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257
Cranford
·
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
38
“Dear
Miss
Matty,”
said
I,
taking
her
hand—
for
indeed
I
did
not
know
in
what
way
to
tell
her
how
sorry
I
was
for
her,
left
deserted
in
the
world.
She
put
down
her
handkerchief
and
said—
“My
dear,
I’d
rather
you
did
not
call
me
Matty.
She
did
not
like
it;
but
I
did
many
a
thing
she
did
not
like,
I’m
afraid—
and
now
she’s
gone!
If
you
please,
my
love,
will
you
call
me
Matilda?”
I
promised
faithfully,
and
began
to
practise
the
new
name
with
Miss
Pole
that
very
day;
and,
by
degrees,
Miss
Matilda’s
feeling
on
the
subject
was
known
through
Cranford,
and
we
all
tried
to
drop
the
more
familiar
name,
but
with
so
little
success
that
by-and-by
we
gave
up
the
attempt.
My
visit
to
Miss
Pole
was
very
quiet.
Miss
Jenkyns
had
so
long
taken
the
lead
in
Cranford
that
now
she
was
gone,
they
hardly
knew
how
to
give
a
party.
The
Honourable
Mrs
Jamieson,
to
whom
Miss
Jenkyns
herself
had
always
yielded
the
post
of
honour,
was
fat
and
inert,
and
very
much
at
the
mercy
of
her
old
servants.
If
they
chose
that
she
should
give
a
party,
they
reminded
her
of
the
necessity
for
so
doing:
if
not,
she
let
it
alone.
There
was
all
the
more
time
for
me
to
hear
old-world
stories
from
Miss
Pole,
while
she
sat
knitting,
and
I
making
my
father’s
shirts.
I
always
took
a
quantity
of
plain
sewing
to
Cranford;
for,
as
we
did
not
read
much,
or
walk
much,
I
found
it
a
capital
time
to
get
through
my
work.
One
of
Miss
Pole’s
stories
related
to
a
shadow
of
a
love
affair
that
was
dimly
perceived
or
suspected
long
years
before.
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