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257
Cranford
·
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
170
If
I
had
never
known
of
Mr
Holbrook,
I
could
have
said
something
in
this
pause,
but
as
I
had,
I
could
not
think
of
anything
that
would
come
in
naturally,
and
so
we
both
kept
silence
for
a
little
time.
“My
father
once
made
us,”
she
began,
“keep
a
diary,
in
two
columns;
on
one
side
we
were
to
put
down
in
the
morning
what
we
thought
would
be
the
course
and
events
of
the
coming
day,
and
at
night
we
were
to
put
down
on
the
other
side
what
really
had
happened.
It
would
be
to
some
people
rather
a
sad
way
of
telling
their
lives,”
(a
tear
dropped
upon
my
hand
at
these
words)—
“I
don’t
mean
that
mine
has
been
sad,
only
so
very
different
to
what
I
expected.
I
remember,
one
winter’s
evening,
sitting
over
our
bedroom
fire
with
Deborah—
I
remember
it
as
if
it
were
yesterday—
and
we
were
planning
our
future
lives,
both
of
us
were
planning,
though
only
she
talked
about
it.
She
said
she
should
like
to
marry
an
archdeacon,
and
write
his
charges;
and
you
know,
my
dear,
she
never
was
married,
and,
for
aught
I
know,
she
never
spoke
to
an
unmarried
archdeacon
in
her
life.
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