CHAPTER III. A LOVE AFFAIR OF LONG AGO

I THOUGHT that probably my connection with Cranford would cease afterrnMiss Jenkyns’s death; at least, that it would have to be kept up byrncorrespondence, which bears much the same relation to personalrnintercourse that the books of dried plants I sometimes see (“HortusrnSiccus,” I think they call the thing) do to the living and fresh flowersrnin the lanes and meadows.  I was pleasantly surprised, therefore, byrnreceiving a letter from Miss Pole (who had always come in for arnsupplementary week after my annual visit to Miss Jenkyns) proposing thatrnI should go and stay with her; and then, in a couple of days after myrnacceptance, came a note from Miss Matty, in which, in a ratherrncircuitous and very humble manner, she told me how much pleasure Irnshould confer if I could spend a week or two with her, either before orrnafter I had been at Miss Pole’s; “for,” she said, “since my dearrnsister’s death I am well aware I have no attractions to offer; it isrnonly to the kindness of my friends that I can owe their company.”rnrnOf course I promised to come to dear Miss Matty as soon as I had endedrnmy visit to Miss Pole; and the day after my arrival at Cranford I wentrnto see her, much wondering what the house would be like without MissrnJenkyns, and rather dreading the changed aspect of things.  Miss Mattyrnbegan to cry as soon as she saw me.  She was evidently nervous fromrnhaving anticipated my call.  I comforted her as well as I could; and Irnfound the best consolation I could give was the honest praise that camernfrom my heart as I spoke of the deceased.  Miss Matty slowly shook herrnhead over each virtue as it was named and attributed to her sister; andrnat last she could not restrain the tears which had long been silentlyrnflowing, but hid her face behind her handkerchief and sobbed aloud.rnrn“Dear Miss Matty,” said I, taking her hand—for indeed I did not know inrnwhat way to tell her how sorry I was for her, left deserted in thernworld. She put down her handkerchief and said—rnrn“My dear, I’d rather you did not call me Matty.  She did not like it;rnbut I did many a thing she did not like, I’m afraid—and now she’s gone!rnIf you please, my love, will you call me Matilda?”rnrnI promised faithfully, and began to practise the new name with Miss Polernthat very day; and, by degrees, Miss Matilda’s feeling on the subjectrnwas known through Cranford, and we all tried to drop the more familiarrnname, but with so little success that by-and-by we gave up the attempt.rnrnMy visit to Miss Pole was very quiet.  Miss Jenkyns had so long takenrnthe lead in Cranford that now she was gone, they hardly knew how to giverna party.  The Honourable Mrs Jamieson, to whom Miss Jenkyns herself hadrnalways yielded the post of honour, was fat and inert, and very much atrnthe mercy of her old servants.  If they chose that she should give arnparty, they reminded her of the necessity for so doing: if not, she letrnit alone.  There was all the more time for me to hear old-world storiesrnfrom Miss Pole, while she sat knitting, and I making my father’s shirts.rnI always took a quantity of plain sewing to Cranford; for, as we did notrnread much, or walk much, I found it a capital time to get through myrnwork.  One of Miss Pole’s stories related to a shadow of a love affairrnthat was dimly perceived or suspected long years before.rnrnPresently, the time arrived when I was to remove to Miss Matilda’srnhouse. I found her timid and anxious about the arrangements for myrncomfort. Many a time, while I was unpacking, did she come backwards andrnforwards to stir the fire which burned all the worse for being sornfrequently poked.rnrn“Have you drawers enough, dear?” asked she.  “I don’t know exactly howrnmy sister used to arrange them.  She had capital methods.  I am sure shernwould have trained a servant in a week to make a better fire than this,rnand Fanny has been with me four months.”rnrnThis subject of servants was a standing grievance, and I could notrnwonder much at it; for if gentlemen were scarce, and almost unheard ofrnin the “genteel society” of Cranford, they or theirrncounterparts—handsome young men—abounded in the lower classes.  Thernpretty neat servant-maids had their choice of desirable “followers”; andrntheir mistresses, without having the sort of mysterious dread of men andrnmatrimony that Miss Matilda had, might well feel a little anxious lestrnthe heads of their comely maids should be turned by the joiner, or thernbutcher, or the gardener, who were obliged, by their callings, to comernto the house, and who, as ill-luck would have it, were generallyrnhandsome and unmarried. Fanny’s lovers, if she had any—and Miss Matildarnsuspected her of so many flirtations that, if she had not been veryrnpretty, I should have doubted her having one—were a constant anxiety tornher mistress.  She was forbidden, by the articles of her engagement, tornhave “followers”; and though she had answered, innocently enough,rndoubling up the hem of her apron as she spoke, “Please, ma’am, I neverrnhad more than one at a time,” Miss Matty prohibited that one.  But arnvision of a man seemed to haunt the kitchen.  Fanny assured me that itrnwas all fancy, or else I should have said myself that I had seen a man’srncoat-tails whisk into the scullery once, when I went on an errand intornthe store-room at night; and another evening, when, our watches havingrnstopped, I went to look at the clock, there was a very odd appearance,rnsingularly like a young man squeezed up between the clock and the backrnof the open kitchen door: and I thought Fanny snatched up the candlernvery hastily, so as to throw the shadow on the clock face, while shernvery positively told me the time half-an-hour too early, as we found outrnafterwards by the church clock. But I did not add to Miss Matty’srnanxieties by naming my suspicions, especially as Fanny said to me, thernnext day, that it was such a queer kitchen for having odd shadows aboutrnit, she really was almost afraid to stay; “for you know, miss,” shernadded, “I don’t see a creature from six o’clock tea, till Missus ringsrnthe bell for prayers at ten.”rnrnHowever, it so fell out that Fanny had to leave and Miss Matilda beggedrnme to stay and “settle her” with the new maid; to which I consented,rnafter I had heard from my father that he did not want me at home.  Thernnew servant was a rough, honest-looking, country girl, who had onlyrnlived in a farm place before; but I liked her looks when she came to bernhired; and I promised Miss Matilda to put her in the ways of the house.rnThe said ways were religiously such as Miss Matilda thought her sisterrnwould approve.  Many a domestic rule and regulation had been a subjectrnof plaintive whispered murmur to me during Miss Jenkyns’s life; but nowrnthat she was gone, I do not think that even I, who was a favourite,rndurst have suggested an alteration.  To give an instance: we constantlyrnadhered to the forms which were observed, at meal-times, in “my father,rnthe rector’s house.”  Accordingly, we had always wine and dessert; butrnthe decanters were only filled when there was a party, and what remainedrnwas seldom touched, though we had two wine-glasses apiece every dayrnafter dinner, until the next festive occasion arrived, when the state ofrnthe remainder wine was examined into in a family council.  The dregsrnwere often given to the poor: but occasionally, when a good deal hadrnbeen left at the last party (five months ago, it might be), it was addedrnto some of a fresh bottle, brought up from the cellar.  I fancy poorrnCaptain Brown did not much like wine, for I noticed he never finishedrnhis first glass, and most military men take several.  Then, as to ourrndessert, Miss Jenkyns used to gather currants and gooseberries for itrnherself, which I sometimes thought would have tasted better fresh fromrnthe trees; but then, as Miss Jenkyns observed, there would have beenrnnothing for dessert in summer-time.  As it was, we felt very genteelrnwith our two glasses apiece, and a dish of gooseberries at the top, ofrncurrants and biscuits at the sides, and two decanters at the bottom.rnWhen oranges came in, a curious proceeding was gone through.  MissrnJenkyns did not like to cut the fruit; for, as she observed, the juicernall ran out nobody knew where; sucking (only I think she used some morernrecondite word) was in fact the only way of enjoying oranges; but thenrnthere was the unpleasant association with a ceremony frequently gonernthrough by little babies; and so, after dessert, in orange season, MissrnJenkyns and Miss Matty used to rise up, possess themselves each of anrnorange in silence, and withdraw to the privacy of their own rooms tornindulge in sucking oranges.rnrnI had once or twice tried, on such occasions, to prevail on Miss Mattyrnto stay, and had succeeded in her sister’s lifetime.  I held up arnscreen, and did not look, and, as she said, she tried not to make thernnoise very offensive; but now that she was left alone, she seemed quiternhorrified when I begged her to remain with me in the warmrndining-parlour, and enjoy her orange as she liked best.  And so it wasrnin everything.  Miss Jenkyns’s rules were made more stringent than ever,rnbecause the framer of them was gone where there could be no appeal.  Inrnall things else Miss Matilda was meek and undecided to a fault.  I havernheard Fanny turn her round twenty times in a morning about dinner, justrnas the little hussy chose; and I sometimes fancied she worked on MissrnMatilda’s weakness in order to bewilder her, and to make her feel morernin the power of her clever servant.  I determined that I would not leavernher till I had seen what sort of a person Martha was; and, if I foundrnher trustworthy, I would tell her not to trouble her mistress with everyrnlittle decision.rnrnMartha was blunt and plain-spoken to a fault; otherwise she was a brisk,rnwell-meaning, but very ignorant girl.  She had not been with us a weekrnbefore Miss Matilda and I were astounded one morning by the receipt of arnletter from a cousin of hers, who had been twenty or thirty years inrnIndia, and who had lately, as we had seen by the “Army List,” returnedrnto England, bringing with him an invalid wife who had never beenrnintroduced to her English relations.  Major Jenkyns wrote to proposernthat he and his wife should spend a night at Cranford, on his way tornScotland—at the inn, if it did not suit Miss Matilda to receive themrninto her house; in which case they should hope to be with her as much asrnpossible during the day. Of course it _must_ suit her, as she said; forrnall Cranford knew that she had her sister’s bedroom at liberty; but I amrnsure she wished the Major had stopped in India and forgotten his cousinsrnout and out.rnrn“Oh! how must I manage?” asked she helplessly.  “If Deborah had beenrnalive she would have known what to do with a gentleman-visitor.  Must Irnput razors in his dressing-room?  Dear! dear! and I’ve got none.rnDeborah would have had them.  And slippers, and coat-brushes?”  Irnsuggested that probably he would bring all these things with him.  “Andrnafter dinner, how am I to know when to get up and leave him to his wine? Deborah would have done it so well; she would have been quite in herrnelement.  Will he want coffee, do you think?”  I undertook thernmanagement of the coffee, and told her I would instruct Martha in thernart of waiting—in which it must be owned she was terribly deficient—andrnthat I had no doubt Major and Mrs Jenkyns would understand the quietrnmode in which a lady lived by herself in a country town.  But she wasrnsadly fluttered.  I made her empty her decanters and bring up two freshrnbottles of wine.  I wished I could have prevented her from being presentrnat my instructions to Martha, for she frequently cut in with some freshrndirection, muddling the poor girl’s mind as she stood open-mouthed,rnlistening to us both.rnrn“Hand the vegetables round,” said I (foolishly, I see now—for it wasrnaiming at more than we could accomplish with quietness and simplicity);rnand then, seeing her look bewildered, I added, “take the vegetablesrnround to people, and let them help themselves.”rnrn“And mind you go first to the ladies,” put in Miss Matilda.  “Always gornto the ladies before gentlemen when you are waiting.”rnrn“I’ll do it as you tell me, ma’am,” said Martha; “but I like lads best.”rnrnWe felt very uncomfortable and shocked at this speech of Martha’s, yet Irndon’t think she meant any harm; and, on the whole, she attended veryrnwell to our directions, except that she “nudged” the Major when he didrnnot help himself as soon as she expected to the potatoes, while she wasrnhanding them round.rnrnThe major and his wife were quiet unpretending people enough when theyrndid come; languid, as all East Indians are, I suppose.  We were ratherrndismayed at their bringing two servants with them, a Hindoo body-servantrnfor the Major, and a steady elderly maid for his wife; but they slept atrnthe inn, and took off a good deal of the responsibility by attendingrncarefully to their master’s and mistress’s comfort.  Martha, to be sure,rnhad never ended her staring at the East Indian’s white turban and brownrncomplexion, and I saw that Miss Matilda shrunk away from him a little asrnhe waited at dinner.  Indeed, she asked me, when they were gone, if herndid not remind me of Blue Beard?  On the whole, the visit was mostrnsatisfactory, and is a subject of conversation even now with MissrnMatilda; at the time it greatly excited Cranford, and even stirred uprnthe apathetic and Honourable Mrs Jamieson to some expression ofrninterest, when I went to call and thank her for the kind answers she hadrnvouchsafed to Miss Matilda’s inquiries as to the arrangement of arngentleman’s dressing-room—answers which I must confess she had given inrnthe wearied manner of the Scandinavian prophetess—rnrn                       “Leave me, leave me to repose.”rnrnAnd _now_ I come to the love affair.rnrnIt seems that Miss Pole had a cousin, once or twice removed, who hadrnoffered to Miss Matty long ago.  Now this cousin lived four or fivernmiles from Cranford on his own estate; but his property was not largernenough to entitle him to rank higher than a yeoman; or rather, withrnsomething of the “pride which apes humility,” he had refused to pushrnhimself on, as so many of his class had done, into the ranks of thernsquires.  He would not allow himself to be called Thomas Holbrook,rn_Esq._; he even sent back letters with this address, telling thernpost-mistress at Cranford that his name was _Mr_ Thomas Holbrook,rnyeoman.  He rejected all domestic innovations; he would have the houserndoor stand open in summer and shut in winter, without knocker or bell tornsummon a servant.  The closed fist or the knob of a stick did thisrnoffice for him if he found the door locked.  He despised everyrnrefinement which had not its root deep down in humanity.  If people werernnot ill, he saw no necessity for moderating his voice.  He spoke therndialect of the country in perfection, and constantly used it inrnconversation; although Miss Pole (who gave me these particulars) added,rnthat he read aloud more beautifully and with more feeling than any onernshe had ever heard, except the late rector.rnrn“And how came Miss Matilda not to marry him?” asked I.rnrn“Oh, I don’t know.  She was willing enough, I think; but you know CousinrnThomas would not have been enough of a gentleman for the rector and MissrnJenkyns.”rnrn“Well! but they were not to marry him,” said I, impatiently.rnrn“No; but they did not like Miss Matty to marry below her rank.  You knowrnshe was the rector’s daughter, and somehow they are related to Sir PeterrnArley: Miss Jenkyns thought a deal of that.”rnrn“Poor Miss Matty!” said I.rnrn“Nay, now, I don’t know anything more than that he offered and wasrnrefused.  Miss Matty might not like him—and Miss Jenkyns might neverrnhave said a word—it is only a guess of mine.”rnrn“Has she never seen him since?” I inquired.rnrn“No, I think not.  You see Woodley, Cousin Thomas’s house, lies half-wayrnbetween Cranford and Misselton; and I know he made Misselton hisrnmarket-town very soon after he had offered to Miss Matty; and I don’trnthink he has been into Cranford above once or twice since—once, when Irnwas walking with Miss Matty, in High Street, and suddenly she dartedrnfrom me, and went up Shire Lane.  A few minutes after I was startled byrnmeeting Cousin Thomas.”rnrn“How old is he?” I asked, after a pause of castle-building.rnrn“He must be about seventy, I think, my dear,” said Miss Pole, blowing uprnmy castle, as if by gun-powder, into small fragments.rnrnVery soon after—at least during my long visit to Miss Matilda—I had thernopportunity of seeing Mr Holbrook; seeing, too, his first encounter withrnhis former love, after thirty or forty years’ separation.  I was helpingrnto decide whether any of the new assortment of coloured silks which theyrnhad just received at the shop would do to match a grey and blackrnmousseline-delaine that wanted a new breadth, when a tall, thin, DonrnQuixote-looking old man came into the shop for some woollen gloves.  Irnhad never seen the person (who was rather striking) before, and Irnwatched him rather attentively while Miss Matty listened to the shopman. The stranger wore a blue coat with brass buttons, drab breeches, andrngaiters, and drummed with his fingers on the counter until he wasrnattended to. When he answered the shop-boy’s question, “What can I havernthe pleasure of showing you to-day, sir?” I saw Miss Matilda start, andrnthen suddenly sit down; and instantly I guessed who it was.  She hadrnmade some inquiry which had to be carried round to the other shopman.rnrn“Miss Jenkyns wants the black sarsenet two-and-twopence the yard”; andrnMr Holbrook had caught the name, and was across the shop in two strides.rnrn“Matty—Miss Matilda—Miss Jenkyns!  God bless my soul!  I should not havernknown you.  How are you? how are you?”  He kept shaking her hand in arnway which proved the warmth of his friendship; but he repeated so often,rnas if to himself, “I should not have known you!” that any sentimentalrnromance which I might be inclined to build was quite done away with byrnhis manner.rnrnHowever, he kept talking to us all the time we were in the shop; andrnthen waving the shopman with the unpurchased gloves on one side, withrn“Another time, sir! another time!” he walked home with us.  I am happyrnto say my client, Miss Matilda, also left the shop in an equallyrnbewildered state, not having purchased either green or red silk.  MrrnHolbrook was evidently full with honest loud-spoken joy at meeting hisrnold love again; he touched on the changes that had taken place; he evenrnspoke of Miss Jenkyns as “Your poor sister!  Well, well! we have all ourrnfaults”; and bade us good-bye with many a hope that he should soon seernMiss Matty again.  She went straight to her room, and never came backrntill our early tea-time, when I thought she looked as if she had beenrncrying.rnrn              [Picture: Mr Holbrook ... bade us good-bye]rnrn