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257
Cranford
·
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
80
“My
poor
mother!”
said
she.
“I
remember
how
she
used
to
stand
in
the
hall,
just
near
enough
the
study-door,
to
catch
the
tone
of
my
father’s
voice.
I
could
tell
in
a
moment
if
all
was
going
right,
by
her
face.
And
it
did
go
right
for
a
long
time.”
“What
went
wrong
at
last?”
said
I.
“That
tiresome
Latin,
I
dare
say.”
“No!
it
was
not
the
Latin.
Peter
was
in
high
favour
with
my
father,
for
he
worked
up
well
for
him.
But
he
seemed
to
think
that
the
Cranford
people
might
be
joked
about,
and
made
fun
of,
and
they
did
not
like
it;
nobody
does.
He
was
always
hoaxing
them;
‘hoaxing’
is
not
a
pretty
word,
my
dear,
and
I
hope
you
won’t
tell
your
father
I
used
it,
for
I
should
not
like
him
to
think
that
I
was
not
choice
in
my
language,
after
living
with
such
a
woman
as
Deborah.
And
be
sure
you
never
use
it
yourself.
I
don’t
know
how
it
slipped
out
of
my
mouth,
except
it
was
that
I
was
thinking
of
poor
Peter
and
it
was
always
his
expression.
But
he
was
a
very
gentlemanly
boy
in
many
things.
He
was
like
dear
Captain
Brown
in
always
being
ready
to
help
any
old
person
or
a
child.
Still,
he
did
like
joking
and
making
fun;
and
he
seemed
to
think
the
old
ladies
in
Cranford
would
believe
anything.
There
were
many
old
ladies
living
here
then;
we
are
principally
ladies
now,
I
know,
but
we
are
not
so
old
as
the
ladies
used
to
be
when
I
was
a
girl.
I
could
laugh
to
think
of
some
of
Peter’s
jokes.
No,
my
dear,
I
won’t
tell
you
of
them,
because
they
might
not
shock
you
as
they
ought
to
do,
and
they
were
very
shocking.
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