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257
Cranford
·
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
101
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.”
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