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257
Cranford
·
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
248
The
mention
of
that
gentleman’s
name
recalls
to
my
mind
a
conversation
between
Mr
Peter
and
Miss
Matty
one
evening
in
the
summer
after
he
returned
to
Cranford.
The
day
had
been
very
hot,
and
Miss
Matty
had
been
much
oppressed
by
the
weather,
in
the
heat
of
which
her
brother
revelled.
I
remember
that
she
had
been
unable
to
nurse
Martha’s
baby,
which
had
become
her
favourite
employment
of
late,
and
which
was
as
much
at
home
in
her
arms
as
in
its
mother’s,
as
long
as
it
remained
a
light-weight,
portable
by
one
so
fragile
as
Miss
Matty.
This
day
to
which
I
refer,
Miss
Matty
had
seemed
more
than
usually
feeble
and
languid,
and
only
revived
when
the
sun
went
down,
and
her
sofa
was
wheeled
to
the
open
window,
through
which,
although
it
looked
into
the
principal
street
of
Cranford,
the
fragrant
smell
of
the
neighbouring
hayfields
came
in
every
now
and
then,
borne
by
the
soft
breezes
that
stirred
the
dull
air
of
the
summer
twilight,
and
then
died
away.
The
silence
of
the
sultry
atmosphere
was
lost
in
the
murmuring
noises
which
came
in
from
many
an
open
window
and
door;
even
the
children
were
abroad
in
the
street,
late
as
it
was
(between
ten
and
eleven),
enjoying
the
game
of
play
for
which
they
had
not
had
spirits
during
the
heat
of
the
day.
It
was
a
source
of
satisfaction
to
Miss
Matty
to
see
how
few
candles
were
lighted,
even
in
the
apartments
of
those
houses
from
which
issued
the
greatest
signs
of
life.
Mr
Peter,
Miss
Matty,
and
I
had
all
been
quiet,
each
with
a
separate
reverie,
for
some
little
time,
when
Mr
Peter
broke
in—
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