CRANFORD
PART 15
CHAPTER XV: A HAPPY RETURN
Before I left Miss Matty
at Cranford everything had been comfortably arranged for her. Even Mrs
Jamieson’s approval of her selling tea had been gained. That oracle had
taken a few days to consider whether by so doing Miss Matty would forfeit her
right to the privileges of society in Cranford. I think she had some
little idea of mortifying Lady Glenmire by the decision she gave at last; which
was to this effect: that whereas a married woman takes her husband’s rank by
the strict laws of precedence, an unmarried woman retains the station her
father occupied. So Cranford was allowed to visit Miss Matty; and,
whether allowed or not, it intended to visit Lady Glenmire.
But what
was our surprise—our dismay—when we learnt that Mr and Mrs Hoggins were
returning on the following Tuesday! Mrs Hoggins! Had she absolutely
dropped her title, and so, in a spirit of bravado, cut the aristocracy to
become a Hoggins! She, who might have been called Lady Glenmire to her
dying day! Mrs Jamieson was pleased. She said it only convinced her
of what she had known from the first, that the creature had
a low taste. But “the creature” looked very happy on Sunday at church;
nor did we see it necessary to keep our veils down on that side of our bonnets
on which Mr and Mrs Hoggins sat, as Mrs Jamieson did; thereby missing all the
smiling glory of his face, and all the becoming blushes of hers. I am not
sure if Martha and Jem looked more radiant in the afternoon, when they, too,
made their first appearance. Mrs Jamieson soothed the turbulence of her
soul by having the blinds of her windows drawn down, as if for a funeral, on
the day when Mr and Mrs Hoggins received callers; and it was with some
difficulty that she was prevailed upon to continue the St James’s Chronicle,
so indignant was she with its having inserted the announcement of the marriage.
Miss
Matty’s sale went off famously. She retained the furniture of her
sitting-room and bedroom; the former of which she was to occupy till Martha could
meet with a lodger who might wish to take it; and into this sitting-room and
bedroom she had to cram all sorts of things, which were (the auctioneer assured
her) bought in for her at the sale by an unknown friend. I always
suspected Mrs Fitz-Adam of this; but she must have had an accessory, who knew
what articles were particularly regarded by Miss Matty on account of their
associations with her early days. The rest of the house looked rather
bare, to be sure; all except one tiny bedroom, of which my father allowed me to
purchase the furniture for my occasional use in case of Miss Matty’s illness.
I had
expended my own small store in buying all manner of comfits and lozenges, in
order to tempt the little people whom Miss Matty loved so
much to come about her. Tea in bright green canisters, and comfits in
tumblers—Miss Matty and I felt quite proud as we looked round us on the evening
before the shop was to be opened. Martha had scoured the boarded floor to
a white cleanness, and it was adorned with a brilliant piece of oil-cloth, on
which customers were to stand before the table-counter. The wholesome
smell of plaster and whitewash pervaded the apartment. A very small
“Matilda Jenkyns, licensed to sell tea,” was hidden under the lintel of the new
door, and two boxes of tea, with cabalistic inscriptions all over them, stood
ready to disgorge their contents into the canisters.
Miss
Matty, as I ought to have mentioned before, had had some scruples of conscience
at selling tea when there was already Mr Johnson in the town, who included it
among his numerous commodities; and, before she could quite reconcile herself
to the adoption of her new business, she had trotted down to his shop, unknown
to me, to tell him of the project that was entertained, and to inquire if it
was likely to injure his business. My father called this idea of hers
“great nonsense,” and “wondered how tradespeople were to get on if there was to
be a continual consulting of each other’s interests, which would put a stop to
all competition directly.” And, perhaps, it would not have done in
Drumble, but in Cranford it answered very well; for not only did Mr Johnson
kindly put at rest all Miss Matty’s scruples and fear of injuring his business,
but I have reason to know he repeatedly sent customers to her, saying that the
teas he kept were of a common kind, but that Miss Jenkyns
had all the choice sorts. And expensive tea is a very favourite luxury
with well-to-do tradespeople and rich farmers’ wives, who turn up their noses
at the Congou and Souchong prevalent at many tables of gentility, and will have
nothing else than Gunpowder and Pekoe for themselves.
But to
return to Miss Matty. It was really very pleasant to see how her
unselfishness and simple sense of justice called out the same good qualities in
others. She never seemed to think any one would impose upon her, because
she should be so grieved to do it to them. I have heard her put a stop to
the asseverations of the man who brought her coals by quietly saying, “I am
sure you would be sorry to bring me wrong weight;” and if the coals were short
measure that time, I don’t believe they ever were again. People would
have felt as much ashamed of presuming on her good faith as they would have
done on that of a child. But my father says “such simplicity might be
very well in Cranford, but would never do in the world.” And I fancy the
world must be very bad, for with all my father’s suspicion of every one with
whom he has dealings, and in spite of all his many precautions, he lost upwards
of a thousand pounds by roguery only last year.
I just
stayed long enough to establish Miss Matty in her new mode of life, and to pack
up the library, which the rector had purchased. He had written a very
kind letter to Miss Matty, saying “how glad he should be to take a library, so
well selected as he knew that the late Mr Jenkyns’s must have been, at any
valuation put upon them.” And when she agreed to this, with a touch of
sorrowful gladness that they would go back to the rectory
and be arranged on the accustomed walls once more, he sent word that he feared
that he had not room for them all, and perhaps Miss Matty would kindly allow
him to leave some volumes on her shelves. But Miss Matty said that she
had her Bible and “Johnson’s Dictionary,” and should not have much time for
reading, she was afraid; still, I retained a few books out of consideration for
the rector’s kindness.
The money
which he had paid, and that produced by the sale, was partly expended in the
stock of tea, and part of it was invested against a rainy day—i.e. old
age or illness. It was but a small sum, it is true; and it occasioned a
few evasions of truth and white lies (all of which I think very wrong indeed—in
theory—and would rather not put them in practice), for we knew Miss Matty would
be perplexed as to her duty if she were aware of any little reserve-fund being
made for her while the debts of the bank remained unpaid. Moreover, she
had never been told of the way in which her friends were contributing to pay
the rent. I should have liked to tell her this, but the mystery of the
affair gave a piquancy to their deed of kindness which the ladies were
unwilling to give up; and at first Martha had to shirk many a perplexed
question as to her ways and means of living in such a house, but by-and-by Miss
Matty’s prudent uneasiness sank down into acquiescence with the existing
arrangement.
I left
Miss Matty with a good heart. Her sales of tea during the first two days
had surpassed my most sanguine expectations. The whole country round seemed
to be all out of tea at once. The only alteration I
could have desired in Miss Matty’s way of doing business was, that she should
not have so plaintively entreated some of her customers not to buy green
tea—running it down as a slow poison, sure to destroy the nerves, and produce
all manner of evil. Their pertinacity in taking it, in spite of all her
warnings, distressed her so much that I really thought she would relinquish the
sale of it, and so lose half her custom; and I was driven to my wits’ end for
instances of longevity entirely attributable to a persevering use of green
tea. But the final argument, which settled the question, was a happy
reference of mine to the train-oil and tallow candles which the Esquimaux not
only enjoy but digest. After that she acknowledged that “one man’s meat
might be another man’s poison,” and contented herself thence-forward with an
occasional remonstrance when she thought the purchaser was too young and
innocent to be acquainted with the evil effects green tea produced on some
constitutions, and an habitual sigh when people old enough to choose more
wisely would prefer it.
I went
over from Drumble once a quarter at least to settle the accounts, and see after
the necessary business letters. And, speaking of letters, I began to be
very much ashamed of remembering my letter to the Aga Jenkyns, and very glad I
had never named my writing to any one. I only hoped the letter was
lost. No answer came. No sign was made.
About a
year after Miss Matty set up shop, I received one of Martha’s hieroglyphics,
begging me to come to Cranford very soon. I was afraid that Miss Matty
was ill, and went off that very afternoon, and took Martha
by surprise when she saw me on opening the door. We went into the kitchen
as usual, to have our confidential conference, and then Martha told me she was
expecting her confinement very soon—in a week or two; and she did not think
Miss Matty was aware of it, and she wanted me to break the news to her, “for
indeed, miss,” continued Martha, crying hysterically, “I’m afraid she won’t
approve of it, and I’m sure I don’t know who is to take care of her as she
should be taken care of when I am laid up.”
I
comforted Martha by telling her I would remain till she was about again, and
only wished she had told me her reason for this sudden summons, as then I would
have brought the requisite stock of clothes. But Martha was so tearful
and tender-spirited, and unlike her usual self, that I said as little as
possible about myself, and endeavoured rather to comfort Martha under all the
probable and possible misfortunes which came crowding upon her imagination.
I then
stole out of the house-door, and made my appearance as if I were a customer in
the shop, just to take Miss Matty by surprise, and gain an idea of how she
looked in her new situation. It was warm May weather, so only the little
half-door was closed; and Miss Matty sat behind the counter, knitting an
elaborate pair of garters; elaborate they seemed to me, but the difficult
stitch was no weight upon her mind, for she was singing in a low voice to
herself as her needles went rapidly in and out. I call it singing, but I
dare say a musician would not use that word to the tuneless yet sweet humming
of the low worn voice. I found out from the words,
far more than from the attempt at the tune, that it was the Old Hundredth she
was crooning to herself; but the quiet continuous sound told of content, and
gave me a pleasant feeling, as I stood in the street just outside the door,
quite in harmony with that soft May morning. I went in. At first
she did not catch who it was, and stood up as if to serve me; but in another
minute watchful pussy had clutched her knitting, which was dropped in eager joy
at seeing me. I found, after we had had a little conversation, that it
was as Martha said, and that Miss Matty had no idea of the approaching
household event. So I thought I would let things take their course,
secure that when I went to her with the baby in my arms, I should obtain that
forgiveness for Martha which she was needlessly frightening herself into
believing that Miss Matty would withhold, under some notion that the new
claimant would require attentions from its mother that it would be faithless
treason to Miss Matty to render.
But I was
right. I think that must be an hereditary quality, for my father says he
is scarcely ever wrong. One morning, within a week after I arrived, I
went to call Miss Matty, with a little bundle of flannel in my arms. She
was very much awe-struck when I showed her what it was, and asked for her
spectacles off the dressing-table, and looked at it curiously, with a sort of
tender wonder at its small perfection of parts. She could not banish the
thought of the surprise all day, but went about on tiptoe, and was very silent.
But she stole up to see Martha and they both cried with joy, and she got into a complimentary speech to Jem, and did not know
how to get out of it again, and was only extricated from her dilemma by the
sound of the shop-bell, which was an equal relief to the shy, proud, honest
Jem, who shook my hand so vigorously when I congratulated him, that I think I
feel the pain of it yet.
I had a
busy life while Martha was laid up. I attended on Miss Matty, and
prepared her meals; I cast up her accounts, and examined into the state of her
canisters and tumblers. I helped her, too, occasionally, in the shop; and
it gave me no small amusement, and sometimes a little uneasiness, to watch her
ways there. If a little child came in to ask for an ounce of almond-comfits
(and four of the large kind which Miss Matty sold weighed that much), she
always added one more by “way of make-weight,” as she called it, although the
scale was handsomely turned before; and when I remonstrated against this, her
reply was, “The little things like it so much!” There was no use in
telling her that the fifth comfit weighed a quarter of an ounce, and made every
sale into a loss to her pocket. So I remembered the green tea, and winged
my shaft with a feather out of her own plumage. I told her how
unwholesome almond-comfits were, and how ill excess in them might make the
little children. This argument produced some effect; for, henceforward,
instead of the fifth comfit, she always told them to hold out their tiny palms,
into which she shook either peppermint or ginger lozenges, as a preventive to
the dangers that might arise from the previous sale. Altogether the
lozenge trade, conducted on these principles, did not
promise to be remunerative; but I was happy to find she had made more than
twenty pounds during the last year by her sales of tea; and, moreover, that now
she was accustomed to it, she did not dislike the employment, which brought her
into kindly intercourse with many of the people round about. If she gave
them good weight, they, in their turn, brought many a little country present to
the “old rector’s daughter”; a cream cheese, a few new-laid eggs, a little
fresh ripe fruit, a bunch of flowers. The counter was quite loaded with
these offerings sometimes, as she told me.
As for
Cranford in general, it was going on much as usual. The Jamieson and
Hoggins feud still raged, if a feud it could be called, when only one side
cared much about it. Mr and Mrs Hoggins were very happy together, and,
like most very happy people, quite ready to be friendly; indeed, Mrs Hoggins
was really desirous to be restored to Mrs Jamieson’s good graces, because of
the former intimacy. But Mrs Jamieson considered their very happiness an
insult to the Glenmire family, to which she had still the honour to belong, and
she doggedly refused and rejected every advance. Mr Mulliner, like a
faithful clansman, espoused his mistress’ side with ardour. If he saw
either Mr or Mrs Hoggins, he would cross the street, and appear absorbed in the
contemplation of life in general, and his own path in particular, until he had
passed them by. Miss Pole used to amuse herself with wondering what in
the world Mrs Jamieson would do, if either she, or Mr Mulliner, or any other
member of her household was taken ill; she could hardly have the face to call
in Mr Hoggins after the way she had behaved to them.
Miss Pole grew quite impatient for some indisposition or accident to befall Mrs
Jamieson or her dependents, in order that Cranford might see how she would act
under the perplexing circumstances.
Martha was
beginning to go about again, and I had already fixed a limit, not very far
distant, to my visit, when one afternoon, as I was sitting in the shop-parlour
with Miss Matty—I remember the weather was colder now than it had been in May,
three weeks before, and we had a fire and kept the door fully closed—we saw a
gentleman go slowly past the window, and then stand opposite to the door, as if
looking out for the name which we had so carefully hidden. He took out a
double eyeglass and peered about for some time before he could discover
it. Then he came in. And, all on a sudden, it flashed across me
that it was the Aga himself! For his clothes had an out-of-the-way
foreign cut about them, and his face was deep brown, as if tanned and re-tanned
by the sun. His complexion contrasted oddly with his plentiful snow-white
hair, his eyes were dark and piercing, and he had an odd way of contracting
them and puckering up his cheeks into innumerable wrinkles when he looked
earnestly at objects. He did so to Miss Matty when he first came
in. His glance had first caught and lingered a little upon me, but then
turned, with the peculiar searching look I have described, to Miss Matty.
She was a little fluttered and nervous, but no more so than she always was when
any man came into her shop. She thought that he would probably have a
note, or a sovereign at least, for which she would have to
give change, which was an operation she very much disliked to perform.
But the present customer stood opposite to her, without asking for anything,
only looking fixedly at her as he drummed upon the table with his fingers, just
for all the world as Miss Jenkyns used to do. Miss Matty was on the point
of asking him what he wanted (as she told me afterwards), when he turned sharp
to me: “Is your name Mary Smith?”
“Yes!”
said I.
All my
doubts as to his identity were set at rest, and I only wondered what he would
say or do next, and how Miss Matty would stand the joyful shock of what he had
to reveal. Apparently he was at a loss how to announce himself, for he
looked round at last in search of something to 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.
To be concluded
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