CHAPTER VI.

POOR PETER

POOR Peter’s career lay before him rather pleasantly mapped out by kind

friends, but _Bonus Bernardus non videt omnia_, in this map too. He was

to win honours at the Shrewsbury School, and carry them thick to

Cambridge, and after that, a living awaited him, the gift of his

godfather, Sir Peter Arley. Poor Peter! his lot in life was very

different to what his friends had hoped and planned. Miss Matty told me

all about it, and I think it was a relief when she had done so.

He was the darling of his mother, who seemed to dote on all her

children, though she was, perhaps, a little afraid of Deborah’s superior

acquirements. Deborah was the favourite of her father, and when Peter

disappointed him, she became his pride. The sole honour Peter brought

away from Shrewsbury was the reputation of being the best good fellow

that ever was, and of being the captain of the school in the art of

practical joking. His father was disappointed, but set about remedying

the matter in a manly way. He could not afford to send Peter to read

with any tutor, but he could read with him himself; and Miss Matty told

me much of the awful preparations in the way of dictionaries and

lexicons that were made in her father’s study the morning Peter began.

“My poor mother!” said she. “I remember how she used to stand in the

hall, just near enough the study-door, to catch the tone of my father’s

voice. I could tell in a moment if all was going right, by her face.

And it did go right for a long time.”

“What went wrong at last?” said I. “That tiresome Latin, I dare say.”

“No! it was not the Latin. Peter was in high favour with my father, for

he worked up well for him. But he seemed to think that the Cranford

people might be joked about, and made fun of, and they did not like it;

nobody does. He was always hoaxing them; ‘hoaxing’ is not a pretty

word, my dear, and I hope you won’t tell your father I used it, for I

should not like him to think that I was not choice in my language, after

living with such a woman as Deborah. And be sure you never use it

yourself. I don’t know how it slipped out of my mouth, except it was

that I was thinking of poor Peter and it was always his expression. But

he was a very gentlemanly boy in many things. He was like dear Captain

Brown in always being ready to help any old person or a child. Still,

he did like joking and making fun; and he seemed to think the old ladies

in Cranford would believe anything. There were many old ladies living

here then; we are principally ladies now, I know, but we are not so old

as the ladies used to be when I was a girl. I could laugh to think of

some of Peter’s jokes. No, my dear, I won’t tell you of them, because

they might not shock you as they ought to do, and they were very

shocking. He even took in my father once, by dressing himself up as a

lady that was passing through the town and wished to see the Rector of

Cranford, ‘who had published that admirable Assize Sermon.’ Peter said

he was awfully frightened himself when he saw how my father took it all

in, and even offered to copy out all his Napoleon Buonaparte sermons for

her—him, I mean—no, her, for Peter was a lady then. He told me he was

more terrified than he ever was before, all the time my father was

speaking. He did not think my father would have believed him; and yet if

he had not, it would have been a sad thing for Peter. As it was, he was

none so glad of it, for my father kept him hard at work copying out all

those twelve Buonaparte sermons for the lady—that was for Peter himself,

you know. He was the lady. And once when he wanted to go fishing,

Peter said, ‘Confound the woman!’—very bad language, my dear, but Peter

was not always so guarded as he should have been; my father was so angry

with him, it nearly frightened me out of my wits: and yet I could hardly

keep from laughing at the little curtseys Peter kept making, quite

slyly, whenever my father spoke of the lady’s excellent taste and sound

discrimination.”

[Picture: Confound the woman]

“Did Miss Jenkyns know of these tricks?” said I.

“Oh, no! Deborah would have been too much shocked. No, no one knew but

me. I wish I had always known of Peter’s plans; but sometimes he did

not tell me. He used to say the old ladies in the town wanted something

to talk about; but I don’t think they did. They had the _St James’s

Chronicle_ three times a week, just as we have now, and we have plenty

to say; and I remember the clacking noise there always was when some of

the ladies got together. But, probably, schoolboys talk more than

ladies. At last there was a terrible, sad thing happened.” Miss Matty

got up, went to the door, and opened it; no one was there. She rang the

bell for Martha, and when Martha came, her mistress told her to go for

eggs to a farm at the other end of the town.

“I will lock the door after you, Martha. You are not afraid to go, are

you?”

“No, ma’am, not at all; Jem Hearn will be only too proud to go with me.”

Miss Matty drew herself up, and as soon as we were alone, she wished

that Martha had more maidenly reserve.

“We’ll put out the candle, my dear. We can talk just as well by

firelight, you know. There! Well, you see, Deborah had gone from home

for a fortnight or so; it was a very still, quiet day, I remember,

overhead; and the lilacs were all in flower, so I suppose it was spring.

My father had gone out to see some sick people in the parish; I

recollect seeing him leave the house with his wig and shovel-hat and

cane. What possessed our poor Peter I don’t know; he had the sweetest

temper, and yet he always seemed to like to plague Deborah. She never

laughed at his jokes, and thought him ungenteel, and not careful enough

about improving his mind; and that vexed him.

“Well! he went to her room, it seems, and dressed himself in her old

gown, and shawl, and bonnet; just the things she used to wear in

Cranford, and was known by everywhere; and he made the pillow into a

little—you are sure you locked the door, my dear, for I should not like

anyone to hear—into—into a little baby, with white long clothes. It was

only, as he told me afterwards, to make something to talk about in the

town; he never thought of it as affecting Deborah. And he went and

walked up and down in the Filbert walk—just half-hidden by the rails,

and half-seen; and he cuddled his pillow, just like a baby, and talked

to it all the nonsense people do. Oh dear! and my father came stepping

stately up the street, as he always did; and what should he see but a

little black crowd of people—I daresay as many as twenty—all peeping

through his garden rails. So he thought, at first, they were only

looking at a new rhododendron that was in full bloom, and that he was

very proud of; and he walked slower, that they might have more time to

admire. And he wondered if he could make out a sermon from the

occasion, and thought, perhaps, there was some relation between the

rhododendrons and the lilies of the field. My poor father! When he

came nearer, he began to wonder that they did not see him; but their

heads were all so close together, peeping and peeping! My father was

amongst them, meaning, he said, to ask them to walk into the garden with

him, and admire the beautiful vegetable production, when—oh, my dear, I

tremble to think of it—he looked through the rails himself, and saw—I

don’t know what he thought he saw, but old Clare told me his face went

quite grey-white with anger, and his eyes blazed out under his frowning

black brows; and he spoke out—oh, so terribly!—and bade them all stop

where they were—not one of them to go, not one of them to stir a step;

and, swift as light, he was in at the garden door, and down the Filbert

walk, and seized hold of poor Peter, and tore his clothes off his

back—bonnet, shawl, gown, and all—and threw the pillow among the people

over the railings: and then he was very, very angry indeed, and before

all the people he lifted up his cane and flogged Peter!

“My dear, that boy’s trick, on that sunny day, when all seemed going

straight and well, broke my mother’s heart, and changed my father for

life. It did, indeed. Old Clare said, Peter looked as white as my

father; and stood as still as a statue to be flogged; and my father

struck hard! When my father stopped to take breath, Peter said, ‘Have

you done enough, sir?’ quite hoarsely, and still standing quite quiet.

I don’t know what my father said—or if he said anything. But old Clare

said, Peter turned to where the people outside the railing were, and

made them a low bow, as grand and as grave as any gentleman; and then

walked slowly into the house. I was in the store-room helping my mother

to make cowslip wine. I cannot abide the wine now, nor the scent of the

flowers; they turn me sick and faint, as they did that day, when Peter

came in, looking as haughty as any man—indeed, looking like a man, not

like a boy. ‘Mother!’ he said, ‘I am come to say, God bless you for

ever.’ I saw his lips quiver as he spoke; and I think he durst not say

anything more loving, for the purpose that was in his heart. She

looked at him rather frightened, and wondering, and asked him what was

to do. He did not smile or speak, but put his arms round her and kissed

her as if he did not know how to leave off; and before she could speak

again, he was gone. We talked it over, and could not understand it, and

she bade me go and seek my father, and ask what it was all about. I

found him walking up and down, looking very highly displeased.

“‘Tell your mother I have flogged Peter, and that he richly deserved

it.’

“I durst not ask any more questions. When I told my mother, she sat

down, quite faint, for a minute. I remember, a few days after, I saw

the poor, withered cowslip flowers thrown out to the leaf heap, to decay

and die there. There was no making of cowslip wine that year at the

rectory—nor, indeed, ever after.

“Presently my mother went to my father. I know I thought of Queen

Esther and King Ahasuerus; for my mother was very pretty and

delicate-looking, and my father looked as terrible as King Ahasuerus.

Some time after they came out together; and then my mother told me what

had happened, and that she was going up to Peter’s room at my father’s

desire—though she was not to tell Peter this—to talk the matter over

with him. But no Peter was there. We looked over the house; no Peter

was there! Even my father, who had not liked to join in the search at

first, helped us before long. The rectory was a very old house—steps up

into a room, steps down into a room, all through. At first, my mother

went calling low and soft, as if to reassure the poor boy, ‘Peter!

Peter, dear! it’s only me;’ but, by-and-by, as the servants came back

from the errands my father had sent them, in different directions, to

find where Peter was—as we found he was not in the garden, nor the

hayloft, nor anywhere about—my mother’s cry grew louder and wilder,

‘Peter! Peter, my darling! where are you?’ for then she felt and

understood that that long kiss meant some sad kind of ‘good-bye.’ The

afternoon went on—my mother never resting, but seeking again and again

in every possible place that had been looked into twenty times before,

nay, that she had looked into over and over again herself. My father sat

with his head in his hands, not speaking except when his messengers came

in, bringing no tidings; then he lifted up his face, so strong and sad,

and told them to go again in some new direction. My mother kept passing

from room to room, in and out of the house, moving noiselessly, but

never ceasing. Neither she nor my father durst leave the house, which

was the meeting-place for all the messengers. At last (and it was

nearly dark), my father rose up. He took hold of my mother’s arm as she

came with wild, sad pace through one door, and quickly towards another.

She started at the touch of his hand, for she had forgotten all in the

world but Peter.

“‘Molly!’ said he, ‘I did not think all this would happen.’ He looked

into her face for comfort—her poor face all wild and white; for neither

she nor my father had dared to acknowledge—much less act upon—the terror

that was in their hearts, lest Peter should have made away with himself.

My father saw no conscious look in his wife’s hot, dreary eyes, and he

missed the sympathy that she had always been ready to give him—strong

man as he was, and at the dumb despair in her face his tears began to

flow. But when she saw this, a gentle sorrow came over her countenance,

and she said, ‘Dearest John! don’t cry; come with me, and we’ll find

him,’ almost as cheerfully as if she knew where he was. And she took my

father’s great hand in her little soft one, and led him along, the tears

dropping as he walked on that same unceasing, weary walk, from room to

room, through house and garden.

“Oh, how I wished for Deborah! I had no time for crying, for now all

seemed to depend on me. I wrote for Deborah to come home. I sent a

message privately to that same Mr Holbrook’s house—poor Mr Holbrook;—you

know who I mean. I don’t mean I sent a message to him, but I sent one

that I could trust to know if Peter was at his house. For at one time

Mr Holbrook was an occasional visitor at the rectory—you know he was

Miss Pole’s cousin—and he had been very kind to Peter, and taught him

how to fish—he was very kind to everybody, and I thought Peter might

have gone off there. But Mr Holbrook was from home, and Peter had never

been seen. It was night now; but the doors were all wide open, and my

father and mother walked on and on; it was more than an hour since he

had joined her, and I don’t believe they had ever spoken all that time.

I was getting the parlour fire lighted, and one of the servants was

preparing tea, for I wanted them to have something to eat and drink and

warm them, when old Clare asked to speak to me.

“‘I have borrowed the nets from the weir, Miss Matty. Shall we drag the

ponds to-night, or wait for the morning?’

“I remember staring in his face to gather his meaning; and when I did, I

laughed out loud. The horror of that new thought—our bright, darling

Peter, cold, and stark, and dead! I remember the ring of my own laugh

now.

“The next day Deborah was at home before I was myself again. She would

not have been so weak as to give way as I had done; but my screams (my

horrible laughter had ended in crying) had roused my sweet dear mother,

whose poor wandering wits were called back and collected as soon as a

child needed her care. She and Deborah sat by my bedside; I knew by the

looks of each that there had been no news of Peter—no awful, ghastly

news, which was what I most had dreaded in my dull state between

sleeping and waking.

“The same result of all the searching had brought something of the same

relief to my mother, to whom, I am sure, the thought that Peter might

even then be hanging dead in some of the familiar home places had caused

that never-ending walk of yesterday. Her soft eyes never were the same

again after that; they had always a restless, craving look, as if

seeking for what they could not find. Oh! it was an awful time; coming

down like a thunder-bolt on the still sunny day when the lilacs were all

in bloom.”

“Where was Mr Peter?” said I.

“He had made his way to Liverpool; and there was war then; and some of

the king’s ships lay off the mouth of the Mersey; and they were only too

glad to have a fine likely boy such as him (five foot nine he was), come

to offer himself. The captain wrote to my father, and Peter wrote to my

mother. Stay! those letters will be somewhere here.”

We lighted the candle, and found the captain’s letter and Peter’s too.

And we also found a little simple begging letter from Mrs Jenkyns to

Peter, addressed to him at the house of an old schoolfellow whither she

fancied he might have gone. They had returned it unopened; and unopened

it had remained ever since, having been inadvertently put by among the

other letters of that time. This is it:—

“MY DEAREST PETER,—You did not think we should be so sorry as we

are, I know, or you would never have gone away. You are too good.

Your father sits and sighs till my heart aches to hear him. He

cannot hold up his head for grief; and yet he only did what he

thought was right. Perhaps he has been too severe, and perhaps

I have not been kind enough; but God knows how we love you, my

dear only boy. Don looks so sorry you are gone. Come back, and

make us happy, who love you so much. I know you will come back.”

But Peter did not come back. That spring day was the last time he ever

saw his mother’s face. The writer of the letter—the last—the only

person who had ever seen what was written in it, was dead long ago; and

I, a stranger, not born at the time when this occurrence took place, was

the one to open it.

The captain’s letter summoned the father and mother to Liverpool

instantly, if they wished to see their boy; and, by some of the wild

chances of life, the captain’s letter had been detained somewhere,

somehow.

Miss Matty went on, “And it was racetime, and all the post-horses at

Cranford were gone to the races; but my father and mother set off in our

own gig—and oh! my dear, they were too late—the ship was gone! And now

read Peter’s letter to my mother!”

It was full of love, and sorrow, and pride in his new profession, and a

sore sense of his disgrace in the eyes of the people at Cranford; but

ending with a passionate entreaty that she would come and see him before

he left the Mersey: “Mother; we may go into battle. I hope we shall,

and lick those French: but I must see you again before that time.”

“And she was too late,” said Miss Matty; “too late!”

We sat in silence, pondering on the full meaning of those sad, sad

words. At length I asked Miss Matty to tell me how her mother bore it.

“Oh!” she said, “she was patience itself. She had never been strong,

and this weakened her terribly. My father used to sit looking at her:

far more sad than she was. He seemed as if he could look at nothing

else when she was by; and he was so humble—so very gentle now. He

would, perhaps, speak in his old way—laying down the law, as it were—and

then, in a minute or two, he would come round and put his hand on our

shoulders, and ask us in a low voice, if he had said anything to hurt

us. I did not wonder at his speaking so to Deborah, for she was so

clever; but I could not bear to hear him talking so to me.

“But, you see, he saw what we did not—that it was killing my mother.

Yes! killing her (put out the candle, my dear; I can talk better in the

dark), for she was but a frail woman, and ill-fitted to stand the fright

and shock she had gone through; and she would smile at him and comfort

him, not in words, but in her looks and tones, which were always

cheerful when he was there. And she would speak of how she thought

Peter stood a good chance of being admiral very soon—he was so brave and

clever; and how she thought of seeing him in his navy uniform, and what

sort of hats admirals wore; and how much more fit he was to be a sailor

than a clergyman; and all in that way, just to make my father think she

was quite glad of what came of that unlucky morning’s work, and the

flogging which was always in his mind, as we all knew. But oh, my dear!

the bitter, bitter crying she had when she was alone; and at last, as

she grew weaker, she could not keep her tears in when Deborah or me was

by, and would give us message after message for Peter (his ship had gone

to the Mediterranean, or somewhere down there, and then he was ordered

off to India, and there was no overland route then); but she still said

that no one knew where their death lay in wait, and that we were not to

think hers was near. We did not think it, but we knew it, as we saw her

fading away.

“Well, my dear, it’s very foolish of me, I know, when in all likelihood

I am so near seeing her again.

“And only think, love! the very day after her death—for she did not live

quite a twelvemonth after Peter went away—the very day after—came a

parcel for her from India—from her poor boy. It was a large, soft,

white Indian shawl, with just a little narrow border all round; just

what my mother would have liked.

“We thought it might rouse my father, for he had sat with her hand in

his all night long; so Deborah took it in to him, and Peter’s letter to

her, and all. At first, he took no notice; and we tried to make a kind

of light careless talk about the shawl, opening it out and admiring it.

Then, suddenly, he got up, and spoke: ‘She shall be buried in it,’ he

said; ‘Peter shall have that comfort; and she would have liked it.’

“Well, perhaps it was not reasonable, but what could we do or say? One

gives people in grief their own way. He took it up and felt it: ‘It is

just such a shawl as she wished for when she was married, and her mother

did not give it her. I did not know of it till after, or she should

have had it—she should; but she shall have it now.’

“My mother looked so lovely in her death! She was always pretty, and

now she looked fair, and waxen, and young—younger than Deborah, as she

stood trembling and shivering by her. We decked her in the long soft

folds; she lay smiling, as if pleased; and people came—all Cranford

came—to beg to see her, for they had loved her dearly, as well they

might; and the countrywomen brought posies; old Clare’s wife brought

some white violets and begged they might lie on her breast.

“Deborah said to me, the day of my mother’s funeral, that if she had a

hundred offers she never would marry and leave my father. It was not

very likely she would have so many—I don’t know that she had one; but it

was not less to her credit to say so. She was such a daughter to my

father as I think there never was before or since. His eyes failed him,

and she read book after book, and wrote, and copied, and was always at

his service in any parish business. She could do many more things than

my poor mother could; she even once wrote a letter to the bishop for my

father. But he missed my mother sorely; the whole parish noticed it.

Not that he was less active; I think he was more so, and more patient in

helping every one. I did all I could to set Deborah at liberty to be

with him; for I knew I was good for little, and that my best work in the

world was to do odd jobs quietly, and set others at liberty. But my

father was a changed man.”

“Did Mr Peter ever come home?”

“Yes, once. He came home a lieutenant; he did not get to be admiral.

And he and my father were such friends! My father took him into every

house in the parish, he was so proud of him. He never walked out

without Peter’s arm to lean upon. Deborah used to smile (I don’t think

we ever laughed again after my mother’s death), and say she was quite

put in a corner. Not but what my father always wanted her when there

was letter-writing or reading to be done, or anything to be settled.”

“And then?” said I, after a pause.

“Then Peter went to sea again; and, by-and-by, my father died, blessing

us both, and thanking Deborah for all she had been to him; and, of

course, our circumstances were changed; and, instead of living at the

rectory, and keeping three maids and a man, we had to come to this small

house, and be content with a servant-of-all-work; but, as Deborah used

to say, we have always lived genteelly, even if circumstances have

compelled us to simplicity. Poor Deborah!”

“And Mr Peter?” asked I.

“Oh, there was some great war in India—I forget what they call it—and we

have never heard of Peter since then. I believe he is dead myself; and

it sometimes fidgets me that we have never put on mourning for him. And

then again, when I sit by myself, and all the house is still, I think I

hear his step coming up the street, and my heart begins to flutter and

beat; but the sound always goes past—and Peter never comes.

“That’s Martha back? No! _I’ll_ go, my dear; I can always find my way

in the dark, you know. And a blow of fresh air at the door will do my

head good, and it’s rather got a trick of aching.”

So she pattered off. I had lighted the candle, to give the room a

cheerful appearance against her return.

“Was it Martha?” asked I.

“Yes. And I am rather uncomfortable, for I heard such a strange noise,

just as I was opening the door.”

“Where?” I asked, for her eyes were round with affright.

“In the street—just outside—it sounded like”—

“Talking?” I put in, as she hesitated a little.

“No! kissing”—