POOR Peter's career lay before him rather pleasantly mapped out by kind
friends, but BONUS BERNARDUS NON VIDET OMNIA, in this map too. He was to win
honours at the Shrewsbury School, and carry them thick to Cambridge, and after
that, a living awaited him, the gift of his godfather, Sir Peter Arley. Poor
Peter! his lot in life was very different to what his friends had hoped and
planned. Miss Matty told me all about it, and I think it was a relief when she
had done so.
He was the darling of his mother, who seemed to dote on all her children,
though she was, perhaps, a little afraid of Deborah's superior acquirements.
Deborah was the favourite of her father, and when Peter disappointed him, she
became his pride. The sole honour Peter brought away from Shrewsbury was the
reputation of being the best good fellow that ever was, and of being the captain
of the school in the art of practical joking. His father was disappointed, but
set about remedying the matter in a manly way. He could not afford to send Peter
to read with any tutor, but he could read with him himself; and Miss Matty told
me much of the awful preparations in the way of dictionaries and lexicons that
were made in her father's study the morning Peter began.
"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. He even took in my father once, by dressing
himself up as a lady that was passing through the town and wished to see the
Rector of Cranford, 'who had published that admirable Assize Sermon.' Peter said
he was awfully frightened himself when he saw how my father took it all in, and
even offered to copy out all his Napoleon Buonaparte sermons for her - him, I
mean - no, her, for Peter was a lady then. He told me he was more terrified than
he ever was before, all the time my father was speaking. He did not think my
father would have believed him; and yet if he had not, it would have been a sad
thing for Peter. As it was, he was none so glad of it, for my father kept him
hard at work copying out all those twelve Buonaparte sermons for the lady - that
was for Peter himself, you know. He was the lady. And once when he wanted to go
fishing, Peter said, 'Confound the woman!' - very bad language, my dear, but
Peter was not always so guarded as he should have been; my father was so angry
with him, it nearly frightened me out of my wits: and yet I could hardly keep
from laughing at the little curtseys Peter kept making, quite slyly, whenever my
father spoke of the lady's excellent taste and sound discrimination."
"Did Miss Jenkyns know of these tricks?" said I.
"Oh, no! Deborah would have been too much shocked. No, no one knew but me. I
wish I had always known of Peter's plans; but sometimes he did not tell me. He
used to say the old ladies in the town wanted something to talk about; but I
don't think they did. They had the ST JAMES'S CHRONICLE three times a week, just
as we have now, and we have plenty to say; and I remember the clacking noise
there always was when some of the ladies got together. But, probably, schoolboys
talk more than ladies. At last there was a terrible, sad thing happened." Miss
Matty got up, went to the door, and opened it; no one was there. She rang the
bell for Martha, and when Martha came, her mistress told her to go for eggs to a
farm at the other end of the town.
"I will lock the door after you, Martha. You are not afraid to go, are you?"
"No, ma'am, not at all; Jem Hearn will be only too proud to go with me."
Miss Matty drew herself up, and as soon as we were alone, she wished that
Martha had more maidenly reserve.
"We'll put out the candle, my dear. We can talk just as well by firelight,
you know. There! Well, you see, Deborah had gone from home for a fortnight or
so; it was a very still, quiet day, I remember, overhead; and the lilacs were
all in flower, so I suppose it was spring. My father had gone out to see some
sick people in the parish; I recollect seeing him leave the house with his wig
and shovel-hat and cane. What possessed our poor Peter I don't know; he had the
sweetest temper, and yet he always seemed to like to plague Deborah. She never
laughed at his jokes, and thought him ungenteel, and not careful enough about
improving his mind; and that vexed him.
"Well! he went to her room, it seems, and dressed himself in her old gown,
and shawl, and bonnet; just the things she used to wear in Cranford, and was
known by everywhere; and he made the pillow into a little - you are sure you
locked the door, my dear, for I should not like anyone to hear - into - into a
little baby, with white long clothes. It was only, as he told me afterwards, to
make something to talk about in the town; he never thought of it as affecting
Deborah. And he went and walked up and down in the Filbert walk - just
half-hidden by the rails, and half-seen; and he cuddled his pillow, just like a
baby, and talked to it all the nonsense people do. Oh dear! and my father came
stepping stately up the street, as he always did; and what should he see but a
little black crowd of people - I daresay as many as twenty - all peeping through
his garden rails. So he thought, at first, they were only looking at a new
rhododendron that was in full bloom, and that he was very proud of; and he
walked slower, that they might have more time to admire. And he wondered if he
could make out a sermon from the occasion, and thought, perhaps, there was some
relation between the rhododendrons and the lilies of the field. My poor father!
When he came nearer, he began to wonder that they did not see him; but their
heads were all so close together, peeping and peeping! My father was amongst
them, meaning, he said, to ask them to walk into the garden with him, and admire
the beautiful vegetable production, when - oh, my dear, I tremble to think of it
- he looked through the rails himself, and saw - I don't know what he thought he
saw, but old Clare told me his face went quite grey- white with anger, and his
eyes blazed out under his frowning black brows; and he spoke out - oh, so
terribly! - and bade them all stop where they were - not one of them to go, not
one of them to stir a step; and, swift as light, he was in at the garden door,
and down the Filbert walk, and seized hold of poor Peter, and tore his clothes
off his back - bonnet, shawl, gown, and all - and threw the pillow among the
people over the railings: and then he was very, very angry indeed, and before
all the people he lifted up his cane and flogged Peter!
"My dear, that boy's trick, on that sunny day, when all seemed going straight
and well, broke my mother's heart, and changed my father for life. It did,
indeed. Old Clare said, Peter looked as white as my father; and stood as still
as a statue to be flogged; and my father struck hard! When my father stopped to
take breath, Peter said, 'Have you done enough, sir?' quite hoarsely, and still
standing quite quiet. I don't know what my father said - or if he said anything.
But old Clare said, Peter turned to where the people outside the railing were,
and made them a low bow, as grand and as grave as any gentleman; and then walked
slowly into the house. I was in the store-room helping my mother to make cowslip
wine. I cannot abide the wine now, nor the scent of the flowers; they turn me
sick and faint, as they did that day, when Peter came in, looking as haughty as
any man - indeed, looking like a man, not like a boy. 'Mother!' he said, 'I am
come to say, God bless you for ever.' I saw his lips quiver as he spoke; and I
think he durst not say anything more loving, for the purpose that was in his
heart. She looked at him rather frightened, and wondering, and asked him what
was to do. He did not smile or speak, but put his arms round her and kissed her
as if he did not know how to leave off; and before she could speak again, he was
gone. We talked it over, and could not understand it, and she bade me go and
seek my father, and ask what it was all about. I found him walking up and down,
looking very highly displeased.
"'Tell your mother I have flogged Peter, and that he richly deserved it.'
"I durst not ask any more questions. When I told my mother, she sat down,
quite faint, for a minute. I remember, a few days after, I saw the poor,
withered cowslip flowers thrown out to the leaf heap, to decay and die there.
There was no making of cowslip wine that year at the rectory - nor, indeed, ever
after.
"Presently my mother went to my father. I know I thought of Queen Esther and
King Ahasuerus; for my mother was very pretty and delicate-looking, and my
father looked as terrible as King Ahasuerus. Some time after they came out
together; and then my mother told me what had happened, and that she was going
up to Peter's room at my father's desire - though she was not to tell Peter this
- to talk the matter over with him. But no Peter was there. We looked over the
house; no Peter was there! Even my father, who had not liked to join in the
search at first, helped us before long. The rectory was a very old house - steps
up into a room, steps down into a room, all through. At first, my mother went
calling low and soft, as if to reassure the poor boy, 'Peter! Peter, dear! it's
only me;' but, by-and-by, as the servants came back from the errands my father
had sent them, in different directions, to find where Peter was - as we found he
was not in the garden, nor the hayloft, nor anywhere about - my mother's cry
grew louder and wilder, Peter! Peter, my darling! where are you?' for then she
felt and understood that that long kiss meant some sad kind of 'good-bye.' The
afternoon went on - my mother never resting, but seeking again and again in
every possible place that had been looked into twenty times before, nay, that
she had looked into over and over again herself. My father sat with his head in
his hands, not speaking except when his messengers came in, bringing no tidings;
then he lifted up his face, so strong and sad, and told them to go again in some
new direction. My mother kept passing from room to room, in and out of the
house, moving noiselessly, but never ceasing. Neither she nor my father durst
leave the house, which was the meeting-place for all the messengers. At last
(and it was nearly dark), my father rose up. He took hold of my mother's arm as
she came with wild, sad pace through one door, and quickly towards another. She
started at the touch of his hand, for she had forgotten all in the world but
Peter.
"'Molly!' said he, 'I did not think all this would happen.' He looked into
her face for comfort - her poor face all wild and white; for neither she nor my
father had dared to acknowledge - much less act upon - the terror that was in
their hearts, lest Peter should have made away with himself. My father saw no
conscious look in his wife's hot, dreary eyes, and he missed the sympathy that
she had always been ready to give him - strong man as he was, and at the dumb
despair in her face his tears began to flow. But when she saw this, a gentle
sorrow came over her countenance, and she said, 'Dearest John! don't cry; come
with me, and we'll find him,' almost as cheerfully as if she knew where he was.
And she took my father's great hand in her little soft one, and led him along,
the tears dropping as he walked on that same unceasing, weary walk, from room to
room, through house and garden.
"Oh, how I wished for Deborah! I had no time for crying, for now all seemed
to depend on me. I wrote for Deborah to come home. I sent a message privately to
that same Mr Holbrook's house - poor Mr Holbrook; - you know who I mean. I don't
mean I sent a message to him, but I sent one that I could trust to know if Peter
was at his house. For at one time Mr Holbrook was an occasional visitor at the
rectory - you know he was Miss Pole's cousin - and he had been very kind to
Peter, and taught him how to fish - he was very kind to everybody, and I thought
Peter might have gone off there. But Mr Holbrook was from home, and Peter had
never been seen. It was night now; but the doors were all wide open, and my
father and mother walked on and on; it was more than an hour since he had joined
her, and I don't believe they had ever spoken all that time. I was getting the
parlour fire lighted, and one of the servants was preparing tea, for I wanted
them to have something to eat and drink and warm them, when old Clare asked to
speak to me.
"'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."
"Where was Mr Peter?" said I.
"He had made his way to Liverpool; and there was war then; and some of the
king's ships lay off the mouth of the Mersey; and they were only too glad to
have a fine likely boy such as him (five foot nine he was), come to offer
himself. The captain wrote to my father, and Peter wrote to my mother. Stay!
those letters will be somewhere here."
We lighted the candle, and found the captain's letter and Peter's too. And we
also found a little simple begging letter from Mrs Jenkyns to Peter, addressed
to him at the house of an old schoolfellow whither she fancied he might have
gone. They had returned it unopened; and unopened it had remained ever since,
having been inadvertently put by among the other letters of that time. This is
it:-
"MY DEAREST PETER, - You did not think we should be so sorry as we are, I
know, or you would never have gone away. You are too good. Your father sits and
sighs till my heart aches to hear him. He cannot hold up his head for grief; and
yet he only did what he thought was right. Perhaps he has been too severe, and
perhaps I have not been kind enough; but God knows how we love you, my dear only
boy. Don looks so sorry you are gone. Come back, and make us happy, who love you
so much. I know you will come back."
But Peter did not come back. That spring day was the last time he ever saw
his mother's face. The writer of the letter - the last - the only person who had
ever seen what was written in it, was dead long ago; and I, a stranger, not born
at the time when this occurrence took place, was the one to open it.
The captain's letter summoned the father and mother to Liverpool instantly,
if they wished to see their boy; and, by some of the wild chances of life, the
captain's letter had been detained somewhere, somehow.
Miss Matty went on, "And it was racetime, and all the post-horses at Cranford
were gone to the races; but my father and mother set off in our own gig - and
oh! my dear, they were too late - the ship was gone! And now read Peter's letter
to my mother!"
It was full of love, and sorrow, and pride in his new profession, and a sore
sense of his disgrace in the eyes of the people at Cranford; but ending with a
passionate entreaty that she would come and see him before he left the Mersey:
"Mother; we may go into battle. I hope we shall, and lick those French: but I
must see you again before that time."
"And she was too late," said Miss Matty; "too late!"
We sat in silence, pondering on the full meaning of those sad, sad words. At
length I asked Miss Matty to tell me how her mother bore it.
"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.
"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.
"Deborah said to me, the day of my mother's funeral, that if she had a
hundred offers she never would marry and leave my father. It was not very likely
she would have so many - I don't know that she had one; but it was not less to
her credit to say so. She was such a daughter to my father as I think there
never was before or since. His eyes failed him, and she read book after book,
and wrote, and copied, and was always at his service in any parish business. She
could do many more things than my poor mother could; she even once wrote a
letter to the bishop for my father. But he missed my mother sorely; the whole
parish noticed it. Not that he was less active; I think he was more so, and more
patient in helping every one. I did all I could to set Deborah at liberty to be
with him; for I knew I was good for little, and that my best work in the world
was to do odd jobs quietly, and set others at liberty. But my father was a
changed man."
"Did Mr Peter ever come home?"
"Yes, once. He came home a lieutenant; he did not get to be admiral. And he
and my father were such friends! My father took him into every house in the
parish, he was so proud of him. He never walked out without Peter's arm to lean
upon. Deborah used to smile (I don't think we ever laughed again after my
mother's death), and say she was quite put in a corner. Not but what my father
always wanted her when there was letter-writing or reading to be done, or
anything to be settled."
"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."
"Where?' I asked, for her eyes were round with affright.
"In the street - just outside - it sounded like" -
"Talking?" I put in, as she hesitated a little.
"No! kissing"
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