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257
Cranford
·
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
66
One
night,
I
remember
this
candle
economy
particularly
annoyed
me.
I
had
been
very
much
tired
of
my
compulsory
“blind
man’s
holiday,”
especially
as
Miss
Matty
had
fallen
asleep,
and
I
did
not
like
to
stir
the
fire
and
run
the
risk
of
awakening
her;
so
I
could
not
even
sit
on
the
rug,
and
scorch
myself
with
sewing
by
firelight,
according
to
my
usual
custom.
I
fancied
Miss
Matty
must
be
dreaming
of
her
early
life;
for
she
spoke
one
or
two
words
in
her
uneasy
sleep
bearing
reference
to
persons
who
were
dead
long
before.
When
Martha
brought
in
the
lighted
candle
and
tea,
Miss
Matty
started
into
wakefulness,
with
a
strange,
bewildered
look
around,
as
if
we
were
not
the
people
she
expected
to
see
about
her.
There
was
a
little
sad
expression
that
shadowed
her
face
as
she
recognised
me;
but
immediately
afterwards
she
tried
to
give
me
her
usual
smile.
All
through
tea-time
her
talk
ran
upon
the
days
of
her
childhood
and
youth.
Perhaps
this
reminded
her
of
the
desirableness
of
looking
over
all
the
old
family
letters,
and
destroying
such
as
ought
not
to
be
allowed
to
fall
into
the
hands
of
strangers;
for
she
had
often
spoken
of
the
necessity
of
this
task,
but
had
always
shrunk
from
it,
with
a
timid
dread
of
something
painful.
To-night,
however,
she
rose
up
after
tea
and
went
for
them—
in
the
dark;
for
she
piqued
herself
on
the
precise
neatness
of
all
her
chamber
arrangements,
and
used
to
look
uneasily
at
me
when
I
lighted
a
bed-candle
to
go
to
another
room
for
anything.
When
she
returned
there
was
a
faint,
pleasant
smell
of
Tonquin
beans
in
the
room.
I
had
always
noticed
this
scent
about
any
of
the
things
which
had
belonged
to
her
mother;
and
many
of
the
letters
were
addressed
to
her—
yellow
bundles
of
love-letters,
sixty
or
seventy
years
old.
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