Cranford
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 manœuvring 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 practice 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 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 to-night. 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 dare say; 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 that 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