CRANFORD
PART 4
CHAPTER IV—A VISIT TO AN OLD BACHELOR
A few days after, a note came from Mr Holbrook, asking
us—impartially asking both of us—in a formal, old-fashioned style, to spend a
day at his house—a long June day—for it was June now. He named that he
had also invited his cousin, Miss Pole; so that we might join in a fly, which
could be put up at his house.
I expected
Miss Matty to jump at this invitation; but, no! Miss Pole and I had the
greatest difficulty in persuading her to go. She thought it was improper;
and was even half annoyed when we utterly ignored the idea of any impropriety
in her going with two other ladies to see her old lover. Then came a more
serious difficulty. She did not think Deborah would have liked her to
go. This took us half a day’s good hard talking to get over; but, at the
first sentence of relenting, I seized the opportunity, and wrote and despatched
an acceptance in her name—fixing day and hour, that all might be decided and
done with.
The next
morning she asked me if I would go down to the shop with her; and there, after
much hesitation, we chose out three caps to be sent home and
tried on, that the most becoming might be selected to take with us on Thursday.
She was in
a state of silent agitation all the way to Woodley. She had evidently
never been there before; and, although she little dreamt I knew anything of her
early story, I could perceive she was in a tremor at the thought of seeing the
place which might have been her home, and round which it is probable that many
of her innocent girlish imaginations had clustered. It was a long drive
there, through paved jolting lanes. Miss Matilda sat bolt upright, and
looked wistfully out of the windows as we drew near the end of our
journey. The aspect of the country was quiet and pastoral. Woodley
stood among fields; and there was an old-fashioned garden where roses and
currant-bushes touched each other, and where the feathery asparagus formed a
pretty background to the pinks and gilly-flowers; there was no drive up to the
door. We got out at a little gate, and walked up a straight box-edged
path.
“My cousin
might make a drive, I think,” said Miss Pole, who was afraid of ear-ache, and
had only her cap on.
“I think
it is very pretty,” said Miss Matty, with a soft plaintiveness in her voice,
and almost in a whisper, for just then Mr Holbrook appeared at the door,
rubbing his hands in very effervescence of hospitality. He looked more
like my idea of Don Quixote than ever, and yet the likeness was only
external. His respectable housekeeper stood modestly at the door to bid
us welcome; and, while she led the elder ladies upstairs to
a bedroom, I begged to look about the garden. My request evidently
pleased the old gentleman, who took me all round the place and showed me his
six-and-twenty cows, named after the different letters of the alphabet.
As we went along, he surprised me occasionally by repeating apt and beautiful
quotations from the poets, ranging easily from Shakespeare and George Herbert
to those of our own day. He did this as naturally as if he were thinking
aloud, and their true and beautiful words were the best expression he could
find for what he was thinking or feeling. To be sure he called Byron “my
Lord Byrron,” and pronounced the name of Goethe strictly in accordance with the
English sound of the letters—“As Goethe says, ‘Ye ever-verdant palaces,’”
&c. Altogether, I never met with a man, before or since, who had
spent so long a life in a secluded and not impressive country, with
ever-increasing delight in the daily and yearly change of season and beauty.
When he
and I went in, we found that dinner was nearly ready in the kitchen—for so I
suppose the room ought to be called, as there were oak dressers and cupboards
all round, all over by the side of the fireplace, and only a small Turkey
carpet in the middle of the flag-floor. The room might have been easily
made into a handsome dark oak dining-parlour by removing the oven and a few
other appurtenances of a kitchen, which were evidently never used, the real
cooking-place being at some distance. The room in which we were expected
to sit was a stiffly-furnished, ugly apartment; but that in which we did sit
was what Mr Holbrook called the counting-house, where he
paid his labourers their weekly wages at a great desk near the door. The
rest of the pretty sitting-room—looking into the orchard, and all covered over
with dancing tree-shadows—was filled with books. They lay on the ground,
they covered the walls, they strewed the table. He was evidently half
ashamed and half proud of his extravagance in this respect. They were of
all kinds—poetry and wild weird tales prevailing. He evidently chose his
books in accordance with his own tastes, not because such and such were
classical or established favourites.
“Ah!” he
said, “we farmers ought not to have much time for reading; yet somehow one
can’t help it.”
“What a
pretty room!” said Miss Matty, sotto voce.
“What a
pleasant place!” said I, aloud, almost simultaneously.
“Nay! if
you like it,” replied he; “but can you sit on these great, black leather,
three-cornered chairs? I like it better than the best parlour; but I
thought ladies would take that for the smarter place.”
It was the
smarter place, but, like most smart things, not at all pretty, or pleasant, or
home-like; so, while we were at dinner, the servant-girl dusted and scrubbed
the counting-house chairs, and we sat there all the rest of the day.
We had
pudding before meat; and I thought Mr Holbrook was going to make some apology
for his old-fashioned ways, for he began—
“I don’t
know whether you like newfangled ways.”
“No more
do I,” said he. “My house-keeper will have these in her new
fashion; or else I tell her that, when I was a young man, we used to keep
strictly to my father’s rule, ‘No broth, no ball; no ball, no beef’; and always
began dinner with broth. Then we had suet puddings, boiled in the broth
with the beef: and then the meat itself. If we did not sup our broth, we
had no ball, which we liked a deal better; and the beef came last of all, and
only those had it who had done justice to the broth and the ball. Now
folks begin with sweet things, and turn their dinners topsy-turvy.”
When the
ducks and green peas came, we looked at each other in dismay; we had only
two-pronged, black-handled forks. It is true the steel was as bright as
silver; but what were we to do? Miss Matty picked up her peas, one by
one, on the point of the prongs, much as Aminé ate her grains of rice after her
previous feast with the Ghoul. Miss Pole sighed over her delicate young
peas as she left them on one side of her plate untasted, for they would
drop between the prongs. I looked at my host: the peas were going
wholesale into his capacious mouth, shovelled up by his large round-ended
knife. I saw, I imitated, I survived! My friends, in spite of my
precedent, could not muster up courage enough to do an ungenteel thing; and, if
Mr Holbrook had not been so heartily hungry, he would probably have seen that
the good peas went away almost untouched.
After dinner,
a clay pipe was brought in, and a spittoon; and, asking us
to retire to another room, where he would soon join us, if we disliked
tobacco-smoke, he presented his pipe to Miss Matty, and requested her to fill
the bowl. This was a compliment to a lady in his youth; but it was rather
inappropriate to propose it as an honour to Miss Matty, who had been trained by
her sister to hold smoking of every kind in utter abhorrence. But if it
was a shock to her refinement, it was also a gratification to her feelings to
be thus selected; so she daintily stuffed the strong tobacco into the pipe, and
then we withdrew.
“It is
very pleasant dining with a bachelor,” said Miss Matty softly, as we settled
ourselves in the counting-house. “I only hope it is not improper; so many
pleasant things are!”
“What a
number of books he has!” said Miss Pole, looking round the room. “And how
dusty they are!”
“I think
it must be like one of the great Dr Johnson’s rooms,” said Miss Matty.
“What a superior man your cousin must be!”
“Yes!”
said Miss Pole, “he’s a great reader; but I am afraid he has got into very
uncouth habits with living alone.”
“Oh!
uncouth is too hard a word. I should call him eccentric; very clever
people always are!” replied Miss Matty.
When Mr
Holbrook returned, he proposed a walk in the fields; but the two elder ladies
were afraid of damp, and dirt, and had only very unbecoming calashes to put on
over their caps; so they declined, and I was again his companion in a turn which he said he was obliged to take to see after his
men. He strode along, either wholly forgetting my existence, or soothed
into silence by his pipe—and yet it was not silence exactly. He walked
before me with a stooping gait, his hands clasped behind him; and, as some tree
or cloud, or glimpse of distant upland pastures, struck him, he quoted poetry
to himself, saying it out loud in a grand sonorous voice, with just the
emphasis that true feeling and appreciation give. We came upon an old
cedar tree, which stood at one end of the house—
“The cedar
spreads his dark-green layers of shade.”
“Capital
term—‘layers!’ Wonderful man!” I did not know whether he was
speaking to me or not; but I put in an assenting “wonderful,” although I knew
nothing about it, just because I was tired of being forgotten, and of being
consequently silent.
He turned
sharp round. “Ay! you may say ‘wonderful.’ Why, when I saw the
review of his poems in Blackwood, I set off within an hour, and walked
seven miles to Misselton (for the horses were not in the way) and ordered
them. Now, what colour are ash-buds in March?”
Is the man
going mad? thought I. He is very like Don Quixote.
“What
colour are they, I say?” repeated he vehemently.
“I am sure
I don’t know, sir,” said I, with the meekness of ignorance.
“I knew
you didn’t. No more did I—an old fool that I am!—till this young man
comes and tells me. Black as ash-buds in March. And I’ve lived all my life in the country; more shame for me not to know.
Black: they are jet-black, madam.” And he went off again, swinging along
to the music of some rhyme he had got hold of.
When we
came back, nothing would serve him but he must read us the poems he had been
speaking of; and Miss Pole encouraged him in his proposal, I thought, because
she wished me to hear his beautiful reading, of which she had boasted; but she
afterwards said it was because she had got to a difficult part of her crochet,
and wanted to count her stitches without having to talk. Whatever he had
proposed would have been right to Miss Matty; although she did fall sound
asleep within five minutes after he had begun a long poem, called “Locksley
Hall,” and had a comfortable nap, unobserved, till he ended; when the cessation
of his voice wakened her up, and she said, feeling that something was expected,
and that Miss Pole was counting—
“What a
pretty book!”
“Pretty,
madam! it’s beautiful! Pretty, indeed!”
“Oh
yes! I meant beautiful!” said she, fluttered at his disapproval of her
word. “It is so like that beautiful poem of Dr Johnson’s my sister used
to read—I forget the name of it; what was it, my dear?” turning to me.
“Which do
you mean, ma’am? What was it about?”
“I don’t
remember what it was about, and I’ve quite forgotten what the name of it was;
but it was written by Dr Johnson, and was very beautiful, and very like what Mr
Holbrook has just been reading.”
“I don’t
remember it,” said he reflectively. “But I don’t know
Dr Johnson’s poems well. I must read them.”
As we were
getting into the fly to return, I heard Mr Holbrook say he should call on the
ladies soon, and inquire how they got home; and this evidently pleased and
fluttered Miss Matty at the time he said it; but 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 troubling her all the
afternoon, and for which she now felt penitent, she kept telling me how good
and how clever Deborah was in her youth; how she used to settle what gowns they
were to wear at all the parties (faint, ghostly ideas of grim
parties, far away in the distance, when Miss Matty and Miss Pole were young!);
and how Deborah and her mother had started the benefit society for the poor,
and taught girls cooking and plain sewing; and how Deborah had once danced with
a lord; and how she used to visit at Sir Peter Arley’s, and tried to remodel
the quiet rectory establishment on the plans of Arley Hall, where they kept
thirty servants; and how she had nursed Miss Matty through a long, long
illness, of which I had never heard before, but which I now dated in my own
mind as following the dismissal of the suit of Mr Holbrook. So we talked
softly and quietly of old times through the long November evening.
The next
day Miss Pole brought us word that Mr Holbrook was dead. Miss Matty heard
the news in silence; in fact, from the account of the previous day, it was only
what we had to expect. Miss Pole kept calling upon us for some expression
of regret, by asking if it was not sad that he was gone, and saying—
“To think
of that pleasant day last June, when he seemed so well! And he might have
lived this dozen years if he had not gone to that wicked Paris, where they are
always having revolutions.”
She paused
for some demonstration on our part. I saw Miss Matty could not speak, she
was trembling so nervously; so I said what I really felt; and after a call of
some duration—all the time of which I have no doubt Miss Pole thought Miss
Matty received the news very calmly—our visitor took her leave.
Miss Matty
made a strong effort to conceal her feelings—a concealment
she practised even with me, for she has never alluded to Mr Holbrook again,
although the book he gave her lies with her Bible on the little table by her
bedside. She did not think I heard her when she asked the little milliner
of Cranford to make her caps something like the Honourable Mrs Jamieson’s, or
that I noticed the reply—
“But she
wears widows’ caps, ma’am?”
“Oh!
I only meant something in that style; not widows’, of course, but rather like
Mrs Jamieson’s.”
This
effort at concealment was the beginning of the tremulous motion of head and
hands which I have seen ever since in Miss Matty.
The
evening of the day on which we heard of Mr Holbrook’s death, Miss Matilda was
very silent and thoughtful; after prayers she called Martha back and then she
stood uncertain what to say.
“Martha!”
she said, at last, “you are young”—and then she made so long a pause that
Martha, to remind her of her half-finished sentence, dropped a curtsey, and
said—
“Yes,
please, ma’am; two-and-twenty last third of October, please, ma’am.”
“And,
perhaps, Martha, you may some time meet with a young man you like, and who
likes you. I did say you were not to have followers; but if you meet with
such a young man, and tell me, and I find he is respectable, I have no objection
to his coming to see you once a week. God forbid!” said she in a low
voice, “that I should grieve any young hearts.” She spoke as if she were
providing for some distant contingency, and was rather
startled when Martha made her ready eager answer—
“Please,
ma’am, there’s Jem Hearn, and he’s a joiner making three-and-sixpence a-day,
and six foot one in his stocking-feet, please, ma’am; and if you’ll ask about
him to-morrow morning, every one will give him a character for steadiness; and
he’ll be glad enough to come to-morrow night, I’ll be bound.”
Though
Miss Matty was startled, she submitted to Fate and Love.
To be continued
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