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257
Cranford
·
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
197
But
Miss
Matty
put
on
the
soft
dignified
manner,
peculiar
to
her,
rarely
used,
and
yet
which
became
her
so
well,
and
laying
her
hand
gently
on
mine,
she
said—
“Never
mind
the
silks
for
a
few
minutes,
dear.
I
don’t
understand
you,
sir,”
turning
now
to
the
shopman,
who
had
been
attending
to
the
farmer.
“Is
this
a
forged
note?”
“Oh,
no,
ma’am.
It
is
a
true
note
of
its
kind;
but
you
see,
ma’am,
it
is
a
joint-stock
bank,
and
there
are
reports
out
that
it
is
likely
to
break.
Mr
Johnson
is
only
doing
his
duty,
ma’am,
as
I
am
sure
Mr
Dobson
knows.”
But
Mr
Dobson
could
not
respond
to
the
appealing
bow
by
any
answering
smile.
He
was
turning
the
note
absently
over
in
his
fingers,
looking
gloomily
enough
at
the
parcel
containing
the
lately-chosen
shawl.
“It’s
hard
upon
a
poor
man,”
said
he,
“as
earns
every
farthing
with
the
sweat
of
his
brow.
However,
there’s
no
help
for
it.
You
must
take
back
your
shawl,
my
man;
Lizzle
must
go
on
with
her
cloak
for
a
while.
And
yon
figs
for
the
little
ones—
I
promised
them
to
’em—
I’ll
take
them;
but
the
’bacco,
and
the
other
things”—
“I
will
give
you
five
sovereigns
for
your
note,
my
good
man,”
said
Miss
Matty.
“I
think
there
is
some
great
mistake
about
it,
for
I
am
one
of
the
shareholders,
and
I’m
sure
they
would
have
told
me
if
things
had
not
been
going
on
right.”
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