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257
Cranford
·
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
93
“Well,
my
dear,
it’s
very
foolish
of
me,
I
know,
when
in
all
likelihood
I
am
so
near
seeing
her
again.
“And
only
think,
love!
the
very
day
after
her
death—
for
she
did
not
live
quite
a
twelvemonth
after
Peter
went
away—
the
very
day
after—
came
a
parcel
for
her
from
India—
from
her
poor
boy.
It
was
a
large,
soft,
white
Indian
shawl,
with
just
a
little
narrow
border
all
round;
just
what
my
mother
would
have
liked.
“We
thought
it
might
rouse
my
father,
for
he
had
sat
with
her
hand
in
his
all
night
long;
so
Deborah
took
it
in
to
him,
and
Peter’s
letter
to
her,
and
all.
At
first,
he
took
no
notice;
and
we
tried
to
make
a
kind
of
light
careless
talk
about
the
shawl,
opening
it
out
and
admiring
it.
Then,
suddenly,
he
got
up,
and
spoke:
‘She
shall
be
buried
in
it,’
he
said;
‘Peter
shall
have
that
comfort;
and
she
would
have
liked
it.’
“Well,
perhaps
it
was
not
reasonable,
but
what
could
we
do
or
say?
One
gives
people
in
grief
their
own
way.
He
took
it
up
and
felt
it:
‘It
is
just
such
a
shawl
as
she
wished
for
when
she
was
married,
and
her
mother
did
not
give
it
her.
I
did
not
know
of
it
till
after,
or
she
should
have
had
it—
she
should;
but
she
shall
have
it
now.’
“My
mother
looked
so
lovely
in
her
death!
She
was
always
pretty,
and
now
she
looked
fair,
and
waxen,
and
young—
younger
than
Deborah,
as
she
stood
trembling
and
shivering
by
her.
We
decked
her
in
the
long
soft
folds;
she
lay
smiling,
as
if
pleased;
and
people
came—
all
Cranford
came—
to
beg
to
see
her,
for
they
had
loved
her
dearly,
as
well
they
might;
and
the
countrywomen
brought
posies;
old
Clare’s
wife
brought
some
white
violets
and
begged
they
might
lie
on
her
breast.
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