Cranford
clasped it, but did not speak a word. At last she said, with forced
composure in her voice, “If that bank goes wrong, I shall lose one
hundred and forty-nine pounds thirteen shillings and fourpence a year; I
shall only have thirteen pounds a year left.” I squeezed her hand hard
and tight. I did not know what to say. Presently (it was too dark to
see her face) I felt her fingers work convulsively in my grasp; and I
knew she was going to speak again. I heard the sobs in her voice as she
said, “I hope it’s not wrong—not wicked—but, oh! I am so glad poor
Deborah is spared this. She could not have borne to come down in the
world—she had such a noble, lofty spirit.”
This was all she said about the sister who had insisted upon investing
their little property in that unlucky bank. We were later in lighting
the candle than usual that night, and until that light shamed us into
speaking, we sat together very silently and sadly.
However, we took to our work after tea with a kind of forced
cheerfulness (which soon became real as far as it went), talking of that
never-ending wonder, Lady Glenmire’s engagement. Miss Matty was almost
coming round to think it a good thing.
“I don’t mean to deny that men are troublesome in a house. I don’t
judge from my own experience, for my father was neatness itself, and
wiped his shoes on coming in as carefully as any woman; but still a man
has a sort of knowledge of what should be done in difficulties, that it
is very pleasant to have one at hand ready to lean upon. Now, Lady
Glenmire, instead of being tossed about, and wondering where she is to
settle, will be certain of a home among pleasant and kind people, such
as our good Miss Pole and Mrs Forrester. And Mr Hoggins is really a
very personable man; and as for his manners, why, if they are not very
polished, I have known people with very good hearts and very clever
minds too, who were not what some people reckoned refined, but who were
both true and tender.”
She fell off into a soft reverie about Mr Holbrook, and I did not
interrupt her, I was so busy maturing a plan I had had in my mind for
some days, but which this threatened failure of the bank had brought to
a crisis. That night, after Miss Matty went to bed, I treacherously
lighted the candle again, and sat down in the drawing-room to compose a
letter to the Aga Jenkyns, a letter which should affect him if he were
Peter, and yet seem a mere statement of dry facts if he were a stranger.
The church clock pealed out two before I had done.
The next morning news came, both official and otherwise, that the Town
and County Bank had stopped payment. Miss Matty was ruined.
She tried to speak quietly to me; but when she came to the actual fact
that she would have but about five shillings a week to live upon, she
could not restrain a few tears.
“I am not crying for myself, dear,” said she, wiping them away; “I
believe I am crying for the very silly thought of how my mother would
grieve if she could know; she always cared for us so much more than for
herself. But many a poor person has less, and I am not very
extravagant, and, thank God, when the neck of mutton, and Martha’s
wages, and the rent are paid, I have not a farthing owing. Poor Martha!
I think she’ll be sorry to leave me.”
Miss Matty smiled at me through her tears, and she would fain have had
me see only the smile, not the tears.
CHAPTER XIV.
FRIENDS IN NEED
IT was an example to me, and I fancy it might be to many others, to see
how immediately Miss Matty set about the retrenchment which she knew
to be right under her altered circumstances. While she went down to
speak to Martha, and break the intelligence to her, I stole out with
my letter to the Aga Jenkyns, and went to the signor’s lodgings to
obtain the exact address. I bound the signora to secrecy; and indeed
her military manners had a degree of shortness and reserve in them
which made her always say as little as possible, except when under the
pressure of strong excitement. Moreover (which made my secret doubly
sure), the signor was now so far recovered as to be looking forward
to travelling and conjuring again in the space of a few days, when
he, his wife, and little Phœbe would leave Cranford. Indeed, I found
him looking over a great black and red placard, in which the Signor
Brunoni’s accomplishments were set forth, and to which only the name
of the town where he would next display them was wanting. He and his
wife were so much absorbed in deciding where the red letters would come
in with most effect (it might have been the Rubric for that matter),
that it was some time before I could get my question asked privately,
and not before I had given several decisions, the wisdom of which I
questioned afterwards with equal sincerity as soon as the signor threw
in his doubts and reasons on the important subject. At last I got
the address, spelt by sound, and very queer it looked. I dropped it
in the post on my way home, and then for a minute I stood looking at
the wooden pane with a gaping slit which divided me from the letter
but a moment ago in my hand. It was gone from me like life, never to
be recalled. It would get tossed about on the sea, and stained with
sea-waves perhaps, and be carried among palm-trees, and scented with
all tropical fragrance; the little piece of paper, but an hour ago so
familiar and commonplace, had set out on its race to the strange wild
countries beyond the Ganges! But I could not afford to lose much time
on this speculation. I hastened home, that Miss Matty might not miss
me. Martha opened the door to me, her face swollen with crying. As
soon as she saw me she burst out afresh, and taking hold of my arm she
pulled me in, and banged the door to, in order to ask me if indeed it
was all true that Miss Matty had been saying.
“I’ll never leave her! No; I won’t. I telled her so, and said I could
not think how she could find in her heart to give me warning. I could
not have had the face to do it, if I’d been her. I might ha’ been just
as good for nothing as Mrs Fitz-Adam’s Rosy, who struck for wages after
living seven years and a half in one place. I said I was not one to go
and serve Mammon at that rate; that I knew when I’d got a good missus,
if she didn’t know when she’d got a good servant”—
“But, Martha,” said I, cutting in while she wiped her eyes.
“Don’t, ‘but Martha’ me,” she replied to my deprecatory tone.
“Listen to reason”—
“I’ll not listen to reason,” she said, now in full possession of her
voice, which had been rather choked with sobbing. “Reason always means
what someone else has got to say. Now I think what I’ve got to say is
good enough reason; but reason or not, I’ll say it, and I’ll stick to
it. I’ve money in the Savings Bank, and I’ve a good stock of clothes,
and I’m not going to leave Miss Matty. No, not if she gives me warning
every hour in the day!”
She put her arms akimbo, as much as to say she defied me; and, indeed, I
could hardly tell how to begin to remonstrate with her, so much did I
feel that Miss Matty, in her increasing infirmity, needed the attendance
of this kind and faithful woman.
“Well”—said I at last.
“I’m thankful you begin with ‘well!’ If you’d have begun with ‘but,’ as
you did afore, I’d not ha’ listened to you. Now you may go on.”
“I know you would be a great loss to Miss Matty, Martha”—
“I telled her so. A loss she’d never cease to be sorry for,” broke in
Martha triumphantly.
“Still, she will have so little—so very little—to live upon, that I
don’t see just now how she could find you food—she will even be pressed
for her own. I tell you this, Martha, because I feel you are like a
friend to dear Miss Matty, but you know she might not like to have it
spoken about.”
Apparently this was even a blacker view of the subject than Miss Matty
had presented to her, for Martha just sat down on the first chair that
came to hand, and cried out loud (we had been standing in the kitchen).
At last she put her apron down, and looking me earnestly in the face,
asked, “Was that the reason Miss Matty wouldn’t order a pudding to-day?
She said she had no great fancy for sweet things, and you and she would
just have a mutton chop. But I’ll be up to her. Never you tell, but
I’ll make her a pudding, and a pudding she’ll like, too, and I’ll pay
for it myself; so mind you see she eats it. Many a one has been
comforted in their sorrow by seeing a good dish come upon the table.”
I was rather glad that Martha’s energy had taken the immediate and
practical direction of pudding-making, for it staved off the quarrelsome
discussion as to whether she should or should not leave Miss Matty’s
service. She began to tie on a clean apron, and otherwise prepare
herself for going to the shop for the butter, eggs, and what else she
might require. She would not use a scrap of the articles already in the
house for her cookery, but went to an old tea-pot in which her private
store of money was deposited, and took out what she wanted.
I found Miss Matty very quiet, and not a little sad; but by-and-by she
tried to smile for my sake. It was settled that I was to write to my
father, and ask him to come over and hold a consultation, and as soon as
this letter was despatched we began to talk over future plans. Miss
Matty’s idea was to take a single room, and retain as much of her
furniture as would be necessary to fit up this, and sell the rest, and
there to quietly exist upon what would remain after paying the rent.
For my part, I was more ambitious and less contented. I thought of all
the things by which a woman, past middle age, and with the education
common to ladies fifty years ago, could earn or add to a living without
materially losing caste; but at length I put even this last clause on
one side, and wondered what in the world Miss Matty could do.
Teaching was, of course, the first thing that suggested itself. If Miss
Matty could teach children anything, it would throw her among the little
elves in whom her soul delighted. I ran over her accomplishments. Once
upon a time I had heard her say she could play “Ah! vous dirai-je,
maman?” on the piano, but that was long, long ago; that faint shadow of
musical acquirement had died out years before. She had also once been
able to trace out patterns very nicely for muslin embroidery, by dint of
placing a piece of silver paper over the design to be copied, and
holding both against the window-pane while she marked the scollop and
eyelet-holes. But that was her nearest approach to the accomplishment
of drawing, and I did not think it would go very far. Then again, as to
the branches of a solid English education—fancy work and the use of the
globes—such as the mistress of the Ladies’ Seminary, to which all the
tradespeople in Cranford sent their daughters, professed to teach. Miss
Matty’s eyes were failing her, and I doubted if she could discover the
number of threads in a worsted-work pattern, or rightly appreciate the
different shades required for Queen Adelaide’s face in the loyal
wool-work now fashionable in Cranford. As for the use of the globes, I
had never been able to find it out myself, so perhaps I was not a good
judge of Miss Matty’s capability of instructing in this branch of
education; but it struck me that equators and tropics, and such mystical
circles, were very imaginary lines indeed to her, and that she looked
upon the signs of the Zodiac as so many remnants of the Black Art.
What she piqued herself upon, as arts in which she excelled, was making
candle-lighters, or “spills” (as she preferred calling them), of
coloured paper, cut so as to resemble feathers, and knitting garters in
a variety of dainty stitches. I had once said, on receiving a present