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Cranford
·
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
181
We
were
sitting—
Miss
Matty
and
I—
much
as
usual,
she
in
the
blue
chintz
easy-chair,
with
her
back
to
the
light,
and
her
knitting
in
her
hand,
I
reading
aloud
the
St
James’s
Chronicle.
A
few
minutes
more,
and
we
should
have
gone
to
make
the
little
alterations
in
dress
usual
before
calling-time
(twelve
o’clock)
in
Cranford.
I
remember
the
scene
and
the
date
well.
We
had
been
talking
of
the
signor’s
rapid
recovery
since
the
warmer
weather
had
set
in,
and
praising
Mr
Hoggins’s
skill,
and
lamenting
his
want
of
refinement
and
manner
(it
seems
a
curious
coincidence
that
this
should
have
been
our
subject,
but
so
it
was),
when
a
knock
was
heard—
a
caller’s
knock—
three
distinct
taps—
and
we
were
flying
(that
is
to
say,
Miss
Matty
could
not
walk
very
fast,
having
had
a
touch
of
rheumatism)
to
our
rooms,
to
change
cap
and
collars,
when
Miss
Pole
arrested
us
by
calling
out,
as
she
came
up
the
stairs,
“Don’t
go—
I
can’t
wait—
it
is
not
twelve,
I
know—
but
never
mind
your
dress—
I
must
speak
to
you.”
We
did
our
best
to
look
as
if
it
was
not
we
who
had
made
the
hurried
movement,
the
sound
of
which
she
had
heard;
for,
of
course,
we
did
not
like
to
have
it
supposed
that
we
had
any
old
clothes
that
it
was
convenient
to
wear
out
in
the
“sanctuary
of
home,”
as
Miss
Jenkyns
once
prettily
called
the
back
parlour,
where
she
was
tying
up
preserves.
So
we
threw
our
gentility
with
double
force
into
our
manners,
and
very
genteel
we
were
for
two
minutes
while
Miss
Pole
recovered
breath,
and
excited
our
curiosity
strongly
by
lifting
up
her
hands
in
amazement,
and
bringing
them
down
in
silence,
as
if
what
she
had
to
say
was
too
big
for
words,
and
could
only
be
expressed
by
pantomime.
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