Cranford Page #6

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

								

overflowed; but after a minute or two she began to scold herself, and
ended by going away the same cheerful Miss Jessie as ever.

“But why does not this Lord Mauleverer do something for the man who saved
his life?” said I.

“Why, you see, unless Captain Brown has some reason for it, he never
speaks about being poor; and he walked along by his lordship looking as
happy and cheerful as a prince; and as they never called attention to
their dinner by apologies, and as Miss Brown was better that day, and all
seemed bright, I daresay his lordship never knew how much care there was
in the background.  He did send game in the winter pretty often, but now
he is gone abroad.”

I had often occasion to notice the use that was made of fragments and
small opportunities in Cranford; the rose-leaves that were gathered ere
they fell to make into a potpourri for someone who had no garden; the
little bundles of lavender flowers sent to strew the drawers of some
town-dweller, or to burn in the chamber of some invalid.  Things that
many would despise, and actions which it seemed scarcely worth while to
perform, were all attended to in Cranford.  Miss Jenkyns stuck an apple
full of cloves, to be heated and smell pleasantly in Miss Brown’s room;
and as she put in each clove she uttered a Johnsonian sentence.  Indeed,
she never could think of the Browns without talking Johnson; and, as they
were seldom absent from her thoughts just then, I heard many a rolling,
three-piled sentence.

Captain Brown called one day to thank Miss Jenkyns for many little
kindnesses, which I did not know until then that she had rendered.  He
had suddenly become like an old man; his deep bass voice had a quavering
in it, his eyes looked dim, and the lines on his face were deep.  He did
not—could not—speak cheerfully of his daughter’s state, but he talked
with manly, pious resignation, and not much.  Twice over he said, “What
Jessie has been to us, God only knows!” and after the second time, he got
up hastily, shook hands all round without speaking, and left the room.

That afternoon we perceived little groups in the street, all listening
with faces aghast to some tale or other.  Miss Jenkyns wondered what
could be the matter for some time before she took the undignified step of
sending Jenny out to inquire.

Jenny came back with a white face of terror.  “Oh, ma’am!  Oh, Miss
Jenkyns, ma’am!  Captain Brown is killed by them nasty cruel railroads!”
and she burst into tears.  She, along with many others, had experienced
the poor Captain’s kindness.

“How?—where—where?  Good God!  Jenny, don’t waste time in crying, but
tell us something.”  Miss Matty rushed out into the street at once, and
collared the man who was telling the tale.

 [Picture: She brought the affrighted carter . . . into the drawing-room]

“Come in—come to my sister at once, Miss Jenkyns, the rector’s daughter.
Oh, man, man! say it is not true,” she cried, as she brought the
affrighted carter, sleeking down his hair, into the drawing-room, where
he stood with his wet boots on the new carpet, and no one regarded it.

“Please, mum, it is true.  I seed it myself,” and he shuddered at the
recollection.  “The Captain was a-reading some new book as he was deep
in, a-waiting for the down train; and there was a little lass as wanted
to come to its mammy, and gave its sister the slip, and came toddling
across the line.  And he looked up sudden, at the sound of the train
coming, and seed the child, and he darted on the line and cotched it up,
and his foot slipped, and the train came over him in no time.  O Lord,
Lord!  Mum, it’s quite true, and they’ve come over to tell his daughters.
The child’s safe, though, with only a bang on its shoulder as he threw it
to its mammy.  Poor Captain would be glad of that, mum, wouldn’t he?  God
bless him!”  The great rough carter puckered up his manly face, and
turned away to hide his tears.  I turned to Miss Jenkyns.  She looked
very ill, as if she were going to faint, and signed to me to open the
window.

“Matilda, bring me my bonnet.  I must go to those girls.  God pardon me,
if ever I have spoken contemptuously to the Captain!”

Miss Jenkyns arrayed herself to go out, telling Miss Matilda to give the
man a glass of wine.  While she was away, Miss Matty and I huddled over
the fire, talking in a low and awe-struck voice.  I know we cried quietly
all the time.

Miss Jenkyns came home in a silent mood, and we durst not ask her many
questions.  She told us that Miss Jessie had fainted, and that she and
Miss Pole had had some difficulty in bringing her round; but that, as
soon as she recovered, she begged one of them to go and sit with her
sister.

“Mr Hoggins says she cannot live many days, and she shall be spared this
shock,” said Miss Jessie, shivering with feelings to which she dared not
give way.

“But how can you manage, my dear?” asked Miss Jenkyns; “you cannot bear
up, she must see your tears.”

“God will help me—I will not give way—she was asleep when the news came;
she may be asleep yet.  She would be so utterly miserable, not merely at
my father’s death, but to think of what would become of me; she is so
good to me.”  She looked up earnestly in their faces with her soft true
eyes, and Miss Pole told Miss Jenkyns afterwards she could hardly bear
it, knowing, as she did, how Miss Brown treated her sister.

However, it was settled according to Miss Jessie’s wish.  Miss Brown was
to be told her father had been summoned to take a short journey on
railway business.  They had managed it in some way—Miss Jenkyns could not
exactly say how.  Miss Pole was to stop with Miss Jessie.  Mrs Jamieson
had sent to inquire.  And this was all we heard that night; and a
sorrowful night it was.  The next day a full account of the fatal
accident was in the county paper which Miss Jenkyns took in.  Her eyes
were very weak, she said, and she asked me to read it.  When I came to
the “gallant gentleman was deeply engaged in the perusal of a number of
‘Pickwick,’ which he had just received,” Miss Jenkyns shook her head long
and solemnly, and then sighed out, “Poor, dear, infatuated man!”

The corpse was to be taken from the station to the parish church, there
to be interred.  Miss Jessie had set her heart on following it to the
grave; and no dissuasives could alter her resolve.  Her restraint upon
herself made her almost obstinate; she resisted all Miss Pole’s
entreaties and Miss Jenkyns’ advice.  At last Miss Jenkyns gave up the
point; and after a silence, which I feared portended some deep
displeasure against Miss Jessie, Miss Jenkyns said she should accompany
the latter to the funeral.

“It is not fit for you to go alone.  It would be against both propriety
and humanity were I to allow it.”

Miss Jessie seemed as if she did not half like this arrangement; but her
obstinacy, if she had any, had been exhausted in her determination to go
to the interment.  She longed, poor thing, I have no doubt, to cry alone
over the grave of the dear father to whom she had been all in all, and to
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