chapter-2

Chapter Two. After Miss Jenkins passed away, I did not think I would go to Cranford again,

so I was pleasantly surprised when I received a letter from Miss Pole inviting me to stay with her.

A few days later Miss Matty also wrote to me, telling me that she would be happy to have me at

her home when I visited Cranford. I promised to stay with her after I ended my visit with Miss Pole,

and the day after my arrival at Cranford, I went to see her. Miss Matty began to cry as soon as she

saw me, I tried to comfort her. As I told her about all the good qualities Miss Jenkins had,

Miss Matty cried quietly. Dear Miss Matty, I said, taking her hand. I did not know how to tell her how

sorry I was for her. She was left all alone in the world. My dear, she said, I'd rather you

did not call me Matty. My sister did not like it. Please call me Matilda.

I promised, and I tried to call her Miss Matilda. In fact, the whole town tried. But we were not

successful. After some time we started calling her Miss Matty again. My visit to Miss Pole was very

quiet. Now that Miss Jenkins was gone, there was no one in town who knew how to give a party.

So I spent my time listening to Miss Pole's stories about the past while she knitted and I

sowed. One of her stories was about a love affair that she had suspected many years ago.

After my visit with Miss Pole, I went to Miss Matilda's house. She tried her best to make me

comfortable. She came to the room as I unpacked my things.

How you happy with your room, dear? She asked. My sister used to arrange things. She had the best

methods. She could teach a new maid in a week, but I am not as good as her. The new girl has been

with me a few weeks and she still cannot do things properly. Then she asked me if I could stay longer

and help her teach the new maid. I wrote to my father, and when he said he did not need me at home,

I accepted Miss Matilda's request. Martha, the new maid, was a rough, honest -looking girl who

had lived on a farm. I promised Miss Matilda that I would teach her the rules of the house.

Of course, I was talking about Miss Jenkins's rules. Martha was an honest and well -meaning girl,

but she did not know much, and teaching her how to do things would not be easy.

And now I come to the love affair. It seems that Miss Pol had a cousin who had wanted to marry

Miss Matty a long time ago. His name was Thomas Holbrook, and he lived five miles from Cranford on

his own estate, which was not very large. He was proud of who he was and never wished to be someone

else. His house door was always open in the summer. He did not need a servant or a lock on his

door. He is a country man, honest and real, said Miss Pol. He used to read aloud more beautifully

than anyone I have ever heard. And why didn't Miss Matilda marry him? I asked.

Oh, I don't know. I think she wanted to, but probably her father and her sister didn't think

Cousin Thomas was a real gentleman. They didn't want Miss Matty to marry beneath her. She was the

director's daughter, and they are also relatives of Sir Peter Arley.

Poor Miss Matty, I said. But this is my guess. All I know is that he asked and she refused.

I don't know the real reason why. Has she seen him since then?

I don't think so. He has been to Cranford once or twice after that.

How old is he? I asked.

He must be about seventy, I think, my dear, said Miss Pol.

Interestingly, not long after our talk, I had the chance to see Mr. Holbrook. Miss Matty and I

were at the shop buying some silk fabric when suddenly an old man came in. He was a good looking

man, tall and thin, and I watched him as he waited impatiently. Miss Matty had not seen him.

When the old man told the shop boy what he needed, she heard his voice.

She looked shocked for a moment and sat down. I immediately guessed who the man was.

It was their first meeting after thirty or forty years.

Miss Jenkins wants the black silk, shouted another shop boy.

Mr. Holbrook heard the name and hurried towards us.

Matty, Miss Matilda, Miss Jenkins, he shouted excitedly. I did not recognize you.

How are you? How are you?

He kept shaking her hand warmly.

I did not recognize you, he repeated.

We left the shop together. Neither Mr. Holbrook nor Miss Matilda had bought anything.

Mr. Holbrook seemed very pleased to meet his old love again. He talked about his life

and even talked about Miss Jenkins.

Your poor sister, he said, well, we all have our faults.

After he walked us home, we said our goodbyes. Miss Matty went up to her room and did not come

back until tea time.

A few days later, Mr. Holbrook sent a note, inviting us to spend a day at Woodley.

It was June now, and the days were quite hot. He wrote that he had also invited his cousin Miss

Poll, so the three of us could ride in the same carriage. I expected Miss Matty to say yes,

but she did not. Miss Poll and I had to persuade her to go. She thought it was not right for

an old lady to see her old love. After we talked to her for several hours,

she agreed, and I wrote a letter to Mr. Holbrook in her name saying,

we would be coming. The next morning Miss Matty and I went to the shop. She bought three bonnets.

She decided to wear the best one on the day of our visit on Thursday. On our long drive to Woodley,

Miss Matty was quite nervous. She had never been there before. I could see that.

It was not easy for her to see the place which might have been her home. Woodley's house was

surrounded by fields and had an old -fashioned garden full of roses and bushes. Our carriage

brought us to a little gate, and we got out and walked up a little path to the house.

I think it is very pretty, whispered Miss Matty, as Mr. Holbrook appeared at the door. He welcomed

us warmly. As the ladies went inside, I asked to walk around the garden.

The old gentleman was pleased and showed me around the place. He had twenty -six cools,

all named after the different letters of the alphabet. As we walked, he surprised me by repeating

poetry from the great poets. He was a man who enjoyed the beauties of the countryside and the

changing of the seasons. We went back to the house and had dinner in a little kitchen.

Then we went into the sitting -room. It was a pleasant little house, untidy and full of books.

Farmers don't have much time for reading, he said. But somehow I can't help it.

Mr. Holbrook left the room to talk to the gardener.

He has so many books, said Miss Pole, tough but they are so dusty.

He must be a very clever man, said Miss Matty.

Yes, he is, said Miss Pole, but I am afraid living alone has made him rough.

Not rough, said Miss Matty. I would call him unusual, like all clever people.

When he returned, Mr. Holbrook offered to read us some poetry. He began reading a long poem

called Locksley Hall. Five minutes later Miss Matty was asleep. She woke up when he stopped reading.

What a pretty poem, she said, although she had not heard it.

Pretty madam, it's beautiful, said Mr. Holbrook.

Oh yes, I meant beautiful, she said. It is like that beautiful poem by Dr. Johnson.

My sister used to read it. I forget the name of it.

Which do you mean madam, what was it about? I don't remember what it was about.

It was written by Dr. Johnson, and it was very beautiful.

I don't remember it, he said, but I don't know Dr. Johnson's poems well. I must read them.

That evening, as we got into our carriage, Mr. Holbrook said that he would call on us soon.

Miss Matty seemed pleased to hear this. When we arrived home, Martha came to help us out.

She always took care of Miss Matty.

Hey, dear mom, she said, you went out in such a thin shawl, it's cold outside. At your age,

mom, you should be careful. My age, said Miss Matty angrily.

My age, how old do you think I am?

Well, mom, I don't mean to upset you, but I think you are close to 60.

Martha, I'm not yet 52, said Miss Matty. She had remembered her youth that day and was annoyed

to see that time had passed away. Miss Matty never talked to me about her young love for Mr. Holbrook.

She had probably kept it a secret in her heart. But I watched her carefully and noticed that she

still had feelings for him. She wore her best cap every day and sat near the window to watch

the street. He came. He asked how we were. Then suddenly he stood up. Well, Madam, can I bring

you anything from Paris? I'm going there in a week or two. To Paris? Yes, Madam. I've always

wanted to go there. If I don't go soon, I may not be able to go at all. We were very surprised.

We thanked him and told him we did not need anything. Just as he was going out of the room,

he turned back. Oh, I nearly forgot, Madam. Here are the poems that you enjoyed so much at my house.

He took out a small parcel from his coat pocket.

Goodbye, Miss. He said to me. He turned to Miss Matty. Goodbye, Matty. Take care of yourself.

And he was gone. But he had given her a book, and he had called her Matty, just as he used to do 30 years ago.

Soon after this I left Cranford, giving instructions to Martha to look after Miss Matilda. I asked her

to write to me if Miss Matilda was not well. Martha would send me a note every now and then.

In November she sent a note to say her mistress was very low and not eating well. I was upset to hear that,

so I packed up my things and went to Cranford. Miss Matilda did look unwell. I went downstairs

to have a talk with Martha. How long has she been so ill? I asked. Well, just over two weeks,

she replied. It was one Tuesday after Miss Poll's visit. She looked tired and I thought she needed

a good sleep. But she has not been well ever since that day. I went to see Miss Poll the next day.

She had not seen Miss Matilda in two days, but she had bad news about Mr. Holbrooke.

Poor cousin Thomas, she said. The journey to Paris was not good for him. His housekeeper wrote to me

to say he has been very ill. He has not been going out to the fields at all. He just sits in his

house all day, not doing anything. It has Miss Matilda know about this, I asked. Yes, my dear,

I told her about it two weeks ago and now I must go to her because I promised to tell her if I heard

anything. I received a letter today. Poor Thomas does not have long to live. Miss Poll and I went

back to Miss Matty's house. I took her to the little drawing room and left the ladies alone.

Miss Matty did not come down to dinner that evening. At tea time, she came into the drawing room.

It was clear that something was troubling her. She talked to me about the old times and her sister

Deborah. I could feel that she had blamed her sister about her lost love and now she was feeling

sorry about it. She told me about all the good things Deborah had done when they were young.

Deborah had always helped the poor. She had once danced with the Lord. She had taught girls cooking

and sewing. She had looked after Miss Matty when she was seriously ill. I realized that her illness

had happened right after Mr. Holbrook had left Cranford. We talked softly and quietly that long

November evening. The next day Miss Poll came to tell us that Mr. Holbrook was dead. Miss Matty

could not speak. She was shaking nervously. I knew that she was trying her best to hide her feelings.

That evening Miss Matilda was very silent and thoughtful. Later she called Martha. She seemed

to be hesitating to say something.

Martha, she said at last, you are young. Yes, Mom, I am 22, Mom.

You may one day meet a young man you like and who likes you. If you meet such a young man

and if I think he is respectable, he can come to see you once a week. Miss Matty did not expect an

answer, so she was surprised when Martha said, please, Mom, there is Jim Hearn. He is a carpenter

and he makes three and six pence a day. He is very tall, Mom, and if you like, he can come

tomorrow night. I have often noticed that almost everyone is stingy in their own way.

They have their own little habits to save money. Miss Matty was stingy about candles.

We had many candles, but used as few as possible. In the winter afternoons she would sit knitting

for two or three hours in the dark or by fire light. When I offered to bring candles, she would

refuse. We could have them at tea time and we only burnt one at a time. One night I remember I was

annoyed about not having candles. Miss Matty had fallen asleep by the fire and I was trying to

sew in the dark. Miss Matty said a few words in her sleep and I thought that she was dreaming

about her early life. When Martha brought in the candle and tea, Miss Matty suddenly woke up.

She looked sad, but she tried to give me her usual smile. During tea time she talked about her

childhood and youth. After tea she went to her room and came back with some old family letters.

She had often told me about wanting to destroy them. She did not want them to be read by strangers,

but she had never been able to look at them. The earliest letters were tied together in a packet,

and Miss Jenkins had written on it, letters between my father and my mother before their marriage

in July 1774. The rector of Cranford was about 27 when he wrote them, and Miss Matty's mother

Molly was 18. The rector's letters were full of love and longing, while the girl's letters were

about clothes and the wedding dress that she wanted.

We must burn the letters, I think, said Miss Matty. No one will care for them when I am gone,

and one by one she dropped them into the fire. She watched them as they burned brightly and went

up the chimney. Next there were some letters between the mother and the grandmother.

They were about Deborah's birth. The grandmother gave her daughter advice about how to take care

of a baby. There were also some letters between the rector and his wife from the time he was away in

London. His letters were full of Latin words, and hers had lots of grammar and spelling mistakes.

She told her husband about Deborah and little Matty. Then there was a letter from the grandfather

about the birth of a boy. I was surprised because I had not heard about a brother. The sisters had

never mentioned his name, so I guessed that he had died young. Then there were Miss Jenkins's letters.

Miss Matty felt bad about burning them. Deborah's letters are so much better than the others,

she said. Anyone who reads them can learn from them.

She took the letters from me, lit a second candle and began reading them aloud.

Oh, how bored I was listening to those never -ending letters. It took us two nights to finish reading

them. The longest of Miss Jenkins's letters was from 1805 when she was away visiting some friends near

Newcastle upon Tyne. People were expecting an attack by Napoleon Bonaparte, and Miss Jenkins

was very much worried. She wrote about preparations made for the attack. One night the church bells

rang, and everyone panicked. She wrote about how scared she was.

It was a difficult time, my dear, said Miss Matty. We were all scared. I used to wake up in the night

and think I heard the French entering Cranford. Many people talked of hiding in the salt mines,

and my father wrote several sermons against Napoleon. There were also letters between the

rector and his son. Peter Ali Jenkins, poor Peter, Miss Matty would call him, was at school at

Shrewsbury during this time. The rector wrote the letters in Latin. The boy wrote about his studies

and the plans for his education. He would sometimes add a note at the end. Mother dear,

send me a cake. The later letters of poor Peter were different. He had been in some trouble at school,

and he was sorry. One letter was to his mother. My dear, dear, dear, dearest mother,

I will be a better boy. Please don't be ill for me, darling mother.

After she read this, Miss Matty started crying. She got up and took the letter to her room.

She was worried that it would accidentally get burned. Poor Peter, she said. He was always in

trouble. He had bad friends, but he loved fun and jokes. Poor Peter. As poor Peter was planning

to be successful at school and to go to Cambridge and have a great career. But this never happened.

Peter was my mother's favorite, said Miss Matty. When Peter came back from Shrewsbury School without

honours, my father was disappointed. He could not afford a tutor, so he began to tutor Peter himself,

and it did go well for some time.

What went wrong, I asked.

Well, Peter was a very nice boy. He was like dear Captain Brown, always ready to help any old

personal child. But he liked joking and having fun. I could laugh to think of some of Peter's jokes.

No, my dear, I won't tell you about them because they were shocking.

One time he dressed up as a very old man and visited our house. My father believed him and gave

him a copy of the sermons he had written about Napoleon Bonaparte.

Did Miss Jenkins know about these tricks? I asked.

Oh no, Deborah would have been shocked. No one knew but me. He used to say that the old ladies

in the town wanted something to talk about. But then a terrible, sad thing happened.

Miss Matty got up and opened the door. No one was there. She rang the bell, and when Martha came,

she told her to go to town to get some eggs.

You are not afraid to go, Martha, are you? She asked her.

No, ma 'am, not at all. Gem Hern will go with me.

When Martha was gone and we were alone, Miss Matty put out the candle.

We can talk by firelight, my dear, she said, and continued the story of Peter.

Well, you see, Deborah was away from home. It was spring. My father had gone out to see

some sick people. Peter was a sweet boy, but he liked to annoy Deborah.

She never laughed at his jokes, and she thought he was rude. This upset him.

So that day he went up to her room and dressed himself in her old clothes and put on her cap.

He told me later that he wanted to give the town something to talk about.

And he went out to the garden and began picking flowers and singing loudly.

Oh dear, when my father came up the street, he saw a little crowd of people looking into our garden.

At first, he thought the people were looking at the pretty flowers,

but when he came nearer, he saw Peter singing.

His face went white with anger. He rushed through the garden door, came up to poor Peter and shouted

at him in front of everyone. You have shamed our family. You are not my boy anymore,

he yelled. My dear, that boy's little joke broke my mother's heart and changed my father forever.

When my father was done, Peter turned and walked slowly into the house.

He went to my mother, put his arms around her and kissed her. And before she could speak, he was

gone. When my mother heard what had happened, she sat down, her face white. Later she went

up to Peter's room, but she could not find him. We looked around the house, but he was nowhere.

We kept searching all afternoon. My mother was very nervous.

Peter, Peter, my darling, where are you? She cried. My father sat with his head in his hands,

not speaking. My mother kept going from room to room, in and out of the house.

It was nearly dark when at last my father got up, he held my mother's arm.

Molly, he said, I did not think this would happen. He looked into her face for comfort,

but there was no feeling in her eyes. But then she saw the tears in his eyes,

and she said, dearest John, don't cry, come with me and we'll find him.

And together they walked through the house and the garden, looking for Peter.

I wrote to Deborah and asked her to come home. Then I sent a message to Mr. Holbrook to ask him if

Peter was at his house. Mr. Holbrook had been very kind to Peter in the past. He had even taught

him how to fish. But Mr. Holbrook was not home, and nobody had seen Peter. It was night now,

and my father and mother kept searching for him. The next day Deborah came home. There was no news

of Peter. We were all very upset. Oh, it was an awful time. My mother was never the same again.

Where was Mr. Peter? I asked. He had gone to Liverpool. There was war then,

and Peter had gone to join the Navy. They were glad to have a fine tourboy like him.

The captain wrote to my father, and Peter wrote to my mother. Let me find those letters.

We lit the candle and found the letters, and we also found a letter from their mother to Peter.

She was begging him to come back home. The letter had been returned unopened. The captain's letter

asked the father and mother to come to Liverpool immediately if they wanted to see their boy.

Peter's letter to her mother was full of love and sorrow.

Mother, we may go into battle. I hope we will beat the French, but I must see you before I go.

Unfortunately, my father and mother arrived there too late. The ship had gone, said Miss Matty.

She was too late, too late. We sat in silence for some time. Peter's ship went to the Mediterranean,

Miss Matty said. After some time, he was sent to India.

How did your mother take it? I asked. She tried to be cheerful when she was around my father.

She would say that Peter would become an admiral very soon. But when she was alone,

she would cry and cry. Later, when she got weaker, she would cry when she was with me and Deborah.

Mrs. Jenkins had died a year later. And the day after her death, we received a parcel from India,

said Miss Matty. Peter had sent her a large soft white Indian shawl. Deborah took the shawl to my

father. He looked at it and said, she always wanted a shawl like this. We will bury her in it.

On the day of the funeral, Deborah told me that she would never marry and leave my father.

She was a wonderful daughter to my father. When his eyes got weak,

she read books to him and wrote his letters and sermons.

Did Mr. Peter ever come home? Yes, once. He was a lieutenant. He and my father got along

so well. My father was very proud of him. He took him into every house in Cranford.

They always walked arm in arm like best friends. And then, I asked, then Peter went to see again.

And when my father died, Deborah and I had to come to this small house and have one servant

instead of four. And Mr. Peter. Oh, there was some war in India and we never heard from Peter again.

I believe he is dead. But sometimes when I sit by myself in the quiet house,

I think I hear his footsteps. But Peter never comes.