking to her, and she was looking down at some primroses she
had gathered, and pulling them all to pieces, and I do believe she was
crying. But after she had passed, she turned round and ran after me to
ask—oh, so kindly—about my poor mother, who lay on her death-bed; and
when I cried she took hold of my hand to comfort me—and the gentleman
waiting for her all the time—and her poor heart very full of something,
I am sure; and I thought it such an honour to be spoken to in that
pretty way by the rector’s daughter, who visited at Arley Hall. I have
loved her ever since, though perhaps I’d no right to do it; but if you
can think of any way in which I might be allowed to give a little more
without any one knowing it I should be so much obliged to you, my dear.
And my brother would be delighted to doctor her for nothing—medicines,
leeches, and all. I know that he and her ladyship (my dear, I little
thought in the days I was telling you of that I should ever come to be
sister-in-law to a ladyship!) would do anything for her. We all would.’
I told her I was quite sure of it, and promised all sorts of things in
my anxiety to get home to Miss Matty, who might well be wondering what
had become of me—absent from her two hours without being able to account
for it. She had taken very little note of time, however, as she had been
occupied in numberless little arrangements preparatory to the great step
of giving up her house. It was evidently a relief to her to be doing
something in the way of retrenchment, for, as she said, whenever she
paused to think, the recollection of the poor fellow with his bad
five-pound note came over her, and she felt quite dishonest; only if it
made her so uncomfortable, what must it not be doing to the directors of
the bank, who must know so much more of the misery consequent upon this
failure? She almost made me angry by dividing her sympathy between these
directors (whom she imagined overwhelmed by self-reproach for the
mismanagement of other people’s affairs) and those who were suffering
like her. Indeed, of the two, she seemed to think poverty a lighter
burden than self-reproach; but I privately doubted if the directors
would agree with her.
Old hoards were taken out and examined as to their money value, which
luckily was small, or else I don’t know how Miss Matty would have
prevailed upon herself to part with such things as her mother’s
wedding-ring, the strange, uncouth brooch with which her father had
disfigured his shirt-frill, etc. However, we arranged things a little in
order as to their pecuniary estimation, and were all ready for my father
when he came the next morning.
I am not going to weary you with the details of all the business we went
through; and one reason for not telling about them is, that I did not
understand what we were doing at the time, and cannot recollect it now.
Miss Matty and I sat assenting to accounts, and schemes, and reports,
and documents, of which I do not believe we either of us understood a
word; for my father was clear-headed and decisive, and a capital man of
business, and if we made the slightest inquiry, or expressed the
slightest want of comprehension, he had a sharp way of saying, ‘Eh? eh?
it’s as clear as daylight. What’s your objection?’ And as we had not
comprehended anything of what he had proposed, we found it rather
difficult to shape our objections; in fact, we never were sure if we had
any. So presently Miss Matty got into a nervously acquiescent state, and
said ‘Yes,’ and ‘Certainly,’ at every pause, whether required or not;
but when I once joined in as chorus to a ‘Decidedly,’ pronounced by Miss
Matty in a tremblingly dubious tone, my father fired round at me and
asked me ‘What there was to decide?’ And I am sure to this day I have
never known. But, in justice to him, I must say he had come over from
Drumble to help Miss Matty when he could ill spare the time, and when
his own affairs were in a very anxious state.
While Miss Matty was out of the room giving orders for luncheon—and
sadly perplexed between her desire of honouring my father by a delicate,
dainty meal, and her conviction that she had no right, now that all her
money was gone, to indulge this desire—I told him of the meeting of the
Cranford ladies at Miss Pole’s the day before. He kept brushing his hand
before his eyes as I spoke—and when I went back to Martha’s offer the
evening before, of receiving Miss Matty as a lodger, he fairly walked
away from me to the window, and began drumming with his fingers upon it.
Then he turned abruptly round, and said, ‘See, Mary, how a good innocent
life makes friends all around. Confound it! I could make a good lesson
out of it if I were a parson; but, as it is, I can’t get a tail to my
sentences—only I’m sure you feel what I want to say. You and I will have
a walk after lunch and talk a bit more about these plans.’
[Illustration: ‘_Drumming with his fingers upon it._’]
The lunch—a hot savoury mutton-chop, and a little of the cold loin
sliced and fried—was now brought in. Every morsel of this last dish was
finished, to Martha’s great gratification. Then my father bluntly told
Miss Matty he wanted to talk to me alone, and that he would stroll out
and see some of the old places, and then I could tell her what plan we
thought desirable. Just before we went out, she called me back and said,
‘Remember, dear, I’m the only one left—I mean, there’s no one to be hurt
by what I do. I’m willing to do anything that’s right and honest; and I
don’t think, if Deborah knows where she is, she’ll care so very much if
I’m not genteel; because, you see, she’ll know all, dear. Only let me
see what I can do, and pay the poor people as far as I’m able.’
I gave her a hearty kiss, and ran after my father. The result of our
conversation was this. If all parties were agreeable, Martha and Jem
were to be married with as little delay as possible, and they were to
live on in Miss Matty’s present abode; the sum which the Cranford ladies
had agreed to contribute annually being sufficient to meet the greater
part of the rent, and leaving Martha free to appropriate what Miss Matty
should pay for her lodgings to any little extra comforts required. About
the sale, my father was dubious at first. He said the old rectory
furniture, however carefully used and reverently treated, would fetch
very little; and that little would be but as a drop in the sea of the
debts of the Town and County Bank. But when I represented how Miss
Matty’s tender conscience would be soothed by feeling that she had done
what she could, he gave way; especially after I had told him the
five-pound note adventure, and he had scolded me well for allowing it. I
then alluded to my idea that she might add to her small income by
selling tea; and, to my surprise (for I had nearly given up the plan),
my father grasped at it with all the energy of a tradesman. I think he
reckoned his chickens before they were hatched, for he immediately ran
up the profits of the sales that she could effect in Cranford to more
than twenty pounds a year. The small dining-parlour was to be converted
into a shop, without any of its degrading characteristics; a table was
to be the counter; one window was to be retained unaltered, and the
other changed into a glass door. I evidently rose in his estimation for
having made this bright suggestion. I only hoped we should not both fall
in Miss Matty’s.
But she was patient and content with all our arrangements. She knew, she
said, that we should do the best we could for her; and she only hoped,
only stipulated, that she should pay every farthing that she could be
said to owe, for her father’s sake, who had been so respected in
Cranford. My father and I had agreed to say as little as possible about
the bank, indeed never to mention it again, if it could be helped. Some
of the plans were evidently a little perplexing to her; but she had seen
me sufficiently snubbed in the morning for want of comprehension to
venture on too many inquiries now; and all passed over well, with a hope
on her part that no one would be hurried into marriage on her account.
When we came to the proposal that she should sell tea, I could see it
was rather a shock to her; not on account of any personal loss of
gentility involved, but only because she distrusted her own powers of
action in a new line of life, and would timidly have preferred a little
more privation to any exertion for which she feared she was unfitted.
However, when she saw my father was bent upon it, she sighed, and said
she would try; and if she did not do well, of course she might give it
up. One good thing about it was, she did not think men ever bought tea;
and it was of men particularly she was afraid. They had such sharp loud
ways with them; and did up accounts, and counted their change so
quickly! Now, if she might only sell comfits to children, she was sure
she could please them!
[Illustration: Chapter 13: tailpiece]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: Chapter 14: A Happy Return]
Before I left Miss Matty at Cranford everything had been comfortably
arranged for her. Even Mrs. Jamieson’s approval of her selling tea had
been gained. That oracle had taken a few days to consider whether by so
doing Miss Matty would forfeit her right to the privileges of society in
Cranford. I think she had some little idea of mortifying Lady Glenmire
by the decision she gave at last; which was to this effect: that whereas
a married woman takes her husband’s rank by the strict laws of
precedence, an unmarried woman retains the station her father occupied.
So Cranford was allowed to visit Miss Matty; and, whether allowed or
not, it intended to visit Lady Glenmire.
But what was our surprise—our dismay—when we learnt that Mr. and _Mrs.
Hoggins_ were returning on the following Tuesday. Mrs. Hoggins! Had she
absolutely dropped her title, and so, in a spirit of bravado, cut the
aristocracy to become a Hoggins! She, who might have been called Lady
Glenmire to her dying day! Mrs. Jamieson was pleased. She said it only
convinced her of what she had known from the first, that the creature
had a low taste. But ‘the creature’ looked very happy on Sunday at
church; nor did we see it necessary to keep our veils down on that side
of our bonnets on which Mr. and Mrs. Hoggins sat, as Mrs. Jamieson did;
thereby missing all the smiling glory of his face, and all the becoming
blushes of hers. I am not sure if Martha and Jem looked more radiant in
the afternoon, when they, too, made their first appearance. Mrs.
Jamieson soothed the turbulence of her soul by having the blinds of her
windows drawn down, as if for a funeral, on the day when Mr. and Mrs.
Hoggins received callers; and it was with some difficulty that she was
prevailed upon to continue the _St. James’s Chronicle_, so indignant was
she with its having inserted the announcement of the marriage.
Miss Matty’s sale went off famously. She retained the furniture of her
sitting-room and bedroom; the former of which she was to occupy till
Martha could meet with a lodger who might wish to take it; and into this
sitting-room and bedroom she had to cram all sorts of things, which were
(the auctioneer assured her) bought in for her at the sale by an unknown
friend. I always suspected Mrs. Fitz-Adam of this; but she must have had
an accessory, who knew what articles were particularly regarded by Miss
Matty on account of their associations with her early days. The rest of
the house looked rather bare, to be sure; all except one tiny bedroom,
of which my father allowed me to purchase the furniture for my
occasional use in case of Miss Matty’s illness.
[Illustration: ‘_All the smiling glory of his face._’]
I had expended my own small store in buying all manner of comfits and
lozenges, in order to tempt the little people whom Miss Matty loved so
much to come about her. Tea in bright green canisters, and comfits in
tumblers—Miss Matty and I felt quite proud as we looked round us on the
evening before the shop was to be opened. Martha had scoured the boarded
floor to a white cleanness, and it was adorned with a brilliant piece of
oil-cloth, on which customers were to stand before the table-counter.
The wholesome smell of plaster and whitewash pervaded the apartment. A
very small ‘Matilda Jenkyns, licensed to sell tea,’ was hidden under the
lintel of the new door, and two boxes of tea, with cabalistic
inscriptions all over them, stood ready to disgorge their contents into
the canisters.
Miss Matty, as I ought to have mentioned before, had had some scruples
of conscience at selling tea when there was already Mr. Johnson in the
town, who included it among his numerous commodities; and, before she
could quite reconcile herself to the adoption of her new business, she
had trotted down to his shop, unknown to me, to tell him of the project
that was entertained, and to inquire if it was likely to injure his
business. My father called this idea of hers ‘great nonsense,’ and
‘wondered how tradespeople were to get on if there was to be a continual
consulting of each other’s interests, which would put a stop to all
competition directly.’ And, perhaps, it would not have done in Drumble,
but in Cranford it answered very well; for not only did Mr. Johnson
kindly put at rest all Miss Matty’s scruples and fear of injuring his
business, but I have reason to know he repeatedly sent customers to her,
saying that the teas he kept were of a common kind, but that Miss
Jenkyns had all the choice sorts. And expensive tea is a very favourite
luxury with well-to-do tradespeople and rich farmers’ wives, who turn up
their noses at the Congou and Souchong prevalent at many tables of
gentility, and will have nothing else than Gunpowder and Pekoe for
themselves.
But to return to Miss Matty. It was really very pleasant to see how her
unselfishness and simple sense of justice called out the same good
qualities in others. She never seemed to think any one would impose upon
her, because she should be so grieved to do it to them. I have heard her
put a stop to the asseverations of the man who brought her coals by
quietly saying, ‘I am sure you would be sorry to bring me wrong weight;’
and if the coals were short measure that time, I don’t believe they ever
were again. People would have felt as much ashamed of presuming on her
good faith as they would have done on that of a child. But my father
says ‘such simplicity might be very well in Cranford, but would never do
in the world.’ And I fancy the world must be very bad, for with all my
father’s suspicion of every one with whom he has dealings, and in spite
of all his many precautions, he lost upwards of a thousand pounds by
roguery only last year.
I just stayed long enough to establish Miss Matty in her new mode of
life, and to pack up the library, which the rector had purchased. He had
written a very kind letter to Miss Matty, saying ‘how glad he should be
to take a library, so well selected as he knew that the late Mr.
Jenkyns’s must have been, at any valuation put upon them.’ And when she
agreed to this, with a touch of sorrowful gladness that they would go
back to the rectory and be arranged on the accustomed walls once more,
he sent word that he feared that he had not room for them all, and
perhaps Miss Matty would kindly allow him to leave some volumes on her
shelves. But Miss Matty said that she had her Bible and Johnson’s
_Dictionary_, and should not have much time for reading, she was afraid;
still, I retained a few books out of consideration for the rector’s
kindness.
The money which he had paid, and that produced by the sale, was partly
expended in the stock of tea, and part of it was invested against a
rainy day—_i.e._ old age or illness. It was but a small sum, it is true;
and it occasioned a few evasions of truth and white lies (all of which I
think very wrong indeed—in theory—and would rather not put them in
practice), for we knew Miss Matty would be perplexed as to her duty if
she were aware of any little reserve-fund being made for her while the
debts of the bank remained unpaid. Moreover, she had never been told of
the way in which her friends were contributing to pay the rent. I should
have liked to tell her this, but the mystery of the affair gave a
piquancy to their deed of kindness which the ladies were unwilling to
give up; and at first Martha had to shirk many a perplexed question as
to her ways and means of living in such a house, but by and by Miss
Matty’s prudent uneasiness sank down into acquiescence with the existing
arrangement.
I left Miss Matty with a good heart. Her sales of tea during the first
two days had surpassed my most sanguine expectations. The whole country
round seemed to be all out of tea at once. The only alteration I could
have desired in Miss Matty’s way of doing business was, that she should
not have so plaintively entreated some of her customers not to buy green
tea—running it down as slow poison, sure to destroy the nerves, and
produce all manner of evil. Their pertinacity in taking it, in spite of
all her warnings, distressed her so much that I really thought she would
relinquish the sale of it, and so lose half her custom; and I was driven
to my wits’ end for instances of longevity entirely attributable to a
persevering use of green tea. But the final argument, which settled the
question, was a happy reference of mine to the train-oil and tallow
candles which the Esquimaux not only enjoy but digest. After that she
acknowledged that ‘one man’s meat might be another man’s poison,’ and
contented herself thenceforward with an occasional remonstrance when she
thought the purchaser was too young and innocent to be acquainted with
the evil effects green tea produced on some constitutions, and an
habitual sigh when people old enough to choose more wisely would prefer
it.
I went over from Drumble once a quarter at least to settle the accounts,
and see after the necessary business letters. And, speaking of letters,
I began to be very much ashamed of remembering my letter to the Aga
Jenkyns, and very glad I had never named my writing to any one. I only
hoped the letter was lost. No answer came. No sign was made.
About a year after Miss Matty set up shop, I received one of Martha’s
hieroglyphics, begging me to come to Cranford very soon. I was afraid
that Miss Matty was ill, and went off that very afternoon, and took
Martha by surprise when she saw me on opening the door. We went into the
kitchen, as usual, to have our confidential conference, and then Martha
told me she was expecting her confinement very soon—in a week or two;
and she did not think Miss Matty was aware of it, and she wanted me to
break the news to her, ‘for indeed, miss,’ continued Martha, crying
hysterically, ‘I’m afraid she won’t approve of it, and I’m sure I don’t
know who is to take care of her as she should be taken care of when I am
laid up.’
I comforted Martha by telling her I would remain till she was about
again, and only wished she had told me her reason for this sudden
summons, as then I would have brought the requisite stock of clothes.
But Martha was so tearful and tender-spirited, and unlike her usual
self, that I said as little as possible about myself, and endeavoured
rather to comfort Martha under all the probable and possible misfortunes
which came crowding upon her imagination.
I then stole out of the house-door, and made my appearance as if I were
a customer in the shop, just to take Miss Matty by surprise, and gain an
idea of how she looked in her new situation. It was warm May weather, so
only the little half-door was closed; and Miss Matty sat behind her
counter, knitting an elaborate pair of garters; elaborate they seemed to
me, but the difficult stitch was no weight upon her mind, for she was
singing in a low voice to herself as her needles went rapidly in and
out. I call it singing, but I daresay a musician would not use that word
to the tuneless yet sweet humming of the low, worn voice. I found out
from the words, far more than from the attempt at the tune, that it was
the Old Hundredth she was crooning to herself; but the quiet continuous
sound told of content, and gave me a pleasant feeling, as I stood in the
street just outside the door, quite in harmony with that soft May
morning. I went in. At first she did not catch who it was, and stood up
as if to serve me; but in another minute watchful pussy had clutched her
knitting, which was dropped in eager joy at seeing me. I found, after we
had had a little conversation, that it was as Martha said, and that Miss
Matty had no idea of the approaching household event. So I thought I
would let things take their course, secure that when I went to her with
the baby in my arms, I should obtain that forgiveness for Martha which
she was needlessly frightening herself into believing that Miss Matty
would withhold, under some notion that the new claimant would require
attentions from its mother that it would be faithless treason to Miss
Matty to render.
[Illustration: ‘_A complimentary speech_.’]
But I was right. I think that must be an hereditary quality, for my
father says he is scarcely ever wrong. One morning, within a week after
I arrived, I went to call Miss Matty, with a little bundle of flannel in
my arms. She was very much awestruck when I showed her what it was, and
asked for her spectacles off the dressing-table, and looked at it
curiously, with a sort of tender wonder at its small perfection of
parts. She could not banish the thought of the surprise all day, but
went about on tiptoe, and was very silent. But she stole up to see
Martha, and they both cried with joy, and she got into a complimentary
speech to Jem, and did not know how to get out of it again, and was only
extricated from her dilemma by the sound of the shop-bell, which was an
equal relief to the shy, proud, honest Jem, who shook my hand so
vigorously when I congratulated him, that I think I feel the pain of it
yet.
I had a busy life while Martha was laid up. I attended on Miss Matty,
and prepared her meals; I cast up her accounts, and examined into the
state of her canisters and tumblers. I helped her, too, occasionally, in
the shop; and it gave me no small amusement, and sometimes a little
uneasiness, to watch her ways there. If a little child came in to ask
for an ounce of almond-comfits (and four of the large kind which Miss
Matty sold weighed that much), she always added one more by ‘way of
make-weight,’ as she called it, although the scale was handsomely turned
before; and when I remonstrated against this, her reply was, ‘The little
things like it so much!’ There was no use in telling her that the fifth
comfit weighed a quarter of an ounce, and made every sale into a loss to
her pocket. So I remembered the green tea, and winged my shaft with a
feather out of her own plumage. I told her how unwholesome
almond-comfits were, and how ill excess in them might make the little
children. This argument produced some effect; for, henceforward, instead
of the fifth comfit, she always told them to hold out their tiny palms,
into which she shook either peppermint or ginger lozenges, as a
preventive to the dangers that might arise from the previous sale.
Altogether the lozenge trade, conducted on these principles, did not
promise to be remunerative; but I was happy to find she had made more
than twenty pounds during the last year by her sales of tea; and,
moreover, that now she was accustomed to it, she did not dislike the
employment, which brought her into kindly intercourse with many of the
people round about. If she gave them good weight, they, in their turn,
brought many a little country present to the ‘old rector’s daughter’; a
cream cheese, a few new-laid eggs, a little fresh ripe fruit, a bunch of
flowers. The counter was quite loaded with these offerings sometimes, as
she told me.
As for Cranford in general, it was going on much as usual. The Jamieson
and Hoggins feud still raged, if a feud it could be called, when only
one side cared much about it. Mr. and Mrs. Hoggins were very happy
together, and, like most very happy people, quite ready to be friendly;
indeed, Mrs. Hoggins was really desirous to be restored to Mrs.
Jamieson’s good graces, because of the former intimacy. But Mrs.
Jamieson considered their very happiness an insult to the Glenmire
family, to which she had still the honour to belong, and she doggedly
refused and rejected every advance. Mr. Mulliner, like a faithful
clansman, espoused his mistress’s side with ardour. If he saw either Mr.
or Mrs. Hoggins, he would cross the street, and appear absorbed in the
contemplation of life in general, and his own path in particular, until
he had passed them by. Miss Pole used to amuse herself with wondering
what in the world Mrs. Jamieson would do, if either she, or Mr.
Mulliner, or any other member of her household, was taken ill; she could
hardly have the face to call in Mr. Hoggins after the way she had
behaved to them. Miss Pole grew quite impatient for some indisposition
or accident to befall Mrs. Jamieson or her dependants, in order that
Cranford might see how she would act under the perplexing circumstances.
[Illustration: ‘_Absorbed in contemplation_.’]
Martha was beginning to go about again, and I had already fixed a limit,
not very far distant, to my visit, when one afternoon, as I was sitting
in the shop-parlour with Miss Matty—I remember the weather was colder
now than it had been in May, three weeks before, and we had a fire and
kept the door fully closed—we saw a gentleman go slowly past the window,
and then stand opposite to the door, as if looking out for the name
which we had so carefully hidden. He took out a double eye-glass and
peered about for some time before he could discover it. Then he came in.
And, all on a sudden, it flashed across me that it was the Aga himself!
For his clothes had an out-of-the-way foreign cut about them, and his
face was deep brown, as if tanned and re-tanned by the sun. His
complexion contrasted oddly with his plentiful snow-white hair, his eyes
were dark and piercing, and he had an odd way of contracting them and
puckering up his cheeks into innumerable wrinkles when he looked
earnestly at objects. He did so to Miss Matty when he first came in. His
glance had first caught and lingered a little upon me, but then turned,
with the peculiar searching look I have described, to Miss Matty. She
was a little fluttered and nervous, but no more so than she always was
when any man came into her shop. She thought that he would probably have
a note, or a sovereign at least, for which she would have to give
change, which was an operation she very much disliked to perform. But
the present customer stood opposite to her, without asking for anything,
only looking fixedly at her as he drummed upon the table with his
fingers, just for all the world as Miss Jenkyns used to do. Miss Matty
was on the point of asking him what he wanted (as she told me
afterwards), when he turned sharp to me: ‘Is your name Mary Smith?’
‘Yes!’ said I.
All my doubts as to his identity were set at rest, and I only wondered
what he would say or do next, and how Miss Matty would stand the joyful
shock of what he had to reveal. Apparently he was at a loss how to
announce himself, for he looked round at last in search of something to
buy, so as to gain time, and, as it happened, his eye caught on the
almond-comfits, and he boldly asked for a pound of ‘those things.’ I
doubt if Miss Matty had a whole pound in the shop, and, besides the
unusual magnitude of the order, she was distressed with the idea of the
indigestion they would produce, taken in such unlimited quantities. She
looked up to remonstrate. Something of tender relaxation in his face
struck home to her heart. She said, ‘It is—oh sir! can you be Peter?’
and trembled from head to foot. In a moment he was round the table and
had her in his arms, sobbing the tearless cries of old age. I brought
her a glass of wine, for indeed her colour had changed so as to alarm me
and Mr. Peter too. He kept saying, ‘I have been too sudden for you,
Matty—I have my little girl.’
I proposed that she should go at once up into the drawing-room and lie
down on the sofa there. She looked wistfully at her brother, whose hand
she had held tight, even when nearly fainting; but on his assuring her
that he would not leave her, she allowed him to carry her upstairs.
I thought that the best I could do was to run and put the kettle on the
fire for early tea, and then to attend to the shop, leaving the brother
and sister to exchange some of the many thousand things they must have
to say. I had also to break the news to Martha, who received it with a
burst of tears which nearly infected me. She kept recovering herself to
ask if I was sure it was indeed Miss Matty’s brother, for I had
mentioned that he had gray hair, and she had always heard that he was a
very handsome young man. Something of the same kind perplexed Miss Matty
at tea-time, when she was installed in the great easy-chair opposite to
Mr. Jenkyns’s in order to gaze her fill. She could hardly drink for
looking at him, and as for eating, that was out of the question.
‘I suppose hot climates age people very quickly,’ said she, almost to
herself. ‘When you left Cranford you had not a gray hair in your head.’
‘But how many years ago is that?’ said Mr. Peter, smiling.
‘Ah, true! yes, I suppose you and I are getting old. But still I did not
think we were so very old! But white hair is very becoming to you,
Peter,’ she continued—a little afraid lest she had hurt him by revealing
how his appearance had impressed her.
‘I suppose I forgot dates too, Matty, for what do you think I have
brought for you from India? I have an Indian muslin gown and a pearl
necklace for you somewhere in my chest at Portsmouth.’ He smiled as if
amused at the idea of the incongruity of his presents with the
appearance of his sister; but this did not strike her all at once, while
the elegance of the articles did. I could see that for a moment her
imagination dwelt complacently on the idea of herself thus attired; and
instinctively she put her hand up to her throat—that little delicate
throat which (as Miss Pole had told me) had been one of her youthful
charms; but the hand met the touch of folds of soft muslin in which she
was always swathed up to her chin, and the sensation recalled a sense of
the unsuitableness of a pearl necklace to her age. She said, ‘I’m afraid
I’m too old; but it was very kind of you to think of it. They are just
what I should have liked years ago—when I was young.’
‘So I thought, my little Matty. I remembered your tastes; they were so
like my dear mother’s.’ At the mention of that name the brother and
sister clasped each other’s hands yet more fondly, and, although they
were perfectly silent, I fancied they might have something to say if
they were unchecked by my presence, and I got up to arrange my room for
Mr. Peter’s occupation that night, intending myself to share Miss
Matty’s bed. But at my movement he started up. ‘I must go and settle
about a room at the “George.” My carpet-bag is there too.’
‘No!’ said Miss Matty, in great distress—‘you must not go; please, dear
Peter—pray, Mary—oh! you must not go!’
She was so much agitated that we both promised everything she wished.
Peter sat down again and gave her his hand, which for better security
she held in both of hers, and I left the room to accomplish my
arrangements.
Long, long into the night, far, far into the morning, did Miss Matty and
I talk. She had much to tell me of her brother’s life and adventures,
which he had communicated to her as they had sat alone. She said all was
thoroughly clear to her; but I never quite understood the whole story;
and when in after days I lost my awe of Mr. Peter enough to question him
myself, he laughed at my curiosity, and told me stories that sounded so
very much like Baron Munchausen’s, that I was sure he was making fun of
me. What I heard from Miss Matty was that he had been a volunteer at the
siege of Rangoon; had been taken prisoner by the Burmese; had somehow
obtained favour and eventual freedom from knowing how to bleed the chief
of the small tribe in some case of dangerous illness; that on his
release from years of captivity he had had his letters returned from
England with the ominous word ‘Dead’ marked upon them; and, believing
himself to be the last of his race, he had settled down as an indigo
planter, and had proposed to spend the remainder of his life in the
country to whose inhabitants and modes of life he had become habituated,
when my letter had reached him, and with the odd vehemence which
characterised him in age as it had done in youth, he had sold his land
and all his possessions to the first purchaser, and come home to the
poor old sister, who was more glad and rich than any princess when she
looked at him. She talked me to sleep at last, and then I was awakened
by a slight sound at the door, for which she begged my pardon as she
crept penitently into bed; but it seems that when I could no longer
confirm her belief that the long-lost was really here—under the same
roof—she had begun to fear lest it was only a waking dream of hers; that
there never had been a Peter sitting by her all that blessed evening—but
that the real Peter lay dead far away beneath some wild sea-wave, or
under some strange eastern tree. And so strong had this nervous feeling
of hers become, that she was fain to get up and go and convince herself
that he was really there by listening through the door to his even,
regular breathing—I don’t like to call it snoring, but I heard it myself
through two closed doors—and by and by it soothed Miss Matty to sleep.
[Illustration: ‘_Gleefully awaited the shower of comfits and
lozenges._’]
I don’t believe Mr. Peter came home from India as rich as a nabob; he
even considered himself poor, but neither he nor Miss Matty cared much
about that. At any rate, he had enough to live upon ‘very genteelly’ at
Cranford; he and Miss Matty together. And a day or two after his arrival
the shop was closed, while troops of little urchins gleefully awaited
the shower of comfits and lozenges that came from time to time down upon
their faces as they stood up-gazing at Miss Matty’s drawing-room
windows. Occasionally Miss Matty would say to them (half-hidden behind
the curtains), ‘My dear children, don’t make yourselves ill;’ but a
strong arm pulled her back, and a more rattling shower than ever
succeeded. A part of the tea was sent in presents to the Cranford
ladies; and some of it was distributed among the old people who
remembered Mr. Peter in the days of his frolicsome youth. The India
muslin gown was reserved for darling Flora Gordon (Miss Jessie Brown’s
daughter). The Gordons had been on the Continent for the last few years,
but were now expected to return very soon; and Miss Matty, in her
sisterly pride, anticipated great delight in the joy of showing them Mr.
Peter. The pearl necklace disappeared; and about that time many handsome
and useful presents made their appearance in the households of Miss Pole
and Mrs. Forrester; and some rare and delicate Indian ornaments graced
the drawing-rooms of Mrs. Jamieson and Mrs. Fitz-Adam. I myself was not
forgotten. Among other things, I had the handsomest bound and best
edition of Dr. Johnson’s works that could be procured; and dear Miss
Matty, with tears in her eyes, begged me to consider it as a present
from her sister as well as herself. In short, no one was forgotten; and,
what was more, every one, however insignificant, who had shown kindness
to Miss Matty at any time, was sure of Mr. Peter’s cordial regard.
[Illustration: Chapter 13: tailpiece]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: Chapter 16: Peace to Cranford]
It was not surprising that Mr. Peter became such a favourite at
Cranford. The ladies vied with each other who should admire him most;
and no wonder, for their quiet lives were astonishingly stirred up by
the arrival from India—especially as the person arrived told more
wonderful stories than Sindbad the Sailor; and, as Miss Pole said, was
quite as good as an Arabian Night any evening. For my own part, I had
vibrated all my life between Drumble and Cranford, and I thought it was
quite possible that all Mr. Peter’s stories might be true, although
wonderful; but when I found that, if we swallowed an anecdote of
tolerable magnitude one week, we had the dose considerably increased the
next, I began to have my doubts; especially as I noticed that when his
sister was present the accounts of Indian life were comparatively tame;
not that she knew more than we did, perhaps less. I noticed also that
when the rector came to call, Mr. Peter talked in a different way about
the countries he had been in. But I don’t think the ladies in Cranford
would have considered him such a wonderful traveller if they had only
heard him talk in the quiet way he did to him. They liked him the
better, indeed, for being what they called ‘so very Oriental.’
One day, at a select party in his honour, which Miss Pole gave, and from
which, as Mrs. Jamieson honoured it with her presence, and had even
offered to send Mr. Mulliner to wait, Mr. and Mrs. Hoggins and Mrs.
Fitz-Adam were necessarily excluded—one day at Miss Pole’s, Mr. Peter
said he was tired of sitting upright against the hard-backed uneasy
chairs, and asked if he might not indulge himself in sitting
cross-legged. Miss Pole’s consent was eagerly given, and down he went
with the utmost gravity. But when Miss Pole asked me, in an audible
whisper, ‘if he did not remind me of the Father of the Faithful?’ I
could not help thinking of poor Simon Jones, the lame tailor; and while
Mrs. Jamieson slowly commented on the elegance and convenience of the
attitude, I remembered how we had all followed that lady’s lead in
condemning Mr. Hoggins for vulgarity because he simply crossed his legs
as he sat still on his chair. Many of Mr. Peter’s ways of eating were a
little strange amongst such ladies as Miss Pole, and Miss Matty, and
Mrs. Jamieson, especially when I recollected the untasted green peas and
two-pronged forks at poor Mr. Holbrook’s dinner.
[Illustration: ‘_The Father of the Faithful._’]
The mention of that gentleman’s name recalls to my mind a conversation
between Mr. Peter and Miss Matty one evening in the summer after he
returned to Cranford. The day had been very hot, and Miss Matty had been
much oppressed by the weather, in the heat of which her brother
revelled. I remember that she had been unable to nurse Martha’s baby,
which had become her favourite employment of late, and which was as much
at home in her arms as in its mother’s, as long as it remained a
light-weight, portable by one so fragile as Miss Matty. This day to
which I refer, Miss Matty had seemed more than usually feeble and
languid, and only revived when the sun went down, and her sofa was
wheeled to the open window, through which, although it looked into the
principal street of Cranford, the fragrant smell of the neighbouring
hayfields came in every now and then, borne by the soft breezes that
stirred the dull air of the summer twilight, and then died away. The
silence of the sultry atmosphere was lost in the murmuring noises which
came in from many an open window and door; even the children were abroad
in the street, late as it was (between ten and eleven), enjoying the
game of play for which they had not had spirits during the heat of the
day. It was a source of satisfaction to Miss Matty to see how few
candles were lighted, even in the apartments of those houses from which
issued the greatest signs of life. Mr. Peter, Miss Matty, and I had all
been quiet, each with a separate reverie, for some little time, when Mr.
Peter broke in—
‘Do you know, little Matty, I could have sworn you were on the high road
to matrimony when I left England that last time! If anybody had told me
you would have lived and died an old maid then, I should have laughed in
their faces.’
Miss Matty made no reply, and I tried in vain to think of some subject
which should effectually turn the conversation; but I was very stupid;
and before I spoke he went on—
‘It was Holbrook, that fine manly fellow who lived at Woodley, that I
used to think would carry off my little Matty. You would not think it
now, I daresay, Mary; but this sister of mine was once a very pretty
girl—at least, I thought so, and so I’ve a notion did poor Holbrook.
What business had he to die before I came home to thank him for all his
kindness to a good-for-nothing cub as I was? It was that that made me
first think he cared for you; for in all our fishing expeditions it was
Matty, Matty, we talked about. Poor Deborah! What a lecture she read me
on having asked him home to lunch one day, when she had seen the Arley
carriage in the town, and thought that my lady might call. Well, that’s
long years ago; more than half a lifetime, and yet it seems like
yesterday! I don’t know a fellow I should have liked better as a
brother-in-law. You must have played your cards badly, my little Matty,
somehow or another—wanted your brother to be a good go-between, eh,
little one?’ said he, putting out his hand to take hold of hers as she
lay on the sofa. ‘Why, what’s this? you’re shivering and shaking, Matty,
with that confounded open window. Shut it, Mary, this minute!’
I did so, and then stooped down to kiss Miss Matty, and see if she
really were chilled. She caught at my hand, and gave it a hard
squeeze—but unconsciously, I think—for in a minute or two she spoke to
us quite in her usual voice, and smiled our uneasiness away, although
she patiently submitted to the prescriptions we enforced of a warm bed
and a glass of weak negus. I was to leave Cranford the next day, and
before I went I saw that all the effects of the open window had quite
vanished. I had superintended most of the alterations necessary in the
house and household during the latter weeks of my stay. The shop was
once more a parlour; the empty resounding rooms again furnished up to
the very garrets.
There has been some talk of establishing Martha and Jem in another
house, but Miss Matty would not hear of this. Indeed, I never saw her so
much roused as when Miss Pole had assumed it to be the most desirable
arrangement. As long as Martha would remain with Miss Matty, Miss Matty
was only too thankful to have her about her; yes, and Jem too, who was a
very pleasant man to have in the house, for she never saw him from
week’s end to week’s end. And as for the probable children, if they
would all turn out such little darlings as her god-daughter, Matilda,
she should not mind the number, if Martha didn’t. Besides, the next was
to be called Deborah—a point which Miss Matty had reluctantly yielded to
Martha’s stubborn determination that her first-born was to be Matilda.
So Miss Pole had to lower her colours, and even her voice, as she said
to me that, as Mr. and Mrs. Hearn were still to go on living in the same
house with Miss Matty, we had certainly done a wise thing in hiring
Martha’s niece as an auxiliary.
I left Miss Matty and Mr. Peter most comfortable and contented; the only
subject for regret to the tender heart of the one, and the social
friendly nature of the other, being the unfortunate quarrel between Mrs.
Jamieson and the plebeian Hogginses and their following. In joke, I
prophesied one day that this would only last until Mrs. Jamieson or Mr.
Mulliner were ill, in which case they would only be too glad to be
friends with Mr. Hoggins; but Miss Matty did not like my looking forward
to anything like illness in so light a manner, and before the year was
out all had come round in a far more satisfactory way.
I received two Cranford letters on one auspicious October morning. Both
Miss Pole and Miss Matty wrote to ask me to come over and meet the
Gordons, who had returned to England alive and well with their two
children, now almost grown up. Dear Jessie Brown had kept her old kind
nature, although she had changed her name and station; and she wrote to
say that she and Major Gordon expected to be in Cranford on the
fourteenth, and she hoped and begged to be remembered to Mrs. Jamieson
(named first, as became her honourable station), Miss Pole, and Miss
Matty—could she ever forget their kindness to her poor father and
sister?—Mrs. Forrester, Mr. Hoggins (and here again came in an allusion
to kindness shown to the dead long ago), his new wife, who as such must
allow Mrs. Gordon to desire to make her acquaintance, and who was,
moreover, an old Scotch friend of her husband’s. In short, every one was
named, from the rector—who had been appointed to Cranford in the interim
between Captain Brown’s death and Miss Jessie’s marriage, and was now
associated with the latter event—down to Miss Betsy Barker. All were
asked to the luncheon; all except Mrs. Fitz-Adam, who had come to live
in Cranford since Miss Jessie Brown’s days, and whom I found rather
moping on account of the omission. People wondered at Miss Betty
Barker’s being included in the honourable list; but, then, as Miss Pole
said, we must remember the disregard of the genteel proprieties of life
in which the poor captain had educated his girls, and for his sake we
swallowed our pride. Indeed, Mrs. Jamieson rather took it as a
compliment, as putting Miss Betty (formerly _her_ maid) on a level with
‘those Hogginses.’
But when I arrived in Cranford, nothing was as yet ascertained of Mrs.
Jamieson’s own intentions; would the honourable lady go, or would she
not? Mr. Peter declared that she should and she would; Miss Pole shook
her head and desponded. But Mr. Peter was a man of resources. In the
first place, he persuaded Miss Matty to write to Mrs. Gordon, and to
tell her of Mrs. Fitz-Adam’s existence, and to beg that one so kind, and
cordial, and generous, might be included in the pleasant invitation. An
answer came back by return of post, with a pretty little note for Mrs.
Fitz-Adam, and a request that Miss Matty would deliver it herself and
explain the previous omission. Mrs. Fitz-Adam was as pleased as could
be, and thanked Miss Matty over and over again. Mr. Peter had said,
‘Leave Mrs. Jamieson to me;’ so we did; especially as we knew nothing
that we could do to alter her determination if once formed.
I did not know, nor did Miss Matty, how things were going on, until Miss
Pole asked me, just the day before Mrs. Gordon came, if I thought there
was anything between Mr. Peter and Mrs. Jamieson in the matrimonial
line, for that Mrs. Jamieson was really going to the lunch at the
‘George.’ She had sent Mr. Mulliner down to desire that there might be a
footstool put to the warmest seat in the room, as she meant to come, and
knew that their chairs were very high. Miss Pole had picked this piece
of news up, and from it she conjectured all sorts of things, and
bemoaned yet more. ‘If Peter should marry, what would become of poor
dear Miss Matty? And Mrs. Jamieson, of all people!’ Miss Pole seemed to
think there were other ladies in Cranford who would have done more
credit to his choice, and I think she must have had some one who was
unmarried in her head, for she kept saying, ‘It was so wanting in
delicacy in a widow to think of such a thing.’
[Illustration: ‘_The proof sheet of a great placard._’]
When I got back to Miss Matty’s I really did begin to think that Mr.
Peter might be thinking of Mrs. Jamieson for a wife, and I was as
unhappy as Miss Pole about it. He had the proof sheet of a great placard
in his hand. ‘Signor Brunoni, Magician to the King of Delhi, the Rajah
of Oude, and the great Lama of Thibet,’ etc. etc. was going to ‘perform
in Cranford for one night only,’ the very next night; and Miss Matty,
exultant, showed me a letter from the Gordons, promising to remain over
this gaiety, which Miss Matty said was entirely Peter’s doing. He had
written to ask the signor to come, and was to be at all the expenses of
the affair. Tickets were to be sent gratis to as many as the room would
hold. In short, Miss Matty was charmed with the plan, and said that
to-morrow Cranford would remind her of the Preston Guild, to which she
had been in her youth—a luncheon at the ‘George,’ with the dear Gordons,
and the signor in the Assembly Room in the evening. But I—I looked only
at the fatal words—
‘_Under the Patronage of the_ HONOURABLE MRS.
JAMIESON.’
She, then, was chosen to preside over this entertainment of Mr. Peter’s;
she was perhaps going to displace my dear Miss Matty in his heart, and
make her life lonely once more! I could not look forward to the morrow
with any pleasure; and every innocent anticipation of Miss Matty’s only
served to add to my annoyance.
So, angry and irritated, and exaggerating every little incident which
could add to my irritation, I went on till we were all assembled in the
great parlour at the ‘George.’ Major and Mrs. Gordon and pretty Flora
and Mr. Ludovic were all as bright and handsome and friendly as could
be; but I could hardly attend to them for watching Mr. Peter, and I saw
that Miss Pole was equally busy. I had never seen Mrs. Jamieson so
roused and animated before; her face looked full of interest in what Mr.
Peter was saying. I drew near to listen. My relief was great when I
caught that his words were not words of love, but that, for all his
grave face, he was at his old tricks. He was telling her of his travels
in India, and describing the wonderful height of the Himalaya mountains:
one touch after another added to their size, and each exceeded the
former in absurdity; but Mrs. Jamieson really enjoyed all in perfect
good faith. I suppose she required strong stimulants to excite her to
come out of her apathy. Mr. Peter wound up his account by saying that,
of course, at that altitude there were none of the animals to be found
that existed in the lower regions; the game—everything was different.
Firing one day at some flying creature, he was very much dismayed when
it fell to find that he had shot a cherubim! Mr. Peter caught my eye at
this moment, and gave me such a funny twinkle, that I felt sure he had
no thoughts of Mrs. Jamieson as a wife from that time. She looked
uncomfortably amazed—
‘But, Mr. Peter, shooting a cherubim—don’t you think—I am afraid that
was sacrilege!’
[Illustration: ‘_He had shot a cherubim!_’]
Mr. Peter composed his countenance in a moment, and appeared shocked at
the idea, which, as he said truly enough, was now presented to him for
the first time; but then Mrs. Jamieson must remember that he had been
living for a long time among savages—all of whom were heathens—some of
them, he was afraid, were downright Dissenters. Then, seeing Miss Matty
draw near, he hastily changed the conversation, and after a little
while, turning to me, he said, ‘Don’t be shocked, prim little Mary, at
all my wonderful stories. I consider Mrs. Jamieson fair game, and
besides I am bent on propitiating her, and the first step towards it is
keeping her well awake. I bribed her here by asking her to let me have
her name as patroness for my poor conjuror this evening; and I don’t
want to give her time enough to get up her rancour against the
Hogginses, who are just coming in. I want everybody to be friends, for
it harasses Matty so much to hear of these quarrels. I shall go at it
again by and by, so you need not look shocked. I intend to enter the
Assembly Room to-night with Mrs. Jamieson on one side and my lady, Mrs.
Hoggins, on the other. You see if I don’t.’
Somehow or another he did; and fairly got them into conversation
together. Major and Mrs. Gordon helped at the good work with their
perfect ignorance of any existing coolness between any of the
inhabitants of Cranford.
Ever since that day there has been the old friendly sociability in
Cranford society; which I am thankful for, because of my dear Miss
Matty’s love of peace and kindliness. We all love Miss Matty, and I
somehow think we are all of us better when she is near us.
[Illustration: ‘_Mrs. Jamieson on one side, and my lady, Mrs. Hoggins,
on the other._’]
[Illustration: Printer’s Logo]
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Transcriber’s note:
Errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have been corrected, and
are noted here. The references are to the page and line in the original.
The following issues should be noted, along with the resolutions.
154.8 conjuring and witchc[h]raft is a mere affair Removed.
201.10 where our baby may live[’/”] Replaced.
212.16 ‘Oh![’] I don’t know. Mr. Hoggins is rich Removed.
223.17 [‘]It was a very uncomfortable subject Removed.
230.26 [I] don’t understand you, sir, Restored.