I was still in a quandary the next morning, when I received a letter from Miss Pole, so mysteriously wrapped up and with so many seals on it to secure secrecy that I had to tear the paper before I could unfold it.

It summoned me to go to Miss Pole at 11 a.m., the a.m. twice dashed under as if I were likely to come at eleven at night, when all Cranford was usually abed and asleep by ten.  I went and found Miss Pole dressed in solemn array, though there were only Mrs. Forrester, crying quietly and sadly, and Mrs. FitzAdam present.  Miss Pole was armed with a card, on which I imagine she had written some notes.

“Miss Smith,” she began, when I entered (I was familiarly known to all Cranford as Mary, but this was a state occasion), “I have conversed in private with these ladies on the misfortune which has happened to our friend, and one and all have agreed that while we have a superfluity, it is not only a duty but a pleasure—­a true pleasure, Mary!”—­her voice was rather choked just here, and she had to wipe her spectacles before she could go on—­“to give what we can to assist her—­Miss Matilda Jenkyns.  Only in consideration of the feelings of delicate independence existing in the mind of every refined female”—­I was sure she had got back to the card—­“we wish to contribute our mites in a secret and concealed manner, so as not to hurt the feelings I have referred to.”

Well, the upshot of this solemn meeting was that each of those dear old ladies wrote down the sum she could afford annually, signed the paper and sealed it mysteriously, and I was commissioned to get my father to administer the fund in such a manner that Miss Jenkyns should imagine the money came from her own improved investments.

As I was going, Mrs. Forrester took me aside, and in the manner of one confessing a great crime the poor old lady told me how very, very little she had to live on—­a confession she was brought to make from a dread lest we should think that the small contribution named in her paper bore any proportion to her love and regard for Miss Mary.  And yet that sum which she so eagerly relinquished was, in truth, more than a twentieth part of what she had to live on.  And when the whole income does not nearly amount to a hundred pounds, to give up a twentieth of it will necessitate many careful economies and many pieces of self-denial—­small and insignificant in the world’s account, but bearing a different value in another account book that I have heard of.

The upshot of it all was that dear Miss Matty was comfortably installed in her own house, and added to her slender income by selling tea!  This last was my idea, and it was a proud moment for me when it realized.  The small dining-room was converted into a shop, without any of its degrading characteristics, a table formed the counter, one window was retained unaltered and the other changed into a glass door, and there she was.  Tea was certainly a happy commodity, as it was neither greasy nor sticky, grease and stickiness being two of the qualities which Miss Matty could not endure.  Moreover, as Miss Matty said, one good thing about it was that men did not buy it, and it was of men particularly she was afraid.  They had such sharp, loud ways with them, and did up accounts and counted their change so quickly.