Cranford
The money which he had paid, and that produced by the sale, was partly
expended in the stock of tea, and part of it was invested against a
rainy day—_i.e._ old age or illness. It was but a small sum, it is
true; and it occasioned a few evasions of truth and white lies (all of
which I think very wrong indeed—in theory—and would rather not put them
in practice), for we knew Miss Matty would be perplexed as to her duty
if she were aware of any little reserve-fund being made for her while
the debts of the bank remained unpaid. Moreover, she had never been
told of the way in which her friends were contributing to pay the rent.
I should have liked to tell her this, but the mystery of the affair gave
a piquancy to their deed of kindness which the ladies were unwilling to
give up; and at first Martha had to shirk many a perplexed question as
to her ways and means of living in such a house, but by-and-by Miss
Matty’s prudent uneasiness sank down into acquiescence with the existing
arrangement.
I left Miss Matty with a good heart. Her sales of tea during the first
two days had surpassed my most sanguine expectations. The whole country
round seemed to be all out of tea at once. The only alteration I could
have desired in Miss Matty’s way of doing business was, that she should
not have so plaintively entreated some of her customers not to buy green
tea—running it down as a slow poison, sure to destroy the nerves, and
produce all manner of evil. Their pertinacity in taking it, in spite of
all her warnings, distressed her so much that I really thought she would
relinquish the sale of it, and so lose half her custom; and I was driven
to my wits’ end for instances of longevity entirely attributable to a
persevering use of green tea. But the final argument, which settled the
question, was a happy reference of mine to the train-oil and tallow
candles which the Esquimaux not only enjoy but digest. After that she
acknowledged that “one man’s meat might be another man’s poison,” and
contented herself thence-forward with an occasional remonstrance when
she thought the purchaser was too young and innocent to be acquainted
with the evil effects green tea produced on some constitutions, and an
habitual sigh when people old enough to choose more wisely would prefer
it.
I went over from Drumble once a quarter at least to settle the accounts,
and see after the necessary business letters. And, speaking of letters,
I began to be very much ashamed of remembering my letter to the Aga
Jenkyns, and very glad I had never named my writing to any one. I only
hoped the letter was lost. No answer came. No sign was made.
About a year after Miss Matty set up shop, I received one of Martha’s
hieroglyphics, begging me to come to Cranford very soon. I was afraid
that Miss Matty was ill, and went off that very afternoon, and took
Martha by surprise when she saw me on opening the door. We went into
the kitchen as usual, to have our confidential conference, and then
Martha told me she was expecting her confinement very soon—in a week or
two; and she did not think Miss Matty was aware of it, and she wanted me
to break the news to her, “for indeed, miss,” continued Martha, crying
hysterically, “I’m afraid she won’t approve of it, and I’m sure I don’t
know who is to take care of her as she should be taken care of when I am
laid up.”
I comforted Martha by telling her I would remain till she was about
again, and only wished she had told me her reason for this sudden
summons, as then I would have brought the requisite stock of clothes.
But Martha was so tearful and tender-spirited, and unlike her usual
self, that I said as little as possible about myself, and endeavoured
rather to comfort Martha under all the probable and possible misfortunes
which came crowding upon her imagination.
I then stole out of the house-door, and made my appearance as if I were
a customer in the shop, just to take Miss Matty by surprise, and gain an
idea of how she looked in her new situation. It was warm May weather,
so only the little half-door was closed; and Miss Matty sat behind the
counter, knitting an elaborate pair of garters; elaborate they seemed to
me, but the difficult stitch was no weight upon her mind, for she was
singing in a low voice to herself as her needles went rapidly in and
out. I call it singing, but I dare say a musician would not use that
word to the tuneless yet sweet humming of the low worn voice. I found
out from the words, far more than from the attempt at the tune, that it
was the Old Hundredth she was crooning to herself; but the quiet
continuous sound told of content, and gave me a pleasant feeling, as I
stood in the street just outside the door, quite in harmony with that
soft May morning. I went in. At first she did not catch who it was,
and stood up as if to serve me; but in another minute watchful pussy had
clutched her knitting, which was dropped in eager joy at seeing me. I
found, after we had had a little conversation, that it was as Martha
said, and that Miss Matty had no idea of the approaching household
event. So I thought I would let things take their course, secure that
when I went to her with the baby in my arms, I should obtain that
forgiveness for Martha which she was needlessly frightening herself into
believing that Miss Matty would withhold, under some notion that the new
claimant would require attentions from its mother that it would be
faithless treason to Miss Matty to render.
But I was right. I think that must be an hereditary quality, for my
father says he is scarcely ever wrong. One morning, within a week after
I arrived, I went to call Miss Matty, with a little bundle of flannel in
my arms. She was very much awestruck when I showed her what it was, and
asked for her spectacles off the dressing-table, and looked at it
curiously, with a sort of tender wonder at its small perfection of
parts. She could not banish the thought of the surprise all day, but
went about on tiptoe, and was very silent. But she stole up to see
Martha and they both cried with joy, and she got into a complimentary
speech to Jem, and did not know how to get out of it again, and was only
extricated from her dilemma by the sound of the shop-bell, which was an
equal relief to the shy, proud, honest Jem, who shook my hand so
vigorously when I congratulated him, that I think I feel the pain of it
yet.
[Picture: I went to call Miss Matty]
I had a busy life while Martha was laid up. I attended on Miss Matty,
and prepared her meals; I cast up her accounts, and examined into the
state of her canisters and tumblers. I helped her, too, occasionally,
in the shop; and it gave me no small amusement, and sometimes a little
uneasiness, to watch her ways there. If a little child came in to ask
for an ounce of almond-comfits (and four of the large kind which Miss
Matty sold weighed that much), she always added one more by “way of
make-weight,” as she called it, although the scale was handsomely turned
before; and when I remonstrated against this, her reply was, “The little
things like it so much!” There was no use in telling her that the fifth
comfit weighed a quarter of an ounce, and made every sale into a loss to
her pocket. So I remembered the green tea, and winged my shaft with a
feather out of her own plumage. I told her how unwholesome
almond-comfits were, and how ill excess in them might make the little
children. This argument produced some effect; for, henceforward,
instead of the fifth comfit, she always told them to hold out their tiny
palms, into which she shook either peppermint or ginger lozenges, as a
preventive to the dangers that might arise from the previous sale.
Altogether the lozenge trade, conducted on these principles, did not
promise to be remunerative; but I was happy to find she had made more
than twenty pounds during the last year by her sales of tea; and,
moreover, that now she was accustomed to it, she did not dislike the
employment, which brought her into kindly intercourse with many of the
people round about. If she gave them good weight, they, in their turn,
brought many a little country present to the “old rector’s daughter”; a
cream cheese, a few new-laid eggs, a little fresh ripe fruit, a bunch of
flowers. The counter was quite loaded with these offerings sometimes,
as she told me.
As for Cranford in general, it was going on much as usual. The Jamieson
and Hoggins feud still raged, if a feud it could be called, when only
one side cared much about it. Mr and Mrs Hoggins were very happy
together, and, like most very happy people, quite ready to be friendly;
indeed, Mrs Hoggins was really desirous to be restored to Mrs Jamieson’s
good graces, because of the former intimacy. But Mrs Jamieson
considered their very happiness an insult to the Glenmire family, to
which she had still the honour to belong, and she doggedly refused and
rejected every advance. Mr Mulliner, like a faithful clansman, espoused
his mistress’s side with ardour. If he saw either Mr or Mrs Hoggins, he
would cross the street, and appear absorbed in the contemplation of life
in general, and his own path in particular, until he had passed them by.
Miss Pole used to amuse herself with wondering what in the world Mrs
Jamieson would do, if either she, or Mr Mulliner, or any other member of
her household was taken ill; she could hardly have the face to call in
Mr Hoggins after the way she had behaved to them. Miss Pole grew quite
impatient for some indisposition or accident to befall Mrs Jamieson or
her dependents, in order that Cranford might see how she would act under
the perplexing circumstances.
Martha was beginning to go about again, and I had already fixed a limit,
not very far distant, to my visit, when one afternoon, as I was sitting
in the shop-parlour with Miss Matty—I remember the weather was colder
now than it had been in May, three weeks before, and we had a fire and
kept the door fully closed—we saw a gentleman go slowly past the window,
and then stand opposite to the door, as if looking out for the name
which we had so carefully hidden. He took out a double eyeglass and
peered about for some time before he could discover it. Then he came
in. And, all on a sudden, it flashed across me that it was the Aga
himself! For his clothes had an out-of-the-way foreign cut about them,
and his face was deep brown, as if tanned and re-tanned by the sun. His
complexion contrasted oddly with his plentiful snow-white hair, his eyes
were dark and piercing, and he had an odd way of contracting them and
puckering up his cheeks into innumerable wrinkles when he looked
earnestly at objects. He did so to Miss Matty when he first came in.
His glance had first caught and lingered a little upon me, but then
turned, with the peculiar searching look I have described, to Miss
Matty. She was a little fluttered and nervous, but no more so than she
always was when any man came into her shop. She thought that he would
probably have a note, or a sovereign at least, for which she would have
to give change, which was an operation she very much disliked to
perform. But the present customer stood opposite to her, without asking
for anything, only looking fixedly at her as he drummed upon the table
with his fingers, just for all the world as Miss Jenkyns used to do.
Miss Matty was on the point of asking him what he wanted (as she told me
afterwards), when he turned sharp to me: “Is your name Mary Smith?”
“Yes!” said I.
All my doubts as to his identity were set at rest, and I only wondered
what he would say or do next, and how Miss Matty would stand the joyful
shock of what he had to reveal. Apparently he was at a loss how to
announce himself, for he looked round at last in search of something to