CHAPTER II. THE CAPTAIN

IT was impossible to live a month at Cranford and not know the dailyrnhabits of each resident; and long before my visit was ended I knew muchrnconcerning the whole Brown trio.  There was nothing new to be discoveredrnrespecting their poverty; for they had spoken simply and openly aboutrnthat from the very first.  They made no mystery of the necessity forrntheir being economical.  All that remained to be discovered was thernCaptain’s infinite kindness of heart, and the various modes in which,rnunconsciously to himself, he manifested it.  Some little anecdotes wererntalked about for some time after they occurred.  As we did not readrnmuch, and as all the ladies were pretty well suited with servants, therernwas a dearth of subjects for conversation.  We therefore discussed therncircumstance of the Captain taking a poor old woman’s dinner out of herrnhands one very slippery Sunday.  He had met her returning from thernbakehouse as he came from church, and noticed her precarious footing;rnand, with the grave dignity with which he did everything, he relievedrnher of her burden, and steered along the street by her side, carryingrnher baked mutton and potatoes safely home.  This was thought veryrneccentric; and it was rather expected that he would pay a round ofrncalls, on the Monday morning, to explain and apologise to the Cranfordrnsense of propriety: but he did no such thing: and then it was decidedrnthat he was ashamed, and was keeping out of sight.  In a kindly pity forrnhim, we began to say, “After all, the Sunday morning’s occurrence showedrngreat goodness of heart,” and it was resolved that he should berncomforted on his next appearance amongst us; but, lo! he came down uponrnus, untouched by any sense of shame, speaking loud and bass as ever, hisrnhead thrown back, his wig as jaunty and well-curled as usual, and wernwere obliged to conclude he had forgotten all about Sunday.rnrnMiss Pole and Miss Jessie Brown had set up a kind of intimacy on thernstrength of the Shetland wool and the new knitting stitches; so itrnhappened that when I went to visit Miss Pole I saw more of the Brownsrnthan I had done while staying with Miss Jenkyns, who had never got overrnwhat she called Captain Brown’s disparaging remarks upon Dr Johnson as arnwriter of light and agreeable fiction.  I found that Miss Brown wasrnseriously ill of some lingering, incurable complaint, the painrnoccasioned by which gave the uneasy expression to her face that I hadrntaken for unmitigated crossness.  Cross, too, she was at times, when thernnervous irritability occasioned by her disease became past endurance.rnMiss Jessie bore with her at these times, even more patiently than sherndid with the bitter self-upbraidings by which they were invariablyrnsucceeded. Miss Brown used to accuse herself, not merely of hasty andrnirritable temper, but also of being the cause why her father and sisterrnwere obliged to pinch, in order to allow her the small luxuries whichrnwere necessaries in her condition.  She would so fain have madernsacrifices for them, and have lightened their cares, that the originalrngenerosity of her disposition added acerbity to her temper.  All thisrnwas borne by Miss Jessie and her father with more than placidity—withrnabsolute tenderness. I forgave Miss Jessie her singing out of tune, andrnher juvenility of dress, when I saw her at home.  I came to perceivernthat Captain Brown’s dark Brutus wig and padded coat (alas! too oftenrnthreadbare) were remnants of the military smartness of his youth, whichrnhe now wore unconsciously.  He was a man of infinite resources, gainedrnin his barrack experience.  As he confessed, no one could black hisrnboots to please him except himself; but, indeed, he was not above savingrnthe little maid-servant’s labours in every way—knowing, most likely,rnthat his daughter’s illness made the place a hard one.rnrnHe endeavoured to make peace with Miss Jenkyns soon after the memorablerndispute I have named, by a present of a wooden fire-shovel (his ownrnmaking), having heard her say how much the grating of an iron onernannoyed her.  She received the present with cool gratitude, and thankedrnhim formally.  When he was gone, she bade me put it away in thernlumber-room; feeling, probably, that no present from a man who preferredrnMr Boz to Dr Johnson could be less jarring than an iron fire-shovel.rnrnSuch was the state of things when I left Cranford and went to Drumble.rnI had, however, several correspondents, who kept me _au fait_ as to thernproceedings of the dear little town.  There was Miss Pole, who wasrnbecoming as much absorbed in crochet as she had been once in knitting,rnand the burden of whose letter was something like, “But don’t you forgetrnthe white worsted at Flint’s” of the old song; for at the end of everyrnsentence of news came a fresh direction as to some crochet commissionrnwhich I was to execute for her.  Miss Matilda Jenkyns (who did not mindrnbeing called Miss Matty, when Miss Jenkyns was not by) wrote nice, kind,rnrambling letters, now and then venturing into an opinion of her own; butrnsuddenly pulling herself up, and either begging me not to name what shernhad said, as Deborah thought differently, and _she_ knew, or elsernputting in a postscript to the effect that, since writing the above, shernhad been talking over the subject with Deborah, and was quite convincedrnthat, etc.—(here probably followed a recantation of every opinion shernhad given in the letter).  Then came Miss Jenkyns—Debōrah, as she likedrnMiss Matty to call her, her father having once said that the Hebrew namernought to be so pronounced.  I secretly think she took the Hebrewrnprophetess for a model in character; and, indeed, she was not unlike thernstern prophetess in some ways, making allowance, of course, for modernrncustoms and difference in dress.  Miss Jenkyns wore a cravat, and arnlittle bonnet like a jockey-cap, and altogether had the appearance of arnstrong-minded woman; although she would have despised the modern idea ofrnwomen being equal to men.  Equal, indeed! she knew they were superior.rnBut to return to her letters.  Everything in them was stately and grandrnlike herself. I have been looking them over (dear Miss Jenkyns, how Irnhonoured her!) and I will give an extract, more especially because itrnrelates to our friend Captain Brown:—rnrn“The Honourable Mrs Jamieson has only just quitted me; and, in therncourse of conversation, she communicated to me the intelligence that shernhad yesterday received a call from her revered husband’s quondam friend,rnLord Mauleverer.  You will not easily conjecture what brought hisrnlordship within the precincts of our little town.  It was to see CaptainrnBrown, with whom, it appears, his lordship was acquainted in the ‘plumedrnwars,’ and who had the privilege of averting destruction from hisrnlordship’s head when some great peril was impending over it, off thernmisnomered Cape of Good Hope.  You know our friend the Honourable MrsrnJamieson’s deficiency in the spirit of innocent curiosity, and you willrntherefore not be so much surprised when I tell you she was quite unablernto disclose to me the exact nature of the peril in question.  I wasrnanxious, I confess, to ascertain in what manner Captain Brown, with hisrnlimited establishment, could receive so distinguished a guest; and Irndiscovered that his lordship retired to rest, and, let us hope, tornrefreshing slumbers, at the Angel Hotel; but shared the Brunonian mealsrnduring the two days that he honoured Cranford with his august presence.rnMrs Johnson, our civil butcher’s wife, informs me that Miss Jessiernpurchased a leg of lamb; but, besides this, I can hear of no preparationrnwhatever to give a suitable reception to so distinguished a visitor.rnPerhaps they entertained him with ‘the feast of reason and the flow ofrnsoul’; and to us, who are acquainted with Captain Brown’s sad want ofrnrelish for ‘the pure wells of English undefiled,’ it may be matter forrncongratulation that he has had the opportunity of improving his taste byrnholding converse with an elegant and refined member of the Britishrnaristocracy. But from some mundane failings who is altogether free?”rnrnMiss Pole and Miss Matty wrote to me by the same post.  Such a piece ofrnnews as Lord Mauleverer’s visit was not to be lost on the Cranfordrnletter-writers: they made the most of it.  Miss Matty humbly apologisedrnfor writing at the same time as her sister, who was so much more capablernthan she to describe the honour done to Cranford; but in spite of arnlittle bad spelling, Miss Matty’s account gave me the best idea of therncommotion occasioned by his lordship’s visit, after it had occurred;rnfor, except the people at the Angel, the Browns, Mrs Jamieson, and arnlittle lad his lordship had sworn at for driving a dirty hoop againstrnthe aristocratic legs, I could not hear of any one with whom hisrnlordship had held conversation.rnrnMy next visit to Cranford was in the summer.  There had been neitherrnbirths, deaths, nor marriages since I was there last.  Everybody livedrnin the same house, and wore pretty nearly the same well-preserved,rnold-fashioned clothes.  The greatest event was, that Miss Jenkyns hadrnpurchased a new carpet for the drawing-room.  Oh, the busy work MissrnMatty and I had in chasing the sunbeams, as they fell in an afternoonrnright down on this carpet through the blindless window!  We spreadrnnewspapers over the places and sat down to our book or our work; and,rnlo! in a quarter of an hour the sun had moved, and was blazing away on arnfresh spot; and down again we went on our knees to alter the position ofrnthe newspapers.  We were very busy, too, one whole morning, before MissrnJenkyns gave her party, in following her directions, and in cutting outrnand stitching together pieces of newspaper so as to form little paths tornevery chair set for the expected visitors, lest their shoes might dirtyrnor defile the purity of the carpet.  Do you make paper paths for everyrnguest to walk upon in London?rnrnCaptain Brown and Miss Jenkyns were not very cordial to each other.  Thernliterary dispute, of which I had seen the beginning, was a “raw,” thernslightest touch on which made them wince.  It was the only difference ofrnopinion they had ever had; but that difference was enough.  Miss Jenkynsrncould not refrain from talking at Captain Brown; and, though he did notrnreply, he drummed with his fingers, which action she felt and resentedrnas very disparaging to Dr Johnson.  He was rather ostentatious in hisrnpreference of the writings of Mr Boz; would walk through the streets sornabsorbed in them that he all but ran against Miss Jenkyns; and thoughrnhis apologies were earnest and sincere, and though he did not, in fact,rndo more than startle her and himself, she owned to me she had rather hernhad knocked her down, if he had only been reading a higher style ofrnliterature.  The poor, brave Captain! he looked older, and more worn,rnand his clothes were very threadbare.  But he seemed as bright andrncheerful as ever, unless he was asked about his daughter’s health.rnrn“She suffers a great deal, and she must suffer more: we do what we canrnto alleviate her pain;—God’s will be done!”  He took off his hat atrnthese last words.  I found, from Miss Matty, that everything had beenrndone, in fact.  A medical man, of high repute in that countryrnneighbourhood, had been sent for, and every injunction he had given wasrnattended to, regardless of expense.  Miss Matty was sure they deniedrnthemselves many things in order to make the invalid comfortable; butrnthey never spoke about it; and as for Miss Jessie!—“I really think she’srnan angel,” said poor Miss Matty, quite overcome.  “To see her way ofrnbearing with Miss Brown’s crossness, and the bright face she puts onrnafter she’s been sitting up a whole night and scolded above half of it,rnis quite beautiful.  Yet she looks as neat and as ready to welcome thernCaptain at breakfast-time as if she had been asleep in the Queen’s bedrnall night. My dear! you could never laugh at her prim little curls orrnher pink bows again if you saw her as I have done.”  I could only feelrnvery penitent, and greet Miss Jessie with double respect when I met herrnnext.  She looked faded and pinched; and her lips began to quiver, as ifrnshe was very weak, when she spoke of her sister.  But she brightened,rnand sent back the tears that were glittering in her pretty eyes, as shernsaid—rnrn“But, to be sure, what a town Cranford is for kindness!  I don’t supposernany one has a better dinner than usual cooked but the best part of allrncomes in a little covered basin for my sister.  The poor people willrnleave their earliest vegetables at our door for her.  They speak shortrnand gruff, as if they were ashamed of it: but I am sure it often goes tornmy heart to see their thoughtfulness.”  The tears now came back andrnoverflowed; but after a minute or two she began to scold herself, andrnended by going away the same cheerful Miss Jessie as ever.rnrn“But why does not this Lord Mauleverer do something for the man whornsaved his life?” said I.rnrn“Why, you see, unless Captain Brown has some reason for it, he neverrnspeaks about being poor; and he walked along by his lordship looking asrnhappy and cheerful as a prince; and as they never called attention torntheir dinner by apologies, and as Miss Brown was better that day, andrnall seemed bright, I daresay his lordship never knew how much care therernwas in the background.  He did send game in the winter pretty often, butrnnow he is gone abroad.”rnrnI had often occasion to notice the use that was made of fragments andrnsmall opportunities in Cranford; the rose-leaves that were gathered erernthey fell to make into a potpourri for someone who had no garden; thernlittle bundles of lavender flowers sent to strew the drawers of somerntown-dweller, or to burn in the chamber of some invalid.  Things thatrnmany would despise, and actions which it seemed scarcely worth while tornperform, were all attended to in Cranford.  Miss Jenkyns stuck an applernfull of cloves, to be heated and smell pleasantly in Miss Brown’s room;rnand as she put in each clove she uttered a Johnsonian sentence.  Indeed,rnshe never could think of the Browns without talking Johnson; and, asrnthey were seldom absent from her thoughts just then, I heard many arnrolling, three-piled sentence.rnrnCaptain Brown called one day to thank Miss Jenkyns for many littlernkindnesses, which I did not know until then that she had rendered.  Hernhad suddenly become like an old man; his deep bass voice had a quaveringrnin it, his eyes looked dim, and the lines on his face were deep.  He didrnnot—could not—speak cheerfully of his daughter’s state, but he talkedrnwith manly, pious resignation, and not much.  Twice over he said, “WhatrnJessie has been to us, God only knows!” and after the second time, herngot up hastily, shook hands all round without speaking, and left thernroom.rnrnThat afternoon we perceived little groups in the street, all listeningrnwith faces aghast to some tale or other.  Miss Jenkyns wondered whatrncould be the matter for some time before she took the undignified steprnof sending Jenny out to inquire.rnrnJenny came back with a white face of terror.  “Oh, ma’am!  Oh, MissrnJenkyns, ma’am!  Captain Brown is killed by them nasty cruel railroads!”rnand she burst into tears.  She, along with many others, had experiencedrnthe poor Captain’s kindness.rnrn“How?—where—where?  Good God!  Jenny, don’t waste time in crying, butrntell us something.”  Miss Matty rushed out into the street at once, andrncollared the man who was telling the tale.rnrn [Picture: She brought the affrighted carter ... into therndrawing-room]rnrn“Come in—come to my sister at once, Miss Jenkyns, the rector’s daughter.rnOh, man, man! say it is not true,” she cried, as she brought thernaffrighted carter, sleeking down his hair, into the drawing-room, wherernhe stood with his wet boots on the new carpet, and no one regarded it.rnrn“Please, mum, it is true.  I seed it myself,” and he shuddered at thernrecollection.  “The Captain was a-reading some new book as he was deeprnin, a-waiting for the down train; and there was a little lass as wantedrnto come to its mammy, and gave its sister the slip, and came toddlingrnacross the line.  And he looked up sudden, at the sound of the trainrncoming, and seed the child, and he darted on the line and cotched it up,rnand his foot slipped, and the train came over him in no time.  O Lord,rnLord!  Mum, it’s quite true, and they’ve come over to tell hisrndaughters. The child’s safe, though, with only a bang on its shoulder asrnhe threw it to its mammy.  Poor Captain would be glad of that, mum,rnwouldn’t he?  God bless him!”  The great rough carter puckered up hisrnmanly face, and turned away to hide his tears.  I turned to MissrnJenkyns.  She looked very ill, as if she were going to faint, and signedrnto me to open the window.rnrn“Matilda, bring me my bonnet.  I must go to those girls.  God pardon me,rnif ever I have spoken contemptuously to the Captain!”rnrnMiss Jenkyns arrayed herself to go out, telling Miss Matilda to give thernman a glass of wine.  While she was away, Miss Matty and I huddled overrnthe fire, talking in a low and awestruck voice.  I know we cried quietlyrnall the time.rnrnMiss Jenkyns came home in a silent mood, and we durst not ask her manyrnquestions.  She told us that Miss Jessie had fainted, and that she andrnMiss Pole had had some difficulty in bringing her round; but that, asrnsoon as she recovered, she begged one of them to go and sit with herrnsister.rnrn“Mr Hoggins says she cannot live many days, and she shall be spared thisrnshock,” said Miss Jessie, shivering with feelings to which she dared notrngive way.rnrn“But how can you manage, my dear?” asked Miss Jenkyns; “you cannot bearrnup, she must see your tears.”rnrn“God will help me—I will not give way—she was asleep when the news came;rnshe may be asleep yet.  She would be so utterly miserable, not merely atrnmy father’s death, but to think of what would become of me; she is sorngood to me.”  She looked up earnestly in their faces with her soft truerneyes, and Miss Pole told Miss Jenkyns afterwards she could hardly bearrnit, knowing, as she did, how Miss Brown treated her sister.rnrnHowever, it was settled according to Miss Jessie’s wish.  Miss Brown wasrnto be told her father had been summoned to take a short journey onrnrailway business.  They had managed it in some way—Miss Jenkyns couldrnnot exactly say how.  Miss Pole was to stop with Miss Jessie.  MrsrnJamieson had sent to inquire.  And this was all we heard that night; andrna sorrowful night it was.  The next day a full account of the fatalrnaccident was in the county paper which Miss Jenkyns took in.  Her eyesrnwere very weak, she said, and she asked me to read it.  When I came tornthe “gallant gentleman was deeply engaged in the perusal of a number ofrn‘Pickwick,’ which he had just received,” Miss Jenkyns shook her headrnlong and solemnly, and then sighed out, “Poor, dear, infatuated man!”rnrnThe corpse was to be taken from the station to the parish church, therernto be interred.  Miss Jessie had set her heart on following it to therngrave; and no dissuasives could alter her resolve.  Her restraint uponrnherself made her almost obstinate; she resisted all Miss Pole’srnentreaties and Miss Jenkyns’ advice.  At last Miss Jenkyns gave up thernpoint; and after a silence, which I feared portended some deeprndispleasure against Miss Jessie, Miss Jenkyns said she should accompanyrnthe latter to the funeral.rnrn“It is not fit for you to go alone.  It would be against both proprietyrnand humanity were I to allow it.”rnrnMiss Jessie seemed as if she did not half like this arrangement; but herrnobstinacy, if she had any, had been exhausted in her determination to gornto the interment.  She longed, poor thing, I have no doubt, to cry alonernover the grave of the dear father to whom she had been all in all, andrnto give way, for one little half-hour, uninterrupted by sympathy andrnunobserved by friendship.  But it was not to be.  That afternoon MissrnJenkyns sent out for a yard of black crape, and employed herself busilyrnin trimming the little black silk bonnet I have spoken about.  When itrnwas finished she put it on, and looked at us for approbation—admirationrnshe despised.  I was full of sorrow, but, by one of those whimsicalrnthoughts which come unbidden into our heads, in times of deepest grief,rnI no sooner saw the bonnet than I was reminded of a helmet; and in thatrnhybrid bonnet, half helmet, half jockey-cap, did Miss Jenkyns attendrnCaptain Brown’s funeral, and, I believe, supported Miss Jessie with arntender, indulgent firmness which was invaluable, allowing her to weeprnher passionate fill before they left.rnrnMiss Pole, Miss Matty, and I, meanwhile attended to Miss Brown: and hardrnwork we found it to relieve her querulous and never-ending complaints.rnBut if we were so weary and dispirited, what must Miss Jessie have been!rnYet she came back almost calm as if she had gained a new strength.  Shernput off her mourning dress, and came in, looking pale and gentle,rnthanking us each with a soft long pressure of the hand.  She could evenrnsmile—a faint, sweet, wintry smile—as if to reassure us of her power tornendure; but her look made our eyes fill suddenly with tears, more thanrnif she had cried outright.rnrnIt was settled that Miss Pole was to remain with her all the watchingrnlivelong night; and that Miss Matty and I were to return in the morningrnto relieve them, and give Miss Jessie the opportunity for a few hours ofrnsleep.  But when the morning came, Miss Jenkyns appeared at thernbreakfast-table, equipped in her helmet-bonnet, and ordered Miss Mattyrnto stay at home, as she meant to go and help to nurse.  She wasrnevidently in a state of great friendly excitement, which she showed byrneating her breakfast standing, and scolding the household all round.rnrnNo nursing—no energetic strong-minded woman could help Miss Brown now.rnThere was that in the room as we entered which was stronger than us all,rnand made us shrink into solemn awestruck helplessness.  Miss Brown wasrndying.  We hardly knew her voice, it was so devoid of the complainingrntone we had always associated with it.  Miss Jessie told me afterwardsrnthat it, and her face too, were just what they had been formerly, whenrnher mother’s death left her the young anxious head of the family, ofrnwhom only Miss Jessie survived.rnrnShe was conscious of her sister’s presence, though not, I think, ofrnours. We stood a little behind the curtain: Miss Jessie knelt with herrnface near her sister’s, in order to catch the last soft awful whispers.rnrn“Oh, Jessie!  Jessie!  How selfish I have been!  God forgive me forrnletting you sacrifice yourself for me as you did!  I have so lovedrnyou—and yet I have thought only of myself.  God forgive me!”rnrn“Hush, love! hush!” said Miss Jessie, sobbing.rnrn“And my father, my dear, dear father!  I will not complain now, if Godrnwill give me strength to be patient.  But, oh, Jessie! tell my fatherrnhow I longed and yearned to see him at last, and to ask his forgiveness. He can never know now how I loved him—oh! if I might but tell him,rnbefore I die!  What a life of sorrow his has been, and I have done sornlittle to cheer him!”rnrnA light came into Miss Jessie’s face.  “Would it comfort you, dearest,rnto think that he does know?—would it comfort you, love, to know that hisrncares, his sorrows”—Her voice quivered, but she steadied it intorncalmness—“Mary! he has gone before you to the place where the weary arernat rest.  He knows now how you loved him.”rnrnA strange look, which was not distress, came over Miss Brown’s face.rnShe did not speak for some time, but then we saw her lips form thernwords, rather than heard the sound—“Father, mother, Harry, Archy;”—then,rnas if it were a new idea throwing a filmy shadow over her darkenedrnmind—“But you will be alone, Jessie!”rnrnMiss Jessie had been feeling this all during the silence, I think; forrnthe tears rolled down her cheeks like rain, at these words, and sherncould not answer at first.  Then she put her hands together tight, andrnlifted them up, and said—but not to us—“Though He slay me, yet will Irntrust in Him.”rnrnIn a few moments more Miss Brown lay calm and still—never to sorrow orrnmurmur more.rnrnAfter this second funeral, Miss Jenkyns insisted that Miss Jessie shouldrncome to stay with her rather than go back to the desolate house, which,rnin fact, we learned from Miss Jessie, must now be given up, as she hadrnnot wherewithal to maintain it.  She had something above twenty pounds arnyear, besides the interest of the money for which the furniture wouldrnsell; but she could not live upon that: and so we talked over herrnqualifications for earning money.rnrn“I can sew neatly,” said she, “and I like nursing.  I think, too, Irncould manage a house, if any one would try me as housekeeper; or I wouldrngo into a shop as saleswoman, if they would have patience with me atrnfirst.”rnrnMiss Jenkyns declared, in an angry voice, that she should do no suchrnthing; and talked to herself about “some people having no idea of theirrnrank as a captain’s daughter,” nearly an hour afterwards, when shernbrought Miss Jessie up a basin of delicately-made arrowroot, and stoodrnover her like a dragoon until the last spoonful was finished: then sherndisappeared.  Miss Jessie began to tell me some more of the plans whichrnhad suggested themselves to her, and insensibly fell into talking of therndays that were past and gone, and interested me so much I neither knewrnnor heeded how time passed.  We were both startled when Miss Jenkynsrnreappeared, and caught us crying.  I was afraid lest she would berndispleased, as she often said that crying hindered digestion, and I knewrnshe wanted Miss Jessie to get strong; but, instead, she looked queer andrnexcited, and fidgeted round us without saying anything.  At last shernspoke.rnrn“I have been so much startled—no, I’ve not been at all startled—don’trnmind me, my dear Miss Jessie—I’ve been very much surprised—in fact, I’vernhad a caller, whom you knew once, my dear Miss Jessie”—rnrnMiss Jessie went very white, then flushed scarlet, and looked eagerly atrnMiss Jenkyns.rnrn“A gentleman, my dear, who wants to know if you would see him.”rnrn“Is it?—it is not”—stammered out Miss Jessie—and got no farther.rnrn“This is his card,” said Miss Jenkyns, giving it to Miss Jessie; andrnwhile her head was bent over it, Miss Jenkyns went through a series ofrnwinks and odd faces to me, and formed her lips into a long sentence, ofrnwhich, of course, I could not understand a word.rnrn“May he come up?” asked Miss Jenkyns at last.rnrn“Oh, yes! certainly!” said Miss Jessie, as much as to say, this is yourrnhouse, you may show any visitor where you like.  She took up somernknitting of Miss Matty’s and began to be very busy, though I could seernhow she trembled all over.rnrnMiss Jenkyns rang the bell, and told the servant who answered it to showrnMajor Gordon upstairs; and, presently, in walked a tall, fine,rnfrank-looking man of forty or upwards.  He shook hands with Miss Jessie;rnbut he could not see her eyes, she kept them so fixed on the ground.rnMiss Jenkyns asked me if I would come and help her to tie up thernpreserves in the store-room; and though Miss Jessie plucked at my gown,rnand even looked up at me with begging eye, I durst not refuse to gornwhere Miss Jenkyns asked.  Instead of tying up preserves in thernstore-room, however, we went to talk in the dining-room; and there MissrnJenkyns told me what Major Gordon had told her; how he had served in thernsame regiment with Captain Brown, and had become acquainted with MissrnJessie, then a sweet-looking, blooming girl of eighteen; how thernacquaintance had grown into love on his part, though it had been somernyears before he had spoken; how, on becoming possessed, through the willrnof an uncle, of a good estate in Scotland, he had offered and beenrnrefused, though with so much agitation and evident distress that he wasrnsure she was not indifferent to him; and how he had discovered that thernobstacle was the fell disease which was, even then, too surelyrnthreatening her sister. She had mentioned that the surgeons foretoldrnintense suffering; and there was no one but herself to nurse her poorrnMary, or cheer and comfort her father during the time of illness.  Theyrnhad had long discussions; and on her refusal to pledge herself to him asrnhis wife when all should be over, he had grown angry, and broken offrnentirely, and gone abroad, believing that she was a cold-hearted personrnwhom he would do well to forget.  He had been travelling in the East,rnand was on his return home when, at Rome, he saw the account of CaptainrnBrown’s death in _Galignani_.rnrnJust then Miss Matty, who had been out all the morning, and had onlyrnlately returned to the house, burst in with a face of dismay andrnoutraged propriety.rnrn“Oh, goodness me!” she said.  “Deborah, there’s a gentleman sitting inrnthe drawing-room with his arm round Miss Jessie’s waist!”  Miss Matty’srneyes looked large with terror.rnrn          [Picture: “With his arm around Miss Jessie’s waist!”]rnrnMiss Jenkyns snubbed her down in an instant.rnrn“The most proper place in the world for his arm to be in.  Go away,rnMatilda, and mind your own business.”  This from her sister, who hadrnhitherto been a model of feminine decorum, was a blow for poor MissrnMatty, and with a double shock she left the room.rnrnThe last time I ever saw poor Miss Jenkyns was many years after this.rnMrs Gordon had kept up a warm and affectionate intercourse with all atrnCranford.  Miss Jenkyns, Miss Matty, and Miss Pole had all been to visitrnher, and returned with wonderful accounts of her house, her husband, herrndress, and her looks.  For, with happiness, something of her early bloomrnreturned; she had been a year or two younger than we had taken her for.rnHer eyes were always lovely, and, as Mrs Gordon, her dimples were notrnout of place.  At the time to which I have referred, when I last sawrnMiss Jenkyns, that lady was old and feeble, and had lost something ofrnher strong mind.  Little Flora Gordon was staying with the MissesrnJenkyns, and when I came in she was reading aloud to Miss Jenkyns, whornlay feeble and changed on the sofa.  Flora put down the _Rambler_ when Irncame in.rnrn“Ah!” said Miss Jenkyns, “you find me changed, my dear.  I can’t see asrnI used to do.  If Flora were not here to read to me, I hardly know how Irnshould get through the day.  Did you ever read the _Rambler_?  It’s arnwonderful book—wonderful! and the most improving reading for Flora”(which I daresay it would have been, if she could have read half thernwords without spelling, and could have understood the meaning of arnthird), “better than that strange old book, with the queer name, poorrnCaptain Brown was killed for reading—that book by Mr Boz, you know—‘OldrnPoz’; when I was a girl—but that’s a long time ago—I acted Lucy in ‘OldrnPoz.’”  She babbled on long enough for Flora to get a good long spell atrnthe “Christmas Carol,” which Miss Matty had left on the table.rnrn