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257
Cranford
·
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
95
“And
then?”
said
I,
after
a
pause.
“Then
Peter
went
to
sea
again;
and,
by-and-by,
my
father
died,
blessing
us
both,
and
thanking
Deborah
for
all
she
had
been
to
him;
and,
of
course,
our
circumstances
were
changed;
and,
instead
of
living
at
the
rectory,
and
keeping
three
maids
and
a
man,
we
had
to
come
to
this
small
house,
and
be
content
with
a
servant-of-all-work;
but,
as
Deborah
used
to
say,
we
have
always
lived
genteelly,
even
if
circumstances
have
compelled
us
to
simplicity.
Poor
Deborah!”
“And
Mr
Peter?”
asked
I.
“Oh,
there
was
some
great
war
in
India—
I
forget
what
they
call
it—
and
we
have
never
heard
of
Peter
since
then.
I
believe
he
is
dead
myself;
and
it
sometimes
fidgets
me
that
we
have
never
put
on
mourning
for
him.
And
then
again,
when
I
sit
by
myself,
and
all
the
house
is
still,
I
think
I
hear
his
step
coming
up
the
street,
and
my
heart
begins
to
flutter
and
beat;
but
the
sound
always
goes
past—
and
Peter
never
comes.
“That’s
Martha
back?
No!
I’ll
go,
my
dear;
I
can
always
find
my
way
in
the
dark,
you
know.
And
a
blow
of
fresh
air
at
the
door
will
do
my
head
good,
and
it’s
rather
got
a
trick
of
aching.”
So
she
pattered
off.
I
had
lighted
the
candle,
to
give
the
room
a
cheerful
appearance
against
her
return.
“Was
it
Martha?”
asked
I.
“Yes.
And
I
am
rather
uncomfortable,
for
I
heard
such
a
strange
noise,
just
as
I
was
opening
the
door.”
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