CHAPTER XIV.

FRIENDS IN NEED

IT was an example to me, and I fancy it might be to many others, to see

how immediately Miss Matty set about the retrenchment which she knew

to be right under her altered circumstances. While she went down to

speak to Martha, and break the intelligence to her, I stole out with

my letter to the Aga Jenkyns, and went to the signor’s lodgings to

obtain the exact address. I bound the signora to secrecy; and indeed

her military manners had a degree of shortness and reserve in them

which made her always say as little as possible, except when under the

pressure of strong excitement. Moreover (which made my secret doubly

sure), the signor was now so far recovered as to be looking forward

to travelling and conjuring again in the space of a few days, when

he, his wife, and little Phœbe would leave Cranford. Indeed, I found

him looking over a great black and red placard, in which the Signor

Brunoni’s accomplishments were set forth, and to which only the name

of the town where he would next display them was wanting. He and his

wife were so much absorbed in deciding where the red letters would come

in with most effect (it might have been the Rubric for that matter),

that it was some time before I could get my question asked privately,

and not before I had given several decisions, the wisdom of which I

questioned afterwards with equal sincerity as soon as the signor threw

in his doubts and reasons on the important subject. At last I got

the address, spelt by sound, and very queer it looked. I dropped it

in the post on my way home, and then for a minute I stood looking at

the wooden pane with a gaping slit which divided me from the letter

but a moment ago in my hand. It was gone from me like life, never to

be recalled. It would get tossed about on the sea, and stained with

sea-waves perhaps, and be carried among palm-trees, and scented with

all tropical fragrance; the little piece of paper, but an hour ago so

familiar and commonplace, had set out on its race to the strange wild

countries beyond the Ganges! But I could not afford to lose much time

on this speculation. I hastened home, that Miss Matty might not miss

me. Martha opened the door to me, her face swollen with crying. As

soon as she saw me she burst out afresh, and taking hold of my arm she

pulled me in, and banged the door to, in order to ask me if indeed it

was all true that Miss Matty had been saying.

“I’ll never leave her! No; I won’t. I telled her so, and said I could

not think how she could find in her heart to give me warning. I could

not have had the face to do it, if I’d been her. I might ha’ been just

as good for nothing as Mrs Fitz-Adam’s Rosy, who struck for wages after

living seven years and a half in one place. I said I was not one to go

and serve Mammon at that rate; that I knew when I’d got a good missus,

if she didn’t know when she’d got a good servant”—

“But, Martha,” said I, cutting in while she wiped her eyes.

“Don’t, ‘but Martha’ me,” she replied to my deprecatory tone.

“Listen to reason”—

“I’ll not listen to reason,” she said, now in full possession of her

voice, which had been rather choked with sobbing. “Reason always means

what someone else has got to say. Now I think what I’ve got to say is

good enough reason; but reason or not, I’ll say it, and I’ll stick to

it. I’ve money in the Savings Bank, and I’ve a good stock of clothes,

and I’m not going to leave Miss Matty. No, not if she gives me warning

every hour in the day!”

She put her arms akimbo, as much as to say she defied me; and, indeed, I

could hardly tell how to begin to remonstrate with her, so much did I

feel that Miss Matty, in her increasing infirmity, needed the attendance

of this kind and faithful woman.

“Well”—said I at last.

“I’m thankful you begin with ‘well!’ If you’d have begun with ‘but,’ as

you did afore, I’d not ha’ listened to you. Now you may go on.”

“I know you would be a great loss to Miss Matty, Martha”—

“I telled her so. A loss she’d never cease to be sorry for,” broke in

Martha triumphantly.

“Still, she will have so little—so very little—to live upon, that I

don’t see just now how she could find you food—she will even be pressed

for her own. I tell you this, Martha, because I feel you are like a

friend to dear Miss Matty, but you know she might not like to have it

spoken about.”

Apparently this was even a blacker view of the subject than Miss Matty

had presented to her, for Martha just sat down on the first chair that

came to hand, and cried out loud (we had been standing in the kitchen).

At last she put her apron down, and looking me earnestly in the face,

asked, “Was that the reason Miss Matty wouldn’t order a pudding to-day?

She said she had no great fancy for sweet things, and you and she would

just have a mutton chop. But I’ll be up to her. Never you tell, but

I’ll make her a pudding, and a pudding she’ll like, too, and I’ll pay

for it myself; so mind you see she eats it. Many a one has been

comforted in their sorrow by seeing a good dish come upon the table.”

I was rather glad that Martha’s energy had taken the immediate and

practical direction of pudding-making, for it staved off the quarrelsome

discussion as to whether she should or should not leave Miss Matty’s

service. She began to tie on a clean apron, and otherwise prepare

herself for going to the shop for the butter, eggs, and what else she

might require. She would not use a scrap of the articles already in the

house for her cookery, but went to an old tea-pot in which her private

store of money was deposited, and took out what she wanted.

I found Miss Matty very quiet, and not a little sad; but by-and-by she

tried to smile for my sake. It was settled that I was to write to my

father, and ask him to come over and hold a consultation, and as soon as

this letter was despatched we began to talk over future plans. Miss

Matty’s idea was to take a single room, and retain as much of her

furniture as would be necessary to fit up this, and sell the rest, and

there to quietly exist upon what would remain after paying the rent.

For my part, I was more ambitious and less contented. I thought of all

the things by which a woman, past middle age, and with the education

common to ladies fifty years ago, could earn or add to a living without

materially losing caste; but at length I put even this last clause on

one side, and wondered what in the world Miss Matty could do.

Teaching was, of course, the first thing that suggested itself. If Miss

Matty could teach children anything, it would throw her among the little

elves in whom her soul delighted. I ran over her accomplishments. Once

upon a time I had heard her say she could play “Ah! vous dirai-je,

maman?” on the piano, but that was long, long ago; that faint shadow of

musical acquirement had died out years before. She had also once been

able to trace out patterns very nicely for muslin embroidery, by dint of

placing a piece of silver paper over the design to be copied, and

holding both against the window-pane while she marked the scollop and

eyelet-holes. But that was her nearest approach to the accomplishment

of drawing, and I did not think it would go very far. Then again, as to

the branches of a solid English education—fancy work and the use of the

globes—such as the mistress of the Ladies’ Seminary, to which all the

tradespeople in Cranford sent their daughters, professed to teach. Miss

Matty’s eyes were failing her, and I doubted if she could discover the

number of threads in a worsted-work pattern, or rightly appreciate the

different shades required for Queen Adelaide’s face in the loyal

wool-work now fashionable in Cranford. As for the use of the globes, I

had never been able to find it out myself, so perhaps I was not a good

judge of Miss Matty’s capability of instructing in this branch of

education; but it struck me that equators and tropics, and such mystical

circles, were very imaginary lines indeed to her, and that she looked

upon the signs of the Zodiac as so many remnants of the Black Art.

What she piqued herself upon, as arts in which she excelled, was making

candle-lighters, or “spills” (as she preferred calling them), of

coloured paper, cut so as to resemble feathers, and knitting garters in

a variety of dainty stitches. I had once said, on receiving a present

of an elaborate pair, that I should feel quite tempted to drop one of

them in the street, in order to have it admired; but I found this little

joke (and it was a very little one) was such a distress to her sense of

propriety, and was taken with such anxious, earnest alarm, lest the

temptation might some day prove too strong for me, that I quite

regretted having ventured upon it. A present of these

delicately-wrought garters, a bunch of gay “spills,” or a set of cards

on which sewing-silk was wound in a mystical manner, were the well-known

tokens of Miss Matty’s favour. But would any one pay to have their

children taught these arts? or, indeed, would Miss Matty sell, for

filthy lucre, the knack and the skill with which she made trifles of

value to those who loved her?

I had to come down to reading, writing, and arithmetic; and, in reading

the chapter every morning, she always coughed before coming to long

words. I doubted her power of getting through a genealogical chapter,

with any number of coughs. Writing she did well and delicately—but

spelling! She seemed to think that the more out-of-the-way this was,

and the more trouble it cost her, the greater the compliment she paid to

her correspondent; and words that she would spell quite correctly in her

letters to me became perfect enigmas when she wrote to my father.

No! there was nothing she could teach to the rising generation of

Cranford, unless they had been quick learners and ready imitators of her

patience, her humility, her sweetness, her quiet contentment with all

that she could not do. I pondered and pondered until dinner was

announced by Martha, with a face all blubbered and swollen with crying.

Miss Matty had a few little peculiarities which Martha was apt to regard

as whims below her attention, and appeared to consider as childish

fancies of which an old lady of fifty-eight should try and cure herself.

But to-day everything was attended to with the most careful regard. The

bread was cut to the imaginary pattern of excellence that existed in

Miss Matty’s mind, as being the way which her mother had preferred, the

curtain was drawn so as to exclude the dead brick wall of a neighbour’s

stable, and yet left so as to show every tender leaf of the poplar which

was bursting into spring beauty. Martha’s tone to Miss Matty was just

such as that good, rough-spoken servant usually kept sacred for little

children, and which I had never heard her use to any grown-up person.

I had forgotten to tell Miss Matty about the pudding, and I was afraid

she might not do justice to it, for she had evidently very little

appetite this day; so I seized the opportunity of letting her into the

secret while Martha took away the meat. Miss Matty’s eyes filled with

tears, and she could not speak, either to express surprise or delight,

when Martha returned bearing it aloft, made in the most wonderful

representation of a lion _couchant_ that ever was moulded. Martha’s

face gleamed with triumph as she set it down before Miss Matty with an

exultant “There!” Miss Matty wanted to speak her thanks, but could not;

so she took Martha’s hand and shook it warmly, which set Martha off

crying, and I myself could hardly keep up the necessary composure.

Martha burst out of the room, and Miss Matty had to clear her voice once

or twice before she could speak. At last she said, “I should like to

keep this pudding under a glass shade, my dear!” and the notion of the

lion _couchant_, with his currant eyes, being hoisted up to the place of

honour on a mantelpiece, tickled my hysterical fancy, and I began to

laugh, which rather surprised Miss Matty.

“I am sure, dear, I have seen uglier things under a glass shade before

now,” said she.

So had I, many a time and oft, and I accordingly composed my countenance

(and now I could hardly keep from crying), and we both fell to upon the

pudding, which was indeed excellent—only every morsel seemed to choke

us, our hearts were so full.

We had too much to think about to talk much that afternoon. It passed

over very tranquilly. But when the tea-urn was brought in a new thought

came into my head. Why should not Miss Matty sell tea—be an agent to

the East India Tea Company which then existed? I could see no

objections to this plan, while the advantages were many—always supposing

that Miss Matty could get over the degradation of condescending to

anything like trade. Tea was neither greasy nor sticky—grease and

stickiness being two of the qualities which Miss Matty could not endure.

No shop-window would be required. A small, genteel notification of her

being licensed to sell tea would, it is true, be necessary, but I hoped

that it could be placed where no one would see it. Neither was tea a

heavy article, so as to tax Miss Matty’s fragile strength. The only

thing against my plan was the buying and selling involved.

While I was giving but absent answers to the questions Miss Matty was

putting—almost as absently—we heard a clumping sound on the stairs, and

a whispering outside the door, which indeed once opened and shut as if

by some invisible agency. After a little while Martha came in, dragging

after her a great tall young man, all crimson with shyness, and finding

his only relief in perpetually sleeking down his hair.

“Please, ma’am, he’s only Jem Hearn,” said Martha, by way of an

introduction; and so out of breath was she that I imagine she had had

some bodily struggle before she could overcome his reluctance to be

presented on the courtly scene of Miss Matilda Jenkyns’s drawing-room.

“And please, ma’am, he wants to marry me off-hand. And please, ma’am,

we want to take a lodger—just one quiet lodger, to make our two ends

meet; and we’d take any house conformable; and, oh dear Miss Matty, if I

may be so bold, would you have any objections to lodging with us? Jem

wants it as much as I do.” [To Jem ]—“You great oaf! why can’t you back

me!—But he does want it all the same, very bad—don’t you, Jem?—only, you

see, he’s dazed at being called on to speak before quality.”

[Picture: Please, ma’am, he wants to marry me off-hand]

“It’s not that,” broke in Jem. “It’s that you’ve taken me all on a

sudden, and I didn’t think for to get married so soon—and such quick

words does flabbergast a man. It’s not that I’m against it, ma’am”

(addressing Miss Matty), “only Martha has such quick ways with her when

once she takes a thing into her head; and marriage, ma’am—marriage nails

a man, as one may say. I dare say I shan’t mind it after it’s once

over.”

“Please, ma’am,” said Martha—who had plucked at his sleeve, and nudged

him with her elbow, and otherwise tried to interrupt him all the time

he had been speaking—“don’t mind him, he’ll come to; ’twas only last

night he was an-axing me, and an-axing me, and all the more because I

said I could not think of it for years to come, and now he’s only taken

aback with the suddenness of the joy; but you know, Jem, you are just as

full as me about wanting a lodger.” (Another great nudge.)

“Ay! if Miss Matty would lodge with us—otherwise I’ve no mind to be

cumbered with strange folk in the house,” said Jem, with a want of tact

which I could see enraged Martha, who was trying to represent a lodger

as the great object they wished to obtain, and that, in fact, Miss Matty

would be smoothing their path and conferring a favour, if she would only

come and live with them.

Miss Matty herself was bewildered by the pair; their, or rather Martha’s

sudden resolution in favour of matrimony staggered her, and stood

between her and the contemplation of the plan which Martha had at heart.

Miss Matty began—

“Marriage is a very solemn thing, Martha.”

“It is indeed, ma’am,” quoth Jem. “Not that I’ve no objections to

Martha.”

“You’ve never let me a-be for asking me for to fix when I would be

married,” said Martha—her face all a-fire, and ready to cry with

vexation—“and now you’re shaming me before my missus and all.”

“Nay, now! Martha don’t ee! don’t ee! only a man likes to have

breathing-time,” said Jem, trying to possess himself of her hand, but in

vain. Then seeing that she was more seriously hurt than he had

imagined, he seemed to try to rally his scattered faculties, and with

more straightforward dignity than, ten minutes before, I should have

thought it possible for him to assume, he turned to Miss Matty, and

said, “I hope, ma’am, you know that I am bound to respect every one who

has been kind to Martha. I always looked on her as to be my wife—some

time; and she has often and often spoken of you as the kindest lady that

ever was; and though the plain truth is, I would not like to be troubled

with lodgers of the common run, yet if, ma’am, you’d honour us by living

with us, I’m sure Martha would do her best to make you comfortable; and

I’d keep out of your way as much as I could, which I reckon would be the

best kindness such an awkward chap as me could do.”

Miss Matty had been very busy with taking off her spectacles, wiping

them, and replacing them; but all she could say was, “Don’t let any

thought of me hurry you into marriage: pray don’t. Marriage is such a

very solemn thing!”

“But Miss Matilda will think of your plan, Martha,” said I, struck with

the advantages that it offered, and unwilling to lose the opportunity of

considering about it. “And I’m sure neither she nor I can ever forget

your kindness; nor yours either, Jem.”

“Why, yes, ma’am! I’m sure I mean kindly, though I’m a bit fluttered by

being pushed straight ahead into matrimony, as it were, and mayn’t

express myself conformable. But I’m sure I’m willing enough, and give

me time to get accustomed; so, Martha, wench, what’s the use of crying

so, and slapping me if I come near?”

This last was _sotto voce_, and had the effect of making Martha bounce

out of the room, to be followed and soothed by her lover. Whereupon

Miss Matty sat down and cried very heartily, and accounted for it by

saying that the thought of Martha being married so soon gave her quite a

shock, and that she should never forgive herself if she thought she was

hurrying the poor creature. I think my pity was more for Jem, of the

two; but both Miss Matty and I appreciated to the full the kindness of

the honest couple, although we said little about this, and a good deal

about the chances and dangers of matrimony.

The next morning, very early, I received a note from Miss Pole, so

mysteriously wrapped up, and with so many seals on it to secure secrecy,

that I had to tear the paper before I could unfold it. And when I came

to the writing I could hardly understand the meaning, it was so involved

and oracular. I made out, however, that I was to go to Miss Pole’s at

eleven o’clock; the number _eleven_ being written in full length as well

as in numerals, and _A.M._ twice dashed under, as if I were very likely

to come at eleven at night, when all Cranford was usually abed and

asleep by ten. There was no signature except Miss Pole’s initials

reversed, P.E.; but as Martha had given me the note, “with Miss Pole’s

kind regards,” it needed no wizard to find out who sent it; and if the

writer’s name was to be kept secret, it was very well that I was alone

when Martha delivered it.

I went as requested to Miss Pole’s. The door was opened to me by her

little maid Lizzy in Sunday trim, as if some grand event was impending

over this work-day. And the drawing-room upstairs was arranged in

accordance with this idea. The table was set out with the best green

card-cloth, and writing materials upon it. On the little chiffonier was

a tray with a newly-decanted bottle of cowslip wine, and some

ladies’-finger biscuits. Miss Pole herself was in solemn array, as if

to receive visitors, although it was only eleven o’clock. Mrs Forrester

was there, crying quietly and sadly, and my arrival seemed only to call

forth fresh tears. Before we had finished our greetings, performed with

lugubrious mystery of demeanour, there was another rat-tat-tat, and Mrs

Fitz-Adam appeared, crimson with walking and excitement. It seemed as

if this was all the company expected; for now Miss Pole made several

demonstrations of being about to open the business of the meeting, by

stirring the fire, opening and shutting the door, and coughing and

blowing her nose. Then she arranged us all round the table, taking care

to place me opposite to her; and last of all, she inquired of me if the

sad report was true, as she feared it was, that Miss Matty had lost all

her fortune?

Of course, I had but one answer to make; and I never saw more unaffected

sorrow depicted on any countenances than I did there on the three before

me.

“I wish Mrs Jamieson was here!” said Mrs Forrester at last; but to judge

from Mrs Fitz-Adam’s face, she could not second the wish.

“But without Mrs Jamieson,” said Miss Pole, with just a sound of

offended merit in her voice, “we, the ladies of Cranford, in my

drawing-room assembled, can resolve upon something. I imagine we are

none of us what may be called rich, though we all possess a genteel

competency, sufficient for tastes that are elegant and refined, and

would not, if they could, be vulgarly ostentatious.” (Here I observed

Miss Pole refer to a small card concealed in her hand, on which I

imagine she had put down a few notes.)

“Miss Smith,” she continued, addressing me (familiarly known as “Mary”

to all the company assembled, but this was a state occasion), “I have

conversed in private—I made it my business to do so yesterday

afternoon—with these ladies on the misfortune which has happened to our

friend, and one and all of us have agreed that while we have a

superfluity, it is not only a duty, but a pleasure—a true pleasure,

Mary!”—her voice was rather choked just here, and she had to wipe her

spectacles before she could go on—“to give what we can to assist

her—Miss Matilda Jenkyns. Only in consideration of the feelings of

delicate independence existing in the mind of every refined female”—I

was sure she had got back to the card now—“we wish to contribute our

mites in a secret and concealed manner, so as not to hurt the feelings I

have referred to. And our object in requesting you to meet us this

morning is that, believing you are the daughter—that your father is, in

fact, her confidential adviser, in all pecuniary matters, we imagined

that, by consulting with him, you might devise some mode in which our

contribution could be made to appear the legal due which Miss Matilda

Jenkyns ought to receive from—— Probably your father, knowing her

investments, can fill up the blank.”

Miss Pole concluded her address, and looked round for approval and

agreement.

“I have expressed your meaning, ladies, have I not? And while Miss

Smith considers what reply to make, allow me to offer you some little

refreshment.”

I had no great reply to make: I had more thankfulness at my heart for

their kind thoughts than I cared to put into words; and so I only

mumbled out something to the effect “that I would name what Miss Pole

had said to my father, and that if anything could be arranged for dear

Miss Matty,”—and here I broke down utterly, and had to be refreshed with

a glass of cowslip wine before I could check the crying which had been

repressed for the last two or three days. The worst was, all the ladies

cried in concert. Even Miss Pole cried, who had said a hundred times

that to betray emotion before any one was a sign of weakness and want of

self-control. She recovered herself into a slight degree of impatient

anger, directed against me, as having set them all off; and, moreover, I

think she was vexed that I could not make a speech back in return for

hers; and if I had known beforehand what was to be said, and had a card

on which to express the probable feelings that would rise in my heart, I

would have tried to gratify her. As it was, Mrs Forrester was the

person to speak when we had recovered our composure.

“I don’t mind, among friends, stating that I—no! I’m not poor exactly,

but I don’t think I’m what you may call rich; I wish I were, for dear

Miss Matty’s sake—but, if you please, I’ll write down in a sealed paper

what I can give. I only wish it was more; my dear Mary, I do indeed.”

Now I saw why paper, pens, and ink were provided. Every lady wrote down

the sum she could give annually, signed the paper, and sealed it

mysteriously. If their proposal was acceded to, my father was to be

allowed to open the papers, under pledge of secrecy. If not, they were

to be returned to their writers.

When the ceremony had been gone through, I rose to depart; but each lady

seemed to wish to have a private conference with me. Miss Pole kept me

in the drawing-room to explain why, in Mrs Jamieson’s absence, she had

taken the lead in this “movement,” as she was pleased to call it, and

also to inform me that she had heard from good sources that Mrs Jamieson

was coming home directly in a state of high displeasure against her

sister-in-law, who was forthwith to leave her house, and was, she

believed, to return to Edinburgh that very afternoon. Of course this

piece of intelligence could not be communicated before Mrs Fitz-Adam,

more especially as Miss Pole was inclined to think that Lady Glenmire’s

engagement to Mr Hoggins could not possibly hold against the blaze of

Mrs Jamieson’s displeasure. A few hearty inquiries after Miss Matty’s

health concluded my interview with Miss Pole.

On coming downstairs I found Mrs Forrester waiting for me at the

entrance to the dining-parlour; she drew me in, and when the door was

shut, she tried two or three times to begin on some subject, which was

so unapproachable apparently, that I began to despair of our ever

getting to a clear understanding. At last out it came; the poor old

lady trembling all the time as if it were a great crime which she was

exposing to daylight, in telling me how very, very little she had to

live upon; a confession which she was brought to make from a dread lest

we should think that the small contribution named in her paper bore any

proportion to her love and regard for Miss Matty. And yet that sum

which she so eagerly relinquished was, in truth, more than a twentieth

part of what she had to live upon, and keep house, and a little

serving-maid, all as became one born a Tyrrell. And when the whole

income does not nearly amount to a hundred pounds, to give up a

twentieth of it will necessitate many careful economies, and many pieces

of self-denial, small and insignificant in the world’s account, but

bearing a different value in another account-book that I have heard of.

She did so wish she was rich, she said, and this wish she kept

repeating, with no thought of herself in it, only with a longing,

yearning desire to be able to heap up Miss Matty’s measure of comforts.

It was some time before I could console her enough to leave her; and

then, on quitting the house, I was waylaid by Mrs Fitz-Adam, who had

also her confidence to make of pretty nearly the opposite description.

She had not liked to put down all that she could afford and was ready to

give. She told me she thought she never could look Miss Matty in the

face again if she presumed to be giving her so much as she should like

to do. “Miss Matty!” continued she, “that I thought was such a fine

young lady when I was nothing but a country girl, coming to market with

eggs and butter and such like things. For my father, though well-to-do,

would always make me go on as my mother had done before me, and I had to

come into Cranford every Saturday, and see after sales, and prices, and

what not. And one day, I remember, I met Miss Matty in the lane that

leads to Combehurst; she was walking on the footpath, which, you know,

is raised a good way above the road, and a gentleman rode beside her,

and was talking to her, and she was looking down at some primroses she

had gathered, and pulling them all to pieces, and I do believe she was

crying. But after she had passed, she turned round and ran after me to

ask—oh, so kindly—about my poor mother, who lay on her death-bed; and

when I cried she took hold of my hand to comfort me—and the gentleman

waiting for her all the time—and her poor heart very full of something,

I am sure; and I thought it such an honour to be spoken to in that

pretty way by the rector’s daughter, who visited at Arley Hall. I have

loved her ever since, though perhaps I’d no right to do it; but if you

can think of any way in which I might be allowed to give a little more

without any one knowing it, I should be so much obliged to you, my dear.

And my brother would be delighted to doctor her for nothing—medicines,

leeches, and all. I know that he and her ladyship (my dear, I little

thought in the days I was telling you of that I should ever come to be

sister-in-law to a ladyship!) would do anything for her. We all would.”

I told her I was quite sure of it, and promised all sorts of things in

my anxiety to get home to Miss Matty, who might well be wondering what

had become of me—absent from her two hours without being able to account

for it. She had taken very little note of time, however, as she had

been occupied in numberless little arrangements preparatory to the great

step of giving up her house. It was evidently a relief to her to be

doing something in the way of retrenchment, for, as she said, whenever

she paused to think, the recollection of the poor fellow with his bad

five-pound note came over her, and she felt quite dishonest; only if it

made her so uncomfortable, what must it not be doing to the directors of

the bank, who must know so much more of the misery consequent upon this

failure? She almost made me angry by dividing her sympathy between

these directors (whom she imagined overwhelmed by self-reproach for the

mismanagement of other people’s affairs) and those who were suffering

like her. Indeed, of the two, she seemed to think poverty a lighter

burden than self-reproach; but I privately doubted if the directors

would agree with her.

Old hoards were taken out and examined as to their money value which

luckily was small, or else I don’t know how Miss Matty would have

prevailed upon herself to part with such things as her mother’s

wedding-ring, the strange, uncouth brooch with which her father had

disfigured his shirt-frill, &c. However, we arranged things a little in

order as to their pecuniary estimation, and were all ready for my father

when he came the next morning.

I am not going to weary you with the details of all the business we went

through; and one reason for not telling about them is, that I did not

understand what we were doing at the time, and cannot recollect it now.

Miss Matty and I sat assenting to accounts, and schemes, and reports,

and documents, of which I do not believe we either of us understood a

word; for my father was clear-headed and decisive, and a capital man of

business, and if we made the slightest inquiry, or expressed the

slightest want of comprehension, he had a sharp way of saying, “Eh? eh?

it’s as clear as daylight. What’s your objection?” And as we had not

comprehended anything of what he had proposed, we found it rather

difficult to shape our objections; in fact, we never were sure if we had

any. So presently Miss Matty got into a nervously acquiescent state,

and said “Yes,” and “Certainly,” at every pause, whether required or

not; but when I once joined in as chorus to a “Decidedly,” pronounced by

Miss Matty in a tremblingly dubious tone, my father fired round at me

and asked me “What there was to decide?” And I am sure to this day I

have never known. But, in justice to him, I must say he had come over

from Drumble to help Miss Matty when he could ill spare the time, and

when his own affairs were in a very anxious state.

[Picture: Miss Matty and I sat assenting to accounts]

While Miss Matty was out of the room giving orders for luncheon—and

sadly perplexed between her desire of honouring my father by a delicate,

dainty meal, and her conviction that she had no right, now that all her

money was gone, to indulge this desire—I told him of the meeting of the

Cranford ladies at Miss Pole’s the day before. He kept brushing his

hand before his eyes as I spoke—and when I went back to Martha’s offer

the evening before, of receiving Miss Matty as a lodger, he fairly

walked away from me to the window, and began drumming with his fingers

upon it. Then he turned abruptly round, and said, “See, Mary, how a

good, innocent life makes friends all around. Confound it! I could

make a good lesson out of it if I were a parson; but, as it is, I can’t

get a tail to my sentences—only I’m sure you feel what I want to say.

You and I will have a walk after lunch and talk a bit more about these

plans.”

The lunch—a hot savoury mutton-chop, and a little of the cold loin

sliced and fried—was now brought in. Every morsel of this last dish was

finished, to Martha’s great gratification. Then my father bluntly told

Miss Matty he wanted to talk to me alone, and that he would stroll out

and see some of the old places, and then I could tell her what plan we

thought desirable. Just before we went out, she called me back and

said, “Remember, dear, I’m the only one left—I mean, there’s no one to

be hurt by what I do. I’m willing to do anything that’s right and

honest; and I don’t think, if Deborah knows where she is, she’ll care so

very much if I’m not genteel; because, you see, she’ll know all, dear.

Only let me see what I can do, and pay the poor people as far as I’m

able.”

I gave her a hearty kiss, and ran after my father. The result of our

conversation was this. If all parties were agreeable, Martha and Jem

were to be married with as little delay as possible, and they were to

live on in Miss Matty’s present abode; the sum which the Cranford ladies

had agreed to contribute annually being sufficient to meet the greater

part of the rent, and leaving Martha free to appropriate what Miss Matty

should pay for her lodgings to any little extra comforts required.

About the sale, my father was dubious at first. He said the old rectory

furniture, however carefully used and reverently treated, would fetch

very little; and that little would be but as a drop in the sea of the

debts of the Town and County Bank. But when I represented how Miss

Matty’s tender conscience would be soothed by feeling that she had done

what she could, he gave way; especially after I had told him the

five-pound note adventure, and he had scolded me well for allowing it.

I then alluded to my idea that she might add to her small income by

selling tea; and, to my surprise (for I had nearly given up the plan),

my father grasped at it with all the energy of a tradesman. I think he

reckoned his chickens before they were hatched, for he immediately ran

up the profits of the sales that she could effect in Cranford to more

than twenty pounds a year. The small dining-parlour was to be converted

into a shop, without any of its degrading characteristics; a table was

to be the counter; one window was to be retained unaltered, and the

other changed into a glass door. I evidently rose in his estimation for

having made this bright suggestion. I only hoped we should not both

fall in Miss Matty’s.

But she was patient and content with all our arrangements. She knew,

she said, that we should do the best we could for her; and she only

hoped, only stipulated, that she should pay every farthing that she

could be said to owe, for her father’s sake, who had been so respected

in Cranford. My father and I had agreed to say as little as possible

about the bank, indeed never to mention it again, if it could be helped.

Some of the plans were evidently a little perplexing to her; but she

had seen me sufficiently snubbed in the morning for want of

comprehension to venture on too many inquiries now; and all passed over

well with a hope on her part that no one would be hurried into marriage

on her account. When we came to the proposal that she should sell tea, I

could see it was rather a shock to her; not on account of any personal

loss of gentility involved, but only because she distrusted her own

powers of action in a new line of life, and would timidly have preferred

a little more privation to any exertion for which she feared she was

unfitted. However, when she saw my father was bent upon it, she sighed,

and said she would try; and if she did not do well, of course she might

give it up. One good thing about it was, she did not think men ever

bought tea; and it was of men particularly she was afraid. They had

such sharp loud ways with them; and did up accounts, and counted their

change so quickly! Now, if she might only sell comfits to children, she

was sure she could please them!