Cranford

  ‘Oh, how I wished for Deborah! I had no time for crying, for now all seemed to depend on me. I wrote for Deborah to come home. I sent a message privately to that same Mr Holbrook’s house – poor Mr Holbrook! – you know who I mean. I don’t mean I sent a message to him, but I sent one that I could trust, to know if Peter was at his house. For at one time Mr Holbrook was an occasional visitor at the rectory – you know he was Miss Pole’s cousin – and he had been very kind to Peter, and taught him how to fish – he was very kind to everybody, and I thought Peter might have gone there. But Mr Holbrook was from home, and Peter had never been seen. It was night now; but the doors were all wide open, and my father walked on and on; it was more than an hour since he had joined her, and I don’t believe they had ever spoken all that time. I was getting the parlour fire lighted, and one of the servants was preparing tea, for I wanted them to have something to eat and drink and warm them, when old Clare asked to speak to me.

  ‘“I have borrowed the nets from the weir, Miss Matty. Shall we drag the ponds to-night, or wait for the morning?”

  ‘I remember staring in his face to gather his meaning; and when I did, I laughed out loud. The horror of that new thought – our bright, darling Peter, cold, and stark, and dead! I remember the ring of my own laugh now.

  ‘The next day Deborah was at home before I was myself again. She would not have been so weak as to give way as I had done; but my screams (my horrible laughter had ended in crying) had roused my sweet dear mother, whose poor wandering wits were called back and collected, as soon as a child needed her care. She and Deborah sat by my bedside; I knew by the looks of each that there had been no news of Peter – no awful, ghastly news, which was what I had dreaded in my dull state between sleeping and waking.

  ‘The same result of all the searching had brought something of the same relief to my mother, to whom, I am sure, the thought that Peter might even then be hanging dead in some of the familiar home places had caused that never-ending walk of yesterday. Her soft eyes never were the same again after that; they had always a restless craving look, as if seeking for what they could not find. Oh! it was an awful time; coming down like a thunderbolt on the still sunny day, when the lilacs were all in bloom.’

  ‘Where was Mr Peter?’ said I.

  ‘He had made his way to Liverpool; and there was war then; and some of the king’s ships lay off the mouth of the Mersey; and they were only too glad to have a fine likely boy such as him (five foot nine he was) come to offer himself. The captain wrote to my father, and Peter wrote to my mother. Stay! those letters will be somewhere here.’

  We lighted the candle, and found the captain’s letter and Peter’s too. And we also found a little simple begging letter from Mrs Jenkyns to Peter, addressed to him at the house of an old schoolfellow, whither she fancied he might have gone. They had returned it unopened; and unopened it had remained ever since, having been inadvertently put by among the other letters of that time. This is it:

  ‘MY DEAREST PETER,

  ‘You did not think we should be so sorry as we are, I know, or you would never have gone away. You are too good. Your father sits and sighs till my heart aches to hear him. He cannot hold up his head for grief; and yet he only did what he thought was right. Perhaps he has been too severe, and perhaps I have not been kind enough; but God knows how we love you, my dear only boy. Dor looks so sorry you are gone. Come back, and make us happy, who love you so much. I know you will come back.’

  But Peter did not come back. That spring day was the last time he ever saw his mother’s face. The writer of the letter – the last – the only person who had ever seen what was written in it, was dead long ago – and I, a stranger, not born at the time when this occurrence took place, was the one to open it.

  The captain’s letter summoned the father and mother to Liverpool instantly, if they wished to see their boy; and by some of the wild chances of life, the captain’s letter had been detained somewhere, somehow.

  Miss Matty went on: ‘And it was race-time, and all the post-horses at Cranford were gone to the races; but my father and mother set off in our own gig, – and oh! my dear, they were too late – the ship was gone! And now, read Peter’s letter to my mother!’

  It was full of love, and sorrow, and pride in his new profession, and a sore sense of his disgrace in the eyes of the people at Cranford; but ending with a passionate entreaty that she would come and see him before he left the Mersey: ‘Mother! we may go into battle. I hope we shall, and lick those French; but I must see you again before that time.’

  ‘And she was too late,’ said Miss Matty; ‘too late!’

  We sat in silence, pondering on the full meaning of those sad, sad words. At length I asked Miss Matty to tell me how her mother bore it.

  ‘Oh!’ she said, ‘she was patience itself. She had never been strong, and this weakened her terribly. My father used to sit looking at her: far more sad than she was. He seemed as if he could look at nothing else when she was by; and he was so humble, – so very gentle now. He would, perhaps, speak in his old way – laying down the law, as it were – and then, in a minute or two he would come round and put his hand on our shoulders, and ask us in a low voice if he had said anything to hurt us? I did not wonder at his speaking so to Deborah, for she was so clever; but I could not bear to hear him talking so to me.

  ‘But, you see, he saw what we did not – that it was killing my mother. Yes! killing her – (put out the candle, my dear; I can talk better in the dark) – for she was but a frail woman, and ill-fitted to stand the fright and shock she had gone through; and she would smile at him and comfort him, not in words but in her looks and tones, which were always cheerful when he was there. And she would speak of how she thought Peter stood a good chance of being admiral very soon – he was so brave and clever; and how she thought of seeing him in his navy uniform, and what sort of hats admirals wore; and how much more fit he was to be a sailor than a clergyman; and all in that way, just to make my father think she was quite glad of what came of that unlucky morning’s work, and the flogging which was always in his mind, as we all knew. But oh, my dear! the bitter, bitter crying she had when she was alone; – and at last, as she grew weaker, she could not keep her tears in when Deborah or me was by, and would give us message after message for Peter – (his ship had gone to the Mediterranean, or somewhere down there, and then he was ordered off to India, and there was no overland route then); – but she still said that no one knew where their death lay in wait, and that we were not to think hers was near. We did not think it, but we knew it, as we saw her fading away.

  ‘Well, my dear, it’s very foolish of me, I know, when in all likelihood I am so near to seeing her again.

  ‘And only think, love! the very day after her death – for she did not live quite a twelvemonth after Peter went away – the very day after – came a parcel for her from India – from her poor boy. It was a large, soft, white Indian shawl, with just a little narrow border all round; just what my mother would have liked.

  ‘We thought it might arouse my father, for he had sat with her hand in his all night long; so Deborah took it in to him, and Peter’s letter to her, and all. At first, he took no notice; and we tried to make a kind of light careless talk about the shawl, opening it out and admiring it. Then, suddenly, he got up and spoke: – “She shall be buried in it,” he said; “Peter shall have that comfort; and she would have liked it.”

  ‘Well! perhaps it was not reasonable, but what could we do or say? One gives people in grief their own way. He took it up and felt it – “It is just such a shawl as she wished for when she was married, and her mother did not give it her. I did not know of it till after, or she should have had it – she should; but she shall have it now.”

  ‘My mother looked so lovely in her death! She was always pretty, and now she looked fair, and waxen, and young – younger than Deborah, as she stood trembling and shivering by her. We decked her in the long soft fold; she lay, smiling as if pleased; the peo
ple came – all Cranford came – to beg to see her, for they had loved her dearly – as well they might; and the country-women brought posies; old Clare’s wife brought some white violets, and begged they might lie on her breast.

  ‘Deborah said to me, the day of my mother’s funeral, that if she had a hundred offers, she never would marry and leave my father. It was not very likely she would have so many – I don’t know that she had one; but it was not less to her credit to say so. She was such a daughter to my father, as I think there never was before, or since. His eyes failed him, and she read book after book, and wrote, and copied, and was always at his service in any parish business. She could do many more things than my poor mother could; she even once wrote a letter to the bishop for my father. But he missed my mother sorely; the whole parish noticed it. Not that he was less active; I think he was more so, and more patient in helping every one. I did all I could to set Deborah at liberty to be with him; for I knew I was good for little, and that my best work in the world was to do odd jobs quietly, and set others at liberty. But my father was a changed man.’

  ‘Did Mr Peter ever come home?’

  ‘Yes, once. He came home a Lieutenant; he did not get to be Admiral. And he and my father were such friends! My father took him into every house in the parish, he was so proud of him. He never walked out without Peter’s arm to lean upon. Deborah used to smile (I don’t think we ever laughed again after my mother’s death), and say she was quite put in a corner. Not but what my father always wanted her when there was letter-writing, or reading to be done, or anything to be settled.’

  ‘And then?’ said I, after a pause.

  ‘Then Peter went to sea again; and, by-and-by, my father died, blessing us both, and thanking Deborah for all she had been to him; and, of course, our circumstances were changed; and, instead of living at the rectory, and keeping three maids and a man, we had to come to this small house, and be content with a servant-of-all-work; but, as Deborah used to say, we have always lived genteelly, even if circumstances have compelled us to simplicity. – Poor Deborah!’

  ‘And Mr Peter?’ asked I.

  ‘Oh, there was some great war in India – I forget what they call it – and we have never heard of Peter since then. I believe he is dead myself; and it sometimes fidgets me that we have never put on mourning for him. And then, again, when I sit by myself, and all the house is still, I think I hear his step coming up the street, and my heart begins to flutter and beat; but the sound always goes past – and Peter never comes.

  ‘That’s Martha back? No! I’ll go, my dear; I can always find my way in the dark, you know. And a blow of fresh air at the door will do my head good, and it’s rather got a trick of aching.’

  So she pattered off. I had lighted the candle, to give the room a cheerful appearance against her return.

  ‘Was it Martha?’ asked I.

  ‘Yes. And I am rather uncomfortable, for I heard such a strange noise just as I was opening the door.’

  ‘Where?’ I asked, for her eyes were round with affright.

  ‘In the street – just outside – it sounded like –’

  ‘Talking?’ I put in, as she hesitated a little.

  ‘No! kissing –’

  VII

  Visiting

  One morning, as Miss Matty and I sat at our work – it was before twelve o’clock, and Miss Matty had not changed the cap with yellow ribbons, that had been Miss Jenkyns’s best, and which Miss Matty was now wearing out in private, putting on the one made in imitation of Mrs Jamieson’s at all times when she expected to be seen – Martha came up, and asked if Miss Betty Barker might speak to her mistress. Miss Matty assented, and quickly disappeared to change the yellow ribbons, while Miss Barker came up-stairs; but, as she had forgotten her spectacles, and was rather flurried by the unusual time of the visit, I was not surprised to see her return with one cap on top of the other. She was quite unconscious of it herself, and looked at us with bland satisfaction. Nor do I think Miss Barker perceived it; for, putting aside the little circumstance that she was not so young as she had been, she was very much absorbed in her errand; which she delivered herself of, with an oppressive modesty that found vent in endless apologies.

  Miss Betty Barker was the daughter of the old clerk at Cranford, who had officiated in Mr Jenkyns’s time. She and her sister had had pretty good situations as ladies’ maids, and had saved money enough to set up a milliner’s shop, which had been patronised by the ladies in the neighbourhood. Lady Arley, for instance, would occasionally give Miss Barkers the pattern of an old cap of hers, which they immediately copied and circulated among the élite of Cranford. I say the élite, for Miss Barkers had caught the trick of the place, and piqued themselves upon their ‘aristocratic connexion.’ They would not sell their caps and ribbons to any one without a pedigree. Many a farmer’s wife or daughter turned away huffed from Miss Barkers’ select millinery, and went rather to the universal shop, where the profits of brown soap and moist sugar enabled the proprietor to go straight to (Paris, he said, until he found his customers too patriotic and John Bullish to wear what the Mounseers wore) London; where, as he often told his customers, Queen Adelaide had appeared, only the very week before, in a cap exactly like the one he showed them, trimmed with yellow and blue ribbons, and had been complimented by King William on the becoming nature of her head-dress.

  Miss Barkers, who confined themselves to truth, and did not approve of miscellaneous customers, throve notwithstanding. They were self-denying, good people. Many a time I have seen the eldest of them (she that had been maid to Mrs Jamieson) carrying out some delicate mess to a poor person. They only aped their betters in having ‘nothing to do’ with the class immediately below theirs. And when Miss Barker died, their profits and income were found to be such that Miss Betty was justified in shutting up shop, and retiring from business. She also (as I think I have before said) set up her cow; a mark of respectability in Cranford almost as decided as setting up a gig is among some people. She dressed finer than any lady in Cranford; and we did not wonder at it; for it was understood that she was wearing out all the bonnets and caps, and outrageous ribbons, which had once formed her stock in trade. It was five or six years since she had given up shop: so in any other place than Cranford her dress might have been considered passée.

  And now, Miss Betty Barker had called to invite Miss Matty to tea at her house on the following Tuesday. She gave me also an impromptu invitation, as I happened to be a visitor; though I could see she had a little fear lest, since my father had gone to live in Drumble, he might have engaged in that ‘horrid cotton trade’, and so dragged his family down out of ‘aristocratic society.’ She prefaced this invitation with so many apologies, that she quite excited my curiosity. ‘Her presumption’ was to be excused. What had she been doing? She seemed so overpowered by it, I could only think that she had been writing to Queen Adelaide, to ask for a receipt for washing lace; but the act which she so characterized was only an invitation she had carried to her sister’s former mistress, Mrs Jamieson. ‘Her former occupation considered, could Miss Matty excuse the liberty?’ Ah! thought I, she has found out that double cap, and is going to rectify Miss Matty’s head-dress. No! It was simply to extend her invitation to Miss Matty and to me. Miss Matty bowed acceptance; and I wondered that, in the graceful action, she did not feel the unusual weight and extraordinary height of her head-dress. But I do not think she did; for she recovered her balance, and went on talking to Miss Betty in a kind, condescending manner, very different from the fidgety way she would have had, if she had suspected how singular her appearance was.

  ‘Mrs Jamieson is coming, I think you said?’ asked Miss Matty.

  ‘Yes. Mrs Jamieson most kindly and condescendingly said she would be happy to come. One little stipulation she made, that she should bring Carlo. I told her that if I had a weakness, it was for dogs.’

  ‘And Miss Pole?’ questioned Miss Matty, who was thinking of her pool at Preference, in which Carlo wo
uld not be available as a partner.

  ‘I am going to ask Miss Pole. Of course, I could not think of asking her until I had asked you, madam – the rector’s daughter, madam. Believe me, I do not forget the situation my father held under yours.’

  ‘And Mrs Forrester, of course?’

  ‘And Mrs Forrester. I thought, in fact, of going to her before I went to Miss Pole. Although her circumstances are changed, madam, she was born a Tyrrell, and we can never forget her alliance to the Bigges, of Bigelow Hall.’

  Miss Matty cared much more for the little circumstance of her being a very good card-player.

  ‘Mrs Fitz-Adam – I suppose –’

  ‘No, madam. I must draw a line somewhere. Mrs Jamieson would not, I think, like to meet Mrs Fitz-Adam. I have the greatest respect for Mrs Fitz-Adam – but I cannot think her fit society for such ladies as Mrs Jamieson and Miss Matilda Jenkyns.’

  Miss Betty Barker bowed low to Miss Matty, and pursed up her mouth. She looked at me with sidelong dignity, as much as to say, although a retired milliner, she was no democrat, and understood the difference of ranks.

  ‘May I beg you to come as near half-past six, to my little dwelling, as possible, Miss Matilda? Mrs Jamieson dines at five, but has kindly promised not to delay her visit beyond that time – half-past six.’ And with a swimming curtsey Miss Betty Barker took her leave.

  My prophetic soul foretold a visit that afternoon from Miss Pole, who usually came to call on Miss Matilda after any event – or indeed in sight of any event – to talk it over with her.

  ‘Miss Betty told me it was to be a choice and select few,’ said Miss Pole, as she and Miss Matty compared notes.