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257
Cranford
·
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
158
[Picture:
Slaughterous
and
indiscriminate
directions]
Still
this
was
no
confession
of
Mrs
Forrester’s
peculiar
timidity,
and
we
urged
her
to
tell
us
what
she
thought
would
frighten
her
more
than
anything.
She
paused,
and
stirred
the
fire,
and
snuffed
the
candles,
and
then
she
said,
in
a
sounding
whisper—
“Ghosts!”
She
looked
at
Miss
Pole,
as
much
as
to
say,
she
had
declared
it,
and
would
stand
by
it.
Such
a
look
was
a
challenge
in
itself.
Miss
Pole
came
down
upon
her
with
indigestion,
spectral
illusions,
optical
delusions,
and
a
great
deal
out
of
Dr
Ferrier
and
Dr
Hibbert
besides.
Miss
Matty
had
rather
a
leaning
to
ghosts,
as
I
have
mentioned
before,
and
what
little
she
did
say
was
all
on
Mrs
Forrester’s
side,
who,
emboldened
by
sympathy,
protested
that
ghosts
were
a
part
of
her
religion;
that
surely
she,
the
widow
of
a
major
in
the
army,
knew
what
to
be
frightened
at,
and
what
not;
in
short,
I
never
saw
Mrs
Forrester
so
warm
either
before
or
since,
for
she
was
a
gentle,
meek,
enduring
old
lady
in
most
things.
Not
all
the
elder-wine
that
ever
was
mulled
could
this
night
wash
out
the
remembrance
of
this
difference
between
Miss
Pole
and
her
hostess.
Indeed,
when
the
elder-wine
was
brought
in,
it
gave
rise
to
a
new
burst
of
discussion;
for
Jenny,
the
little
maiden
who
staggered
under
the
tray,
had
to
give
evidence
of
having
seen
a
ghost
with
her
own
eyes,
not
so
many
nights
ago,
in
Darkness
Lane,
the
very
lane
we
were
to
go
through
on
our
way
home.
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