CRANFORD
PART 13
CHAPTER XIII: STOPPED PAYMENT
The very Tuesday morning
on which Mr Johnson was going to show the fashions, the post-woman brought two
letters to the house. I say the post-woman, but I should say the
postman’s wife. He was a lame shoemaker, a very clean, honest man, much
respected in the town; but he never brought the letters round except on unusual
occasions, such as Christmas Day or Good Friday; and on those days the letters,
which should have been delivered at eight in the morning, did not make their
appearance until two or three in the afternoon, for every one liked poor
Thomas, and gave him a welcome on these festive occasions. He used to
say, “He was welly stawed wi’ eating, for there were three or four houses where
nowt would serve ’em but he must share in their breakfast;” and by the time he
had done his last breakfast, he came to some other friend who was beginning
dinner; but come what might in the way of temptation, Tom was always sober,
civil, and smiling; and, as Miss Jenkyns used to say, it was a lesson in
patience, that she doubted not would call out that precious quality in some minds, where, but for Thomas, it might have lain dormant and
undiscovered. Patience was certainly very dormant in Miss Jenkyns’s
mind. She was always expecting letters, and always drumming on the table
till the post-woman had called or gone past. On Christmas Day and Good
Friday she drummed from breakfast till church, from church-time till two
o’clock—unless when the fire wanted stirring, when she invariably knocked down
the fire-irons, and scolded Miss Matty for it. But equally certain was
the hearty welcome and the good dinner for Thomas; Miss Jenkyns standing over
him like a bold dragoon, questioning him as to his children—what they were
doing—what school they went to; upbraiding him if another was likely to make its
appearance, but sending even the little babies the shilling and the mince-pie
which was her gift to all the children, with half-a-crown in addition for both
father and mother. The post was not half of so much consequence to dear
Miss Matty; but not for the world would she have diminished Thomas’s welcome
and his dole, though I could see that she felt rather shy over the ceremony,
which had been regarded by Miss Jenkyns as a glorious opportunity for giving
advice and benefiting her fellow-creatures. Miss Matty would steal the
money all in a lump into his hand, as if she were ashamed of herself.
Miss Jenkyns gave him each individual coin separate, with a “There! that’s for
yourself; that’s for Jenny,” etc. Miss Matty would even beckon Martha out
of the kitchen while he ate his food: and once, to my knowledge, winked at its
rapid disappearance into a blue cotton pocket-handkerchief. Miss Jenkyns
almost scolded him if did not leave a clean plate, however
heaped it might have been, and gave an injunction with every mouthful.
I have
wandered a long way from the two letters that awaited us on the breakfast-table
that Tuesday morning. Mine was from my father. Miss Matty’s was
printed. My father’s was just a man’s letter; I mean it was very dull,
and gave no information beyond that he was well, that they had had a good deal
of rain, that trade was very stagnant, and there were many disagreeable rumours
afloat. He then asked me if I knew whether Miss Matty still retained her
shares in the Town and County Bank, as there were very unpleasant reports about
it; though nothing more than he had always foreseen, and had prophesied to Miss
Jenkyns years ago, when she would invest their little property in it—the only
unwise step that clever woman had ever taken, to his knowledge (the only time
she ever acted against his advice, I knew). However, if anything had gone
wrong, of course I was not to think of leaving Miss Matty while I could be of
any use, etc.
“Who is
your letter from, my dear? Mine is a very civil invitation, signed ‘Edwin
Wilson,’ asking me to attend an important meeting of the shareholders of the
Town and County Bank, to be held in Drumble, on Thursday the
twenty-first. I am sure, it is very attentive of them to remember me.”
I did not
like to hear of this “important meeting,” for, though I did not know much about
business, I feared it confirmed what my father said: however, I thought, ill
news always came fast enough, so I resolved to say nothing about my alarm, and
merely told her that my father was well, and sent his kind
regards to her. She kept turning over and admiring her letter. At
last she spoke—
“I
remember their sending one to Deborah just like this; but that I did not wonder
at, for everybody knew she was so clear-headed. I am afraid I could not
help them much; indeed, if they came to accounts, I should be quite in the way,
for I never could do sums in my head. Deborah, I know, rather wished to
go, and went so far as to order a new bonnet for the occasion: but when the
time came she had a bad cold; so they sent her a very polite account of what
they had done. Chosen a director, I think it was. Do you think they
want me to help them to choose a director? I am sure I should choose your
father at once!’
“My father
has no shares in the bank,” said I.
“Oh,
no! I remember. He objected very much to Deborah’s buying any, I
believe. But she was quite the woman of business, and always judged for
herself; and here, you see, they have paid eight per cent. all these years.”
It was a
very uncomfortable subject to me, with my half-knowledge; so I thought I would
change the conversation, and I asked at what time she thought we had better go
and see the fashions. “Well, my dear,” she said, “the thing is this: it
is not etiquette to go till after twelve; but then, you see, all Cranford will
be there, and one does not like to be too curious about dress and trimmings and
caps with all the world looking on. It is never genteel to be
over-curious on these occasions. Deborah had the knack of always looking
as if the latest fashion was nothing new to her; a manner
she had caught from Lady Arley, who did see all the new modes in London, you
know. So I thought we would just slip down—for I do want this morning,
soon after breakfast half-a-pound of tea—and then we could go up and examine
the things at our leisure, and see exactly how my new silk gown must be made;
and then, after twelve, we could go with our minds disengaged, and free from
thoughts of dress.”
We began
to talk of Miss Matty’s new silk gown. I discovered that it would be
really the first time in her life that she had had to choose anything of
consequence for herself: for Miss Jenkyns had always been the more decided
character, whatever her taste might have been; and it is astonishing how such
people carry the world before them by the mere force of will. Miss Matty
anticipated the sight of the glossy folds with as much delight as if the five
sovereigns, set apart for the purchase, could buy all the silks in the shop;
and (remembering my own loss of two hours in a toyshop before I could tell on
what wonder to spend a silver threepence) I was very glad that we were going
early, that dear Miss Matty might have leisure for the delights of perplexity.
If a happy
sea-green could be met with, the gown was to be sea-green: if not, she inclined
to maize, and I to silver gray; and we discussed the requisite number of
breadths until we arrived at the shop-door. We were to buy the tea,
select the silk, and then clamber up the iron corkscrew stairs that led into what
was once a loft, though now a fashion show-room.
The young
men at Mr Johnson’s had on their best looks; and their best
cravats, and pivoted themselves over the counter with surprising
activity. They wanted to show us upstairs at once; but on the principle
of business first and pleasure afterwards, we stayed to purchase the tea.
Here Miss Matty’s absence of mind betrayed itself. If she was made aware
that she had been drinking green tea at any time, she always thought it her
duty to lie awake half through the night afterward (I have known her take it in
ignorance many a time without such effects), and consequently green tea was
prohibited the house; yet to-day she herself asked for the obnoxious article,
under the impression that she was talking about the silk. However, the
mistake was soon rectified; and then the silks were unrolled in good
truth. By this time the shop was pretty well filled, for it was Cranford
market-day, and many of the farmers and country people from the neighbourhood
round came in, sleeking down their hair, and glancing shyly about, from under
their eyelids, as anxious to take back some notion of the unusual gaiety to the
mistress or the lasses at home, and yet feeling that they were out of place
among the smart shopmen and gay shawls and summer prints. One
honest-looking man, however, made his way up to the counter at which we stood,
and boldly asked to look at a shawl or two. The other country folk
confined themselves to the grocery side; but our neighbour was evidently too full
of some kind intention towards mistress, wife or daughter, to be shy; and it
soon became a question with me, whether he or Miss Matty would keep their
shopmen the longest time. He thought each shawl more beautiful than the
last; and, as for Miss Matty, she smiled and sighed over
each fresh bale that was brought out; one colour set off another, and the heap
together would, as she said, make even the rainbow look poor.
“I am
afraid,” said she, hesitating, “Whichever I choose I shall wish I had taken
another. Look at this lovely crimson! it would be so warm in
winter. But spring is coming on, you know. I wish I could have a
gown for every season,” said she, dropping her voice—as we all did in Cranford
whenever we talked of anything we wished for but could not afford.
“However,” she continued in a louder and more cheerful tone, “it would give me
a great deal of trouble to take care of them if I had them; so, I think, I’ll
only take one. But which must it be, my dear?”
And now
she hovered over a lilac with yellow spots, while I pulled out a quiet
sage-green that had faded into insignificance under the more brilliant colours,
but which was nevertheless a good silk in its humble way. Our attention
was called off to our neighbour. He had chosen a shawl of about thirty
shillings’ value; and his face looked broadly happy, under the anticipation, no
doubt, of the pleasant surprise he would give to some Molly or Jenny at home;
he had tugged a leathern purse out of his breeches-pocket, and had offered a
five-pound note in payment for the shawl, and for some parcels which had been
brought round to him from the grocery counter; and it was just at this point
that he attracted our notice. The shopman was examining the note with a
puzzled, doubtful air.
“Town and
County Bank! I am not sure, sir, but I believe we
have received a warning against notes issued by this bank only this
morning. I will just step and ask Mr Johnson, sir; but I’m afraid I must
trouble you for payment in cash, or in a note of a different bank.”
I never
saw a man’s countenance fall so suddenly into dismay and bewilderment. It
was almost piteous to see the rapid change.
“Dang it!”
said he, striking his fist down on the table, as if to try which was the
harder, “the chap talks as if notes and gold were to be had for the picking
up.”
Miss Matty
had forgotten her silk gown in her interest for the man. I don’t think
she had caught the name of the bank, and in my nervous cowardice I was anxious
that she should not; and so I began admiring the yellow-spotted lilac gown that
I had been utterly condemning only a minute before. But it was of no use.
“What bank
was it? I mean, what bank did your note belong to?”
“Town and
County Bank.”
“Let me
see it,” said she quietly to the shopman, gently taking it out of his hand, as
he brought it back to return it to the farmer.
Mr Johnson
was very sorry, but, from information he had received, the notes issued by that
bank were little better than waste paper.
“I don’t
understand it,” said Miss Matty to me in a low voice. “That is our bank,
is it not?—the Town and County Bank?”
“Yes,”
said I. “This lilac silk will just match the ribbons in your new cap, I
believe,” I continued, holding up the folds so as to catch
the light, and wishing that the man would make haste and be gone, and yet
having a new wonder, that had only just sprung up, how far it was wise or right
in me to allow Miss Matty to make this expensive purchase, if the affairs of
the bank were really so bad as the refusal of the note implied.
But Miss
Matty put on the soft dignified manner, peculiar to her, rarely used, and yet
which became her so well, and laying her hand gently on mine, she said—
“Never
mind the silks for a few minutes, dear. I don’t understand you, sir,”
turning now to the shopman, who had been attending to the farmer. “Is
this a forged note?”
“Oh, no,
ma’am. It is a true note of its kind; but you see, ma’am, it is a
joint-stock bank, and there are reports out that it is likely to break.
Mr Johnson is only doing his duty, ma’am, as I am sure Mr Dobson knows.”
But Mr
Dobson could not respond to the appealing bow by any answering smile. He
was turning the note absently over in his fingers, looking gloomily enough at
the parcel containing the lately-chosen shawl.
“It’s hard
upon a poor man,” said he, “as earns every farthing with the sweat of his
brow. However, there’s no help for it. You must take back your
shawl, my man; Lizzle must go on with her cloak for a while. And yon figs
for the little ones—I promised them to ’em—I’ll take them; but the ’bacco, and
the other things”—
“I will
give you five sovereigns for your note, my good man,” said
Miss Matty. “I think there is some great mistake about it, for I am one
of the shareholders, and I’m sure they would have told me if things had not
been going on right.”
The
shopman whispered a word or two across the table to Miss Matty. She
looked at him with a dubious air.
“Perhaps
so,” said she. “But I don’t pretend to understand business; I only know
that if it is going to fail, and if honest people are to lose their money
because they have taken our notes—I can’t explain myself,” said she, suddenly
becoming aware that she had got into a long sentence with four people for
audience; “only I would rather exchange my gold for the note, if you please,”
turning to the farmer, “and then you can take your wife the shawl. It is
only going without my gown a few days longer,” she continued, speaking to
me. “Then, I have no doubt, everything will be cleared up.”
“But if it
is cleared up the wrong way?” said I.
“Why, then
it will only have been common honesty in me, as a shareholder, to have given
this good man the money. I am quite clear about it in my own mind; but,
you know, I can never speak quite as comprehensibly as others can, only you
must give me your note, Mr Dobson, if you please, and go on with your purchases
with these sovereigns.”
The man
looked at her with silent gratitude—too awkward to put his thanks into words;
but he hung back for a minute or two, fumbling with his note.
“I’m loth
to make another one lose instead of me, if it is a loss; but, you see, five
pounds is a deal of money to a man with a family; and, as
you say, ten to one in a day or two the note will be as good as gold again.”
“No hope
of that, my friend,” said the shopman.
“The more
reason why I should take it,” said Miss Matty quietly. She pushed her
sovereigns towards the man, who slowly laid his note down in exchange.
“Thank you. I will wait a day or two before I purchase any of these
silks; perhaps you will then have a greater choice. My dear, will you
come upstairs?”
We
inspected the fashions with as minute and curious an interest as if the gown to
be made after them had been bought. I could not see that the little event
in the shop below had in the least damped Miss Matty’s curiosity as to the make
of sleeves or the sit of skirts. She once or twice exchanged
congratulations with me on our private and leisurely view of the bonnets and
shawls; but I was, all the time, not so sure that our examination was so
utterly private, for I caught glimpses of a figure dodging behind the cloaks
and mantles; and, by a dexterous move, I came face to face with Miss Pole, also
in morning costume (the principal feature of which was her being without teeth,
and wearing a veil to conceal the deficiency), come on the same errand as
ourselves. But she quickly took her departure, because, as she said, she
had a bad headache, and did not feel herself up to conversation.
As we came
down through the shop, the civil Mr Johnson was awaiting us; he had been
informed of the exchange of the note for gold, and with much good
feeling and real kindness, but with a little want of tact, he wished to condole
with Miss Matty, and impress upon her the true state of the case. I could
only hope that he had heard an exaggerated rumour for he said that her shares
were worse than nothing, and that the bank could not pay a shilling in the
pound. I was glad that Miss Matty seemed still a little incredulous; but
I could not tell how much of this was real or assumed, with that self-control
which seemed habitual to ladies of Miss Matty’s standing in Cranford, who would
have thought their dignity compromised by the slightest expression of surprise,
dismay, or any similar feeling to an inferior in station, or in a public
shop. However, we walked home very silently. I am ashamed to say, I
believe I was rather vexed and annoyed at Miss Matty’s conduct in taking the
note to herself so decidedly. I had so set my heart upon her having a new
silk gown, which she wanted sadly; in general she was so undecided anybody
might turn her round; in this case I had felt that it was no use attempting it,
but I was not the less put out at the result.
Somehow,
after twelve o’clock, we both acknowledged to a sated curiosity about the
fashions, and to a certain fatigue of body (which was, in fact, depression of
mind) that indisposed us to go out again. But still we never spoke of the
note; till, all at once, something possessed me to ask Miss Matty if she would
think it her duty to offer sovereigns for all the notes of the Town and County
Bank she met with? I could have bitten my tongue out the minute I had
said it. She looked up rather sadly, and as if I had thrown a new
perplexity into her already distressed mind; and for a
minute or two she did not speak. Then she said—my own dear Miss
Matty—without a shade of reproach in her voice—
“My dear,
I never feel as if my mind was what people call very strong; and it’s often
hard enough work for me to settle what I ought to do with the case right before
me. I was very thankful to—I was very thankful, that I saw my duty this
morning, with the poor man standing by me; but its rather a strain upon me to
keep thinking and thinking what I should do if such and such a thing happened;
and, I believe, I had rather wait and see what really does come; and I don’t
doubt I shall be helped then if I don’t fidget myself, and get too anxious
beforehand. You know, love, I’m not like Deborah. If Deborah had
lived, I’ve no doubt she would have seen after them, before they had got
themselves into this state.”
We had
neither of us much appetite for dinner, though we tried to talk cheerfully
about indifferent things. When we returned into the drawing-room, Miss
Matty unlocked her desk and began to look over her account-books. I was
so penitent for what I had said in the morning, that I did not choose to take
upon myself the presumption to suppose that I could assist her; I rather left
her alone, as, with puzzled brow, her eye followed her pen up and down the
ruled page. By-and-by she shut the book, locked the desk, and came and
drew a chair to mine, where I sat in moody sorrow over the fire. I stole
my hand into hers; she clasped it, but did not speak a word. At last she
said, with forced composure in her voice, “If that bank goes wrong, I shall
lose one hundred and forty-nine pounds thirteen shillings and fourpence a year; I shall only have thirteen pounds a year left.”
I squeezed her hand hard and tight. I did not know what to say. Presently
(it was too dark to see her face) I felt her fingers work convulsively in my
grasp; and I knew she was going to speak again. I heard the sobs in her
voice as she said, “I hope it’s not wrong—not wicked—but, oh! I am so
glad poor Deborah is spared this. She could not have borne to come down
in the world—she had such a noble, lofty spirit.”
This was
all she said about the sister who had insisted upon investing their little
property in that unlucky bank. We were later in lighting the candle than usual
that night, and until that light shamed us into speaking, we sat together very
silently and sadly.
However,
we took to our work after tea with a kind of forced cheerfulness (which soon
became real as far as it went), talking of that never-ending wonder, Lady
Glenmire’s engagement. Miss Matty was almost coming round to think it a
good thing.
“I don’t
mean to deny that men are troublesome in a house. I don’t judge from my
own experience, for my father was neatness itself, and wiped his shoes on
coming in as carefully as any woman; but still a man has a sort of knowledge of
what should be done in difficulties, that it is very pleasant to have one at
hand ready to lean upon. Now, Lady Glenmire, instead of being tossed
about, and wondering where she is to settle, will be certain of a home among
pleasant and kind people, such as our good Miss Pole and Mrs Forrester.
And Mr Hoggins is really a very personable man; and as for his manners, why, if
they are not very polished, I have known people with very good
hearts and very clever minds too, who were not what some people reckoned
refined, but who were both true and tender.”
She fell
off into a soft reverie about Mr Holbrook, and I did not interrupt her, I was
so busy maturing a plan I had had in my mind for some days, but which this
threatened failure of the bank had brought to a crisis. That night, after
Miss Matty went to bed, I treacherously lighted the candle again, and sat down
in the drawing-room to compose a letter to the Aga Jenkyns, a letter which should
affect him if he were Peter, and yet seem a mere statement of dry facts if he
were a stranger. The church clock pealed out two before I had done.
The next
morning news came, both official and otherwise, that the Town and County Bank
had stopped payment. Miss Matty was ruined.
She tried
to speak quietly to me; but when she came to the actual fact that she would
have but about five shillings a week to live upon, she could not restrain a few
tears.
“I am not
crying for myself, dear,” said she, wiping them away; “I believe I am crying
for the very silly thought of how my mother would grieve if she could know; she
always cared for us so much more than for herself. But many a poor person
has less, and I am not very extravagant, and, thank God, when the neck of
mutton, and Martha’s wages, and the rent are paid, I have not a farthing
owing. Poor Martha! I think she’ll be sorry to leave me.”
Miss Matty
smiled at me through her tears, and she would fain have had me see only the
smile, not the tears.
To be
continued
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