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257
Cranford
·
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
243
“No!”
said
Miss
Matty,
in
great
distress—
“you
must
not
go;
please,
dear
Peter—
pray,
Mary—
oh!
you
must
not
go!”
She
was
so
much
agitated
that
we
both
promised
everything
she
wished.
Peter
sat
down
again
and
gave
her
his
hand,
which
for
better
security
she
held
in
both
of
hers,
and
I
left
the
room
to
accomplish
my
arrangements.
Long,
long
into
the
night,
far,
far
into
the
morning,
did
Miss
Matty
and
I
talk.
She
had
much
to
tell
me
of
her
brother’s
life
and
adventures,
which
he
had
communicated
to
her
as
they
had
sat
alone.
She
said
all
was
thoroughly
clear
to
her;
but
I
never
quite
understood
the
whole
story;
and
when
in
after
days
I
lost
my
awe
of
Mr
Peter
enough
to
question
him
myself,
he
laughed
at
my
curiosity,
and
told
me
stories
that
sounded
so
very
much
like
Baron
Munchausen’s,
that
I
was
sure
he
was
making
fun
of
me.
What
I
heard
from
Miss
Matty
was
that
he
had
been
a
volunteer
at
the
siege
of
Rangoon;
had
been
taken
prisoner
by
the
Burmese;
and
somehow
obtained
favour
and
eventual
freedom
from
knowing
how
to
bleed
the
chief
of
the
small
tribe
in
some
case
of
dangerous
illness;
that
on
his
release
from
years
of
captivity
he
had
had
his
letters
returned
from
England
with
the
ominous
word
“Dead”
marked
upon
them;
and,
believing
himself
to
be
the
last
of
his
race,
he
had
settled
down
as
an
indigo
planter,
and
had
proposed
to
spend
the
remainder
of
his
life
in
the
country
to
whose
inhabitants
and
modes
of
life
he
had
become
habituated,
when
my
letter
had
reached
him;
and,
with
the
odd
vehemence
which
characterised
him
in
age
as
it
had
done
in
youth,
he
had
sold
his
land
and
all
his
possessions
to
the
first
purchaser,
and
come
home
to
the
poor
old
sister,
who
was
more
glad
and
rich
than
any
princess
when
she
looked
at
him.
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