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257
Cranford
·
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
185
So
the
wolf
had
got
into
the
fold,
and
now
he
was
carrying
off
the
shepherdess.
What
would
Mrs
Jamieson
say?
We
looked
into
the
darkness
of
futurity
as
a
child
gazes
after
a
rocket
up
in
the
cloudy
sky,
full
of
wondering
expectation
of
the
rattle,
the
discharge,
and
the
brilliant
shower
of
sparks
and
light.
Then
we
brought
ourselves
down
to
earth
and
the
present
time
by
questioning
each
other
(being
all
equally
ignorant,
and
all
equally
without
the
slightest
data
to
build
any
conclusions
upon)
as
to
when
IT
would
take
place?
Where?
How
much
a
year
Mr
Hoggins
had?
Whether
she
would
drop
her
title?
And
how
Martha
and
the
other
correct
servants
in
Cranford
would
ever
be
brought
to
announce
a
married
couple
as
Lady
Glenmire
and
Mr
Hoggins?
But
would
they
be
visited?
Would
Mrs
Jamieson
let
us?
Or
must
we
choose
between
the
Honourable
Mrs
Jamieson
and
the
degraded
Lady
Glenmire?
We
all
liked
Lady
Glenmire
the
best.
She
was
bright,
and
kind,
and
sociable,
and
agreeable;
and
Mrs
Jamieson
was
dull,
and
inert,
and
pompous,
and
tiresome.
But
we
had
acknowledged
the
sway
of
the
latter
so
long,
that
it
seemed
like
a
kind
of
disloyalty
now
even
to
meditate
disobedience
to
the
prohibition
we
anticipated.
Mrs
Forrester
surprised
us
in
our
darned
caps
and
patched
collars;
and
we
forgot
all
about
them
in
our
eagerness
to
see
how
she
would
bear
the
information,
which
we
honourably
left
to
Miss
Pole,
to
impart,
although,
if
we
had
been
inclined
to
take
unfair
advantage,
we
might
have
rushed
in
ourselves,
for
she
had
a
most
out-of-place
fit
of
coughing
for
five
minutes
after
Mrs
Forrester
entered
the
room.
I
shall
never
forget
the
imploring
expression
of
her
eyes,
as
she
looked
at
us
over
her
pocket-handkerchief.
They
said,
as
plain
as
words
could
speak,
“Don’t
let
Nature
deprive
me
of
the
treasure
which
is
mine,
although
for
a
time
I
can
make
no
use
of
it.”
And
we
did
not.
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