Cranford Page #13

Cranford is an episodic novel by the English writer Elizabeth Gaskell. It first appeared in instalments in the magazine Household Words, then was published with minor revisions as a book with the title Cranford in 1853.

• Novel

								

after we had lost sight of the old house among the trees her sentiments
towards the master of it were gradually absorbed into a distressing
wonder as to whether Martha had broken her word, and seized on the
opportunity of her mistress’s absence to have a “follower.”  Martha
looked good, and steady, and composed enough, as she came to help us out;
she was always careful of Miss Matty, and to-night she made use of this
unlucky speech—

“Eh! dear ma’am, to think of your going out in an evening in such a thin
shawl!  It’s no better than muslin.  At your age, ma’am, you should be
careful.”

“My age!” said Miss Matty, almost speaking crossly, for her, for she was
usually gentle—“My age!  Why, how old do you think I am, that you talk
about my age?”

“Well, ma’am, I should say you were not far short of sixty: but folks’
looks is often against them—and I’m sure I meant no harm.”

“Martha, I’m not yet fifty-two!” said Miss Matty, with grave emphasis;
for probably the remembrance of her youth had come very vividly before
her this day, and she was annoyed at finding that golden time so far away
in the past.

But she never spoke of any former and more intimate acquaintance with Mr
Holbrook.  She had probably met with so little sympathy in her early
love, that she had shut it up close in her heart; and it was only by a
sort of watching, which I could hardly avoid since Miss Pole’s
confidence, that I saw how faithful her poor heart had been in its sorrow
and its silence.

She gave me some good reason for wearing her best cap every day, and sat
near the window, in spite of her rheumatism, in order to see, without
being seen, down into the street.

He came.  He put his open palms upon his knees, which were far apart, as
he sat with his head bent down, whistling, after we had replied to his
inquiries about our safe return.  Suddenly he jumped up—

“Well, madam! have you any commands for Paris?  I am going there in a
week or two.”

“To Paris!” we both exclaimed.

“Yes, madam!  I’ve never been there, and always had a wish to go; and I
think if I don’t go soon, I mayn’t go at all; so as soon as the hay is
got in I shall go, before harvest time.”

We were so much astonished that we had no commissions.

Just as he was going out of the room, he turned back, with his favourite
exclamation—

“God bless my soul, madam! but I nearly forgot half my errand.  Here are
the poems for you you admired so much the other evening at my house.”  He
tugged away at a parcel in his coat-pocket.  “Good-bye, miss,” said he;
“good-bye, Matty! take care of yourself.”  And he was gone.  But he had
given her a book, and he had called her Matty, just as he used to do
thirty years to.

“I wish he would not go to Paris,” said Miss Matilda anxiously.  “I don’t
believe frogs will agree with him; he used to have to be very careful
what he ate, which was curious in so strong-looking a young man.”

Soon after this I took my leave, giving many an injunction to Martha to
look after her mistress, and to let me know if she thought that Miss
Matilda was not so well; in which case I would volunteer a visit to my
old friend, without noticing Martha’s intelligence to her.

Accordingly I received a line or two from Martha every now and then; and,
about November I had a note to say her mistress was “very low and sadly
off her food”; and the account made me so uneasy that, although Martha
did not decidedly summon me, I packed up my things and went.

I received a warm welcome, in spite of the little flurry produced by my
impromptu visit, for I had only been able to give a day’s notice.  Miss
Matilda looked miserably ill; and I prepared to comfort and cosset her.

I went down to have a private talk with Martha.

“How long has your mistress been so poorly?” I asked, as I stood by the
kitchen fire.

“Well!  I think it’s better than a fortnight; it is, I know; it was one
Tuesday, after Miss Pole had been, that she went into this moping way.  I
thought she was tired, and it would go off with a night’s rest; but no!
she has gone on and on ever since, till I thought it my duty to write to
you, ma’am.”

“You did quite right, Martha.  It is a comfort to think she has so
faithful a servant about her.  And I hope you find your place
comfortable?”

“Well, ma’am, missus is very kind, and there’s plenty to eat and drink,
and no more work but what I can do easily—but—” Martha hesitated.

“But what, Martha?”

“Why, it seems so hard of missus not to let me have any followers;
there’s such lots of young fellows in the town; and many a one has as
much as offered to keep company with me; and I may never be in such a
likely place again, and it’s like wasting an opportunity.  Many a girl as
I know would have ’em unbeknownst to missus; but I’ve given my word, and
I’ll stick to it; or else this is just the house for missus never to be
the wiser if they did come: and it’s such a capable kitchen—there’s such
dark corners in it—I’d be bound to hide any one.  I counted up last
Sunday night—for I’ll not deny I was crying because I had to shut the
door in Jem Hearn’s face, and he’s a steady young man, fit for any girl;
only I had given missus my word.”  Martha was all but crying again; and I
had little comfort to give her, for I knew, from old experience, of the
horror with which both the Miss Jenkynses looked upon “followers”; and in
Miss Matty’s present nervous state this dread was not likely to be
lessened.

I went to see Miss Pole the next day, and took her completely by
surprise, for she had not been to see Miss Matilda for two days.

“And now I must go back with you, my dear, for I promised to let her know
how Thomas Holbrook went on; and, I’m sorry to say, his housekeeper has
sent me word to-day that he hasn’t long to live.  Poor Thomas! that
journey to Paris was quite too much for him.  His housekeeper says he has
hardly ever been round his fields since, but just sits with his hands on
his knees in the counting-house, not reading or anything, but only saying
what a wonderful city Paris was!  Paris has much to answer for if it’s
killed my cousin Thomas, for a better man never lived.”

“Does Miss Matilda know of his illness?” asked I—a new light as to the
cause of her indisposition dawning upon me.

“Dear! to be sure, yes!  Has not she told you?  I let her know a
fortnight ago, or more, when first I heard of it.  How odd she shouldn’t
have told you!”

Not at all, I thought; but I did not say anything.  I felt almost guilty
of having spied too curiously into that tender heart, and I was not going
to speak of its secrets—hidden, Miss Matty believed, from all the world.
I ushered Miss Pole into Miss Matilda’s little drawing-room, and then
left them alone.  But I was not surprised when Martha came to my bedroom
door, to ask me to go down to dinner alone, for that missus had one of
her bad headaches.  She came into the drawing-room at tea-time, but it
was evidently an effort to her; and, as if to make up for some
reproachful feeling against her late sister, Miss Jenkyns, which had been
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