Cranford
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.”
[Picture: Mr Mulliner]
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 neckerchief; 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 look
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 upstairs, 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.
Mrs Jamieson’s drawing-room was cheerful; the evening sun came streaming
into it, and the large square window was clustered round with flowers.
The furniture was white and gold; not the later style, Louis Quatorze, I
think they call it, all shells and twirls; no, Mrs Jamieson’s chairs and
tables had not a curve or bend about them. The chair and table legs
diminished as they neared the ground, and were straight and square in
all their corners. The chairs were all a-row against the walls, with
the exception of four or five which stood in a circle round the fire.
They were railed with white bars across the back and knobbed with gold;
neither the railings nor the knobs invited to ease. There was a
japanned table devoted to literature, on which lay a Bible, a Peerage,
and a Prayer-Book. There was another square Pembroke table dedicated to
the Fine Arts, on which were a kaleidoscope, conversation-cards,
puzzle-cards (tied together to an interminable length with faded pink
satin ribbon), and a box painted in fond imitation of the drawings which
decorate tea-chests. Carlo lay on the worsted-worked rug, and
ungraciously barked at us as we entered. Mrs Jamieson stood up, giving
us each a torpid smile of welcome, and looking helplessly beyond us at
Mr Mulliner, as if she hoped he would place us in chairs, for, if he did
not, she never could. I suppose he thought we could find our way to the
circle round the fire, which reminded me of Stonehenge, I don’t know
why. Lady Glenmire came to the rescue of our hostess, and, somehow or
other, we found ourselves for the first time placed agreeably, and not
formally, in Mrs Jamieson’s house. Lady Glenmire, now we had time to
look at her, proved to be a bright little woman of middle age, who had
been very pretty in the days of her youth, and who was even yet very
pleasant-looking. I saw Miss Pole appraising her dress in the first
five minutes, and I take her word when she said the next day—
“My dear! ten pounds would have purchased every stitch she had on—lace
and all.”
It was pleasant to suspect that a peeress could be poor, and partly
reconciled us to the fact that her husband had never sat in the House of
Lords; which, when we first heard of it, seemed a kind of swindling us
out of our prospects on false pretences; a sort of “A Lord and No Lord”
business.
We were all very silent at first. We were thinking what we could talk
about, that should be high enough to interest My Lady. There had been a
rise in the price of sugar, which, as preserving-time was near, was a
piece of intelligence to all our house-keeping hearts, and would have
been the natural topic if Lady Glenmire had not been by. But we were
not sure if the peerage ate preserves—much less knew how they were made.
At last, Miss Pole, who had always a great deal of courage and _savoir
faire_, spoke to Lady Glenmire, who on her part had seemed just as much
puzzled to know how to break the silence as we were.
“Has your ladyship been to Court lately?” asked she; and then gave a
little glance round at us, half timid and half triumphant, as much as to
say, “See how judiciously I have chosen a subject befitting the rank of
the stranger.”
“I never was there in my life,” said Lady Glenmire, with a broad Scotch
accent, but in a very sweet voice. And then, as if she had been too
abrupt, she added: “We very seldom went to London—only twice, in fact,
during all my married life; and before I was married my father had far
too large a family” (fifth daughter of Mr Campbell was in all our minds,
I am sure) “to take us often from our home, even to Edinburgh. Ye’ll
have been in Edinburgh, maybe?” said she, suddenly brightening up with
the hope of a common interest. We had none of us been there; but Miss
Pole had an uncle who once had passed a night there, which was very
pleasant.
Mrs Jamieson, meanwhile, was absorbed in wonder why Mr Mulliner did not
bring the tea; and at length the wonder oozed out of her mouth.
“I had better ring the bell, my dear, had not I?” said Lady Glenmire
briskly.
“No—I think not—Mulliner does not like to be hurried.”
We should have liked our tea, for we dined at an earlier hour than Mrs
Jamieson. I suspect Mr Mulliner had to finish the _St James’s
Chronicle_ before he chose to trouble himself about tea. His mistress
fidgeted and fidgeted, and kept saying, “I can’t think why Mulliner does
not bring tea. I can’t think what he can be about.” And Lady Glenmire
at last grew quite impatient, but it was a pretty kind of impatience
after all; and she rang the bell rather sharply, on receiving a
half-permission from her sister-in-law to do so. Mr Mulliner appeared
in dignified surprise. “Oh!” said Mrs Jamieson, “Lady Glenmire rang the
bell; I believe it was for tea.”
In a few minutes tea was brought. Very delicate was the china, very old
the plate, very thin the bread and butter, and very small the lumps of
sugar. Sugar was evidently Mrs Jamieson’s favourite economy. I
question if the little filigree sugar-tongs, made something like
scissors, could have opened themselves wide enough to take up an honest,
vulgar good-sized piece; and when I tried to seize two little minnikin
pieces at once, so as not to be detected in too many returns to the
sugar-basin, they absolutely dropped one, with a little sharp clatter,
quite in a malicious and unnatural manner. But before this happened we
had had a slight disappointment. In the little silver jug was cream, in
the larger one was milk. As soon as Mr Mulliner came in, Carlo began to
beg, which was a thing our manners forbade us to do, though I am sure we
were just as hungry; and Mrs Jamieson said she was certain we would
excuse her if she gave her poor dumb Carlo his tea first. She
accordingly mixed a saucerful for him, and put it down for him to lap;
and then she told us how intelligent and sensible the dear little fellow
was; he knew cream quite well, and constantly refused tea with only milk
in it: so the milk was left for us; but we silently thought we were
quite as intelligent and sensible as Carlo, and felt as if insult were
added to injury when we were called upon to admire the gratitude evinced
by his wagging his tail for the cream which should have been ours.
After tea we thawed down into common-life subjects. We were thankful to
Lady Glenmire for having proposed some more bread and butter, and this
mutual want made us better acquainted with her than we should ever have
been with talking about the Court, though Miss Pole did say she had
hoped to know how the dear Queen was from some one who had seen her.
The friendship begun over bread and butter extended on to cards. Lady
Glenmire played Preference to admiration, and was a complete authority
as to Ombre and Quadrille. Even Miss Pole quite forgot to say “my
lady,” and “your ladyship,” and said “Basto! ma’am”; “you have Spadille,