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257
Cranford
·
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
146
One
of
the
stories
that
haunted
me
for
a
long
time
afterwards
was
of
a
girl
who
was
left
in
charge
of
a
great
house
in
Cumberland
on
some
particular
fair-day,
when
the
other
servants
all
went
off
to
the
gaieties.
The
family
were
away
in
London,
and
a
pedlar
came
by,
and
asked
to
leave
his
large
and
heavy
pack
in
the
kitchen,
saying
he
would
call
for
it
again
at
night;
and
the
girl
(a
gamekeeper’s
daughter),
roaming
about
in
search
of
amusement,
chanced
to
hit
upon
a
gun
hanging
up
in
the
hall,
and
took
it
down
to
look
at
the
chasing;
and
it
went
off
through
the
open
kitchen
door,
hit
the
pack,
and
a
slow
dark
thread
of
blood
came
oozing
out.
(How
Miss
Pole
enjoyed
this
part
of
the
story,
dwelling
on
each
word
as
if
she
loved
it!)
She
rather
hurried
over
the
further
account
of
the
girl’s
bravery,
and
I
have
but
a
confused
idea
that,
somehow,
she
baffled
the
robbers
with
Italian
irons,
heated
red-hot,
and
then
restored
to
blackness
by
being
dipped
in
grease.
We
parted
for
the
night
with
an
awe-stricken
wonder
as
to
what
we
should
hear
of
in
the
morning—
and,
on
my
part,
with
a
vehement
desire
for
the
night
to
be
over
and
gone:
I
was
so
afraid
lest
the
robbers
should
have
seen,
from
some
dark
lurking-place,
that
Miss
Pole
had
carried
off
her
plate,
and
thus
have
a
double
motive
for
attacking
our
house.
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