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257
Cranford
·
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
56
“What
a
pretty
book!”
“Pretty,
madam!
it’s
beautiful!
Pretty,
indeed!”
“Oh
yes!
I
meant
beautiful!”
said
she,
fluttered
at
his
disapproval
of
her
word.
“It
is
so
like
that
beautiful
poem
of
Dr
Johnson’s
my
sister
used
to
read—
I
forget
the
name
of
it;
what
was
it,
my
dear?”
turning
to
me.
“Which
do
you
mean,
ma’am?
What
was
it
about?”
“I
don’t
remember
what
it
was
about,
and
I’ve
quite
forgotten
what
the
name
of
it
was;
but
it
was
written
by
Dr
Johnson,
and
was
very
beautiful,
and
very
like
what
Mr
Holbrook
has
just
been
reading.”
“I
don’t
remember
it,”
said
he
reflectively.
“But
I
don’t
know
Dr
Johnson’s
poems
well.
I
must
read
them.”
As
we
were
getting
into
the
fly
to
return,
I
heard
Mr
Holbrook
say
he
should
call
on
the
ladies
soon,
and
inquire
how
they
got
home;
and
this
evidently
pleased
and
fluttered
Miss
Matty
at
the
time
he
said
it;
but
after
we
had
lost
sight
of
the
old
house
among
the
trees
her
sentiments
towards
the
master
of
it
were
gradually
absorbed
into
a
distressing
wonder
as
to
whether
Martha
had
broken
her
word,
and
seized
on
the
opportunity
of
her
mistress’s
absence
to
have
a
“follower.”
Martha
looked
good,
and
steady,
and
composed
enough,
as
she
came
to
help
us
out;
she
was
always
careful
of
Miss
Matty,
and
to-night
she
made
use
of
this
unlucky
speech—
“Eh!
dear
ma’am,
to
think
of
your
going
out
in
an
evening
in
such
a
thin
shawl!
It’s
no
better
than
muslin.
At
your
age,
ma’am,
you
should
be
careful.”
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