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257
Cranford
·
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
89
“‘I
have
borrowed
the
nets
from
the
weir,
Miss
Matty.
Shall
we
drag
the
ponds
to-night,
or
wait
for
the
morning?’
“I
remember
staring
in
his
face
to
gather
his
meaning;
and
when
I
did,
I
laughed
out
loud.
The
horror
of
that
new
thought—
our
bright,
darling
Peter,
cold,
and
stark,
and
dead!
I
remember
the
ring
of
my
own
laugh
now.
“The
next
day
Deborah
was
at
home
before
I
was
myself
again.
She
would
not
have
been
so
weak
as
to
give
way
as
I
had
done;
but
my
screams
(my
horrible
laughter
had
ended
in
crying)
had
roused
my
sweet
dear
mother,
whose
poor
wandering
wits
were
called
back
and
collected
as
soon
as
a
child
needed
her
care.
She
and
Deborah
sat
by
my
bedside;
I
knew
by
the
looks
of
each
that
there
had
been
no
news
of
Peter—
no
awful,
ghastly
news,
which
was
what
I
most
had
dreaded
in
my
dull
state
between
sleeping
and
waking.
“The
same
result
of
all
the
searching
had
brought
something
of
the
same
relief
to
my
mother,
to
whom,
I
am
sure,
the
thought
that
Peter
might
even
then
be
hanging
dead
in
some
of
the
familiar
home
places
had
caused
that
never-ending
walk
of
yesterday.
Her
soft
eyes
never
were
the
same
again
after
that;
they
had
always
a
restless,
craving
look,
as
if
seeking
for
what
they
could
not
find.
Oh!
it
was
an
awful
time;
coming
down
like
a
thunder-bolt
on
the
still
sunny
day
when
the
lilacs
were
all
in
bloom.”
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