Cranford
buy, so as to gain time, and, as it happened, his eye caught on the
almond-comfits, and he boldly asked for a pound of “those things.” I
doubt if Miss Matty had a whole pound in the shop, and, besides the
unusual magnitude of the order, she was distressed with the idea of the
indigestion they would produce, taken in such unlimited quantities. She
looked up to remonstrate. Something of tender relaxation in his face
struck home to her heart. She said, “It is—oh, sir! can you be Peter?”
and trembled from head to foot. In a moment he was round the table and
had her in his arms, sobbing the tearless cries of old age. I brought
her a glass of wine, for indeed her colour had changed so as to alarm me
and Mr Peter too. He kept saying, “I have been too sudden for you,
Matty—I have, my little girl.”
I proposed that she should go at once up into the drawing-room and lie
down on the sofa there. She looked wistfully at her brother, whose hand
she had held tight, even when nearly fainting; but on his assuring her
that he would not leave her, she allowed him to carry her upstairs.
I thought that the best I could do was to run and put the kettle on the
fire for early tea, and then to attend to the shop, leaving the brother
and sister to exchange some of the many thousand things they must have
to say. I had also to break the news to Martha, who received it with a
burst of tears which nearly infected me. She kept recovering herself to
ask if I was sure it was indeed Miss Matty’s brother, for I had
mentioned that he had grey hair, and she had always heard that he was a
very handsome young man. Something of the same kind perplexed Miss
Matty at tea-time, when she was installed in the great easy-chair
opposite to Mr Jenkyns in order to gaze her fill. She could hardly
drink for looking at him, and as for eating, that was out of the
question.
“I suppose hot climates age people very quickly,” said she, almost to
herself. “When you left Cranford you had not a grey hair in your head.”
“But how many years ago is that?” said Mr Peter, smiling.
“Ah, true! yes, I suppose you and I are getting old. But still I did
not think we were so very old! But white hair is very becoming to you,
Peter,” she continued—a little afraid lest she had hurt him by revealing
how his appearance had impressed her.
“I suppose I forgot dates too, Matty, for what do you think I have
brought for you from India? I have an Indian muslin gown and a pearl
necklace for you somewhere in my chest at Portsmouth.” He smiled as if
amused at the idea of the incongruity of his presents with the
appearance of his sister; but this did not strike her all at once, while
the elegance of the articles did. I could see that for a moment her
imagination dwelt complacently on the idea of herself thus attired; and
instinctively she put her hand up to her throat—that little delicate
throat which (as Miss Pole had told me) had been one of her youthful
charms; but the hand met the touch of folds of soft muslin in which she
was always swathed up to her chin, and the sensation recalled a sense of
the unsuitableness of a pearl necklace to her age. She said, “I’m
afraid I’m too old; but it was very kind of you to think of it. They
are just what I should have liked years ago—when I was young.”
“So I thought, my little Matty. I remembered your tastes; they were so
like my dear mother’s.” At the mention of that name the brother and
sister clasped each other’s hands yet more fondly, and, although they
were perfectly silent, I fancied they might have something to say if
they were unchecked by my presence, and I got up to arrange my room for
Mr Peter’s occupation that night, intending myself to share Miss Matty’s
bed. But at my movement, he started up. “I must go and settle about a
room at the ‘George.’ My carpet-bag is there too.”
“No!” said Miss Matty, in great distress—“you must not go; please, dear
Peter—pray, Mary—oh! you must not go!”
She was so much agitated that we both promised everything she wished.
Peter sat down again and gave her his hand, which for better security
she held in both of hers, and I left the room to accomplish my
arrangements.
Long, long into the night, far, far into the morning, did Miss Matty and
I talk. She had much to tell me of her brother’s life and adventures,
which he had communicated to her as they had sat alone. She said all
was thoroughly clear to her; but I never quite understood the whole
story; and when in after days I lost my awe of Mr Peter enough to
question him myself, he laughed at my curiosity, and told me stories
that sounded so very much like Baron Munchausen’s, that I was sure he
was making fun of me. What I heard from Miss Matty was that he had been
a volunteer at the siege of Rangoon; had been taken prisoner by the
Burmese; and somehow obtained favour and eventual freedom from knowing
how to bleed the chief of the small tribe in some case of dangerous
illness; that on his release from years of captivity he had had his
letters returned from England with the ominous word “Dead” marked upon
them; and, believing himself to be the last of his race, he had settled
down as an indigo planter, and had proposed to spend the remainder of
his life in the country to whose inhabitants and modes of life he had
become habituated, when my letter had reached him; and, with the odd
vehemence which characterised him in age as it had done in youth, he had
sold his land and all his possessions to the first purchaser, and come
home to the poor old sister, who was more glad and rich than any
princess when she looked at him. She talked me to sleep at last, and
then I was awakened by a slight sound at the door, for which she begged
my pardon as she crept penitently into bed; but it seems that when I
could no longer confirm her belief that the long-lost was really
here—under the same roof—she had begun to fear lest it was only a waking
dream of hers; that there never had been a Peter sitting by her all that
blessed evening—but that the real Peter lay dead far away beneath some
wild sea-wave, or under some strange eastern tree. And so strong had
this nervous feeling of hers become, that she was fain to get up and go
and convince herself that he was really there by listening through the
door to his even, regular breathing—I don’t like to call it snoring, but
I heard it myself through two closed doors—and by-and-by it soothed Miss
Matty to sleep.
I don’t believe Mr Peter came home from India as rich as a nabob; he
even considered himself poor, but neither he nor Miss Matty cared much
about that. At any rate, he had enough to live upon “very genteelly” at
Cranford; he and Miss Matty together. And a day or two after his
arrival, the shop was closed, while troops of little urchins gleefully
awaited the shower of comfits and lozenges that came from time to time
down upon their faces as they stood up-gazing at Miss Matty’s
drawing-room windows. Occasionally Miss Matty would say to them
(half-hidden behind the curtains), “My dear children, don’t make
yourselves ill;” but a strong arm pulled her back, and a more rattling
shower than ever succeeded. A part of the tea was sent in presents to
the Cranford ladies; and some of it was distributed among the old people
who remembered Mr Peter in the days of his frolicsome youth. The Indian
muslin gown was reserved for darling Flora Gordon (Miss Jessie Brown’s
daughter). The Gordons had been on the Continent for the last few
years, but were now expected to return very soon; and Miss Matty, in her
sisterly pride, anticipated great delight in the joy of showing them Mr
Peter. The pearl necklace disappeared; and about that time many
handsome and useful presents made their appearance in the households of
Miss Pole and Mrs Forrester; and some rare and delicate Indian ornaments
graced the drawing-rooms of Mrs Jamieson and Mrs Fitz-Adam. I myself
was not forgotten. Among other things, I had the handsomest-bound and
best edition of Dr Johnson’s works that could be procured; and dear Miss
Matty, with tears in her eyes, begged me to consider it as a present
from her sister as well as herself. In short, no one was forgotten;
and, what was more, every one, however insignificant, who had shown
kindness to Miss Matty at any time, was sure of Mr Peter’s cordial
regard.
CHAPTER XVI.
PEACE TO CRANFORD
IT was not surprising that Mr Peter became such a favourite at Cranford.
The ladies vied with each other who should admire him most; and no
wonder, for their quiet lives were astonishingly stirred up by the
arrival from India—especially as the person arrived told more wonderful
stories than Sindbad the Sailor; and, as Miss Pole said, was quite as
good as an Arabian Night any evening. For my own part, I had vibrated
all my life between Drumble and Cranford, and I thought it was quite
possible that all Mr Peter’s stories might be true, although wonderful;
but when I found that, if we swallowed an anecdote of tolerable
magnitude one week, we had the dose considerably increased the next, I
began to have my doubts; especially as I noticed that when his sister
was present the accounts of Indian life were comparatively tame; not
that she knew more than we did, perhaps less. I noticed also that when
the rector came to call, Mr Peter talked in a different way about the
countries he had been in. But I don’t think the ladies in Cranford
would have considered him such a wonderful traveller if they had only
heard him talk in the quiet way he did to him. They liked him the
better, indeed, for being what they called “so very Oriental.”
One day, at a select party in his honour, which Miss Pole gave, and from
which, as Mrs Jamieson honoured it with her presence, and had even
offered to send Mr Mulliner to wait, Mr and Mrs Hoggins and Mrs
Fitz-Adam were necessarily excluded—one day at Miss Pole’s, Mr Peter
said he was tired of sitting upright against the hard-backed uneasy
chairs, and asked if he might not indulge himself in sitting
cross-legged. Miss Pole’s consent was eagerly given, and down he went
with the utmost gravity. But when Miss Pole asked me, in an audible
whisper, “if he did not remind me of the Father of the Faithful?” I
could not help thinking of poor Simon Jones, the lame tailor, and while
Mrs Jamieson slowly commented on the elegance and convenience of the
attitude, I remembered how we had all followed that lady’s lead in
condemning Mr Hoggins for vulgarity because he simply crossed his legs
as he sat still on his chair. Many of Mr Peter’s ways of eating were a
little strange amongst such ladies as Miss Pole, and Miss Matty, and Mrs
Jamieson, especially when I recollected the untasted green peas and
two-pronged forks at poor Mr Holbrook’s dinner.
The mention of that gentleman’s name recalls to my mind a conversation
between Mr Peter and Miss Matty one evening in the summer after he
returned to Cranford. The day had been very hot, and Miss Matty had
been much oppressed by the weather, in the heat of which her brother
revelled. I remember that she had been unable to nurse Martha’s baby,
which had become her favourite employment of late, and which was as much
at home in her arms as in its mother’s, as long as it remained a
light-weight, portable by one so fragile as Miss Matty. This day to
which I refer, Miss Matty had seemed more than usually feeble and
languid, and only revived when the sun went down, and her sofa was
wheeled to the open window, through which, although it looked into the
principal street of Cranford, the fragrant smell of the neighbouring
hayfields came in every now and then, borne by the soft breezes that
stirred the dull air of the summer twilight, and then died away. The
silence of the sultry atmosphere was lost in the murmuring noises which