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257
Cranford
·
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
92
“Oh!”
she
said,
“she
was
patience
itself.
She
had
never
been
strong,
and
this
weakened
her
terribly.
My
father
used
to
sit
looking
at
her:
far
more
sad
than
she
was.
He
seemed
as
if
he
could
look
at
nothing
else
when
she
was
by;
and
he
was
so
humble—
so
very
gentle
now.
He
would,
perhaps,
speak
in
his
old
way—
laying
down
the
law,
as
it
were—
and
then,
in
a
minute
or
two,
he
would
come
round
and
put
his
hand
on
our
shoulders,
and
ask
us
in
a
low
voice,
if
he
had
said
anything
to
hurt
us.
I
did
not
wonder
at
his
speaking
so
to
Deborah,
for
she
was
so
clever;
but
I
could
not
bear
to
hear
him
talking
so
to
me.
“But,
you
see,
he
saw
what
we
did
not—
that
it
was
killing
my
mother.
Yes!
killing
her
(put
out
the
candle,
my
dear;
I
can
talk
better
in
the
dark),
for
she
was
but
a
frail
woman,
and
ill-fitted
to
stand
the
fright
and
shock
she
had
gone
through;
and
she
would
smile
at
him
and
comfort
him,
not
in
words,
but
in
her
looks
and
tones,
which
were
always
cheerful
when
he
was
there.
And
she
would
speak
of
how
she
thought
Peter
stood
a
good
chance
of
being
admiral
very
soon—
he
was
so
brave
and
clever;
and
how
she
thought
of
seeing
him
in
his
navy
uniform,
and
what
sort
of
hats
admirals
wore;
and
how
much
more
fit
he
was
to
be
a
sailor
than
a
clergyman;
and
all
in
that
way,
just
to
make
my
father
think
she
was
quite
glad
of
what
came
of
that
unlucky
morning’s
work,
and
the
flogging
which
was
always
in
his
mind,
as
we
all
knew.
But
oh,
my
dear!
the
bitter,
bitter
crying
she
had
when
she
was
alone;
and
at
last,
as
she
grew
weaker,
she
could
not
keep
her
tears
in
when
Deborah
or
me
was
by,
and
would
give
us
message
after
message
for
Peter
(his
ship
had
gone
to
the
Mediterranean,
or
somewhere
down
there,
and
then
he
was
ordered
off
to
India,
and
there
was
no
overland
route
then);
but
she
still
said
that
no
one
knew
where
their
death
lay
in
wait,
and
that
we
were
not
to
think
hers
was
near.
We
did
not
think
it,
but
we
knew
it,
as
we
saw
her
fading
away.
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