CHAPTER X.

THE PANIC

I THINK a series of circumstances dated from Signor Brunoni’s visit to

Cranford, which seemed at the time connected in our minds with him,

though I don’t know that he had anything really to do with them. All at

once all sorts of uncomfortable rumours got afloat in the town. There

were one or two robberies—real _bonâ fide_ robberies; men had up before

the magistrates and committed for trial—and that seemed to make us all

afraid of being robbed; and for a long time, at Miss Matty’s, I know, we

used to make a regular expedition all round the kitchens and cellars

every night, Miss Matty leading the way, armed with the poker, I

following with the hearth-brush, and Martha carrying the shovel and

fire-irons with which to sound the alarm; and by the accidental hitting

together of them she often frightened us so much that we bolted

ourselves up, all three together, in the back-kitchen, or store-room, or

wherever we happened to be, till, when our affright was over, we

recollected ourselves and set out afresh with double valiance. By day

we heard strange stories from the shopkeepers and cottagers, of carts

that went about in the dead of night, drawn by horses shod with felt,

and guarded by men in dark clothes, going round the town, no doubt in

search of some unwatched house or some unfastened door.

Miss Pole, who affected great bravery herself, was the principal person

to collect and arrange these reports so as to make them assume their

most fearful aspect. But we discovered that she had begged one of Mr

Hoggins’s worn-out hats to hang up in her lobby, and we (at least I) had

doubts as to whether she really would enjoy the little adventure of

having her house broken into, as she protested she should. Miss Matty

made no secret of being an arrant coward, but she went regularly through

her housekeeper’s duty of inspection—only the hour for this became

earlier and earlier, till at last we went the rounds at half-past six,

and Miss Matty adjourned to bed soon after seven, “in order to get the

night over the sooner.”

Cranford had so long piqued itself on being an honest and moral town

that it had grown to fancy itself too genteel and well-bred to be

otherwise, and felt the stain upon its character at this time doubly.

But we comforted ourselves with the assurance which we gave to each

other that the robberies could never have been committed by any Cranford

person; it must have been a stranger or strangers who brought this

disgrace upon the town, and occasioned as many precautions as if we were

living among the Red Indians or the French.

This last comparison of our nightly state of defence and fortification

was made by Mrs Forrester, whose father had served under General

Burgoyne in the American war, and whose husband had fought the French in

Spain. She indeed inclined to the idea that, in some way, the French

were connected with the small thefts, which were ascertained facts, and

the burglaries and highway robberies, which were rumours. She had been

deeply impressed with the idea of French spies at some time in her life;

and the notion could never be fairly eradicated, but sprang up again

from time to time. And now her theory was this:—The Cranford people

respected themselves too much, and were too grateful to the aristocracy

who were so kind as to live near the town, ever to disgrace their

bringing up by being dishonest or immoral; therefore, we must believe

that the robbers were strangers—if strangers, why not foreigners?—if

foreigners, who so likely as the French? Signor Brunoni spoke broken

English like a Frenchman; and, though he wore a turban like a Turk, Mrs

Forrester had seen a print of Madame de Staël with a turban on, and

another of Mr Denon in just such a dress as that in which the conjuror

had made his appearance, showing clearly that the French, as well as the

Turks, wore turbans. There could be no doubt Signor Brunoni was a

Frenchman—a French spy come to discover the weak and undefended places

of England, and doubtless he had his accomplices. For her part, she,

Mrs Forrester, had always had her own opinion of Miss Pole’s adventure

at the “George Inn”—seeing two men where only one was believed to be.

French people had ways and means which, she was thankful to say, the

English knew nothing about; and she had never felt quite easy in her

mind about going to see that conjuror—it was rather too much like a

forbidden thing, though the rector was there. In short, Mrs Forrester

grew more excited than we had ever known her before, and, being an

officer’s daughter and widow, we looked up to her opinion, of course.

Really I do not know how much was true or false in the reports which

flew about like wildfire just at this time; but it seemed to me then

that there was every reason to believe that at Mardon (a small town

about eight miles from Cranford) houses and shops were entered by holes

made in the walls, the bricks being silently carried away in the dead of

the night, and all done so quietly that no sound was heard either in or

out of the house. Miss Matty gave it up in despair when she heard of

this. “What was the use,” said she, “of locks and bolts, and bells to

the windows, and going round the house every night? That last trick was

fit for a conjuror. Now she did believe that Signor Brunoni was at the

bottom of it.”

One afternoon, about five o’clock, we were startled by a hasty knock at

the door. Miss Matty bade me run and tell Martha on no account to open

the door till she (Miss Matty) had reconnoitred through the window; and

she armed herself with a footstool to drop down on the head of the

visitor, in case he should show a face covered with black crape, as he

looked up in answer to her inquiry of who was there. But it was nobody

but Miss Pole and Betty. The former came upstairs, carrying a little

hand-basket, and she was evidently in a state of great agitation.

“Take care of that!” said she to me, as I offered to relieve her of her

basket. “It’s my plate. I am sure there is a plan to rob my house

to-night. I am come to throw myself on your hospitality, Miss Matty.

Betty is going to sleep with her cousin at the ‘George.’ I can sit up

here all night if you will allow me; but my house is so far from any

neighbours, and I don’t believe we could be heard if we screamed ever

so!”

“But,” said Miss Matty, “what has alarmed you so much? Have you seen

any men lurking about the house?”

“Oh, yes!” answered Miss Pole. “Two very bad-looking men have gone

three times past the house, very slowly; and an Irish beggar-woman came

not half-an-hour ago, and all but forced herself in past Betty, saying

her children were starving, and she must speak to the mistress. You

see, she said ‘mistress,’ though there was a hat hanging up in the hall,

and it would have been more natural to have said ‘master.’ But Betty

shut the door in her face, and came up to me, and we got the spoons

together, and sat in the parlour-window watching till we saw Thomas

Jones going from his work, when we called to him and asked him to take

care of us into the town.”

We might have triumphed over Miss Pole, who had professed such bravery

until she was frightened; but we were too glad to perceive that she

shared in the weaknesses of humanity to exult over her; and I gave up my

room to her very willingly, and shared Miss Matty’s bed for the night.

But before we retired, the two ladies rummaged up, out of the recesses

of their memory, such horrid stories of robbery and murder that I quite

quaked in my shoes. Miss Pole was evidently anxious to prove that such

terrible events had occurred within her experience that she was

justified in her sudden panic; and Miss Matty did not like to be

outdone, and capped every story with one yet more horrible, till it

reminded me oddly enough, of an old story I had read somewhere, of a

nightingale and a musician, who strove one against the other which could

produce the most admirable music, till poor Philomel dropped down dead.

One of the stories that haunted me for a long time afterwards was of a

girl who was left in charge of a great house in Cumberland on some

particular fair-day, when the other servants all went off to the

gaieties. The family were away in London, and a pedlar came by, and

asked to leave his large and heavy pack in the kitchen, saying he would

call for it again at night; and the girl (a gamekeeper’s daughter),

roaming about in search of amusement, chanced to hit upon a gun hanging

up in the hall, and took it down to look at the chasing; and it went off

through the open kitchen door, hit the pack, and a slow dark thread of

blood came oozing out. (How Miss Pole enjoyed this part of the story,

dwelling on each word as if she loved it!) She rather hurried over the

further account of the girl’s bravery, and I have but a confused idea

that, somehow, she baffled the robbers with Italian irons, heated

red-hot, and then restored to blackness by being dipped in grease.

We parted for the night with an awe-stricken wonder as to what we should

hear of in the morning—and, on my part, with a vehement desire for the

night to be over and gone: I was so afraid lest the robbers should have

seen, from some dark lurking-place, that Miss Pole had carried off her

plate, and thus have a double motive for attacking our house.

[Picture: Asked him to take care of us]

But until Lady Glenmire came to call next day we heard of nothing

unusual. The kitchen fire-irons were in exactly the same position

against the back door as when Martha and I had skilfully piled them up,

like spillikins, ready to fall with an awful clatter if only a cat had

touched the outside panels. I had wondered what we should all do if

thus awakened and alarmed, and had proposed to Miss Matty that we should

cover up our faces under the bed-clothes so that there should be no

danger of the robbers thinking that we could identify them; but Miss

Matty, who was trembling very much, scouted this idea, and said we owed

it to society to apprehend them, and that she should certainly do her

best to lay hold of them and lock them up in the garret till morning.

When Lady Glenmire came, we almost felt jealous of her. Mrs Jamieson’s

house had really been attacked; at least there were men’s footsteps to

be seen on the flower borders, underneath the kitchen windows, “where

nae men should be;” and Carlo had barked all through the night as if

strangers were abroad. Mrs Jamieson had been awakened by Lady Glenmire,

and they had rung the bell which communicated with Mr Mulliner’s room in

the third storey, and when his night-capped head had appeared over the

bannisters, in answer to the summons, they had told him of their alarm,

and the reasons for it; whereupon he retreated into his bedroom, and

locked the door (for fear of draughts, as he informed them in the

morning), and opened the window, and called out valiantly to say, if the

supposed robbers would come to him he would fight them; but, as Lady

Glenmire observed, that was but poor comfort, since they would have to

pass by Mrs Jamieson’s room and her own before they could reach him, and

must be of a very pugnacious disposition indeed if they neglected the

opportunities of robbery presented by the unguarded lower storeys, to go

up to a garret, and there force a door in order to get at the champion

of the house. Lady Glenmire, after waiting and listening for some time

in the drawing-room, had proposed to Mrs Jamieson that they should go to

bed; but that lady said she should not feel comfortable unless she sat

up and watched; and, accordingly, she packed herself warmly up on the

sofa, where she was found by the housemaid, when she came into the room

at six o’clock, fast asleep; but Lady Glenmire went to bed, and kept

awake all night.

When Miss Pole heard of this, she nodded her head in great satisfaction.

She had been sure we should hear of something happening in Cranford that

night; and we had heard. It was clear enough they had first proposed to

attack her house; but when they saw that she and Betty were on their

guard, and had carried off the plate, they had changed their tactics and

gone to Mrs Jamieson’s, and no one knew what might have happened if

Carlo had not barked, like a good dog as he was!

Poor Carlo! his barking days were nearly over. Whether the gang who

infested the neighbourhood were afraid of him, or whether they were

revengeful enough, for the way in which he had baffled them on the night

in question, to poison him; or whether, as some among the more

uneducated people thought, he died of apoplexy, brought on by too much

feeding and too little exercise; at any rate, it is certain that, two

days after this eventful night, Carlo was found dead, with his poor legs

stretched out stiff in the attitude of running, as if by such unusual

exertion he could escape the sure pursuer, Death.

We were all sorry for Carlo, the old familiar friend who had snapped at

us for so many years; and the mysterious mode of his death made us very

uncomfortable. Could Signor Brunoni be at the bottom of this? He had

apparently killed a canary with only a word of command; his will seemed

of deadly force; who knew but what he might yet be lingering in the

neighbourhood willing all sorts of awful things!

We whispered these fancies among ourselves in the evenings; but in the

mornings our courage came back with the daylight, and in a week’s time

we had got over the shock of Carlo’s death; all but Mrs Jamieson. She,

poor thing, felt it as she had felt no event since her husband’s death;

indeed, Miss Pole said, that as the Honourable Mr Jamieson drank a good

deal, and occasioned her much uneasiness, it was possible that Carlo’s

death might be the greater affliction. But there was always a tinge of

cynicism in Miss Pole’s remarks. However, one thing was clear and

certain—it was necessary for Mrs Jamieson to have some change of scene;

and Mr Mulliner was very impressive on this point, shaking his head

whenever we inquired after his mistress, and speaking of her loss of

appetite and bad nights very ominously; and with justice too, for if she

had two characteristics in her natural state of health they were a

facility of eating and sleeping. If she could neither eat nor sleep,

she must be indeed out of spirits and out of health.

Lady Glenmire (who had evidently taken very kindly to Cranford) did not

like the idea of Mrs Jamieson’s going to Cheltenham, and more than once

insinuated pretty plainly that it was Mr Mulliner’s doing, who had been

much alarmed on the occasion of the house being attacked, and since had

said, more than once, that he felt it a very responsible charge to have

to defend so many women. Be that as it might, Mrs Jamieson went to

Cheltenham, escorted by Mr Mulliner; and Lady Glenmire remained in

possession of the house, her ostensible office being to take care that

the maid-servants did not pick up followers. She made a very

pleasant-looking dragon; and, as soon as it was arranged for her stay in

Cranford, she found out that Mrs Jamieson’s visit to Cheltenham was just

the best thing in the world. She had let her house in Edinburgh, and

was for the time house-less, so the charge of her sister-in-law’s

comfortable abode was very convenient and acceptable.

Miss Pole was very much inclined to instal herself as a heroine, because

of the decided steps she had taken in flying from the two men and one

woman, whom she entitled “that murderous gang.” She described their

appearance in glowing colours, and I noticed that every time she went

over the story some fresh trait of villainy was added to their

appearance. One was tall—he grew to be gigantic in height before we had

done with him; he of course had black hair—and by-and-by it hung in

elf-locks over his forehead and down his back. The other was short and

broad—and a hump sprouted out on his shoulder before we heard the last

of him; he had red hair—which deepened into carroty; and she was almost

sure he had a cast in the eye—a decided squint. As for the woman, her

eyes glared, and she was masculine-looking—a perfect virago; most

probably a man dressed in woman’s clothes; afterwards, we heard of a

beard on her chin, and a manly voice and a stride.

If Miss Pole was delighted to recount the events of that afternoon to

all inquirers, others were not so proud of their adventures in the

robbery line. Mr Hoggins, the surgeon, had been attacked at his own

door by two ruffians, who were concealed in the shadow of the porch, and

so effectually silenced him that he was robbed in the interval between

ringing his bell and the servant’s answering it. Miss Pole was sure it

would turn out that this robbery had been committed by “her men,” and

went the very day she heard the report to have her teeth examined, and

to question Mr Hoggins. She came to us afterwards; so we heard what she

had heard, straight and direct from the source, while we were yet in the

excitement and flutter of the agitation caused by the first

intelligence; for the event had only occurred the night before.

“Well!” said Miss Pole, sitting down with the decision of a person who

has made up her mind as to the nature of life and the world (and such

people never tread lightly, or seat themselves without a bump), “well,

Miss Matty! men will be men. Every mother’s son of them wishes to be

considered Samson and Solomon rolled into one—too strong ever to be

beaten or discomfited—too wise ever to be outwitted. If you will

notice, they have always foreseen events, though they never tell one for

one’s warning before the events happen. My father was a man, and I know

the sex pretty well.”

She had talked herself out of breath, and we should have been very glad

to fill up the necessary pause as chorus, but we did not exactly know

what to say, or which man had suggested this diatribe against the sex;

so we only joined in generally, with a grave shake of the head, and a

soft murmur of “They are very incomprehensible, certainly!”

“Now, only think,” said she. “There, I have undergone the risk of

having one of my remaining teeth drawn (for one is terribly at the mercy

of any surgeon-dentist; and I, for one, always speak them fair till I

have got my mouth out of their clutches), and, after all, Mr Hoggins is

too much of a man to own that he was robbed last night.”

“Not robbed!” exclaimed the chorus.

“Don’t tell me!” Miss Pole exclaimed, angry that we could be for a

moment imposed upon. “I believe he was robbed, just as Betty told me,

and he is ashamed to own it; and, to be sure, it was very silly of him

to be robbed just at his own door; I daresay he feels that such a thing

won’t raise him in the eyes of Cranford society, and is anxious to

conceal it—but he need not have tried to impose upon me, by saying I

must have heard an exaggerated account of some petty theft of a neck of

mutton, which, it seems, was stolen out of the safe in his yard last

week; he had the impertinence to add, he believed that that was taken by

the cat. I have no doubt, if I could get at the bottom of it, it was

that Irishman dressed up in woman’s clothes, who came spying about my

house, with the story about the starving children.”

After we had duly condemned the want of candour which Mr Hoggins had

evinced, and abused men in general, taking him for the representative

and type, we got round to the subject about which we had been talking

when Miss Pole came in; namely, how far, in the present disturbed state

of the country, we could venture to accept an invitation which Miss

Matty had just received from Mrs Forrester, to come as usual and keep

the anniversary of her wedding-day by drinking tea with her at five

o’clock, and playing a quiet pool afterwards. Mrs Forrester had said

that she asked us with some diffidence, because the roads were, she

feared, very unsafe. But she suggested that perhaps one of us would not

object to take the sedan, and that the others, by walking briskly, might

keep up with the long trot of the chairmen, and so we might all arrive

safely at Over Place, a suburb of the town. (No; that is too large an

expression: a small cluster of houses separated from Cranford by about

two hundred yards of a dark and lonely lane.) There was no doubt but

that a similar note was awaiting Miss Pole at home; so her call was a

very fortunate affair, as it enabled us to consult together. We would

all much rather have declined this invitation; but we felt that it would

not be quite kind to Mrs Forrester, who would otherwise be left to a

solitary retrospect of her not very happy or fortunate life. Miss Matty

and Miss Pole had been visitors on this occasion for many years, and now

they gallantly determined to nail their colours to the mast, and to go

through Darkness Lane rather than fail in loyalty to their friend.

But when the evening came, Miss Matty (for it was she who was voted into

the chair, as she had a cold), before being shut down in the sedan, like

jack-in-a-box, implored the chairmen, whatever might befall, not to run

away and leave her fastened up there, to be murdered; and even after

they had promised, I saw her tighten her features into the stern

determination of a martyr, and she gave me a melancholy and ominous

shake of the head through the glass. However, we got there safely, only

rather out of breath, for it was who could trot hardest through Darkness

Lane, and I am afraid poor Miss Matty was sadly jolted.

Mrs Forrester had made extra preparations, in acknowledgment of our

exertion in coming to see her through such dangers. The usual forms of

genteel ignorance as to what her servants might send up were all gone

through; and harmony and Preference seemed likely to be the order of the

evening, but for an interesting conversation that began I don’t know

how, but which had relation, of course, to the robbers who infested the

neighbourhood of Cranford.

Having braved the dangers of Darkness Lane, and thus having a little

stock of reputation for courage to fall back upon; and also, I daresay,

desirous of proving ourselves superior to men (_videlicet_ Mr Hoggins)

in the article of candour, we began to relate our individual fears, and

the private precautions we each of us took. I owned that my pet

apprehension was eyes—eyes looking at me, and watching me, glittering

out from some dull, flat, wooden surface; and that if I dared to go up

to my looking-glass when I was panic-stricken, I should certainly turn

it round, with its back towards me, for fear of seeing eyes behind me

looking out of the darkness. I saw Miss Matty nerving herself up for a

confession; and at last out it came. She owned that, ever since she had

been a girl, she had dreaded being caught by her last leg, just as she

was getting into bed, by some one concealed under it. She said, when

she was younger and more active, she used to take a flying leap from a

distance, and so bring both her legs up safely into bed at once; but

that this had always annoyed Deborah, who piqued herself upon getting

into bed gracefully, and she had given it up in consequence. But now

the old terror would often come over her, especially since Miss Pole’s

house had been attacked (we had got quite to believe in the fact of the

attack having taken place), and yet it was very unpleasant to think of

looking under a bed, and seeing a man concealed, with a great, fierce

face staring out at you; so she had bethought herself of

something—perhaps I had noticed that she had told Martha to buy her a

penny ball, such as children play with—and now she rolled this ball

under the bed every night: if it came out on the other side, well and

good; if not she always took care to have her hand on the bell-rope, and

meant to call out John and Harry, just as if she expected men-servants

to answer her ring.

We all applauded this ingenious contrivance, and Miss Matty sank back

into satisfied silence, with a look at Mrs Forrester as if to ask for

_her_ private weakness.

Mrs Forrester looked askance at Miss Pole, and tried to change the

subject a little by telling us that she had borrowed a boy from one of

the neighbouring cottages and promised his parents a hundredweight of

coals at Christmas, and his supper every evening, for the loan of him at

nights. She had instructed him in his possible duties when he first

came; and, finding him sensible, she had given him the Major’s sword

(the Major was her late husband), and desired him to put it very

carefully behind his pillow at night, turning the edge towards the head

of the pillow. He was a sharp lad, she was sure; for, spying out the

Major’s cocked hat, he had said, if he might have that to wear, he was

sure he could frighten two Englishmen, or four Frenchmen any day. But

she had impressed upon him anew that he was to lose no time in putting

on hats or anything else; but, if he heard any noise, he was to run at

it with his drawn sword. On my suggesting that some accident might

occur from such slaughterous and indiscriminate directions, and that he

might rush on Jenny getting up to wash, and have spitted her before he

had discovered that she was not a Frenchman, Mrs Forrester said she did

not think that that was likely, for he was a very sound sleeper, and

generally had to be well shaken or cold-pigged in a morning before they

could rouse him. She sometimes thought such dead sleep must be owing to

the hearty suppers the poor lad ate, for he was half-starved at home,

and she told Jenny to see that he got a good meal at night.

[Picture: Slaughterous and indiscriminate directions]

Still this was no confession of Mrs Forrester’s peculiar timidity, and

we urged her to tell us what she thought would frighten her more than

anything. She paused, and stirred the fire, and snuffed the candles,

and then she said, in a sounding whisper—

“Ghosts!”

She looked at Miss Pole, as much as to say, she had declared it, and

would stand by it. Such a look was a challenge in itself. Miss Pole

came down upon her with indigestion, spectral illusions, optical

delusions, and a great deal out of Dr Ferrier and Dr Hibbert besides.

Miss Matty had rather a leaning to ghosts, as I have mentioned before,

and what little she did say was all on Mrs Forrester’s side, who,

emboldened by sympathy, protested that ghosts were a part of her

religion; that surely she, the widow of a major in the army, knew what

to be frightened at, and what not; in short, I never saw Mrs Forrester

so warm either before or since, for she was a gentle, meek, enduring old

lady in most things. Not all the elder-wine that ever was mulled could

this night wash out the remembrance of this difference between Miss Pole

and her hostess. Indeed, when the elder-wine was brought in, it gave

rise to a new burst of discussion; for Jenny, the little maiden who

staggered under the tray, had to give evidence of having seen a ghost

with her own eyes, not so many nights ago, in Darkness Lane, the very

lane we were to go through on our way home.

In spite of the uncomfortable feeling which this last consideration gave

me, I could not help being amused at Jenny’s position, which was

exceedingly like that of a witness being examined and cross-examined by

two counsel who are not at all scrupulous about asking leading

questions. The conclusion I arrived at was, that Jenny had certainly

seen something beyond what a fit of indigestion would have caused. A

lady all in white, and without her head, was what she deposed and

adhered to, supported by a consciousness of the secret sympathy of her

mistress under the withering scorn with which Miss Pole regarded her.

And not only she, but many others, had seen this headless lady, who sat

by the roadside wringing her hands as in deep grief. Mrs Forrester

looked at us from time to time with an air of conscious triumph; but

then she had not to pass through Darkness Lane before she could bury

herself beneath her own familiar bed-clothes.

We preserved a discreet silence as to the headless lady while we were

putting on our things to go home, for there was no knowing how near the

ghostly head and ears might be, or what spiritual connection they might

be keeping up with the unhappy body in Darkness Lane; and, therefore,

even Miss Pole felt that it was as well not to speak lightly on such

subjects, for fear of vexing or insulting that woebegone trunk. At

least, so I conjecture; for, instead of the busy clatter usual in the

operation, we tied on our cloaks as sadly as mutes at a funeral. Miss

Matty drew the curtains round the windows of the chair to shut out

disagreeable sights, and the men (either because they were in spirits

that their labours were so nearly ended, or because they were going down

hill), set off at such a round and merry pace, that it was all Miss Pole

and I could do to keep up with them. She had breath for nothing beyond

an imploring “Don’t leave me!” uttered as she clutched my arm so tightly

that I could not have quitted her, ghost or no ghost. What a relief it

was when the men, weary of their burden and their quick trot, stopped

just where Headingley Causeway branches off from Darkness Lane! Miss

Pole unloosed me and caught at one of the men—

“Could not you—could not you take Miss Matty round by Headingley

Causeway?—the pavement in Darkness Lane jolts so, and she is not very

strong.”

A smothered voice was heard from the inside of the chair—

“Oh! pray go on! What is the matter? What is the matter? I will give

you sixpence more to go on very fast; pray don’t stop here.”

“And I’ll give you a shilling,” said Miss Pole, with tremulous dignity,

“if you’ll go by Headingley Causeway.”

The two men grunted acquiescence and took up the chair, and went along

the causeway, which certainly answered Miss Pole’s kind purpose of

saving Miss Matty’s bones; for it was covered with soft, thick mud, and

even a fall there would have been easy till the getting-up came, when

there might have been some difficulty in extrication.