Cranford
stood trembling and shivering by her. We decked her in the long soft
folds; she lay smiling, as if pleased; and people came—all Cranford
came—to beg to see her, for they had loved her dearly, as well they
might; and the countrywomen 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”—
CHAPTER 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
upstairs; 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 the 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 connection.” They would not sell their caps
and ribbons to anyone 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 have I 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
characterised 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 would 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.
“Yes, so she said. Not even Mrs Fitz-Adam.”
Now Mrs Fitz-Adam was the widowed sister of the Cranford surgeon, whom I
have named before. Their parents were respectable farmers, content with
their station. The name of these good people was Hoggins. Mr Hoggins
was the Cranford doctor now; we disliked the name and considered it
coarse; but, as Miss Jenkyns said, if he changed it to Piggins it would
not be much better. We had hoped to discover a relationship between him
and that Marchioness of Exeter whose name was Molly Hoggins; but the
man, careless of his own interests, utterly ignored and denied any such
relationship, although, as dear Miss Jenkyns had said, he had a sister
called Mary, and the same Christian names were very apt to run in
families.
Soon after Miss Mary Hoggins married Mr Fitz-Adam, she disappeared from
the neighbourhood for many years. She did not move in a sphere in
Cranford society sufficiently high to make any of us care to know what
Mr Fitz-Adam was. He died and was gathered to his fathers without our
ever having thought about him at all. And then Mrs Fitz-Adam reappeared
in Cranford (“as bold as a lion,” Miss Pole said), a well-to-do widow,
dressed in rustling black silk, so soon after her husband’s death that
poor Miss Jenkyns was justified in the remark she made, that “bombazine
would have shown a deeper sense of her loss.”
I remember the convocation of ladies who assembled to decide whether or
not Mrs Fitz-Adam should be called upon by the old blue-blooded