The Cranford Chronicles

  Presently the door was thrown wide open; Carlo started to his feet, with a loud snapping bark, and Mrs Jamieson awoke: or, perhaps, she had not been asleep – as she said almost directly, the room had been so light she had been glad to keep her eyes shut, but had been listening with great interest to all our amusing and agreeable conversation. Peggy came in once more, red with importance. Another tray! ‘Oh, gentility!’ thought I, ‘can you endure this last shock?’ For Miss Barker had ordered (nay, I doubt not, prepared, although she did say, ‘Why! Peggy, what have you brought us?’ and looked pleasantly surprised at the unexpected pleasure) all sorts of good things for supper – scalloped oysters, potted lobsters, jelly, a dish called ‘little Cupids’ (which was in great favour with the Cranford ladies, although too expensive to be given, except on solemn and state occasions – macaroons sopped in brandy, I should have called it, if I had not known its more refined and classical name). In short, we were evidently to be feasted with all that was sweetest and best; and we thought it better to submit graciously, even at the cost of our gentility – which never ate suppers in general – but which, like most non-supper-eaters, was particularly hungry on all special occasions.

  Miss Barker, in her former sphere, had, I dare say, been made acquainted with the beverage they call cherry-brandy. We none of us had ever seen such a thing, and rather shrunk back when she proffered it us – ‘just a little, leetle glass, ladies; after the oysters and lobsters, you know. Shell-fish are sometimes thought not very wholesome.’ We all shook our heads like female mandarins; but, at last, Mrs Jamieson suffered herself to be persuaded, and we followed her lead. It was not exactly unpalatable, though so hot and so strong that we thought ourselves bound to give evidence that we were not accustomed to such things, by coughing terribly – almost as strangely as Miss Barker had done, before we were admitted by Peggy.

  ‘It’s very strong,’ said Miss Pole, as she put down her empty glass; ‘I do believe there’s spirit in it.’

  ‘Only a little drop – just necessary to make it keep,’ said Miss Barker. ‘You know we put brandy-paper over preserves to make them keep. I often feel tipsy myself from eating damson tart.’

  I question whether damson tart would have opened Mrs Jamieson’s heart as the cherry-brandy did; but she told us of a coming event, respecting which she had been quite silent till that moment.

  ‘My sister-in-law, Lady Glenmire, is coming to stay with me.’

  There was a chorus of ‘Indeed!’ and then a pause. Each one rapidly reviewed her wardrobe, as to its fitness to appear in the presence of a Baron’s widow; for, of course, a series of small festivals were always held in Cranford on the arrival of a visitor at any of our friends’ houses. We felt very pleasantly excited on the present occasion.

  Not long after this, the maids and the lanterns were announced. Mrs Jamieson had the sedan chair, which had squeezed itself into Miss Barker’s narrow lobby with some difficulty, and most literally ‘stopped the way.’ It required some skilful manoeuvring on the part of the old chairmen (shoemakers by day; but, when summoned to carry the sedan, dressed up in a strange old livery – long great-coats, with small capes, coeval with the sedan, and similar to the dress of the class in Hogarth’s pictures) to edge, and back, and try at it again, and finally to succeed in carrying their burden out of Miss Barker’s front door. Then we heard their quick pit-a-pat along the quiet little street, as we put on our calashes, and pinned up our gowns; Miss Barker hovering about us with offers of help, which, if she had not remembered her former occupation, and wished us to forget it, would have been much more pressing.

  Chapter VIII

  ‘YOUR LADYSHIP’

  EARLY THE NEXT morning – directly after twelve – Miss Pole made her appearance at Miss Matty’s. Some very trifling piece of business was alleged as a reason for the call; but there was evidently something behind. At last out it came.

  ‘By the way, you’ll think I’m strangely ignorant; but, do you really know, I am puzzled how we ought to address Lady Glenmire. Do you say “Your ladyship,” where you would say “you” to a common person? I have been puzzling all morning; and are we to say “My lady” instead of “Ma’am”? Now, you knew Lady Arley – will you kindly tell me the most correct way of speaking to the Peerage?’

  Poor Miss Matty! she took off her spectacles, and she put them on again – but how Lady Arley was addressed she could not remember.

  ‘It is so long ago,’ she said. ‘Dear! dear! how stupid I am! I don’t think I ever saw her more than twice. I know we used to call Sir Peter “Sir Peter,” – but he came much oftener to see us than Lady Arley did. Deborah would have known in a minute. “My lady – your ladyship.” It sounds very strange, and as if it was not natural. I never thought of it before; but, now you have named it, I am all in a puzzle.’

  It was very certain Miss Pole would obtain no wise decision from Miss Matty, who got more bewildered every moment, and more perplexed as to etiquettes of address.

  ‘Well, I really think,’ said Miss Pole, ‘I had better just go and tell Mrs Forrester about our little difficulty. One sometimes grows nervous; and yet one would not have Lady Glenmire think we were quite ignorant of the etiquettes of high life in Cranford.’

  ‘And will you just step in here, dear Miss Pole, as you come back, please; and tell me what you decide upon. Whatever you and Mrs Forrester fix upon will be quite right, I’m sure. “Lady Arley,” “Sir Peter,”’ said Miss Matty to herself, trying to recall the old forms of words.

  ‘Who is Lady Glenmire?’ asked I.

  ‘Oh, she’s the widow of Mr Jamieson – that’s Mrs Jamieson’s late husband, you know – widow of his eldest brother. Mrs Jamieson was a Miss Walker, daughter of Governor Walker. “Your ladyship.” My dear, if they fix on that way of speaking, you must just let me practise a little on you first, for I shall feel so foolish and hot, saying it the first time to Lady Glenmire.’

  It was really a relief to Miss Matty when Mrs Jamieson came on a very unpolite errand. I notice that apathetic people have more quiet impertinence than any others; and Mrs Jamieson came now to insinuate pretty plainly that she did not particularly wish that the Cranford ladies should call upon her sister-in-law. I can hardly say how she made this clear; for I grew very indignant and warm, while with slow deliberation she was explaining her wishes to Miss Matty, who, a true lady herself, could hardly understand the feeling which made Mrs Jamieson wish to appear to her noble sister-in-law as if she only visited ‘county’ families. Miss Matty remained puzzled and perplexed long after I had found out the object of Mrs Jamieson’s visit.

  When she did understand the drift of the honourable lady’s call, it was pretty to see with what quiet dignity she received the intimation thus uncourteously given. She was not in the least hurt – she was of too gentle a spirit for that; nor was she exactly conscious of disapproving of Mrs Jamieson’s conduct; but there was something of this feeling in her mind, I am sure, which made her pass from the subject to others, in a less flurried and more composed manner than usual. Mrs Jamieson was, indeed, the more flurried of the two, and I could see she was glad to take her leave.

  A little while afterwards, Miss Pole returned, red and indignant. ‘Well! to be sure! You’ve had Mrs Jamieson here, I find from Martha; and we are not to call on Lady Glenmire. Yes! I met Mrs Jamieson, half-way between here and Mrs Forrester’s, and she told me; she took me so by surprise, I had nothing to say. I wish I had thought of something very sharp and sarcastic; I dare say I shall tonight. And Lady Glenmire is but the widow of a Scotch baron, after all! I went on to look at Mrs Forrester’s Peerage, to see who this lady was, that is to be kept under a glass case: widow of a Scotch peer – never sat in the House of Lords – and as poor as Job, I daresay; and she – fifth daughter of some Mr Campbell or other. You are the daughter of a Rector, at any rate, and related to the Arleys; and Sir Peter might have been Viscount Arley, every one says.’

  Miss Matty tried to soothe Miss Pole, but in vain. That
lady, usually so kind and good-humoured, was now in a full flow of anger.

  ‘And I went and ordered a cap this morning, to be quite ready,’ said she, at last – letting out the secret which gave sting to Mrs Jamieson’s intimation. ‘Mrs Jamieson shall see if it is so easy to get me to make fourth at a pool, when she has none of her fine Scotch relations with her!’

  In coming out of church, the first Sunday on which Lady Glenmire appeared in Cranford, we sedulously talked together, and turned our backs on Mrs Jamieson and her guest. If we might not call on her, we would not even look at her, though we were dying with curiosity to know what she was like. We had the comfort of questioning Martha in the afternoon. Martha did not belong to a sphere of society whose observation could be an implied compliment to Lady Glenmire, and Martha had made good use of her eyes.

  ‘Well, ma’am! is it the little lady with Mrs Jamieson, you mean? I thought you would like more to know how young Mrs Smith was dressed, her being a bride.’ (Mrs Smith was the butcher’s wife.)

  Miss Pole said, ‘Good gracious me! as if we cared about a Mrs Smith’; but was silent as Martha resumed her speech.

  ‘The little lady in Mrs Jamieson’s pew had on, ma’am, rather an old black silk, and a shepherd’s plaid cloak, ma’am, and very bright black eyes she had, ma’am, and a pleasant, sharp face; not over young, ma’am, but yet, I should guess, younger than Mrs Jamieson herself. She looked up and down the church, like a bird, and nipped up her petticoats when she came out, as quick and sharp as ever I see. I’ll tell you what, ma’am, she’s more like Mrs Deacon, at the “Coach and Horses,” nor any one.’

  ‘Hush, Martha!’ said Miss Matty, ‘that’s not respectful.’

  ‘Isn’t it, ma’am? I beg pardon, I’m sure; but Jem Hearn said so as well. He said, she was just such a sharp, stirring sort of a body –’

  ‘Lady,’ said Miss Pole.

  ‘Lady – as Mrs Deacon.’

  Another Sunday passed away, and we still averted our eyes from Mrs Jamieson and her guest, and made remarks to ourselves that we thought were very severe – almost too much so. Miss Matty was evidently uneasy at our sarcastic manner of speaking.

  Perhaps by this time Lady Glenmire had found out that Mrs Jamieson’s was not the gayest, liveliest house in the world; perhaps Mrs Jamieson had found out that most of the county families were in London, and that those who remained in the country were not so alive as they might have been to the circumstance of Lady Glenmire being in their neighbourhood. Great events spring out of small causes; so I will not pretend to say what induced Mrs Jamieson to alter her determination of excluding the Cranford ladies, and send notes of invitation all round for a small party, on the following Tuesday. Mr Mulliner himself brought them round. He would always ignore the fact of there being a back door to any house, and gave a louder rat-tat than his mistress, Mrs Jamieson. He had three little notes, which he carried in a large basket, in order to impress his mistress with an idea of their great weight, though they might easily have gone into his waistcoat pocket.

  Miss Matty and I quietly decided we would have a previous engagement at home: – it was the evening on which Miss Matty usually made candle-lighters of all the notes and letters of the week; for on Mondays her accounts were always made straight – not a penny owing from the week before; so, by a natural arrangement, making candle-lighters fell upon a Tuesday evening, and gave us a legitimate excuse for declining Mrs Jamieson’s invitation. But before our answer was written, in came Miss Pole with an open note in her hand.

  ‘So!’ she said. ‘Ah! I see you have got your note, too. Better late than never. I could have told my Lady Glenmire she would be glad enough of our society before a fortnight was over.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Miss Matty, ‘we’re asked for Tuesday evening. And perhaps you would just kindly bring your work across and drink tea with us that night. It is my usual regular time for looking over the last week’s bills, and notes, and letters, and making candle-lighters of them; but that does not seem quite reason enough for saying I have a previous engagement at home, though I meant to make it do. Now, if you would come, my conscience would be quite at ease, and luckily the note is not written yet.’

  I saw Miss Pole’s countenance change while Miss Matty was speaking.

  ‘Don’t you mean to go then?’ asked she.

  ‘Oh, no!’ said Miss Matty, quietly. ‘You don’t either, I suppose?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Miss Pole. ‘Yes, I think I do,’ said she, rather briskly; and, on seeing Miss Matty look surprised, she added, ‘You see, one would not like Mrs Jamieson to think that anything she could do, or say, was of consequence enough to give offence; it would be a kind of letting down of ourselves, that I, for one, should not like. It would be too flattering to Mrs Jamieson, if we allowed her to suppose that what she had said affected us a week, nay ten days afterwards.’

  ‘Well! I suppose it is wrong to be hurt and annoyed so long about anything; and, perhaps, after all, she did not mean to vex us. But, I must say, I could not have brought myself to say the things Mrs Jamieson did about our not calling. I really don’t think I shall go.’

  ‘Oh, come! Miss Matty, you must go; you know our friend Mrs Jamieson is much more phlegmatic than most people, and does not enter into the little delicacies of feeling which you possess in so remarkable a degree.’

  ‘I thought you possessed them, too, that day Mrs Jamieson called to tell us not to go,’ said Miss Matty, innocently.

  But Miss Pole, in addition to her delicacies of feeling, possessed a very smart cap, which she was anxious to show to an admiring world; and so she seemed to forget all her angry words uttered not a fortnight before, and to be ready to act on what she called the great Christian principle of ‘Forgive and forget’; and she lectured dear Miss Matty so long on this head, that she absolutely ended by assuring her it was her duty, as a deceased rector’s daughter, to buy a new cap, and go to the party at Mrs Jamieson’s. So ‘we were most happy to accept,’ instead of ‘regretting that we were obliged to decline.’

  The expenditure on dress in Cranford was principally in that one article referred to. If the heads were buried in smart new caps, the ladies were like ostriches, and cared not what became of their bodies. Old gowns, white and venerable collars, any number of brooches, up and down and everywhere (some with dogs’ eyes painted in them; some that were like small picture-frames with mausoleums and weeping-willows neatly executed in hair inside; some, again, with miniatures of ladies and gentlemen sweetly smiling out of a nest of stiff muslin) – old brooches for a permanent ornament, and new caps to suit the fashion of the day; the ladies of Cranford always dressed with chaste elegance and propriety, as Miss Barker once prettily expressed it.

  And with three new caps, and a greater array of brooches than had ever been seen together at one time, since Cranford was a town, did Mrs Forrester, and Miss Matty, and Miss Pole appear on that memorable Tuesday evening. I counted seven brooches myself on Miss Pole’s dress. Two were fixed negligently in her cap (one was a butterfly made of Scotch pebbles, which a vivid imagination might believe to be the real insect); one fastened her net neck-kerchief; one her collar; one ornamented the front of her gown, midway between her throat and waist; and another adorned the point of her stomacher. Where the seventh was I have forgotten, but it was somewhere about her, I am sure.

  But I am getting on too fast, in describing the dresses of the company. I should first relate the gathering, on the way to Mrs Jamieson’s. That lady lived in a large house just outside the town. A road, which had known what it was to be a street, ran right before the house, which opened out upon it, without any intervening garden or court. Whatever the sun was about, he never shone on the front of that house. To be sure, the living-rooms were at the back, looking on to a pleasant garden; the front windows only belonged to kitchens and housekeepers’ rooms, and pantries; and in one of them Mr Mulliner was reported to sit. Indeed, looking askance, we often saw the back of a head, covered with hair
-powder, which also extended itself over his coat-collar down to his very waist; and this imposing back was always engaged in reading the St James’s Chronicle, opened wide, which, in some degree, accounted for the length of time the said newspaper was in reaching us – equal subscribers with Mrs Jamieson, though, in right of her honourableness, she always had the reading of it first. This very Tuesday, the delay in forwarding the last number had been particularly aggravating; just when both Miss Pole and Miss Matty, the former more especially, had been wanting to see it, in order to coach up the court news, ready for the evening’s interview with aristocracy. Miss Pole told us she had absolutely taken time by the forelock and been dressed by five o’clock, in order to be ready, if the St James’s Chronicle should come in at the last moment – the very St James’s Chronicle which the powdered head was tranquilly and composedly reading as we passed the accustomed window this evening.

  ‘The impudence of the man!’ said Miss Pole, in a low indignant whisper. ‘I should like to ask him, whether his mistress pays her quarter share for his exclusive use.’

  We looked at her in admiration of the courage of her thought; for Mr Mulliner was an object of great awe to all of us. He seemed never to have forgotten his condescension in coming to live at Cranford. Miss Jenkyns, at times, had stood forth as the undaunted champion of her sex, and spoken to him on terms of equality; but even Miss Jenkyns could get no higher. In his pleasantest and most gracious moods he looked like a sulky cockatoo. He did not speak except in gruff monosyllables. He would wait in the hall when we begged him not to wait, and then looked deeply offended because we had kept him there, while, with trembling, hasty hands, we prepared ourselves for appearing in company.

  Miss Pole ventured on a small joke as we went up-stairs, intended, though addressed to us, to afford Mr Mulliner some slight amusement. We all smiled, in order to seem as if we felt at our ease, and timidly looked for Mr Mulliner’s sympathy. Not a muscle of that wooden face had relaxed, and we were grave in an instant.