“Your Ladyship”

Early the next morning—directly after twelve—Miss Pole made her appearance at Miss Matty’s. Some very trifling piece of business was alleged as a reason for the call; but there was evidently something behind. At last out it came.

Early the next morning, just after twelve, Miss Pole arrived at Miss Matty’s. She gave some very trivial business as her reason for visiting, but clearly there was something more behind it. At last, it came out.

“By the way, you’ll think I’m strangely ignorant; but, do you really know, I am puzzled how we ought to address Lady Glenmire. Do you say, ‘Your Ladyship,’ where you would say ‘you’ to a common person? I have been puzzling all morning; and are we to say ‘My Lady,’ instead of ‘Ma’am?’ Now you knew Lady Arley—will you kindly tell me the most correct way of speaking to the peerage?”

“By the way, you’ll think I’m terribly ignorant, but I’m puzzled about how we should address Lady Glenmire. Do you say ‘Your Ladyship’ where you would say ‘you’ to an ordinary person? I’ve been puzzling over it all morning. And should we say ‘My Lady’ instead of ‘Ma’am’? You knew Lady Arley, so would you kindly tell me the proper way to speak to a member of the nobility?”

Poor Miss Matty! she took off her spectacles and she put them on again—but how Lady Arley was addressed, she could not remember.

Poor Miss Matty! She took off her glasses and put them on again. But she could not remember how Lady Arley was addressed.

“It is so long ago,” she said. “Dear! dear! how stupid I am! I don’t think I ever saw her more than twice. I know we used to call Sir Peter, ‘Sir Peter’—but he came much oftener to see us than Lady Arley did. Deborah would have known in a minute. ‘My lady’—‘your ladyship.’ It sounds very strange, and as if it was not natural. I never thought of it before; but, now you have named it, I am all in a puzzle.”

“It was so long ago,” she said. “Oh, dear! How silly I am! I don’t think I ever saw her more than twice. I know we used to call Sir Peter ‘Sir Peter’, but he visited us much more often than Lady Arley did. Deborah would have known at once. ‘My lady’, ‘your ladyship.’ Those words sound very strange, as if they weren’t natural. I never thought about it before, but now that you’ve mentioned it, I’m completely puzzled.”

It was very certain Miss Pole would obtain no wise decision from Miss Matty, who got more bewildered every moment, and more perplexed as to etiquettes of address.

Miss Pole was certain to get no wise decision from Miss Matty, who grew more confused every moment and increasingly unsure how to address people properly.

“Well, I really think,” said Miss Pole, “I had better just go and tell Mrs Forrester about our little difficulty. One sometimes grows nervous; and yet one would not have Lady Glenmire think we were quite ignorant of the etiquettes of high life in Cranford.”

“Well, I really think,” said Miss Pole, “I had better go and tell Mrs Forrester about our little problem. One does get nervous sometimes. But we would not want Lady Glenmire to think we knew nothing about high society’s manners in Cranford.”

“And will you just step in here, dear Miss Pole, as you come back, please, and tell me what you decide upon? Whatever you and Mrs Forrester fix upon, will be quite right, I’m sure. ‘Lady Arley,’ ‘Sir Peter,’” said Miss Matty to herself, trying to recall the old forms of words.

“And would you please stop in here on your way back, dear Miss Pole, and tell me what you decide? I’m sure whatever you and Mrs Forrester choose will be quite right. ‘Lady Arley,’ ‘Sir Peter,’” Miss Matty said to herself, trying to remember the old forms of address.

“Who is Lady Glenmire?” asked I.

“Who is Lady Glenmire?” I asked.

“Oh, she’s the widow of Mr Jamieson—that’s Mrs Jamieson’s late husband, you know—widow of his eldest brother. Mrs Jamieson was a Miss Walker, daughter of Governor Walker. ‘Your ladyship.’ My dear, if they fix on that way of speaking, you must just let me practice a little on you first, for I shall feel so foolish and hot saying it the first time to Lady Glenmire.”

“Oh, she’s the widow of Mr Jamieson’s eldest brother. Mr Jamieson was Mrs Jamieson’s husband, you know. Mrs Jamieson was a Miss Walker, the daughter of Governor Walker. ‘Your ladyship.’ My dear, if they decide to use that form of address, you must let me practice on you first. I shall feel so foolish and hot saying it to Lady Glenmire for the first time.”

It was really a relief to Miss Matty when Mrs Jamieson came on a very unpolite errand. I notice that apathetic people have more quiet impertinence than others; and Mrs Jamieson came now to insinuate pretty plainly that she did not particularly wish that the Cranford ladies should call upon her sister-in-law. I can hardly say how she made this clear; for I grew very indignant and warm, while with slow deliberation she was explaining her wishes to Miss Matty, who, a true lady herself, could hardly understand the feeling which made Mrs Jamieson wish to appear to her noble sister-in-law as if she only visited “county” families. Miss Matty remained puzzled and perplexed long after I had found out the object of Mrs Jamieson’s visit.

It was actually a relief to Miss Matty when Mrs Jamieson came on a very rude errand. I have noticed that indifferent people are more quietly rude than others. Mrs Jamieson now came to make it fairly clear that she did not particularly want the Cranford ladies to call on her sister-in-law. I can hardly say how she made her wishes clear. I grew very indignant and angry as she slowly and deliberately explained them to Miss Matty. Miss Matty was a true lady herself. She could hardly understand why Mrs Jamieson wanted her noble sister-in-law to think she visited only “county” families. Miss Matty remained puzzled and confused long after I had worked out the purpose of Mrs Jamieson’s visit.

When she did understand the drift of the honourable lady’s call, it was pretty to see with what quiet dignity she received the intimation thus uncourteously given. She was not in the least hurt—she was of too gentle a spirit for that; nor was she exactly conscious of disapproving of Mrs Jamieson’s conduct; but there was something of this feeling in her mind, I am sure, which made her pass from the subject to others in a less flurried and more composed manner than usual. Mrs Jamieson was, indeed, the more flurried of the two, and I could see she was glad to take her leave.

When she understood the purpose of the honourable lady’s visit, it was lovely to see the quiet dignity with which she received the discourteously delivered message. She was not hurt at all. Her spirit was too gentle for that. Nor was she exactly aware of disapproving of Mrs Jamieson’s conduct. But I am sure she felt something like disapproval. It made her move on to other subjects in a less flustered and more composed manner than usual. In fact, Mrs Jamieson was the more flustered of the two, and I could see she was glad to leave.

A little while afterwards Miss Pole returned, red and indignant. “Well! to be sure! You’ve had Mrs Jamieson here, I find from Martha; and we are not to call on Lady Glenmire. Yes! I met Mrs Jamieson, half-way between here and Mrs Forrester’s, and she told me; she took me so by surprise, I had nothing to say. I wish I had thought of something very sharp and sarcastic; I dare say I shall to-night. And Lady Glenmire is but the widow of a Scotch baron after all! I went on to look at Mrs Forrester’s Peerage, to see who this lady was, that is to be kept under a glass case: widow of a Scotch peer—never sat in the House of Lords—and as poor as Job, I dare say; and she—fifth daughter of some Mr Campbell or other. You are the daughter of a rector, at any rate, and related to the Arleys; and Sir Peter might have been Viscount Arley, every one says.”

A little while later, Miss Pole returned, red in the face and indignant. “Well! Can you believe it! Martha tells me Mrs Jamieson has been here, and we are not to call on Lady Glenmire. Yes! I met Mrs Jamieson halfway between here and Mrs Forrester’s, and she told me. She took me so much by surprise that I had nothing to say. I wish I had thought of something very sharp and sarcastic. I expect I shall think of something tonight. And Lady Glenmire is only the widow of a Scottish baron after all! I went on to look her up in Mrs Forrester’s Peerage. I wanted to see who this lady was, who must be kept under a glass case. She’s the widow of a Scottish peer who never sat in the House of Lords. I expect she’s as poor as Job, too. And she’s the fifth daughter of some Mr Campbell or other. You are the daughter of a rector, at any rate, and related to the Arleys. And everyone says Sir Peter might have been Viscount Arley.”

Miss Matty tried to soothe Miss Pole, but in vain. That lady, usually so kind and good-humoured, was now in a full flow of anger.

Miss Matty tried to calm Miss Pole, but it was no use. Miss Pole was usually kind and cheerful, but now she was furious.

“And I went and ordered a cap this morning, to be quite ready,” said she at last, letting out the secret which gave sting to Mrs Jamieson’s intimation. “Mrs Jamieson shall see if it is so easy to get me to make fourth at a pool when she has none of her fine Scotch relations with her!”

“And I ordered a cap this morning, so I would be ready,” she said at last. She had revealed the secret that made Mrs Jamieson’s hint so hurtful. “Mrs Jamieson will see how easy it is to get me to be her fourth player at pool when none of her fine Scottish relations are with her!”

In coming out of church, the first Sunday on which Lady Glenmire appeared in Cranford, we sedulously talked together, and turned our backs on Mrs Jamieson and her guest. If we might not call on her, we would not even look at her, though we were dying with curiosity to know what she was like. We had the comfort of questioning Martha in the afternoon. Martha did not belong to a sphere of society whose observation could be an implied compliment to Lady Glenmire, and Martha had made good use of her eyes.

On the first Sunday Lady Glenmire appeared in Cranford, we left church talking deliberately among ourselves. We turned our backs on Mrs Jamieson and her guest. If we could not visit Lady Glenmire, we would not even look at her, though we were dying to know what she looked like. We had the comfort of questioning Martha that afternoon. Martha did not belong to a social class whose attention might be taken as a compliment to Lady Glenmire. And Martha had made good use of her eyes.

“Well, ma’am! is it the little lady with Mrs Jamieson, you mean? I thought you would like more to know how young Mrs Smith was dressed; her being a bride.” (Mrs Smith was the butcher’s wife).

“Well, ma’am! Do you mean the little lady with Mrs Jamieson? I thought you would be more interested in how young Mrs Smith was dressed, since she’s a bride.” (Mrs Smith was the butcher’s wife).

Miss Pole said, “Good gracious me! as if we cared about a Mrs Smith;” but was silent as Martha resumed her speech.

Miss Pole said, “Good grief! As if we cared about a Mrs Smith.” But she fell silent as Martha continued speaking.

“The little lady in Mrs Jamieson’s pew had on, ma’am, rather an old black silk, and a shepherd’s plaid cloak, ma’am, and very bright black eyes she had, ma’am, and a pleasant, sharp face; not over young, ma’am, but yet, I should guess, younger than Mrs Jamieson herself. She looked up and down the church, like a bird, and nipped up her petticoats, when she came out, as quick and sharp as ever I see. I’ll tell you what, ma’am, she’s more like Mrs Deacon, at the ‘Coach and Horses,’ nor any one.”

“The little lady in Mrs Jamieson’s pew was wearing a rather old black silk dress and a shepherd’s plaid cloak, ma’am. She had very bright black eyes and a pleasant, sharp face. She wasn’t very young, ma’am, but I’d guess she was younger than Mrs Jamieson herself. She looked up and down the church like a bird. When she came out, she gathered up her petticoats as quickly and sharply as I’ve ever seen. I’ll tell you what, ma’am, she’s more like Mrs Deacon at the ‘Coach and Horses’ than anyone else.”

“Hush, Martha!” said Miss Matty, “that’s not respectful.”

“Be quiet, Martha,” said Miss Matty. “That’s not respectful.”

“Isn’t it, ma’am? I beg pardon, I’m sure; but Jem Hearn said so as well. He said, she was just such a sharp, stirring sort of a body”—

“Isn’t it, ma’am? I’m sorry, but Jem Hearn said so too. He said she was just that kind of sharp, energetic person.”

“Lady,” said Miss Pole.

“Lady,” said Miss Pole.

“Lady—as Mrs Deacon.”

“Lady, as Mrs Deacon.”

Another Sunday passed away, and we still averted our eyes from Mrs Jamieson and her guest, and made remarks to ourselves that we thought were very severe—almost too much so. Miss Matty was evidently uneasy at our sarcastic manner of speaking.

Another Sunday passed, and we still looked away from Mrs Jamieson and her guest. We made remarks among ourselves that we thought were very harsh, almost too harsh. Miss Matty was clearly uneasy about the sarcastic way we spoke.

Perhaps by this time Lady Glenmire had found out that Mrs Jamieson’s was not the gayest, liveliest house in the world; perhaps Mrs Jamieson had found out that most of the county families were in London, and that those who remained in the country were not so alive as they might have been to the circumstance of Lady Glenmire being in their neighbourhood. Great events spring out of small causes; so I will not pretend to say what induced Mrs Jamieson to alter her determination of excluding the Cranford ladies, and send notes of invitation all round for a small party on the following Tuesday. Mr Mulliner himself brought them round. He would always ignore the fact of there being a back door to any house, and gave a louder rat-tat than his mistress, Mrs Jamieson. He had three little notes, which he carried in a large basket, in order to impress his mistress with an idea of their great weight, though they might easily have gone into his waistcoat pocket.

Perhaps by this time Lady Glenmire had discovered that Mrs Jamieson’s was not the most cheerful, lively house in the world. Perhaps Mrs Jamieson had discovered that most of the county families were in London. Those who remained in the country were perhaps less excited than they might have been about Lady Glenmire being in their neighbourhood. Great events spring from small causes, so I will not pretend to say what made Mrs Jamieson change her mind. She had decided to exclude the Cranford ladies, but now she sent them all invitations to a small party the following Tuesday. Mr Mulliner himself delivered the invitations. He would always ignore the fact that any house had a back door, and he knocked more loudly than his mistress, Mrs Jamieson. He had three little notes, which he carried in a large basket. He did this to impress his mistress with their great weight, though they would easily have fit into his waistcoat pocket.

Miss Matty and I quietly decided that we would have a previous engagement at home: it was the evening on which Miss Matty usually made candle-lighters of all the notes and letters of the week; for on Mondays her accounts were always made straight—not a penny owing from the week before; so, by a natural arrangement, making candle-lighters fell upon a Tuesday evening, and gave us a legitimate excuse for declining Mrs Jamieson’s invitation. But before our answer was written, in came Miss Pole, with an open note in her hand.

Miss Matty and I quietly decided that we had a prior engagement at home. That evening, Miss Matty usually made candle-lighters from all the notes and letters of the week. On Mondays, she always settled her accounts, leaving not a penny owed from the previous week. So, naturally, she made candle-lighters on Tuesday evenings. This gave us a legitimate excuse to decline Mrs Jamieson’s invitation. But before we had written our reply, Miss Pole came in with an open note in her hand.

“So!” she said. “Ah! I see you have got your note, too. Better late than never. I could have told my Lady Glenmire she would be glad enough of our society before a fortnight was over.”

“So!” she said. “Ah! I see you’ve received your note too. Better late than never. I could have told Lady Glenmire she’d be glad of our company before two weeks were up.”

“Yes,” said Miss Matty, “we’re asked for Tuesday evening. And perhaps you would just kindly bring your work across and drink tea with us that night. It is my usual regular time for looking over the last week’s bills, and notes, and letters, and making candle-lighters of them; but that does not seem quite reason enough for saying I have a previous engagement at home, though I meant to make it do. Now, if you would come, my conscience would be quite at ease, and luckily the note is not written yet.”

“Yes,” said Miss Matty, “we’ve been invited for Tuesday evening. And perhaps you would kindly bring your work over and have tea with us that night. That’s when I usually look over the past week’s bills, notes, and letters, and make candle-lighters out of them. But that doesn’t seem quite reason enough to say I already have plans at home, though I meant to use it as an excuse. Now, if you came, my conscience would be quite clear. And luckily, I haven’t written the note yet.”

I saw Miss Pole’s countenance change while Miss Matty was speaking.

I saw Miss Pole’s expression change while Miss Matty was speaking.

“Don’t you mean to go then?” asked she.

“Don’t you plan to go, then?” she asked.

“Oh, no!” said, Miss Matty quietly. “You don’t either, I suppose?”

“Oh, no!” said Miss Matty quietly. “You don’t either, I suppose?”

“I don’t know,” replied Miss Pole. “Yes, I think I do,” said she, rather briskly; and on seeing Miss Matty look surprised, she added, “You see, one would not like Mrs Jamieson to think that anything she could do, or say, was of consequence enough to give offence; it would be a kind of letting down of ourselves, that I, for one, should not like. It would be too flattering to Mrs Jamieson if we allowed her to suppose that what she had said affected us a week, nay ten days afterwards.”

“I don’t know,” replied Miss Pole. “Yes, I think I do,” she said rather briskly. Seeing Miss Matty look surprised, she added, “You see, we would not want Mrs Jamieson to think anything she could do or say mattered enough to offend us. That would be lowering ourselves, and I, for one, would not like that. It would flatter Mrs Jamieson too much if we let her think her words still affected us a week, or even ten days, later.”

“Well! I suppose it is wrong to be hurt and annoyed so long about anything; and, perhaps, after all, she did not mean to vex us. But I must say, I could not have brought myself to say the things Mrs Jamieson did about our not calling. I really don’t think I shall go.”

“Well, I suppose it’s wrong to stay hurt and annoyed about anything for so long. And perhaps she didn’t mean to upset us after all. But I have to say, I couldn’t have brought myself to say what Mrs Jamieson said about us not visiting. I really don’t think I’ll go.”

“Oh, come! Miss Matty, you must go; you know our friend Mrs Jamieson is much more phlegmatic than most people, and does not enter into the little delicacies of feeling which you possess in so remarkable a degree.”

“Oh, come on, Miss Matty, you must go. You know our friend Mrs Jamieson is much less easily stirred than most people. She does not understand the delicate feelings you have to such a remarkable degree.”

“I thought you possessed them, too, that day Mrs Jamieson called to tell us not to go,” said Miss Matty innocently.

“I thought you had them too, that day Mrs Jamieson came to tell us not to go,” said Miss Matty innocently.

But Miss Pole, in addition to her delicacies of feeling, possessed a very smart cap, which she was anxious to show to an admiring world; and so she seemed to forget all her angry words uttered not a fortnight before, and to be ready to act on what she called the great Christian principle of “Forgive and forget”; and she lectured dear Miss Matty so long on this head that she absolutely ended by assuring her it was her duty, as a deceased rector’s daughter, to buy a new cap and go to the party at Mrs Jamieson’s. So “we were most happy to accept,” instead of “regretting that we were obliged to decline.”

But Miss Pole, besides being sensitive to others’ feelings, owned a very stylish cap. She was eager to show it to an admiring world. So she seemed to forget all the angry words she had spoken less than two weeks earlier. She seemed ready to act on what she called the great Christian principle of “Forgive and forget.” She lectured dear Miss Matty on this principle for so long that she finally assured her it was her duty, as the daughter of a deceased rector, to buy a new cap and attend Mrs Jamieson’s party. So “we were most happy to accept,” instead of “regretting that we were obliged to decline.”

The expenditure on dress in Cranford was principally in that one article referred to. If the heads were buried in smart new caps, the ladies were like ostriches, and cared not what became of their bodies. Old gowns, white and venerable collars, any number of brooches, up and down and everywhere (some with dogs’ eyes painted in them; some that were like small picture-frames with mausoleums and weeping-willows neatly executed in hair inside; some, again, with miniatures of ladies and gentlemen sweetly smiling out of a nest of stiff muslin), old brooches for a permanent ornament, and new caps to suit the fashion of the day—the ladies of Cranford always dressed with chaste elegance and propriety, as Miss Barker once prettily expressed it.

In Cranford, most money spent on clothes went to that one item. If the ladies’ heads were buried in smart new caps, they were like ostriches and did not care what happened to their bodies. They wore old dresses, dignified white collars, and any number of brooches, up and down and everywhere. Some brooches had dogs’ eyes painted in them. Some looked like small picture frames, with mausoleums and weeping willows neatly made from hair inside. Others held miniature portraits of ladies and gentlemen smiling sweetly from nests of stiff muslin. With old brooches as permanent ornaments and new caps to match the latest fashion, the ladies of Cranford always dressed with modest elegance and propriety, as Miss Barker once put it so prettily.

And with three new caps, and a greater array of brooches than had ever been seen together at one time since Cranford was a town, did Mrs Forrester, and Miss Matty, and Miss Pole appear on that memorable Tuesday evening. I counted seven brooches myself on Miss Pole’s dress. Two were fixed negligently in her cap (one was a butterfly made of Scotch pebbles, which a vivid imagination might believe to be the real insect); one fastened her net neckerchief; one her collar; one ornamented the front of her gown, midway between her throat and waist; and another adorned the point of her stomacher. Where the seventh was I have forgotten, but it was somewhere about her, I am sure.

On that memorable Tuesday evening, Mrs Forrester, Miss Matty, and Miss Pole appeared in three new caps. Together, they wore more brooches than had ever been seen at one time since Cranford became a town. I counted seven brooches myself on Miss Pole’s dress. Two were pinned casually to her cap. One was a butterfly made of Scotch pebbles, which someone with a vivid imagination might mistake for a real insect. One fastened her net neckerchief, and another fastened her collar. One decorated the front of her gown, halfway between her throat and waist. Another adorned the point of her stomacher. I have forgotten where the seventh was, but I am sure it was somewhere on her.

But I am getting on too fast, in describing the dresses of the company. I should first relate the gathering on the way to Mrs Jamieson’s. That lady lived in a large house just outside the town. A road which had known what it was to be a street ran right before the house, which opened out upon it without any intervening garden or court. Whatever the sun was about, he never shone on the front of that house. To be sure, the living-rooms were at the back, looking on to a pleasant garden; the front windows only belonged to kitchens and housekeepers’ rooms, and pantries, and in one of them Mr Mulliner was reported to sit. Indeed, looking askance, we often saw the back of a head covered with hair powder, which also extended itself over his coat-collar down to his very waist; and this imposing back was always engaged in reading the St James’s Chronicle, opened wide, which, in some degree, accounted for the length of time the said newspaper was in reaching us—equal subscribers with Mrs Jamieson, though, in right of her honourableness, she always had the reading of it first. This very Tuesday, the delay in forwarding the last number had been particularly aggravating; just when both Miss Pole and Miss Matty, the former more especially, had been wanting to see it, in order to coach up the Court news ready for the evening’s interview with aristocracy. Miss Pole told us she had absolutely taken time by the forelock, and been dressed by five o’clock, in order to be ready if the St James’s Chronicle should come in at the last moment—the very St James’s Chronicle which the powdered head was tranquilly and composedly reading as we passed the accustomed window this evening.

But I am getting ahead of myself by describing what everyone wore. First, I should tell you how we gathered on the way to Mrs Jamieson’s. She lived in a large house just outside town. A road that had once been a street ran directly in front of the house. The house opened onto the road, with no garden or courtyard in between. Whatever the sun was doing, it never shone on the front of that house. The living rooms, of course, were at the back, overlooking a pleasant garden. The front windows belonged only to kitchens, housekeepers’ rooms, and pantries. Mr Mulliner was said to sit in one of those rooms. Indeed, when we glanced sideways, we often saw the back of a head covered in hair powder. The powder also covered his coat collar and went all the way down to his waist. This imposing figure was always reading the St James’s Chronicle, spread wide open. That partly explained why the newspaper took so long to reach us. We paid the same subscription as Mrs Jamieson, though her honourable rank meant she always read it first. That very Tuesday, the delay in sending on the latest issue had been particularly annoying. Both Miss Pole and Miss Matty, especially Miss Pole, had wanted to see it. They wished to brush up on Court news before meeting the aristocracy that evening. Miss Pole told us she had made an early start and dressed by five o’clock. She wanted to be ready if the St James’s Chronicle arrived at the last moment. Yet as we passed the usual window that evening, the powdered head was calmly reading that very St James’s Chronicle.

“The impudence of the man!” said Miss Pole, in a low indignant whisper. “I should like to ask him whether his mistress pays her quarter-share for his exclusive use.”

“The nerve of that man!” Miss Pole whispered indignantly. “I’d like to ask him whether his employer pays her quarter share just for him to use it.”

We looked at her in admiration of the courage of her thought; for Mr Mulliner was an object of great awe to all of us. He seemed never to have forgotten his condescension in coming to live at Cranford. Miss Jenkyns, at times, had stood forth as the undaunted champion of her sex, and spoken to him on terms of equality; but even Miss Jenkyns could get no higher. In his pleasantest and most gracious moods he looked like a sulky cockatoo. He did not speak except in gruff monosyllables. He would wait in the hall when we begged him not to wait, and then look deeply offended because we had kept him there, while, with trembling, hasty hands we prepared ourselves for appearing in company.

We looked at her with admiration for the courage of her thought, because we were all in awe of Mr Mulliner. He never seemed to forget that he had condescended to live in Cranford. At times, Miss Jenkyns had boldly championed her sex and spoken to him as an equal. But even Miss Jenkyns could get no further than that. In his most pleasant and gracious moods, he looked like a sulky cockatoo. He spoke only in gruff, one-word answers. He would wait in the hall when we begged him not to. Then, while we hurriedly prepared to appear in company, our hands trembling, he would look deeply offended at being kept waiting.

Miss Pole ventured on a small joke as we went upstairs, intended, though addressed to us, to afford Mr Mulliner some slight amusement. We all smiled, in order to seem as if we felt at our ease, and timidly looked for Mr Mulliner’s sympathy. Not a muscle of that wooden face had relaxed; and we were grave in an instant.

As we went upstairs, Miss Pole ventured a small joke. Though she addressed it to us, she meant to give Mr Mulliner some slight amusement. We all smiled to seem at ease and timidly looked to see if Mr Mulliner shared our amusement. Not a muscle in his wooden face had relaxed, and we grew serious at once.

Mrs Jamieson’s drawing-room was cheerful; the evening sun came streaming into it, and the large square window was clustered round with flowers. The furniture was white and gold; not the later style, Louis Quatorze, I think they call it, all shells and twirls; no, Mrs Jamieson’s chairs and tables had not a curve or bend about them. The chair and table legs diminished as they neared the ground, and were straight and square in all their corners. The chairs were all a-row against the walls, with the exception of four or five which stood in a circle round the fire. They were railed with white bars across the back and knobbed with gold; neither the railings nor the knobs invited to ease. There was a japanned table devoted to literature, on which lay a Bible, a Peerage, and a Prayer-Book. There was another square Pembroke table dedicated to the Fine Arts, on which were a kaleidoscope, conversation-cards, puzzle-cards (tied together to an interminable length with faded pink satin ribbon), and a box painted in fond imitation of the drawings which decorate tea-chests. Carlo lay on the worsted-worked rug, and ungraciously barked at us as we entered. Mrs Jamieson stood up, giving us each a torpid smile of welcome, and looking helplessly beyond us at Mr Mulliner, as if she hoped he would place us in chairs, for, if he did not, she never could. I suppose he thought we could find our way to the circle round the fire, which reminded me of Stonehenge, I don’t know why. Lady Glenmire came to the rescue of our hostess, and, somehow or other, we found ourselves for the first time placed agreeably, and not formally, in Mrs Jamieson’s house. Lady Glenmire, now we had time to look at her, proved to be a bright little woman of middle age, who had been very pretty in the days of her youth, and who was even yet very pleasant-looking. I saw Miss Pole appraising her dress in the first five minutes, and I take her word when she said the next day—

Mrs Jamieson’s drawing room was cheerful. The evening sun streamed in, and flowers clustered around the large square window. The furniture was white and gold. It was not in the later style, Louis Quatorze, I think they call it, with all its shells and swirls. No, Mrs Jamieson’s chairs and tables had no curves or bends at all. Their legs grew narrower toward the ground and were straight, with square corners. The chairs were all lined up against the walls, except for four or five arranged in a circle around the fire. Their backs had white bars with gold knobs. Neither the bars nor the knobs looked comfortable. A lacquered table was devoted to literature. On it lay a Bible, a Peerage, and a Prayer-Book. Another square Pembroke table was dedicated to the Fine Arts. On it were a kaleidoscope, conversation cards, and puzzle cards. The puzzle cards were tied together in an endless length with faded pink satin ribbon. There was also a box painted in a loving imitation of the drawings that decorate tea chests. Carlo lay on the wool-embroidered rug and barked rudely at us as we entered. Mrs Jamieson stood up and gave each of us a sluggish smile of welcome. She looked helplessly past us at Mr Mulliner, as if she hoped he would seat us in chairs. For if he did not, she never could. I suppose he thought we could find our own way to the circle of chairs around the fire. For some reason, the circle reminded me of Stonehenge. Lady Glenmire came to our hostess’s rescue. Somehow, for the first time in Mrs Jamieson’s house, we found ourselves seated comfortably rather than formally. Now that we had time to look at Lady Glenmire, we saw that she was a lively little woman of middle age. She had been very pretty in her youth and was still very pleasant-looking. I saw Miss Pole assessing her dress within the first five minutes. I take her word for it when she said the next day:

“My dear! ten pounds would have purchased every stitch she had on—lace and all.”

“My dear! Ten pounds would have bought everything she was wearing, lace included.”

It was pleasant to suspect that a peeress could be poor, and partly reconciled us to the fact that her husband had never sat in the House of Lords; which, when we first heard of it, seemed a kind of swindling us out of our prospects on false pretences; a sort of “A Lord and No Lord” business.

It was pleasant to think that a peeress might be poor. It also partly reconciled us to the fact that her husband had never sat in the House of Lords. When we first heard that, we felt we had been cheated out of our prospects by false pretenses. It was a sort of “A Lord and No Lord” business.

We were all very silent at first. We were thinking what we could talk about, that should be high enough to interest My Lady. There had been a rise in the price of sugar, which, as preserving-time was near, was a piece of intelligence to all our house-keeping hearts, and would have been the natural topic if Lady Glenmire had not been by. But we were not sure if the peerage ate preserves—much less knew how they were made. At last, Miss Pole, who had always a great deal of courage and savoir faire, spoke to Lady Glenmire, who on her part had seemed just as much puzzled to know how to break the silence as we were.

We were all very quiet at first. We were trying to think of something grand enough to interest My Lady. The price of sugar had risen, and preserving season was near. This was news that mattered to all of us as housekeepers. It would have been the natural subject of conversation if Lady Glenmire had not been there. But we were not sure whether the nobility ate preserves, much less knew how to make them. At last, Miss Pole, who had always been very brave and had plenty of savoir faire, spoke to Lady Glenmire. Lady Glenmire, for her part, had seemed just as puzzled as we were about how to break the silence.

“Has your ladyship been to Court lately?” asked she; and then gave a little glance round at us, half timid and half triumphant, as much as to say, “See how judiciously I have chosen a subject befitting the rank of the stranger.”

“Have you been to Court lately, your ladyship?” she asked. Then she glanced around at us, half timidly and half triumphantly. Her look seemed to say, “See how wisely I chose a subject suited to the stranger’s rank.”

“I never was there in my life,” said Lady Glenmire, with a broad Scotch accent, but in a very sweet voice. And then, as if she had been too abrupt, she added: “We very seldom went to London—only twice, in fact, during all my married life; and before I was married my father had far too large a family” (fifth daughter of Mr Campbell was in all our minds, I am sure) “to take us often from our home, even to Edinburgh. Ye’ll have been in Edinburgh, maybe?” said she, suddenly brightening up with the hope of a common interest. We had none of us been there; but Miss Pole had an uncle who once had passed a night there, which was very pleasant.

“I’ve never been there in my life,” said Lady Glenmire. She had a broad Scottish accent, but a very sweet voice. Then, as if she had been too abrupt, she added: “We very seldom went to London. In fact, we went only twice during my entire married life. Before I was married, my father had far too large a family to take us away from home often, even to Edinburgh.” (I am sure we were all thinking of Mr Campbell’s fifth daughter.) “Have you been to Edinburgh, perhaps?” she asked, suddenly brightening at the hope of a common interest. None of us had been there, but Miss Pole had an uncle who had once spent a night there, which was very pleasant.

Mrs Jamieson, meanwhile, was absorbed in wonder why Mr Mulliner did not bring the tea; and at length the wonder oozed out of her mouth.

Meanwhile, Mrs Jamieson was absorbed in wondering why Mr Mulliner had not brought the tea. At last, her question oozed out of her mouth.

“I had better ring the bell, my dear, had not I?” said Lady Glenmire briskly.

“I'd better ring the bell, my dear, shouldn't I?” said Lady Glenmire briskly.

“No—I think not—Mulliner does not like to be hurried.”

“No, I don’t think so. Mulliner doesn’t like to be rushed.”

We should have liked our tea, for we dined at an earlier hour than Mrs Jamieson. I suspect Mr Mulliner had to finish the St James’s Chronicle before he chose to trouble himself about tea. His mistress fidgeted and fidgeted, and kept saying, “I can’t think why Mulliner does not bring tea. I can’t think what he can be about.” And Lady Glenmire at last grew quite impatient, but it was a pretty kind of impatience after all; and she rang the bell rather sharply, on receiving a half-permission from her sister-in-law to do so. Mr Mulliner appeared in dignified surprise. “Oh!” said Mrs Jamieson, “Lady Glenmire rang the bell; I believe it was for tea.”

We would have liked our tea, since we had dinner earlier than Mrs Jamieson. I suspect Mr Mulliner had to finish the St James’s Chronicle before he would bother with tea. His mistress fidgeted and fidgeted, saying, “I can’t imagine why Mulliner hasn’t brought tea. I can’t imagine what he’s doing.” At last, Lady Glenmire grew quite impatient, though her impatience was rather charming. After her sister-in-law gave her a hint of permission, she rang the bell rather sharply. Mr Mulliner appeared, looking surprised but dignified. “Oh!” said Mrs Jamieson, “Lady Glenmire rang the bell. I believe she wanted tea.”

In a few minutes tea was brought. Very delicate was the china, very old the plate, very thin the bread and butter, and very small the lumps of sugar. Sugar was evidently Mrs Jamieson’s favourite economy. I question if the little filigree sugar-tongs, made something like scissors, could have opened themselves wide enough to take up an honest, vulgar good-sized piece; and when I tried to seize two little minnikin pieces at once, so as not to be detected in too many returns to the sugar-basin, they absolutely dropped one, with a little sharp clatter, quite in a malicious and unnatural manner. But before this happened we had had a slight disappointment. In the little silver jug was cream, in the larger one was milk. As soon as Mr Mulliner came in, Carlo began to beg, which was a thing our manners forbade us to do, though I am sure we were just as hungry; and Mrs Jamieson said she was certain we would excuse her if she gave her poor dumb Carlo his tea first. She accordingly mixed a saucerful for him, and put it down for him to lap; and then she told us how intelligent and sensible the dear little fellow was; he knew cream quite well, and constantly refused tea with only milk in it: so the milk was left for us; but we silently thought we were quite as intelligent and sensible as Carlo, and felt as if insult were added to injury when we were called upon to admire the gratitude evinced by his wagging his tail for the cream which should have been ours.

A few minutes later, tea was brought in. The china was very delicate, the silver very old, the bread and butter very thin, and the lumps of sugar very small. Sugar was evidently Mrs Jamieson’s favorite way to economize. I doubt that the little filigree sugar tongs, shaped rather like scissors, could have opened wide enough to pick up an honest, vulgar, good-sized lump. I tried to pick up two tiny pieces at once, so I would not be caught returning to the sugar bowl too often. But the tongs actually dropped one with a little sharp clatter, in a quite malicious and unnatural way. Before this happened, though, we had suffered a small disappointment. The little silver jug held cream, and the larger one held milk. As soon as Mr Mulliner came in, Carlo began to beg. Our manners forbade us to do that, though I am sure we were just as hungry. Mrs Jamieson said she was certain we would excuse her for giving her poor dumb Carlo his tea first. So she mixed a saucerful for him and put it down for him to lap up. Then she told us how intelligent and sensible the dear little fellow was. He knew cream very well and always refused tea made with only milk. So the milk was left for us. But we silently thought we were just as intelligent and sensible as Carlo. We felt it added insult to injury when we were expected to admire the gratitude he showed by wagging his tail for the cream that should have been ours.

After tea we thawed down into common-life subjects. We were thankful to Lady Glenmire for having proposed some more bread and butter, and this mutual want made us better acquainted with her than we should ever have been with talking about the Court, though Miss Pole did say she had hoped to know how the dear Queen was from some one who had seen her.

After tea, we relaxed and began talking about everyday things. We were grateful to Lady Glenmire for suggesting more bread and butter. Our shared hunger helped us get to know her better than talking about the Court ever would have. Though Miss Pole did say she had hoped to hear how the dear Queen was from someone who had seen her.

The friendship begun over bread and butter extended on to cards. Lady Glenmire played Preference to admiration, and was a complete authority as to Ombre and Quadrille. Even Miss Pole quite forgot to say “my lady,” and “your ladyship,” and said “Basto! ma’am”; “you have Spadille, I believe,” just as quietly as if we had never held the great Cranford Parliament on the subject of the proper mode of addressing a peeress.

The friendship that began over bread and butter carried on over cards. Lady Glenmire played Preference admirably and was a complete authority on Ombre and Quadrille. Even Miss Pole quite forgot to say “my lady,” and “your ladyship,” and said “Basto! ma’am,” and “you have Spadille, I believe.” She said these things as calmly as if we had never held the great Cranford Parliament about how to address a peeress.

As a proof of how thoroughly we had forgotten that we were in the presence of one who might have sat down to tea with a coronet, instead of a cap, on her head, Mrs Forrester related a curious little fact to Lady Glenmire—an anecdote known to the circle of her intimate friends, but of which even Mrs Jamieson was not aware. It related to some fine old lace, the sole relic of better days, which Lady Glenmire was admiring on Mrs Forrester’s collar.

We had completely forgotten that Lady Glenmire could have sat down to tea wearing a coronet instead of a cap. As proof of this, Mrs Forrester told her a curious little story. Mrs Forrester’s close friends knew the story, but even Mrs Jamieson did not. It concerned some fine old lace on Mrs Forrester’s collar, which Lady Glenmire was admiring. The lace was the only thing Mrs Forrester had left from better days.

“Yes,” said that lady, “such lace cannot be got now for either love or money; made by the nuns abroad, they tell me. They say that they can’t make it now even there. But perhaps they can, now they’ve passed the Catholic Emancipation Bill. I should not wonder. But, in the meantime, I treasure up my lace very much. I daren’t even trust the washing of it to my maid” (the little charity school-girl I have named before, but who sounded well as “my maid”). “I always wash it myself. And once it had a narrow escape. Of course, your ladyship knows that such lace must never be starched or ironed. Some people wash it in sugar and water, and some in coffee, to make it the right yellow colour; but I myself have a very good receipt for washing it in milk, which stiffens it enough, and gives it a very good creamy colour. Well, ma’am, I had tacked it together (and the beauty of this fine lace is that, when it is wet, it goes into a very little space), and put it to soak in milk, when, unfortunately, I left the room; on my return, I found pussy on the table, looking very like a thief, but gulping very uncomfortably, as if she was half-choked with something she wanted to swallow and could not. And, would you believe it? At first I pitied her, and said ‘Poor pussy! poor pussy!’ till, all at once, I looked and saw the cup of milk empty—cleaned out! ‘You naughty cat!’ said I, and I believe I was provoked enough to give her a slap, which did no good, but only helped the lace down—just as one slaps a choking child on the back. I could have cried, I was so vexed; but I determined I would not give the lace up without a struggle for it. I hoped the lace might disagree with her, at any rate; but it would have been too much for Job, if he had seen, as I did, that cat come in, quite placid and purring, not a quarter of an hour after, and almost expecting to be stroked. ‘No, pussy!’ said I, ‘if you have any conscience you ought not to expect that!’ And then a thought struck me; and I rang the bell for my maid, and sent her to Mr Hoggins, with my compliments, and would he be kind enough to lend me one of his top-boots for an hour? I did not think there was anything odd in the message; but Jenny said the young men in the surgery laughed as if they would be ill at my wanting a top-boot. When it came, Jenny and I put pussy in, with her forefeet straight down, so that they were fastened, and could not scratch, and we gave her a teaspoonful of current-jelly in which (your ladyship must excuse me) I had mixed some tartar emetic. I shall never forget how anxious I was for the next half-hour. I took pussy to my own room, and spread a clean towel on the floor. I could have kissed her when she returned the lace to sight, very much as it had gone down. Jenny had boiling water ready, and we soaked it and soaked it, and spread it on a lavender-bush in the sun before I could touch it again, even to put it in milk. But now your ladyship would never guess that it had been in pussy’s inside.”

“Yes,” said the lady, “you can’t get lace like that now for love or money. They tell me it was made by nuns abroad. They say they can’t make it even there now. But perhaps they can, now that they’ve passed the Catholic Emancipation Bill. I shouldn’t be surprised. In the meantime, I treasure my lace. I don’t even dare trust my maid to wash it.” (Her maid was the little charity schoolgirl I mentioned before, but “my maid” sounded grand.) “I always wash it myself. And once it had a narrow escape. “Of course, your ladyship knows that such lace must never be starched or ironed. Some people wash it in sugar and water, and some in coffee, to give it the right yellow colour. But I have a very good recipe for washing it in milk. The milk stiffens it enough and gives it a lovely creamy colour. “Well, ma’am, I had tacked the lace together and put it to soak in milk. The beauty of this fine lace is that, when wet, it takes up very little space. Unfortunately, I left the room. When I returned, I found pussy on the table, looking very much like a thief. She was gulping with obvious discomfort, as if she were half-choked by something she wanted to swallow but couldn’t. “And would you believe it? At first I felt sorry for her and said, ‘Poor pussy! Poor pussy!’ Then, all at once, I looked and saw that the cup of milk was empty, licked clean! ‘You naughty cat!’ I said. I believe I was angry enough to give her a slap. That did no good. It only helped the lace down, just as slapping a choking child on the back does. “I was so upset I could have cried, but I was determined not to give up the lace without a struggle. I hoped that, at least, the lace might make her ill. But it would have been too much for Job to see what I saw. Not a quarter of an hour later, the cat came in, quite calm and purring, almost expecting to be stroked. ‘No, pussy!’ I said. ‘If you have any conscience, you shouldn’t expect that!’ “Then I had an idea. I rang for my maid and sent her to Mr Hoggins with my compliments. Would he be kind enough to lend me one of his top-boots for an hour? I didn’t think there was anything odd about the message. But Jenny said the young men in the surgery laughed as if they would be ill when they heard I wanted a top-boot. “When the boot came, Jenny and I put pussy into it, with her front paws straight down. That held her paws in place so she couldn’t scratch. Then we gave her a teaspoonful of currant jelly in which I had mixed some tartar emetic. Your ladyship must excuse me. I shall never forget how anxious I was for the next half-hour. I took pussy to my room and spread a clean towel on the floor. I could have kissed her when she brought the lace back up, looking much as it had when it went down. “Jenny had boiling water ready, and we soaked the lace again and again. Then we spread it on a lavender bush in the sun before I could touch it again, even to put it in milk. But now your ladyship would never guess that it had been inside pussy.”

We found out, in the course of the evening, that Lady Glenmire was going to pay Mrs Jamieson a long visit, as she had given up her apartments in Edinburgh, and had no ties to take her back there in a hurry. On the whole, we were rather glad to hear this, for she had made a pleasant impression upon us; and it was also very comfortable to find, from things which dropped out in the course of conversation, that, in addition to many other genteel qualities, she was far removed from the “vulgarity of wealth.”

During the evening, we learned that Lady Glenmire was going to stay with Mrs Jamieson for a long visit. She had given up her rooms in Edinburgh and had no ties to bring her back there soon. On the whole, we were rather glad to hear this, because she had made a pleasant impression on us. We were also comforted to learn from things said during the conversation that she had many refined qualities. Among them, she was far removed from the “vulgarity of wealth.”

“Don’t you find it very unpleasant walking?” asked Mrs Jamieson, as our respective servants were announced. It was a pretty regular question from Mrs Jamieson, who had her own carriage in the coach-house, and always went out in a sedan-chair to the very shortest distances. The answers were nearly as much a matter of course.

“Don’t you find walking very unpleasant?” asked Mrs Jamieson, as our servants were announced. Mrs Jamieson asked this quite regularly. She kept her own carriage in the coach house and always went out in a sedan chair, even for the shortest distances. The answers were nearly as predictable as the question.

“Oh dear, no! it is so pleasant and still at night!” “Such a refreshment after the excitement of a party!” “The stars are so beautiful!” This last was from Miss Matty.

“Oh dear, no! It’s so pleasant and quiet at night!” “So refreshing after the excitement of a party!” “The stars are so beautiful!” Miss Matty said the last words.

“Are you fond of astronomy?” Lady Glenmire asked.

“Do you like astronomy?” Lady Glenmire asked.

“Not very,” replied Miss Matty, rather confused at the moment to remember which was astronomy and which was astrology—but the answer was true under either circumstance, for she read, and was slightly alarmed at Francis Moore’s astrological predictions; and, as to astronomy, in a private and confidential conversation, she had told me she never could believe that the earth was moving constantly, and that she would not believe it if she could, it made her feel so tired and dizzy whenever she thought about it.

“Not very,” replied Miss Matty. At that moment, she was confused about which was astronomy and which was astrology. But her answer was true either way. She read Francis Moore’s astrological predictions and found them slightly alarming. As for astronomy, she had once told me in private that she could never believe the earth was constantly moving. She also said she would not believe it even if she could. Thinking about the earth’s movement made her feel so tired and dizzy.

In our pattens we picked our way home with extra care that night, so refined and delicate were our perceptions after drinking tea with “my lady.”

We picked our way home in our pattens with extra care that night. After tea with “my lady,” our senses had become so refined and delicate.