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.

[Picture: Smiling glory ... and becoming blushes]

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 awestruck 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.

[Picture: I went to call Miss Matty]

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’s 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.