CHAPTER VII.

VISITING

ONE morning, as Miss Matty and I sat at our work—it was before twelve

o’clock, and Miss Matty had not changed the cap with yellow ribbons that

had been Miss Jenkyns’s best, and which Miss Matty was now wearing out

in private, putting on the one made in imitation of Mrs Jamieson’s at

all times when she expected to be seen—Martha came up, and asked if Miss

Betty Barker might speak to her mistress. Miss Matty assented, and

quickly disappeared to change the yellow ribbons, while Miss Barker came

upstairs; but, as she had forgotten her spectacles, and was rather

flurried by the unusual time of the visit, I was not surprised to see

her return with one cap on the top of the other. She was quite

unconscious of it herself, and looked at us, with bland satisfaction.

Nor do I think Miss Barker perceived it; for, putting aside the little

circumstance that she was not so young as she had been, she was very

much absorbed in her errand, which she delivered herself of with an

oppressive modesty that found vent in endless apologies.

Miss Betty Barker was the daughter of the old clerk at Cranford who had

officiated in Mr Jenkyns’s time. She and her sister had had pretty good

situations as ladies’ maids, and had saved money enough to set up a

milliner’s shop, which had been patronised by the ladies in the

neighbourhood. Lady Arley, for instance, would occasionally give Miss

Barkers the pattern of an old cap of hers, which they immediately copied

and circulated among the _élite_ of Cranford. I say the _élite_, for

Miss Barkers had caught the trick of the place, and piqued themselves

upon their “aristocratic connection.” They would not sell their caps

and ribbons to anyone without a pedigree. Many a farmer’s wife or

daughter turned away huffed from Miss Barkers’ select millinery, and

went rather to the universal shop, where the profits of brown soap and

moist sugar enabled the proprietor to go straight to (Paris, he said,

until he found his customers too patriotic and John Bullish to wear what

the Mounseers wore) London, where, as he often told his customers, Queen

Adelaide had appeared, only the very week before, in a cap exactly like

the one he showed them, trimmed with yellow and blue ribbons, and had

been complimented by King William on the becoming nature of her

head-dress.

Miss Barkers, who confined themselves to truth, and did not approve of

miscellaneous customers, throve notwithstanding. They were

self-denying, good people. Many a time have I seen the eldest of them

(she that had been maid to Mrs Jamieson) carrying out some delicate mess

to a poor person. They only aped their betters in having “nothing to

do” with the class immediately below theirs. And when Miss Barker died,

their profits and income were found to be such that Miss Betty was

justified in shutting up shop and retiring from business. She also (as

I think I have before said) set up her cow; a mark of respectability in

Cranford almost as decided as setting up a gig is among some people.

She dressed finer than any lady in Cranford; and we did not wonder at

it; for it was understood that she was wearing out all the bonnets and

caps and outrageous ribbons which had once formed her stock-in-trade.

It was five or six years since she had given up shop, so in any other

place than Cranford her dress might have been considered _passée_.

And now Miss Betty Barker had called to invite Miss Matty to tea at her

house on the following Tuesday. She gave me also an impromptu

invitation, as I happened to be a visitor—though I could see she had a

little fear lest, since my father had gone to live in Drumble, he might

have engaged in that “horrid cotton trade,” and so dragged his family

down out of “aristocratic society.” She prefaced this invitation with

so many apologies that she quite excited my curiosity. “Her

presumption” was to be excused. What had she been doing? She seemed so

overpowered by it I could only think that she had been writing to Queen

Adelaide to ask for a receipt for washing lace; but the act which she so

characterised was only an invitation she had carried to her sister’s

former mistress, Mrs Jamieson. “Her former occupation considered, could

Miss Matty excuse the liberty?” Ah! thought I, she has found out that

double cap, and is going to rectify Miss Matty’s head-dress. No! it was

simply to extend her invitation to Miss Matty and to me. Miss Matty

bowed acceptance; and I wondered that, in the graceful action, she did

not feel the unusual weight and extraordinary height of her head-dress.

But I do not think she did, for she recovered her balance, and went on

talking to Miss Betty in a kind, condescending manner, very different

from the fidgety way she would have had if she had suspected how

singular her appearance was. “Mrs Jamieson is coming, I think you

said?” asked Miss Matty.

“Yes. Mrs Jamieson most kindly and condescendingly said she would be

happy to come. One little stipulation she made, that she should bring

Carlo. I told her that if I had a weakness, it was for dogs.”

“And Miss Pole?” questioned Miss Matty, who was thinking of her pool at

Preference, in which Carlo would not be available as a partner.

“I am going to ask Miss Pole. Of course, I could not think of asking

her until I had asked you, madam—the rector’s daughter, madam. Believe

me, I do not forget the situation my father held under yours.”

“And Mrs Forrester, of course?”

“And Mrs Forrester. I thought, in fact, of going to her before I went

to Miss Pole. Although her circumstances are changed, madam, she was

born a Tyrrell, and we can never forget her alliance to the Bigges, of

Bigelow Hall.”

Miss Matty cared much more for the little circumstance of her being a

very good card-player.

“Mrs Fitz-Adam—I suppose”—

“No, madam. I must draw a line somewhere. Mrs Jamieson would not, I

think, like to meet Mrs Fitz-Adam. I have the greatest respect for Mrs

Fitz-Adam—but I cannot think her fit society for such ladies as Mrs

Jamieson and Miss Matilda Jenkyns.”

Miss Betty Barker bowed low to Miss Matty, and pursed up her mouth. She

looked at me with sidelong dignity, as much as to say, although a

retired milliner, she was no democrat, and understood the difference of

ranks.

“May I beg you to come as near half-past six to my little dwelling, as

possible, Miss Matilda? Mrs Jamieson dines at five, but has kindly

promised not to delay her visit beyond that time—half-past six.” And

with a swimming curtsey Miss Betty Barker took her leave.

My prophetic soul foretold a visit that afternoon from Miss Pole, who

usually came to call on Miss Matilda after any event—or indeed in sight

of any event—to talk it over with her.

“Miss Betty told me it was to be a choice and select few,” said Miss

Pole, as she and Miss Matty compared notes.

“Yes, so she said. Not even Mrs Fitz-Adam.”

Now Mrs Fitz-Adam was the widowed sister of the Cranford surgeon, whom I

have named before. Their parents were respectable farmers, content with

their station. The name of these good people was Hoggins. Mr Hoggins

was the Cranford doctor now; we disliked the name and considered it

coarse; but, as Miss Jenkyns said, if he changed it to Piggins it would

not be much better. We had hoped to discover a relationship between him

and that Marchioness of Exeter whose name was Molly Hoggins; but the

man, careless of his own interests, utterly ignored and denied any such

relationship, although, as dear Miss Jenkyns had said, he had a sister

called Mary, and the same Christian names were very apt to run in

families.

Soon after Miss Mary Hoggins married Mr Fitz-Adam, she disappeared from

the neighbourhood for many years. She did not move in a sphere in

Cranford society sufficiently high to make any of us care to know what

Mr Fitz-Adam was. He died and was gathered to his fathers without our

ever having thought about him at all. And then Mrs Fitz-Adam reappeared

in Cranford (“as bold as a lion,” Miss Pole said), a well-to-do widow,

dressed in rustling black silk, so soon after her husband’s death that

poor Miss Jenkyns was justified in the remark she made, that “bombazine

would have shown a deeper sense of her loss.”

I remember the convocation of ladies who assembled to decide whether or

not Mrs Fitz-Adam should be called upon by the old blue-blooded

inhabitants of Cranford. She had taken a large rambling house, which

had been usually considered to confer a patent of gentility upon its

tenant, because, once upon a time, seventy or eighty years before, the

spinster daughter of an earl had resided in it. I am not sure if the

inhabiting this house was not also believed to convey some unusual power

of intellect; for the earl’s daughter, Lady Jane, had a sister, Lady

Anne, who had married a general officer in the time of the American war,

and this general officer had written one or two comedies, which were

still acted on the London boards, and which, when we saw them

advertised, made us all draw up, and feel that Drury Lane was paying a

very pretty compliment to Cranford. Still, it was not at all a settled

thing that Mrs Fitz-Adam was to be visited, when dear Miss Jenkyns died;

and, with her, something of the clear knowledge of the strict code of

gentility went out too. As Miss Pole observed, “As most of the ladies

of good family in Cranford were elderly spinsters, or widows without

children, if we did not relax a little, and become less exclusive,

by-and-by we should have no society at all.”

Mrs Forrester continued on the same side.

“She had always understood that Fitz meant something aristocratic; there

was Fitz-Roy—she thought that some of the King’s children had been

called Fitz-Roy; and there was Fitz-Clarence, now—they were the children

of dear good King William the Fourth. Fitz-Adam!—it was a pretty name,

and she thought it very probably meant ‘Child of Adam.’ No one, who had

not some good blood in their veins, would dare to be called Fitz; there

was a deal in a name—she had had a cousin who spelt his name with two

little ffs—ffoulkes—and he always looked down upon capital letters and

said they belonged to lately-invented families. She had been afraid he

would die a bachelor, he was so very choice. When he met with a Mrs

ffarringdon, at a watering-place, he took to her immediately; and a very

pretty genteel woman she was—a widow, with a very good fortune; and ‘my

cousin,’ Mr ffoulkes, married her; and it was all owing to her two

little ffs.”

Mrs Fitz-Adam did not stand a chance of meeting with a Mr Fitz-anything

in Cranford, so that could not have been her motive for settling there.

Miss Matty thought it might have been the hope of being admitted into

the society of the place, which would certainly be a very agreeable rise

for _ci-devant_ Miss Hoggins; and if this had been her hope it would be

cruel to disappoint her.

So everybody called upon Mrs Fitz-Adam—everybody but Mrs Jamieson, who

used to show how honourable she was by never seeing Mrs Fitz-Adam when

they met at the Cranford parties. There would be only eight or ten

ladies in the room, and Mrs Fitz-Adam was the largest of all, and she

invariably used to stand up when Mrs Jamieson came in, and curtsey very

low to her whenever she turned in her direction—so low, in fact, that I

think Mrs Jamieson must have looked at the wall above her, for she never

moved a muscle of her face, no more than if she had not seen her. Still

Mrs Fitz-Adam persevered.

The spring evenings were getting bright and long when three or four

ladies in calashes met at Miss Barker’s door. Do you know what a

calash is? It is a covering worn over caps, not unlike the heads

fastened on old-fashioned gigs; but sometimes it is not quite so large.

This kind of head-gear always made an awful impression on the children

in Cranford; and now two or three left off their play in the quiet

sunny little street, and gathered in wondering silence round Miss Pole,

Miss Matty, and myself. We were silent too, so that we could hear

loud, suppressed whispers inside Miss Barker’s house: “Wait, Peggy! wait

till I’ve run upstairs and washed my hands. When I cough, open the

door; I’ll not be a minute.”

And, true enough it was not a minute before we heard a noise, between a

sneeze and a crow; on which the door flew open. Behind it stood a

round-eyed maiden, all aghast at the honourable company of calashes, who

marched in without a word. She recovered presence of mind enough to

usher us into a small room, which had been the shop, but was now

converted into a temporary dressing-room. There we unpinned and shook

ourselves, and arranged our features before the glass into a sweet and

gracious company-face; and then, bowing backwards with “After you,

ma’am,” we allowed Mrs Forrester to take precedence up the narrow

staircase that led to Miss Barker’s drawing-room. There she sat, as

stately and composed as though we had never heard that odd-sounding

cough, from which her throat must have been even then sore and rough.

Kind, gentle, shabbily-dressed Mrs Forrester was immediately conducted

to the second place of honour—a seat arranged something like Prince

Albert’s near the Queen’s—good, but not so good. The place of

pre-eminence was, of course, reserved for the Honourable Mrs Jamieson,

who presently came panting up the stairs—Carlo rushing round her on her

progress, as if he meant to trip her up.

And now Miss Betty Barker was a proud and happy woman! She stirred the

fire, and shut the door, and sat as near to it as she could, quite on

the edge of her chair. When Peggy came in, tottering under the weight

of the tea-tray, I noticed that Miss Barker was sadly afraid lest Peggy

should not keep her distance sufficiently. She and her mistress were on

very familiar terms in their every-day intercourse, and Peggy wanted now

to make several little confidences to her, which Miss Barker was on

thorns to hear, but which she thought it her duty, as a lady, to

repress. So she turned away from all Peggy’s asides and signs; but she

made one or two very malapropos answers to what was said; and at last,

seized with a bright idea, she exclaimed, “Poor, sweet Carlo! I’m

forgetting him. Come downstairs with me, poor ittie doggie, and it shall

have its tea, it shall!”

In a few minutes she returned, bland and benignant as before; but I

thought she had forgotten to give the “poor ittie doggie” anything to

eat, judging by the avidity with which he swallowed down chance pieces

of cake. The tea-tray was abundantly loaded—I was pleased to see it, I

was so hungry; but I was afraid the ladies present might think it

vulgarly heaped up. I know they would have done at their own houses;

but somehow the heaps disappeared here. I saw Mrs Jamieson eating

seed-cake, slowly and considerately, as she did everything; and I was

rather surprised, for I knew she had told us, on the occasion of her

last party, that she never had it in her house, it reminded her so much

of scented soap. She always gave us Savoy biscuits. However, Mrs

Jamieson was kindly indulgent to Miss Barker’s want of knowledge of the

customs of high life; and, to spare her feelings, ate three large pieces

of seed-cake, with a placid, ruminating expression of countenance, not

unlike a cow’s.

After tea there was some little demur and difficulty. We were six in

number; four could play at Preference, and for the other two there was

Cribbage. But all, except myself (I was rather afraid of the Cranford

ladies at cards, for it was the most earnest and serious business they

ever engaged in), were anxious to be of the “pool.” Even Miss Barker,

while declaring she did not know Spadille from Manille, was evidently

hankering to take a hand. The dilemma was soon put an end to by a

singular kind of noise. If a baron’s daughter-in-law could ever be

supposed to snore, I should have said Mrs Jamieson did so then; for,

overcome by the heat of the room, and inclined to doze by nature, the

temptation of that very comfortable arm-chair had been too much for her,

and Mrs Jamieson was nodding. Once or twice she opened her eyes with an

effort, and calmly but unconsciously smiled upon us; but by-and-by, even

her benevolence was not equal to this exertion, and she was sound

asleep.

[Picture: The temptation of the comfortable arm-chair had been too much

for her]

“It is very gratifying to me,” whispered Miss Barker at the card-table

to her three opponents, whom, notwithstanding her ignorance of the game,

she was “basting” most unmercifully—“very gratifying indeed, to see how

completely Mrs Jamieson feels at home in my poor little dwelling; she

could not have paid me a greater compliment.”

Miss Barker provided me with some literature in the shape of three or

four handsomely-bound fashion-books ten or twelve years old, observing,

as she put a little table and a candle for my especial benefit, that she

knew young people liked to look at pictures. Carlo lay and snorted, and

started at his mistress’s feet. He, too, was quite at home.

The card-table was an animated scene to watch; four ladies’ heads, with

niddle-noddling caps, all nearly meeting over the middle of the table in

their eagerness to whisper quick enough and loud enough: and every now

and then came Miss Barker’s “Hush, ladies! if you please, hush! Mrs

Jamieson is asleep.”

It was very difficult to steer clear between Mrs Forrester’s deafness

and Mrs Jamieson’s sleepiness. But Miss Barker managed her arduous task

well. She repeated the whisper to Mrs Forrester, distorting her face

considerably, in order to show, by the motions of her lips, what was

said; and then she smiled kindly all round at us, and murmured to

herself, “Very gratifying, indeed; I wish my poor sister had been alive

to see this day.”

Presently the door was thrown wide open; Carlo started to his feet, with

a loud snapping bark, and Mrs Jamieson awoke: or, perhaps, she had not

been asleep—as she said almost directly, the room had been so light she

had been glad to keep her eyes shut, but had been listening with great

interest to all our amusing and agreeable conversation. Peggy came in

once more, red with importance. Another tray! “Oh, gentility!” thought

I, “can you endure this last shock?” For Miss Barker had ordered (nay,

I doubt not, prepared, although she did say, “Why, Peggy, what have you

brought us?” and looked pleasantly surprised at the unexpected pleasure)

all sorts of good things for supper—scalloped oysters, potted lobsters,

jelly, a dish called “little Cupids” (which was in great favour with the

Cranford ladies, although too expensive to be given, except on solemn

and state occasions—macaroons sopped in brandy, I should have called it,

if I had not known its more refined and classical name). In short, we

were evidently to be feasted with all that was sweetest and best; and

we thought it better to submit graciously, even at the cost of our

gentility—which never ate suppers in general, but which, like most

non-supper-eaters, was particularly hungry on all special occasions.

Miss Barker, in her former sphere, had, I daresay, been made acquainted

with the beverage they call cherry-brandy. We none of us had ever seen

such a thing, and rather shrank back when she proffered it us—“just a

little, leetle glass, ladies; after the oysters and lobsters, you know.

Shell-fish are sometimes thought not very wholesome.” We all shook our

heads like female mandarins; but, at last, Mrs Jamieson suffered herself

to be persuaded, and we followed her lead. It was not exactly

unpalatable, though so hot and so strong that we thought ourselves bound

to give evidence that we were not accustomed to such things by coughing

terribly—almost as strangely as Miss Barker had done, before we were

admitted by Peggy.

“It’s very strong,” said Miss Pole, as she put down her empty glass; “I

do believe there’s spirit in it.”

“Only a little drop—just necessary to make it keep,” said Miss Barker.

“You know we put brandy-pepper over our preserves to make them keep. I

often feel tipsy myself from eating damson tart.”

I question whether damson tart would have opened Mrs Jamieson’s heart as

the cherry-brandy did; but she told us of a coming event, respecting

which she had been quite silent till that moment.

“My sister-in-law, Lady Glenmire, is coming to stay with me.”

There was a chorus of “Indeed!” and then a pause. Each one rapidly

reviewed her wardrobe, as to its fitness to appear in the presence of a

baron’s widow; for, of course, a series of small festivals were always

held in Cranford on the arrival of a visitor at any of our friends’

houses. We felt very pleasantly excited on the present occasion.

Not long after this the maids and the lanterns were announced. Mrs

Jamieson had the sedan-chair, which had squeezed itself into Miss

Barker’s narrow lobby with some difficulty, and most literally “stopped

the way.” It required some skilful manœuvring on the part of the old

chairmen (shoemakers by day, but when summoned to carry the sedan

dressed up in a strange old livery—long great-coats, with small capes,

coeval with the sedan, and similar to the dress of the class in

Hogarth’s pictures) to edge, and back, and try at it again, and finally

to succeed in carrying their burden out of Miss Barker’s front door.

Then we heard their quick pit-a-pat along the quiet little street as we

put on our calashes and pinned up our gowns; Miss Barker hovering about

us with offers of help, which, if she had not remembered her former

occupation, and wished us to forget it, would have been much more

pressing.