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257
Cranford
·
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
187
I
don’t
know
whether
it
is
a
fancy
of
mine,
or
a
real
fact,
but
I
have
noticed
that,
just
after
the
announcement
of
an
engagement
in
any
set,
the
unmarried
ladies
in
that
set
flutter
out
in
an
unusual
gaiety
and
newness
of
dress,
as
much
as
to
say,
in
a
tacit
and
unconscious
manner,
“We
also
are
spinsters.”
Miss
Matty
and
Miss
Pole
talked
and
thought
more
about
bonnets,
gowns,
caps,
and
shawls,
during
the
fortnight
that
succeeded
this
call,
than
I
had
known
them
do
for
years
before.
But
it
might
be
the
spring
weather,
for
it
was
a
warm
and
pleasant
March;
and
merinoes
and
beavers,
and
woollen
materials
of
all
sorts
were
but
ungracious
receptacles
of
the
bright
sun’s
glancing
rays.
It
had
not
been
Lady
Glenmire’s
dress
that
had
won
Mr
Hoggins’s
heart,
for
she
went
about
on
her
errands
of
kindness
more
shabby
than
ever.
Although
in
the
hurried
glimpses
I
caught
of
her
at
church
or
elsewhere
she
appeared
rather
to
shun
meeting
any
of
her
friends,
her
face
seemed
to
have
almost
something
of
the
flush
of
youth
in
it;
her
lips
looked
redder
and
more
trembling
full
than
in
their
old
compressed
state,
and
her
eyes
dwelt
on
all
things
with
a
lingering
light,
as
if
she
was
learning
to
love
Cranford
and
its
belongings.
Mr
Hoggins
looked
broad
and
radiant,
and
creaked
up
the
middle
aisle
at
church
in
a
brand-new
pair
of
top-boots—
an
audible,
as
well
as
visible,
sign
of
his
purposed
change
of
state;
for
the
tradition
went,
that
the
boots
he
had
worn
till
now
were
the
identical
pair
in
which
he
first
set
out
on
his
rounds
in
Cranford
twenty-five
years
ago;
only
they
had
been
new-pieced,
high
and
low,
top
and
bottom,
heel
and
sole,
black
leather
and
brown
leather,
more
times
than
any
one
could
tell.
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