Cranford
of an elaborate pair, that I should feel quite tempted to drop one of
them in the street, in order to have it admired; but I found this little
joke (and it was a very little one) was such a distress to her sense of
propriety, and was taken with such anxious, earnest alarm, lest the
temptation might some day prove too strong for me, that I quite
regretted having ventured upon it. A present of these
delicately-wrought garters, a bunch of gay “spills,” or a set of cards
on which sewing-silk was wound in a mystical manner, were the well-known
tokens of Miss Matty’s favour. But would any one pay to have their
children taught these arts? or, indeed, would Miss Matty sell, for
filthy lucre, the knack and the skill with which she made trifles of
value to those who loved her?
I had to come down to reading, writing, and arithmetic; and, in reading
the chapter every morning, she always coughed before coming to long
words. I doubted her power of getting through a genealogical chapter,
with any number of coughs. Writing she did well and delicately—but
spelling! She seemed to think that the more out-of-the-way this was,
and the more trouble it cost her, the greater the compliment she paid to
her correspondent; and words that she would spell quite correctly in her
letters to me became perfect enigmas when she wrote to my father.
No! there was nothing she could teach to the rising generation of
Cranford, unless they had been quick learners and ready imitators of her
patience, her humility, her sweetness, her quiet contentment with all
that she could not do. I pondered and pondered until dinner was
announced by Martha, with a face all blubbered and swollen with crying.
Miss Matty had a few little peculiarities which Martha was apt to regard
as whims below her attention, and appeared to consider as childish
fancies of which an old lady of fifty-eight should try and cure herself.
But to-day everything was attended to with the most careful regard. The
bread was cut to the imaginary pattern of excellence that existed in
Miss Matty’s mind, as being the way which her mother had preferred, the
curtain was drawn so as to exclude the dead brick wall of a neighbour’s
stable, and yet left so as to show every tender leaf of the poplar which
was bursting into spring beauty. Martha’s tone to Miss Matty was just
such as that good, rough-spoken servant usually kept sacred for little
children, and which I had never heard her use to any grown-up person.
I had forgotten to tell Miss Matty about the pudding, and I was afraid
she might not do justice to it, for she had evidently very little
appetite this day; so I seized the opportunity of letting her into the
secret while Martha took away the meat. Miss Matty’s eyes filled with
tears, and she could not speak, either to express surprise or delight,
when Martha returned bearing it aloft, made in the most wonderful
representation of a lion _couchant_ that ever was moulded. Martha’s
face gleamed with triumph as she set it down before Miss Matty with an
exultant “There!” Miss Matty wanted to speak her thanks, but could not;
so she took Martha’s hand and shook it warmly, which set Martha off
crying, and I myself could hardly keep up the necessary composure.
Martha burst out of the room, and Miss Matty had to clear her voice once
or twice before she could speak. At last she said, “I should like to
keep this pudding under a glass shade, my dear!” and the notion of the
lion _couchant_, with his currant eyes, being hoisted up to the place of
honour on a mantelpiece, tickled my hysterical fancy, and I began to
laugh, which rather surprised Miss Matty.
“I am sure, dear, I have seen uglier things under a glass shade before
now,” said she.
So had I, many a time and oft, and I accordingly composed my countenance
(and now I could hardly keep from crying), and we both fell to upon the
pudding, which was indeed excellent—only every morsel seemed to choke
us, our hearts were so full.
We had too much to think about to talk much that afternoon. It passed
over very tranquilly. But when the tea-urn was brought in a new thought
came into my head. Why should not Miss Matty sell tea—be an agent to
the East India Tea Company which then existed? I could see no
objections to this plan, while the advantages were many—always supposing
that Miss Matty could get over the degradation of condescending to
anything like trade. Tea was neither greasy nor sticky—grease and
stickiness being two of the qualities which Miss Matty could not endure.
No shop-window would be required. A small, genteel notification of her
being licensed to sell tea would, it is true, be necessary, but I hoped
that it could be placed where no one would see it. Neither was tea a
heavy article, so as to tax Miss Matty’s fragile strength. The only
thing against my plan was the buying and selling involved.
While I was giving but absent answers to the questions Miss Matty was
putting—almost as absently—we heard a clumping sound on the stairs, and
a whispering outside the door, which indeed once opened and shut as if
by some invisible agency. After a little while Martha came in, dragging
after her a great tall young man, all crimson with shyness, and finding
his only relief in perpetually sleeking down his hair.
“Please, ma’am, he’s only Jem Hearn,” said Martha, by way of an
introduction; and so out of breath was she that I imagine she had had
some bodily struggle before she could overcome his reluctance to be
presented on the courtly scene of Miss Matilda Jenkyns’s drawing-room.
“And please, ma’am, he wants to marry me off-hand. And please, ma’am,
we want to take a lodger—just one quiet lodger, to make our two ends
meet; and we’d take any house conformable; and, oh dear Miss Matty, if I
may be so bold, would you have any objections to lodging with us? Jem
wants it as much as I do.” [To Jem ]—“You great oaf! why can’t you back
me!—But he does want it all the same, very bad—don’t you, Jem?—only, you
see, he’s dazed at being called on to speak before quality.”
[Picture: Please, ma’am, he wants to marry me off-hand]
“It’s not that,” broke in Jem. “It’s that you’ve taken me all on a
sudden, and I didn’t think for to get married so soon—and such quick
words does flabbergast a man. It’s not that I’m against it, ma’am”
(addressing Miss Matty), “only Martha has such quick ways with her when
once she takes a thing into her head; and marriage, ma’am—marriage nails
a man, as one may say. I dare say I shan’t mind it after it’s once
over.”
“Please, ma’am,” said Martha—who had plucked at his sleeve, and nudged
him with her elbow, and otherwise tried to interrupt him all the time
he had been speaking—“don’t mind him, he’ll come to; ’twas only last
night he was an-axing me, and an-axing me, and all the more because I
said I could not think of it for years to come, and now he’s only taken
aback with the suddenness of the joy; but you know, Jem, you are just as
full as me about wanting a lodger.” (Another great nudge.)
“Ay! if Miss Matty would lodge with us—otherwise I’ve no mind to be
cumbered with strange folk in the house,” said Jem, with a want of tact
which I could see enraged Martha, who was trying to represent a lodger
as the great object they wished to obtain, and that, in fact, Miss Matty
would be smoothing their path and conferring a favour, if she would only
come and live with them.
Miss Matty herself was bewildered by the pair; their, or rather Martha’s
sudden resolution in favour of matrimony staggered her, and stood
between her and the contemplation of the plan which Martha had at heart.
Miss Matty began—
“Marriage is a very solemn thing, Martha.”
“It is indeed, ma’am,” quoth Jem. “Not that I’ve no objections to
Martha.”
“You’ve never let me a-be for asking me for to fix when I would be
married,” said Martha—her face all a-fire, and ready to cry with
vexation—“and now you’re shaming me before my missus and all.”
“Nay, now! Martha don’t ee! don’t ee! only a man likes to have
breathing-time,” said Jem, trying to possess himself of her hand, but in
vain. Then seeing that she was more seriously hurt than he had
imagined, he seemed to try to rally his scattered faculties, and with
more straightforward dignity than, ten minutes before, I should have
thought it possible for him to assume, he turned to Miss Matty, and
said, “I hope, ma’am, you know that I am bound to respect every one who
has been kind to Martha. I always looked on her as to be my wife—some
time; and she has often and often spoken of you as the kindest lady that
ever was; and though the plain truth is, I would not like to be troubled
with lodgers of the common run, yet if, ma’am, you’d honour us by living
with us, I’m sure Martha would do her best to make you comfortable; and
I’d keep out of your way as much as I could, which I reckon would be the
best kindness such an awkward chap as me could do.”
Miss Matty had been very busy with taking off her spectacles, wiping
them, and replacing them; but all she could say was, “Don’t let any
thought of me hurry you into marriage: pray don’t. Marriage is such a
very solemn thing!”
“But Miss Matilda will think of your plan, Martha,” said I, struck with
the advantages that it offered, and unwilling to lose the opportunity of
considering about it. “And I’m sure neither she nor I can ever forget
your kindness; nor yours either, Jem.”
“Why, yes, ma’am! I’m sure I mean kindly, though I’m a bit fluttered by
being pushed straight ahead into matrimony, as it were, and mayn’t
express myself conformable. But I’m sure I’m willing enough, and give
me time to get accustomed; so, Martha, wench, what’s the use of crying
so, and slapping me if I come near?”
This last was _sotto voce_, and had the effect of making Martha bounce
out of the room, to be followed and soothed by her lover. Whereupon
Miss Matty sat down and cried very heartily, and accounted for it by
saying that the thought of Martha being married so soon gave her quite a
shock, and that she should never forgive herself if she thought she was
hurrying the poor creature. I think my pity was more for Jem, of the
two; but both Miss Matty and I appreciated to the full the kindness of
the honest couple, although we said little about this, and a good deal
about the chances and dangers of matrimony.
The next morning, very early, I received a note from Miss Pole, so
mysteriously wrapped up, and with so many seals on it to secure secrecy,
that I had to tear the paper before I could unfold it. And when I came
to the writing I could hardly understand the meaning, it was so involved
and oracular. I made out, however, that I was to go to Miss Pole’s at
eleven o’clock; the number _eleven_ being written in full length as well
as in numerals, and _A.M._ twice dashed under, as if I were very likely
to come at eleven at night, when all Cranford was usually abed and
asleep by ten. There was no signature except Miss Pole’s initials
reversed, P.E.; but as Martha had given me the note, “with Miss Pole’s
kind regards,” it needed no wizard to find out who sent it; and if the
writer’s name was to be kept secret, it was very well that I was alone
when Martha delivered it.
I went as requested to Miss Pole’s. The door was opened to me by her
little maid Lizzy in Sunday trim, as if some grand event was impending
over this work-day. And the drawing-room upstairs was arranged in
accordance with this idea. The table was set out with the best green
card-cloth, and writing materials upon it. On the little chiffonier was
a tray with a newly-decanted bottle of cowslip wine, and some
ladies’-finger biscuits. Miss Pole herself was in solemn array, as if
to receive visitors, although it was only eleven o’clock. Mrs Forrester