The Project Gutenberg eBook of Agnes Grey, by Anne Brontë

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you
will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before
using this eBook.

Title: Agnes Grey

Author: Anne Brontë

Release Date: December, 1996 [eBook #767]
[Most recently updated: December 4, 2020]

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

Produced by: David Price

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AGNES GREY ***




Agnes Grey
A NOVEL,

by ACTON BELL.

LONDON:
THOMAS CAUTLEY NEWBY, PUBLISHER,
72, MORTIMER ST., CAVENDISH SQ.

1847.

[Illustration: Birthplace of Charlotte, Emily and Anne Brontë,
Thornton]


Contents

 I. THE PARSONAGE
 II. FIRST LESSONS IN THE ART OF INSTRUCTION
 III. A FEW MORE LESSONS
 IV. THE GRANDMAMMA
 V. THE UNCLE
 VI. THE PARSONAGE AGAIN
 VII. HORTON LODGE
 VIII. THE “COMING OUT”
 IX. THE BALL
 X. THE CHURCH
 XI. THE COTTAGERS
 XII. THE SHOWER
 XIII. THE PRIMROSES
 XIV. THE RECTOR
 XV. THE WALK
 XVI. THE SUBSTITUTION
 XVII. CONFESSIONS
 XVIII. MIRTH AND MOURNING
 XIX. THE LETTER
 XX. THE FAREWELL
 XXI. THE SCHOOL
 XXII. THE VISIT
 XXIII. THE PARK
 XXIV. THE SANDS
 XXV. CONCLUSION




CHAPTER I.
THE PARSONAGE


All true histories contain instruction; though, in some, the treasure
may be hard to find, and when found, so trivial in quantity, that the
dry, shrivelled kernel scarcely compensates for the trouble of cracking
the nut. Whether this be the case with my history or not, I am hardly
competent to judge. I sometimes think it might prove useful to some,
and entertaining to others; but the world may judge for itself.
Shielded by my own obscurity, and by the lapse of years, and a few
fictitious names, I do not fear to venture; and will candidly lay
before the public what I would not disclose to the most intimate
friend.

My father was a clergyman of the north of England, who was deservedly
respected by all who knew him; and, in his younger days, lived pretty
comfortably on the joint income of a small incumbency and a snug little
property of his own. My mother, who married him against the wishes of
her friends, was a squire’s daughter, and a woman of spirit. In vain it
was represented to her, that if she became the poor parson’s wife, she
must relinquish her carriage and her lady’s-maid, and all the luxuries
and elegancies of affluence; which to her were little less than the
necessaries of life. A carriage and a lady’s-maid were great
conveniences; but, thank heaven, she had feet to carry her, and hands
to minister to her own necessities. An elegant house and spacious
grounds were not to be despised; but she would rather live in a cottage
with Richard Grey than in a palace with any other man in the world.

Finding arguments of no avail, her father, at length, told the lovers
they might marry if they pleased; but, in so doing, his daughter would
forfeit every fraction of her fortune. He expected this would cool the
ardour of both; but he was mistaken. My father knew too well my
mother’s superior worth not to be sensible that she was a valuable
fortune in herself: and if she would but consent to embellish his
humble hearth he should be happy to take her on any terms; while she,
on her part, would rather labour with her own hands than be divided
from the man she loved, whose happiness it would be her joy to make,
and who was already one with her in heart and soul. So her fortune went
to swell the purse of a wiser sister, who had married a rich nabob; and
she, to the wonder and compassionate regret of all who knew her, went
to bury herself in the homely village parsonage among the hills of ——.
And yet, in spite of all this, and in spite of my mother’s high spirit
and my father’s whims, I believe you might search all England through,
and fail to find a happier couple.

Of six children, my sister Mary and myself were the only two that
survived the perils of infancy and early childhood. I, being the
younger by five or six years, was always regarded as _the_ child, and
the pet of the family: father, mother, and sister, all combined to
spoil me—not by foolish indulgence, to render me fractious and
ungovernable, but by ceaseless kindness, to make me too helpless and
dependent—too unfit for buffeting with the cares and turmoils of life.

Mary and I were brought up in the strictest seclusion. My mother, being
at once highly accomplished, well informed, and fond of employment,
took the whole charge of our education on herself, with the exception
of Latin—which my father undertook to teach us—so that we never even
went to school; and, as there was no society in the neighbourhood, our
only intercourse with the world consisted in a stately tea-party, now
and then, with the principal farmers and tradespeople of the vicinity
(just to avoid being stigmatized as too proud to consort with our
neighbours), and an annual visit to our paternal grandfather’s; where
himself, our kind grandmamma, a maiden aunt, and two or three elderly
ladies and gentlemen, were the only persons we ever saw. Sometimes our
mother would amuse us with stories and anecdotes of her younger days,
which, while they entertained us amazingly, frequently awoke—in _me_,
at least—a secret wish to see a little more of the world.

I thought she must have been very happy: but she never seemed to regret
past times. My father, however, whose temper was neither tranquil nor
cheerful by nature, often unduly vexed himself with thinking of the
sacrifices his dear wife had made for him; and troubled his head with
revolving endless schemes for the augmentation of his little fortune,
for her sake and ours. In vain my mother assured him she was quite
satisfied; and if he would but lay by a little for the children, we
should all have plenty, both for time present and to come: but saving
was not my father’s forte. He would not run in debt (at least, my
mother took good care he should not), but while he had money he must
spend it: he liked to see his house comfortable, and his wife and
daughters well clothed, and well attended; and besides, he was
charitably disposed, and liked to give to the poor, according to his
means: or, as some might think, beyond them.

At length, however, a kind friend suggested to him a means of doubling
his private property at one stroke; and further increasing it,
hereafter, to an untold amount. This friend was a merchant, a man of
enterprising spirit and undoubted talent, who was somewhat straitened
in his mercantile pursuits for want of capital; but generously proposed
to give my father a fair share of his profits, if he would only entrust
him with what he could spare; and he thought he might safely promise
that whatever sum the latter chose to put into his hands, it should
bring him in cent. per cent. The small patrimony was speedily sold, and
the whole of its price was deposited in the hands of the friendly
merchant; who as promptly proceeded to ship his cargo, and prepare for
his voyage.

My father was delighted, so were we all, with our brightening
prospects. For the present, it is true, we were reduced to the narrow
income of the curacy; but my father seemed to think there was no
necessity for scrupulously restricting our expenditure to that; so,
with a standing bill at Mr. Jackson’s, another at Smith’s, and a third
at Hobson’s, we got along even more comfortably than before: though my
mother affirmed we had better keep within bounds, for our prospects of
wealth were but precarious, after all; and if my father would only
trust everything to her management, he should never feel himself
stinted: but he, for once, was incorrigible.

What happy hours Mary and I have passed while sitting at our work by
the fire, or wandering on the heath-clad hills, or idling under the
weeping birch (the only considerable tree in the garden), talking of
future happiness to ourselves and our parents, of what we would do, and
see, and possess; with no firmer foundation for our goodly
superstructure than the riches that were expected to flow in upon us
from the success of the worthy merchant’s speculations. Our father was
nearly as bad as ourselves; only that he affected not to be so much in
earnest: expressing his bright hopes and sanguine expectations in jests
and playful sallies, that always struck me as being exceedingly witty
and pleasant. Our mother laughed with delight to see him so hopeful and
happy: but still she feared he was setting his heart too much upon the
matter; and once I heard her whisper as she left the room, “God grant
he be not disappointed! I know not how he would bear it.”

Disappointed he was; and bitterly, too. It came like a thunder-clap on
us all, that the vessel which contained our fortune had been wrecked,
and gone to the bottom with all its stores, together with several of
the crew, and the unfortunate merchant himself. I was grieved for him;
I was grieved for the overthrow of all our air-built castles: but, with
the elasticity of youth, I soon recovered the shock.

Though riches had charms, poverty had no terrors for an inexperienced
girl like me. Indeed, to say the truth, there was something
exhilarating in the idea of being driven to straits, and thrown upon
our own resources. I only wished papa, mamma, and Mary were all of the
same mind as myself; and then, instead of lamenting past calamities we
might all cheerfully set to work to remedy them; and the greater the
difficulties, the harder our present privations, the greater should be
our cheerfulness to endure the latter, and our vigour to contend
against the former.

Mary did not lament, but she brooded continually over the misfortune,
and sank into a state of dejection from which no effort of mine could
rouse her. I could not possibly bring her to regard the matter on its
bright side as I did: and indeed I was so fearful of being charged with
childish frivolity, or stupid insensibility, that I carefully kept most
of my bright ideas and cheering notions to myself; well knowing they
could not be appreciated.

My mother thought only of consoling my father, and paying our debts and
retrenching our expenditure by every available means; but my father was
completely overwhelmed by the calamity: health, strength, and spirits
sank beneath the blow, and he never wholly recovered them. In vain my
mother strove to cheer him, by appealing to his piety, to his courage,
to his affection for herself and us. That very affection was his
greatest torment: it was for our sakes he had so ardently longed to
increase his fortune—it was our interest that had lent such brightness
to his hopes, and that imparted such bitterness to his present
distress. He now tormented himself with remorse at having neglected my
mother’s advice; which would at least have saved him from the
additional burden of debt—he vainly reproached himself for having
brought her from the dignity, the ease, the luxury of her former
station to toil with him through the cares and toils of poverty. It was
gall and wormwood to his soul to see that splendid, highly-accomplished
woman, once so courted and admired, transformed into an active managing
housewife, with hands and head continually occupied with household
labours and household economy. The very willingness with which she
performed these duties, the cheerfulness with which she bore her
reverses, and the kindness which withheld her from imputing the
smallest blame to him, were all perverted by this ingenious
self-tormentor into further aggravations of his sufferings. And thus
the mind preyed upon the body, and disordered the system of the nerves,
and they in turn increased the troubles of the mind, till by action and
reaction his health was seriously impaired; and not one of us could
convince him that the aspect of our affairs was not half so gloomy, so
utterly hopeless, as his morbid imagination represented it to be.

The useful pony phaeton was sold, together with the stout, well-fed
pony—the old favourite that we had fully determined should end its days
in peace, and never pass from our hands; the little coach-house and
stable were let; the servant boy, and the more efficient (being the
more expensive) of the two maid-servants, were dismissed. Our clothes
were mended, turned, and darned to the utmost verge of decency; our
food, always plain, was now simplified to an unprecedented
degree—except my father’s favourite dishes; our coals and candles were
painfully economized—the pair of candles reduced to one, and that most
sparingly used; the coals carefully husbanded in the half-empty grate:
especially when my father was out on his parish duties, or confined to
bed through illness—then we sat with our feet on the fender, scraping
the perishing embers together from time to time, and occasionally
adding a slight scattering of the dust and fragments of coal, just to
keep them alive. As for our carpets, they in time were worn threadbare,
and patched and darned even to a greater extent than our garments. To
save the expense of a gardener, Mary and I undertook to keep the garden
in order; and all the cooking and household work that could not easily
be managed by one servant-girl, was done by my mother and sister, with
a little occasional help from me: only a little, because, though a
woman in my own estimation, I was still a child in theirs; and my
mother, like most active, managing women, was not gifted with very
active daughters: for this reason—that being so clever and diligent
herself, she was never tempted to trust her affairs to a deputy, but,
on the contrary, was willing to act and think for others as well as for
number one; and whatever was the business in hand, she was apt to think
that no one could do it so well as herself: so that whenever I offered
to assist her, I received such an answer as—“No, love, you cannot
indeed—there’s nothing here you can do. Go and help your sister, or get
her to take a walk with you—tell her she must not sit so much, and stay
so constantly in the house as she does—she may well look thin and
dejected.”

“Mary, mamma says I’m to help you; or get you to take a walk with me;
she says you may well look thin and dejected, if you sit so constantly
in the house.”

“Help me you cannot, Agnes; and I cannot go out with _you_—I have far
too much to do.”

“Then let me help you.”

“You cannot, indeed, dear child. Go and practise your music, or play
with the kitten.”

There was always plenty of sewing on hand; but I had not been taught to
cut out a single garment, and except plain hemming and seaming, there
was little I could do, even in that line; for they both asserted that
it was far easier to do the work themselves than to prepare it for me:
and besides, they liked better to see me prosecuting my studies, or
amusing myself—it was time enough for me to sit bending over my work,
like a grave matron, when my favourite little pussy was become a steady
old cat. Under such circumstances, although I was not many degrees more
useful than the kitten, my idleness was not entirely without excuse.

Through all our troubles, I never but once heard my mother complain of
our want of money. As summer was coming on she observed to Mary and me,
“What a desirable thing it would be for your papa to spend a few weeks
at a watering-place. I am convinced the sea-air and the change of scene
would be of incalculable service to him. But then, you see, there’s no
money,” she added, with a sigh. We both wished exceedingly that the
thing might be done, and lamented greatly that it could not. “Well,
well!” said she, “it’s no use complaining. Possibly something might be
done to further the project after all. Mary, you are a beautiful
drawer. What do you say to doing a few more pictures in your best
style, and getting them framed, with the water-coloured drawings you
have already done, and trying to dispose of them to some liberal
picture-dealer, who has the sense to discern their merits?”

“Mamma, I should be delighted if you think they _could_ be sold; and
for anything worth while.”

“It’s worth while trying, however, my dear: do you procure the
drawings, and I’ll endeavour to find a purchaser.”

“I wish _I_ could do something,” said I.

“You, Agnes! well, who knows? You draw pretty well, too: if you choose
some simple piece for your subject, I daresay you will be able to
produce something we shall all be proud to exhibit.”

“But I have another scheme in my head, mamma, and have had long, only I
did not like to mention it.”

“Indeed! pray tell us what it is.”

“I should like to be a governess.”

My mother uttered an exclamation of surprise, and laughed. My sister
dropped her work in astonishment, exclaiming, “_You_ a governess,
Agnes! What can you be dreaming of?”

“Well! I don’t see anything so _very_ extraordinary in it. I do not
pretend to be able to instruct great girls; but surely I could teach
little ones: and I should like it so much: I am so fond of children. Do
let me, mamma!”

“But, my love, you have not learned to take care of _yourself _yet: and
young children require more judgment and experience to manage than
elder ones.”

“But, mamma, I am above eighteen, and quite able to take care of
myself, and others too. You do not know half the wisdom and prudence I
possess, because I have never been tried.”

“Only think,” said Mary, “what would you do in a house full of
strangers, without me or mamma to speak and act for you—with a parcel
of children, besides yourself, to attend to; and no one to look to for
advice? You would not even know what clothes to put on.”

“You think, because I always do as you bid me, I have no judgment of my
own: but only try me—that is all I ask—and you shall see what I can
do.”

At that moment my father entered and the subject of our discussion was
explained to him.

“What, my little Agnes a governess!” cried he, and, in spite of his
dejection, he laughed at the idea.

“Yes, papa, don’t _you_ say anything against it: I should like it so
much; and I am sure I could manage delightfully.”

“But, my darling, we could not spare you.” And a tear glistened in his
eye as he added—“No, no! afflicted as we are, surely we are not brought
to that pass yet.”

“Oh, no!” said my mother. “There is no necessity whatever for such a
step; it is merely a whim of her own. So you must hold your tongue, you
naughty girl; for, though you are so ready to leave us, you know very
well we cannot part with _you_.”

I was silenced for that day, and for many succeeding ones; but still I
did not wholly relinquish my darling scheme. Mary got her drawing
materials, and steadily set to work. I got mine too; but while I drew,
I thought of other things. How delightful it would be to be a
governess! To go out into the world; to enter upon a new life; to act
for myself; to exercise my unused faculties; to try my unknown powers;
to earn my own maintenance, and something to comfort and help my
father, mother, and sister, besides exonerating them from the provision
of my food and clothing; to show papa what his little Agnes could do;
to convince mamma and Mary that I was not quite the helpless,
thoughtless being they supposed. And then, how charming to be entrusted
with the care and education of children! Whatever others said, I felt I
was fully competent to the task: the clear remembrance of my own
thoughts in early childhood would be a surer guide than the
instructions of the most mature adviser. I had but to turn from my
little pupils to myself at their age, and I should know, at once, how
to win their confidence and affections: how to waken the contrition of
the erring; how to embolden the timid and console the afflicted; how to
make Virtue practicable, Instruction desirable, and Religion lovely and
comprehensible.

—Delightful task!
To teach the young idea how to shoot!


To train the tender plants, and watch their buds unfolding day by day!

Influenced by so many inducements, I determined still to persevere;
though the fear of displeasing my mother, or distressing my father’s
feelings, prevented me from resuming the subject for several days. At
length, again, I mentioned it to my mother in private; and, with some
difficulty, got her to promise to assist me with her endeavours. My
father’s reluctant consent was next obtained, and then, though Mary
still sighed her disapproval, my dear, kind mother began to look out
for a situation for me. She wrote to my father’s relations, and
consulted the newspaper advertisements—her own relations she had long
dropped all communication with: a formal interchange of occasional
letters was all she had ever had since her marriage, and she would not
at any time have applied to them in a case of this nature. But so long
and so entire had been my parents’ seclusion from the world, that many
weeks elapsed before a suitable situation could be procured. At last,
to my great joy, it was decreed that I should take charge of the young
family of a certain Mrs. Bloomfield; whom my kind, prim aunt Grey had
known in her youth, and asserted to be a very nice woman. Her husband
was a retired tradesman, who had realized a very comfortable fortune;
but could not be prevailed upon to give a greater salary than
twenty-five pounds to the instructress of his children. I, however, was
glad to accept this, rather than refuse the situation—which my parents
were inclined to think the better plan.

But some weeks more were yet to be devoted to preparation. How long,
how tedious those weeks appeared to me! Yet they were happy ones in the
main—full of bright hopes and ardent expectations. With what peculiar
pleasure I assisted at the making of my new clothes, and, subsequently,
the packing of my trunks! But there was a feeling of bitterness
mingling with the latter occupation too; and when it was done—when all
was ready for my departure on the morrow, and the last night at home
approached—a sudden anguish seemed to swell my heart. My dear friends
looked so sad, and spoke so very kindly, that I could scarcely keep my
eyes from overflowing: but I still affected to be gay. I had taken my
last ramble with Mary on the moors, my last walk in the garden, and
round the house; I had fed, with her, our pet pigeons for the last
time—the pretty creatures that we had tamed to peck their food from our
hands: I had given a farewell stroke to all their silky backs as they
crowded in my lap. I had tenderly kissed my own peculiar favourites,
the pair of snow-white fantails; I had played my last tune on the old
familiar piano, and sung my last song to papa: not the last, I hoped,
but the last for what appeared to me a very long time. And, perhaps,
when I did these things again it would be with different feelings:
circumstances might be changed, and this house might never be my
settled home again. My dear little friend, the kitten, would certainly
be changed: she was already growing a fine cat; and when I returned,
even for a hasty visit at Christmas, would, most likely, have forgotten
both her playmate and her merry pranks. I had romped with her for the
last time; and when I stroked her soft bright fur, while she lay
purring herself to sleep in my lap, it was with a feeling of sadness I
could not easily disguise. Then at bed-time, when I retired with Mary
to our quiet little chamber, where already my drawers were cleared out
and my share of the bookcase was empty—and where, hereafter, she would
have to sleep alone, in dreary solitude, as she expressed it—my heart
sank more than ever: I felt as if I had been selfish and wrong to
persist in leaving her; and when I knelt once more beside our little
bed, I prayed for a blessing on her and on my parents more fervently
than ever I had done before. To conceal my emotion, I buried my face in
my hands, and they were presently bathed in tears. I perceived, on
rising, that she had been crying too: but neither of us spoke; and in
silence we betook ourselves to our repose, creeping more closely
together from the consciousness that we were to part so soon.

But the morning brought a renewal of hope and spirits. I was to depart
early; that the conveyance which took me (a gig, hired from Mr. Smith,
the draper, grocer, and tea-dealer of the village) might return the
same day. I rose, washed, dressed, swallowed a hasty breakfast,
received the fond embraces of my father, mother, and sister, kissed the
cat—to the great scandal of Sally, the maid—shook hands with her,
mounted the gig, drew my veil over my face, and then, but not till
then, burst into a flood of tears. The gig rolled on; I looked back; my
dear mother and sister were still standing at the door, looking after
me, and waving their adieux. I returned their salute, and prayed God to
bless them from my heart: we descended the hill, and I could see them
no more.

“It’s a coldish mornin’ for you, Miss Agnes,” observed Smith; “and a
darksome ’un too; but we’s happen get to yon spot afore there come much
rain to signify.”

“Yes, I hope so,” replied I, as calmly as I could.

“It’s comed a good sup last night too.”

“Yes.”

“But this cold wind will happen keep it off.”

“Perhaps it will.”

Here ended our colloquy. We crossed the valley, and began to ascend the
opposite hill. As we were toiling up, I looked back again; there was
the village spire, and the old grey parsonage beyond it, basking in a
slanting beam of sunshine—it was but a sickly ray, but the village and
surrounding hills were all in sombre shade, and I hailed the wandering
beam as a propitious omen to my home. With clasped hands I fervently
implored a blessing on its inhabitants, and hastily turned away; for I
saw the sunshine was departing; and I carefully avoided another glance,
lest I should see it in gloomy shadow, like the rest of the landscape.




CHAPTER II.
FIRST LESSONS IN THE ART OF INSTRUCTION


As we drove along, my spirits revived again, and I turned, with
pleasure, to the contemplation of the new life upon which I was
entering. But though it was not far past the middle of September, the
heavy clouds and strong north-easterly wind combined to render the day
extremely cold and dreary; and the journey seemed a very long one, for,
as Smith observed, the roads were “very heavy”; and certainly, his
horse was very heavy too: it crawled up the hills, and crept down them,
and only condescended to shake its sides in a trot where the road was
at a dead level or a very gentle slope, which was rarely the case in
those rugged regions; so that it was nearly one o’clock before we
reached the place of our destination. Yet, after all, when we entered
the lofty iron gateway, when we drove softly up the smooth, well-rolled
carriage-road, with the green lawn on each side, studded with young
trees, and approached the new but stately mansion of Wellwood, rising
above its mushroom poplar-groves, my heart failed me, and I wished it
were a mile or two farther off. For the first time in my life I must
stand alone: there was no retreating now. I must enter that house, and
introduce myself among its strange inhabitants. But how was it to be
done? True, I was near nineteen; but, thanks to my retired life and the
protecting care of my mother and sister, I well knew that many a girl
of fifteen, or under, was gifted with a more womanly address, and
greater ease and self-possession, than I was. Yet, if Mrs. Bloomfield
were a kind, motherly woman, I might do very well, after all; and the
children, of course, I should soon be at ease with them—and Mr.
Bloomfield, I hoped, I should have but little to do with.

“Be calm, be calm, whatever happens,” I said within myself; and truly I
kept this resolution so well, and was so fully occupied in steadying my
nerves and stifling the rebellious flutter of my heart, that when I was
admitted into the hall and ushered into the presence of Mrs.
Bloomfield, I almost forgot to answer her polite salutation; and it
afterwards struck me, that the little I did say was spoken in the tone
of one half-dead or half-asleep. The lady, too, was somewhat chilly in
her manner, as I discovered when I had time to reflect. She was a tall,
spare, stately woman, with thick black hair, cold grey eyes, and
extremely sallow complexion.

With due politeness, however, she showed me my bedroom, and left me
there to take a little refreshment. I was somewhat dismayed at my
appearance on looking in the glass: the cold wind had swelled and
reddened my hands, uncurled and entangled my hair, and dyed my face of
a pale purple; add to this my collar was horridly crumpled, my frock
splashed with mud, my feet clad in stout new boots, and as the trunks
were not brought up, there was no remedy; so having smoothed my hair as
well as I could, and repeatedly twitched my obdurate collar, I
proceeded to clomp down the two flights of stairs, philosophizing as I
went; and with some difficulty found my way into the room where Mrs.
Bloomfield awaited me.

She led me into the dining-room, where the family luncheon had been
laid out. Some beefsteaks and half-cold potatoes were set before me;
and while I dined upon these, she sat opposite, watching me (as I
thought) and endeavouring to sustain something like a
conversation—consisting chiefly of a succession of commonplace remarks,
expressed with frigid formality: but this might be more my fault than
hers, for I really could _not_ converse. In fact, my attention was
almost wholly absorbed in my dinner: not from ravenous appetite, but
from distress at the toughness of the beefsteaks, and the numbness of
my hands, almost palsied by their five-hours’ exposure to the bitter
wind. I would gladly have eaten the potatoes and let the meat alone,
but having got a large piece of the latter on to my plate, I could not
be so impolite as to leave it; so, after many awkward and unsuccessful
attempts to cut it with the knife, or tear it with the fork, or pull it
asunder between them, sensible that the awful lady was a spectator to
the whole transaction, I at last desperately grasped the knife and fork
in my fists, like a child of two years old, and fell to work with all
the little strength I possessed. But this needed some apology—with a
feeble attempt at a laugh, I said, “My hands are so benumbed with the
cold that I can scarcely handle my knife and fork.”

“I daresay you would find it cold,” replied she with a cool, immutable
gravity that did not serve to reassure me.

When the ceremony was concluded, she led me into the sitting-room
again, where she rang and sent for the children.

“You will find them not very far advanced in their attainments,” said
she, “for I have had so little time to attend to their education
myself, and we have thought them too young for a governess till now;
but I think they are clever children, and very apt to learn, especially
the little boy; he is, I think, the flower of the flock—a generous,
noble-spirited boy, one to be led, but not driven, and remarkable for
always speaking the truth. He seems to scorn deception” (this was good
news). “His sister Mary Ann will require watching,” continued she, “but
she is a very good girl upon the whole; though I wish her to be kept
out of the nursery as much as possible, as she is now almost six years
old, and might acquire bad habits from the nurses. I have ordered her
crib to be placed in your room, and if you will be so kind as to
overlook her washing and dressing, and take charge of her clothes, she
need have nothing further to do with the nursery maid.”

I replied I was quite willing to do so; and at that moment my young
pupils entered the apartment, with their two younger sisters. Master
Tom Bloomfield was a well-grown boy of seven, with a somewhat wiry
frame, flaxen hair, blue eyes, small turned-up nose, and fair
complexion. Mary Ann was a tall girl too, somewhat dark like her
mother, but with a round full face and a high colour in her cheeks. The
second sister was Fanny, a very pretty little girl; Mrs. Bloomfield
assured me she was a remarkably gentle child, and required
encouragement: she had not learned anything yet; but in a few days, she
would be four years old, and then she might take her first lesson in
the alphabet, and be promoted to the schoolroom. The remaining one was
Harriet, a little broad, fat, merry, playful thing of scarcely two,
that I coveted more than all the rest—but with her I had nothing to do.

I talked to my little pupils as well as I could, and tried to render
myself agreeable; but with little success I fear, for their mother’s
presence kept me under an unpleasant restraint. They, however, were
remarkably free from shyness. They seemed bold, lively children, and I
hoped I should soon be on friendly terms with them—the little boy
especially, of whom I had heard such a favourable character from his
mamma. In Mary Ann there was a certain affected simper, and a craving
for notice, that I was sorry to observe. But her brother claimed all my
attention to himself; he stood bolt upright between me and the fire,
with his hands behind his back, talking away like an orator,
occasionally interrupting his discourse with a sharp reproof to his
sisters when they made too much noise.

“Oh, Tom, what a darling you are!” exclaimed his mother. “Come and kiss
dear mamma; and then won’t you show Miss Grey your schoolroom, and your
nice new books?”

“I won’t kiss _you_, mamma; but I _will_ show Miss Grey my schoolroom,
and my new books.”

“And _my_ schoolroom, and _my_ new books, Tom,” said Mary Ann. “They’re
mine too.”

“They’re _mine_,” replied he decisively. “Come along, Miss Grey—I’ll
escort you.”

When the room and books had been shown, with some bickerings between
the brother and sister that I did my utmost to appease or mitigate,
Mary Ann brought me her doll, and began to be very loquacious on the
subject of its fine clothes, its bed, its chest of drawers, and other
appurtenances; but Tom told her to hold her clamour, that Miss Grey
might see his rocking-horse, which, with a most important bustle, he
dragged forth from its corner into the middle of the room, loudly
calling on me to attend to it. Then, ordering his sister to hold the
reins, he mounted, and made me stand for ten minutes, watching how
manfully he used his whip and spurs. Meantime, however, I admired Mary
Ann’s pretty doll, and all its possessions; and then told Master Tom he
was a capital rider, but I hoped he would not use his whip and spurs so
much when he rode a real pony.

“Oh, yes, I will!” said he, laying on with redoubled ardour. “I’ll cut
into him like smoke! Eeh! my word! but he shall sweat for it.”

This was very shocking; but I hoped in time to be able to work a
reformation.

“Now you must put on your bonnet and shawl,” said the little hero, “and
I’ll show you my garden.”

“And _mine_,” said Mary Ann.

Tom lifted his fist with a menacing gesture; she uttered a loud, shrill
scream, ran to the other side of me, and made a face at him.

“Surely, Tom, you would not strike your sister! I hope I shall _never_
see you do that.”

“You will sometimes: I’m obliged to do it now and then to keep her in
order.”

“But it is not your business to keep her in order, you know—that is
for—”

“Well, now go and put on your bonnet.”

“I don’t know—it is so very cloudy and cold, it seems likely to
rain;—and you know I have had a long drive.”

“No matter—you _must_ come; I shall allow of no excuses,” replied the
consequential little gentleman. And, as it was the first day of our
acquaintance, I thought I might as well indulge him. It was too cold
for Mary Ann to venture, so she stayed with her mamma, to the great
relief of her brother, who liked to have me all to himself.

The garden was a large one, and tastefully laid out; besides several
splendid dahlias, there were some other fine flowers still in bloom:
but my companion would not give me time to examine them: I must go with
him, across the wet grass, to a remote sequestered corner, the most
important place in the grounds, because it contained _his_ garden.
There were two round beds, stocked with a variety of plants. In one
there was a pretty little rose-tree. I paused to admire its lovely
blossoms.

“Oh, never mind that!” said he, contemptuously. “That’s only _Mary
Ann’s_ garden; look, THIS is mine.”

After I had observed every flower, and listened to a disquisition on
every plant, I was permitted to depart; but first, with great pomp, he
plucked a polyanthus and presented it to me, as one conferring a
prodigious favour. I observed, on the grass about his garden, certain
apparatus of sticks and corn, and asked what they were.

“Traps for birds.”

“Why do you catch them?”

“Papa says they do harm.”

“And what do you do with them when you catch them?”

“Different things. Sometimes I give them to the cat; sometimes I cut
them in pieces with my penknife; but the next, I mean to roast alive.”

“And why do you mean to do such a horrible thing?”

“For two reasons: first, to see how long it will live—and then, to see
what it will taste like.”

“But don’t you know it is extremely wicked to do such things? Remember,
the birds can feel as well as you; and think, how would you like it
yourself?”

“Oh, that’s nothing! I’m not a bird, and I can’t feel what I do to
them.”

“But you will have to feel it some time, Tom: you have heard where
wicked people go to when they die; and if you don’t leave off torturing
innocent birds, remember, you will have to go there, and suffer just
what you have made them suffer.”

“Oh, pooh! I shan’t. Papa knows how I treat them, and he never blames
me for it: he says it is just what _he_ used to do when _he_ was a boy.
Last summer, he gave me a nest full of young sparrows, and he saw me
pulling off their legs and wings, and heads, and never said anything;
except that they were nasty things, and I must not let them soil my
trousers: and Uncle Robson was there too, and he laughed, and said I
was a fine boy.”

“But what would your mamma say?”

“Oh, she doesn’t care! she says it’s a pity to kill the pretty singing
birds, but the naughty sparrows, and mice, and rats, I may do what I
like with. So now, Miss Grey, you see it is _not_ wicked.”

“I still think it is, Tom; and perhaps your papa and mamma would think
so too, if they thought much about it. However,” I internally added,
“they may say what they please, but I am determined you shall do
nothing of the kind, as long as I have power to prevent it.”

He next took me across the lawn to see his mole-traps, and then into
the stack-yard to see his weasel-traps: one of which, to his great joy,
contained a dead weasel; and then into the stable to see, not the fine
carriage-horses, but a little rough colt, which he informed me had been
bred on purpose for him, and he was to ride it as soon as it was
properly trained. I tried to amuse the little fellow, and listened to
all his chatter as complacently as I could; for I thought if he had any
affections at all, I would endeavour to win them; and then, in time, I
might be able to show him the error of his ways: but I looked in vain
for that generous, noble spirit his mother talked of; though I could
see he was not without a certain degree of quickness and penetration,
when he chose to exert it.

When we re-entered the house it was nearly tea-time. Master Tom told me
that, as papa was from home, he and I and Mary Ann were to have tea
with mamma, for a treat; for, on such occasions, she always dined at
luncheon-time with them, instead of at six o’clock. Soon after tea,
Mary Ann went to bed, but Tom favoured us with his company and
conversation till eight. After he was gone, Mrs. Bloomfield further
enlightened me on the subject of her children’s dispositions and
acquirements, and on what they were to learn, and how they were to be
managed, and cautioned me to mention their defects to no one but
herself. My mother had warned me before to mention them as little as
possible to _her_, for people did not like to be told of their
children’s faults, and so I concluded I was to keep silence on them
altogether. About half-past nine, Mrs. Bloomfield invited me to partake
of a frugal supper of cold meat and bread. I was glad when that was
over, and she took her bedroom candlestick and retired to rest; for
though I wished to be pleased with her, her company was extremely
irksome to me; and I could not help feeling that she was cold, grave,
and forbidding—the very opposite of the kind, warm-hearted matron my
hopes had depicted her to be.




CHAPTER III.
A FEW MORE LESSONS


I rose next morning with a feeling of hopeful exhilaration, in spite of
the disappointments already experienced; but I found the dressing of
Mary Ann was no light matter, as her abundant hair was to be smeared
with pomade, plaited in three long tails, and tied with bows of ribbon:
a task my unaccustomed fingers found great difficulty in performing.
She told me her nurse could do it in half the time, and, by keeping up
a constant fidget of impatience, contrived to render me still longer.
When all was done, we went into the schoolroom, where I met my other
pupil, and chatted with the two till it was time to go down to
breakfast. That meal being concluded, and a few civil words having been
exchanged with Mrs. Bloomfield, we repaired to the schoolroom again,
and commenced the business of the day. I found my pupils very backward,
indeed; but Tom, though averse to every species of mental exertion, was
not without abilities. Mary Ann could scarcely read a word, and was so
careless and inattentive that I could hardly get on with her at all.
However, by dint of great labour and patience, I managed to get
something done in the course of the morning, and then accompanied my
young charge out into the garden and adjacent grounds, for a little
recreation before dinner. There we got along tolerably together, except
that I found they had no notion of going with me: I must go with them,
wherever they chose to lead me. I must run, walk, or stand, exactly as
it suited their fancy. This, I thought, was reversing the order of
things; and I found it doubly disagreeable, as on this as well as
subsequent occasions, they seemed to prefer the dirtiest places and the
most dismal occupations. But there was no remedy; either I must follow
them, or keep entirely apart from them, and thus appear neglectful of
my charge. To-day, they manifested a particular attachment to a well at
the bottom of the lawn, where they persisted in dabbling with sticks
and pebbles for above half an hour. I was in constant fear that their
mother would see them from the window, and blame me for allowing them
thus to draggle their clothes and wet their feet and hands, instead of
taking exercise; but no arguments, commands, or entreaties could draw
them away. If _she_ did not see them, some one else did—a gentleman on
horseback had entered the gate and was proceeding up the road; at the
distance of a few paces from us he paused, and calling to the children
in a waspish penetrating tone, bade them “keep out of that water.”
“Miss Grey,” said he, “(I suppose it _is_ Miss Grey), I am surprised
that you should allow them to dirty their clothes in that manner! Don’t
you see how Miss Bloomfield has soiled her frock? and that Master
Bloomfield’s socks are quite wet? and both of them without gloves?
Dear, dear! Let me _request_ that in future you will keep them _decent_
at least!” so saying, he turned away, and continued his ride up to the
house. This was Mr. Bloomfield. I was surprised that he should nominate
his children Master and Miss Bloomfield; and still more so, that he
should speak so uncivilly to me, their governess, and a perfect
stranger to himself. Presently the bell rang to summon us in. I dined
with the children at one, while he and his lady took their luncheon at
the same table. His conduct there did not greatly raise him in my
estimation. He was a man of ordinary stature—rather below than
above—and rather thin than stout, apparently between thirty and forty
years of age: he had a large mouth, pale, dingy complexion, milky blue
eyes, and hair the colour of a hempen cord. There was a roast leg of
mutton before him: he helped Mrs. Bloomfield, the children, and me,
desiring me to cut up the children’s meat; then, after twisting about
the mutton in various directions, and eyeing it from different points,
he pronounced it not fit to be eaten, and called for the cold beef.

“What is the matter with the mutton, my dear?” asked his mate.

“It is quite overdone. Don’t you taste, Mrs. Bloomfield, that all the
goodness is roasted out of it? And can’t you see that all that nice,
red gravy is completely dried away?”

“Well, I think the _beef_ will suit you.”

The beef was set before him, and he began to carve, but with the most
rueful expressions of discontent.

“What is the matter with the _beef_, Mr. Bloomfield? I’m sure I thought
it was very nice.”

“And so it _was_ very nice. A nicer joint could not be; but it is
_quite_ spoiled,” replied he, dolefully.

“How so?”

“How so! Why, don’t you see how it is cut? Dear—dear! it is quite
shocking!”

“They must have cut it wrong in the kitchen, then, for I’m sure I
carved it quite properly here, yesterday.”

“No _doubt_ they cut it wrong in the kitchen—the savages! Dear—dear!
Did ever any one see such a fine piece of beef so completely ruined?
But remember that, in future, when a decent dish leaves this table,
they shall not _touch_ it in the kitchen. Remember _that_, Mrs.
Bloomfield!”

Notwithstanding the ruinous state of the beef, the gentleman managed to
cut himself some delicate slices, part of which he ate in silence. When
he next spoke, it was, in a less querulous tone, to ask what there was
for dinner.

“Turkey and grouse,” was the concise reply.

“And what besides?”

“Fish.”

“What kind of fish?”

“I don’t know.”

“_You don’t know_?” cried he, looking solemnly up from his plate, and
suspending his knife and fork in astonishment.

“No. I told the cook to get some fish—I did not particularize what.”

“Well, that beats everything! A lady professes to keep house, and
doesn’t even know what fish is for dinner! professes to order fish, and
doesn’t specify what!”

“Perhaps, Mr. Bloomfield, you will order dinner yourself in future.”

Nothing more was said; and I was very glad to get out of the room with
my pupils; for I never felt so ashamed and uncomfortable in my life for
anything that was not my own fault.

In the afternoon we applied to lessons again: then went out again; then
had tea in the schoolroom; then I dressed Mary Ann for dessert; and
when she and her brother had gone down to the dining-room, I took the
opportunity of beginning a letter to my dear friends at home: but the
children came up before I had half completed it. At seven I had to put
Mary Ann to bed; then I played with Tom till eight, when he, too, went;
and I finished my letter and unpacked my clothes, which I had hitherto
found no opportunity for doing, and, finally, went to bed myself.

But this is a very favourable specimen of a day’s proceedings.

My task of instruction and surveillance, instead of becoming easier as
my charges and I got better accustomed to each other, became more
arduous as their characters unfolded. The name of governess, I soon
found, was a mere mockery as applied to me: my pupils had no more
notion of obedience than a wild, unbroken colt. The habitual fear of
their father’s peevish temper, and the dread of the punishments he was
wont to inflict when irritated, kept them generally within bounds in
his immediate presence. The girls, too, had some fear of their mother’s
anger; and the boy might occasionally be bribed to do as she bid him by
the hope of reward; but I had no rewards to offer; and as for
punishments, I was given to understand, the parents reserved that
privilege to themselves; and yet they expected me to keep my pupils in
order. Other children might be guided by the fear of anger and the
desire of approbation; but neither the one nor the other had any effect
upon these.

Master Tom, not content with refusing to be ruled, must needs set up as
a ruler, and manifested a determination to keep, not only his sisters,
but his governess in order, by violent manual and pedal applications;
and, as he was a tall, strong boy of his years, this occasioned no
trifling inconvenience. A few sound boxes on the ear, on such
occasions, might have settled the matter easily enough: but as, in that
case, he might make up some story to his mother which she would be sure
to believe, as she had such unshaken faith in his veracity—though I had
already discovered it to be by no means unimpeachable—I determined to
refrain from striking him, even in self-defence; and, in his most
violent moods, my only resource was to throw him on his back and hold
his hands and feet till the frenzy was somewhat abated. To the
difficulty of preventing him from doing what he ought not, was added
that of forcing him to do what he ought. Often he would positively
refuse to learn, or to repeat his lessons, or even to look at his book.
Here, again, a good birch rod might have been serviceable; but, as my
powers were so limited, I must make the best use of what I had.

As there were no settled hours for study and play, I resolved to give
my pupils a certain task, which, with moderate attention, they could
perform in a short time; and till this was done, however weary I was,
or however perverse they might be, nothing short of parental
interference should induce me to suffer them to leave the schoolroom,
even if I should sit with my chair against the door to keep them in.
Patience, Firmness, and Perseverance were my only weapons; and these I
resolved to use to the utmost. I determined always strictly to fulfil
the threats and promises I made; and, to that end, I must be cautious
to threaten and promise nothing that I could not perform. Then, I would
carefully refrain from all useless irritability and indulgence of my
own ill-temper: when they behaved tolerably, I would be as kind and
obliging as it was in my power to be, in order to make the widest
possible distinction between good and bad conduct; I would reason with
them, too, in the simplest and most effective manner. When I reproved
them, or refused to gratify their wishes, after a glaring fault, it
should be more in sorrow than in anger: their little hymns and prayers
I would make plain and clear to their understanding; when they said
their prayers at night and asked pardon for their offences, I would
remind them of the sins of the past day, solemnly, but in perfect
kindness, to avoid raising a spirit of opposition; penitential hymns
should be said by the naughty, cheerful ones by the comparatively good;
and every kind of instruction I would convey to them, as much as
possible, by entertaining discourse—apparently with no other object
than their present amusement in view.

By these means I hoped in time both to benefit the children and to gain
the approbation of their parents; and also to convince my friends at
home that I was not so wanting in skill and prudence as they supposed.
I knew the difficulties I had to contend with were great; but I knew
(at least I believed) unremitting patience and perseverance could
overcome them; and night and morning I implored Divine assistance to
this end. But either the children were so incorrigible, the parents so
unreasonable, or myself so mistaken in my views, or so unable to carry
them out, that my best intentions and most strenuous efforts seemed
productive of no better result than sport to the children,
dissatisfaction to their parents, and torment to myself.

The task of instruction was as arduous for the body as the mind. I had
to run after my pupils to catch them, to carry or drag them to the
table, and often forcibly to hold them there till the lesson was done.
Tom I frequently put into a corner, seating myself before him in a
chair, with a book which contained the little task that must be said or
read, before he was released, in my hand. He was not strong enough to
push both me and the chair away, so he would stand twisting his body
and face into the most grotesque and singular contortions—laughable, no
doubt, to an unconcerned spectator, but not to me—and uttering loud
yells and doleful outcries, intended to represent weeping but wholly
without the accompaniment of tears. I knew this was done solely for the
purpose of annoying me; and, therefore, however I might inwardly
tremble with impatience and irritation, I manfully strove to suppress
all visible signs of molestation, and affected to sit with calm
indifference, waiting till it should please him to cease this pastime,
and prepare for a run in the garden, by casting his eye on the book and
reading or repeating the few words he was required to say. Sometimes he
was determined to do his writing badly; and I had to hold his hand to
prevent him from purposely blotting or disfiguring the paper.
Frequently I threatened that, if he did not do better, he should have
another line: then he would stubbornly refuse to write this line; and
I, to save my word, had finally to resort to the expedient of holding
his fingers upon the pen, and forcibly drawing his hand up and down,
till, in spite of his resistance, the line was in some sort completed.

Yet Tom was by no means the most unmanageable of my pupils: sometimes,
to my great joy, he would have the sense to see that his wisest policy
was to finish his tasks, and go out and amuse himself till I and his
sisters came to join him; which frequently was not at all, for Mary Ann
seldom followed his example in this particular: she apparently
preferred rolling on the floor to any other amusement: down she would
drop like a leaden weight; and when I, with great difficulty, had
succeeded in rooting her thence, I had still to hold her up with one
arm, while with the other I held the book from which she was to read or
spell her lesson. As the dead weight of the big girl of six became too
heavy for one arm to bear, I transferred it to the other; or, if both
were weary of the burden, I carried her into a corner, and told her she
might come out when she should find the use of her feet, and stand up:
but she generally preferred lying there like a log till dinner or
tea-time, when, as I could not deprive her of her meals, she must be
liberated, and would come crawling out with a grin of triumph on her
round, red face. Often she would stubbornly refuse to pronounce some
particular word in her lesson; and now I regret the lost labour I have
had in striving to conquer her obstinacy. If I had passed it over as a
matter of no consequence, it would have been better for both parties,
than vainly striving to overcome it as I did; but I thought it my
absolute duty to crush this vicious tendency in the bud: and so it was,
if I could have done it; and had my powers been less limited, I might
have enforced obedience; but, as it was, it was a trial of strength
between her and me, in which she generally came off victorious; and
every victory served to encourage and strengthen her for a future
contest. In vain I argued, coaxed, entreated, threatened, scolded; in
vain I kept her in from play, or, if obliged to take her out, refused
to play with her, or to speak kindly or have anything to do with her;
in vain I tried to set before her the advantages of doing as she was
bid, and being loved, and kindly treated in consequence, and the
disadvantages of persisting in her absurd perversity. Sometimes, when
she would ask me to do something for her, I would answer,—“Yes, I will,
Mary Ann, if you will only say that word. Come! you’d better say it at
once, and have no more trouble about it.”

“No.”

“Then, of course, I can do nothing for you.”

With me, at her age, or under, neglect and disgrace were the most
dreadful of punishments; but on her they made no impression. Sometimes,
exasperated to the utmost pitch, I would shake her violently by the
shoulder, or pull her long hair, or put her in the corner; for which
she punished me with loud, shrill, piercing screams, that went through
my head like a knife. She knew I hated this, and when she had shrieked
her utmost, would look into my face with an air of vindictive
satisfaction, exclaiming,—“_Now_, then! _that’s_ for you!” and then
shriek again and again, till I was forced to stop my ears. Often these
dreadful cries would bring Mrs. Bloomfield up to inquire what was the
matter?

“Mary Ann is a naughty girl, ma’am.”

“But what are these shocking screams?”

“She is screaming in a passion.”

“I never heard such a dreadful noise! You might be killing her. Why is
she not out with her brother?”

“I cannot get her to finish her lessons.”

“But Mary Ann must be a _good_ girl, and finish her lessons.” This was
blandly spoken to the child. “And I hope I shall _never_ hear such
terrible cries again!”

And fixing her cold, stony eyes upon me with a look that could not be
mistaken, she would shut the door, and walk away. Sometimes I would try
to take the little obstinate creature by surprise, and casually ask her
the word while she was thinking of something else; frequently she would
begin to say it, and then suddenly check herself, with a provoking look
that seemed to say, “Ah! I’m too sharp for you; you shan’t trick it out
of me, either.”

On another occasion, I pretended to forget the whole affair; and talked
and played with her as usual, till night, when I put her to bed; then
bending over her, while she lay all smiles and good humour, just before
departing, I said, as cheerfully and kindly as before—“Now, Mary Ann,
just tell me that word before I kiss you good-night. You are a good
girl now, and, of course, you will say it.”

“No, I won’t.”

“Then I can’t kiss you.”

“Well, I don’t care.”

In vain I expressed my sorrow; in vain I lingered for some symptom of
contrition; she really “didn’t care,” and I left her alone, and in
darkness, wondering most of all at this last proof of insensate
stubbornness. In _my_ childhood I could not imagine a more afflictive
punishment than for my mother to refuse to kiss me at night: the very
idea was terrible. More than the idea I never felt, for, happily, I
never committed a fault that was deemed worthy of such penalty; but
once I remember, for some transgression of my sister’s, our mother
thought proper to inflict it upon her: what _she_ felt, I cannot tell;
but my sympathetic tears and suffering for her sake I shall not soon
forget.

Another troublesome trait in Mary Ann was her incorrigible propensity
to keep running into the nursery, to play with her little sisters and
the nurse. This was natural enough, but, as it was against her mother’s
express desire, I, of course, forbade her to do so, and did my utmost
to keep her with me; but that only increased her relish for the
nursery, and the more I strove to keep her out of it, the oftener she
went, and the longer she stayed, to the great dissatisfaction of Mrs.
Bloomfield, who, I well knew, would impute all the blame of the matter
to me. Another of my trials was the dressing in the morning: at one
time she would not be washed; at another she would not be dressed,
unless she might wear some particular frock, that I knew her mother
would not like her to have; at another she would scream and run away if
I attempted to touch her hair. So that, frequently, when, after much
trouble and toil, I had, at length, succeeded in bringing her down, the
breakfast was nearly half over; and black looks from “mamma,” and testy
observations from “papa,” spoken at me, if not to me, were sure to be
my meed: for few things irritated the latter so much as want of
punctuality at meal times. Then, among the minor annoyances, was my
inability to satisfy Mrs. Bloomfield with her daughter’s dress; and the
child’s hair “was never fit to be seen.” Sometimes, as a powerful
reproach to me, she would perform the office of tire woman herself, and
then complain bitterly of the trouble it gave her.

When little Fanny came into the schoolroom, I hoped she would be mild
and inoffensive, at least; but a few days, if not a few hours, sufficed
to destroy the illusion: I found her a mischievous, intractable little
creature, given up to falsehood and deception, young as she was, and
alarmingly fond of exercising her two favourite weapons of offence and
defence: that of spitting in the faces of those who incurred her
displeasure, and bellowing like a bull when her unreasonable desires
were not gratified. As she, generally, was pretty quiet in her parents’
presence, and they were impressed with the notion of her being a
remarkably gentle child, her falsehoods were readily believed, and her
loud uproars led them to suspect harsh and injudicious treatment on my
part; and when, at length, her bad disposition became manifest even to
their prejudiced eyes, I felt that the whole was attributed to me.

“What a naughty girl Fanny is getting!” Mrs. Bloomfield would say to
her spouse. “Don’t you observe, my dear, how she is altered since she
entered the schoolroom? She will soon be as bad as the other two; and,
I am sorry to say, they have quite deteriorated of late.”

“You may say that,” was the answer. “I’ve been thinking that same
myself. I thought when we got them a governess they’d improve; but,
instead of that, they get worse and worse: I don’t know how it is with
their learning, but their habits, I know, make no sort of improvement;
they get rougher, and dirtier, and more unseemly every day.”

I knew this was all pointed at me; and these, and all similar
innuendoes, affected me far more deeply than any open accusations would
have done; for against the latter I should have been roused to speak in
my own defence: now I judged it my wisest plan to subdue every
resentful impulse, suppress every sensitive shrinking, and go on
perseveringly, doing my best; for, irksome as my situation was, I
earnestly wished to retain it. I thought, if I could struggle on with
unremitting firmness and integrity, the children would in time become
more humanized: every month would contribute to make them some little
wiser, and, consequently, more manageable; for a child of nine or ten
as frantic and ungovernable as these at six and seven would be a
maniac.

I flattered myself I was benefiting my parents and sister by my
continuance here; for small as the salary was, I still was earning
something, and with strict economy I could easily manage to have
something to spare for them, if they would favour me by taking it. Then
it was by my own will that I had got the place: I had brought all this
tribulation on myself, and I was determined to bear it; nay, more than
that, I did not even regret the step I had taken. I longed to show my
friends that, even now, I was competent to undertake the charge, and
able to acquit myself honourably to the end; and if ever I felt it
degrading to submit so quietly, or intolerable to toil so constantly, I
would turn towards my home, and say within myself—

They may crush, but they shall not subdue me!
’Tis of thee that I think, not of them.


About Christmas I was allowed to visit home; but my holiday was only of
a fortnight’s duration: “For,” said Mrs. Bloomfield, “I thought, as you
had seen your friends so lately, you would not care for a longer stay.”
I left her to think so still: but she little knew how long, how
wearisome those fourteen weeks of absence had been to me; how intensely
I had longed for my holidays, how greatly I was disappointed at their
curtailment. Yet she was not to blame in this. I had never told her my
feelings, and she could not be expected to divine them; I had not been
with her a full term, and she was justified in not allowing me a full
vacation.




CHAPTER IV.
THE GRANDMAMMA


I spare my readers the account of my delight on coming home, my
happiness while there—enjoying a brief space of rest and liberty in
that dear, familiar place, among the loving and the loved—and my sorrow
on being obliged to bid them, once more, a long adieu.

I returned, however, with unabated vigour to my work—a more arduous
task than anyone can imagine, who has not felt something like the
misery of being charged with the care and direction of a set of
mischievous, turbulent rebels, whom his utmost exertions cannot bind to
their duty; while, at the same time, he is responsible for their
conduct to a higher power, who exacts from him what cannot be achieved
without the aid of the superior’s more potent authority; which, either
from indolence, or the fear of becoming unpopular with the said
rebellious gang, the latter refuses to give. I can conceive few
situations more harassing than that wherein, however you may long for
success, however you may labour to fulfil your duty, your efforts are
baffled and set at nought by those beneath you, and unjustly censured
and misjudged by those above.

I have not enumerated half the vexatious propensities of my pupils, or
half the troubles resulting from my heavy responsibilities, for fear of
trespassing too much upon the reader’s patience; as, perhaps, I have
already done; but my design in writing the few last pages was not to
amuse, but to benefit those whom it might concern; he that has no
interest in such matters will doubtless have skipped them over with a
cursory glance, and, perhaps, a malediction against the prolixity of
the writer; but if a parent has, therefrom, gathered any useful hint,
or an unfortunate governess received thereby the slightest benefit, I
am well rewarded for my pains.

To avoid trouble and confusion, I have taken my pupils one by one, and
discussed their various qualities; but this can give no adequate idea
of being worried by the whole three together; when, as was often the
case, all were determined to “be naughty, and to tease Miss Grey, and
put her in a passion.”

Sometimes, on such occasions, the thought has suddenly occurred to
me—“If they could see me now!” meaning, of course, my friends at home;
and the idea of how they would pity me has made me pity myself—so
greatly that I have had the utmost difficulty to restrain my tears: but
I have restrained them, till my little tormentors were gone to dessert,
or cleared off to bed (my only prospects of deliverance), and then, in
all the bliss of solitude, I have given myself up to the luxury of an
unrestricted burst of weeping. But this was a weakness I did not often
indulge: my employments were too numerous, my leisure moments too
precious, to admit of much time being given to fruitless lamentations.

I particularly remember one wild, snowy afternoon, soon after my return
in January: the children had all come up from dinner, loudly declaring
that they meant “to be naughty;” and they had well kept their
resolution, though I had talked myself hoarse, and wearied every muscle
in my throat, in the vain attempt to reason them out of it. I had got
Tom pinned up in a corner, whence, I told him, he should not escape
till he had done his appointed task. Meantime, Fanny had possessed
herself of my work-bag, and was rifling its contents—and spitting into
it besides. I told her to let it alone, but to no purpose, of course.
“Burn it, Fanny!” cried Tom: and _this_ command she hastened to obey. I
sprang to snatch it from the fire, and Tom darted to the door. “Mary
Ann, throw her desk out of the window!” cried he: and my precious desk,
containing my letters and papers, my small amount of cash, and all my
valuables, was about to be precipitated from the three-storey window. I
flew to rescue it. Meanwhile Tom had left the room, and was rushing
down the stairs, followed by Fanny. Having secured my desk, I ran to
catch them, and Mary Ann came scampering after. All three escaped me,
and ran out of the house into the garden, where they plunged about in
the snow, shouting and screaming in exultant glee.

What must I do? If I followed them, I should probably be unable to
capture one, and only drive them farther away; if I did not, how was I
to get them in? And what would their parents think of me, if they saw
or heard the children rioting, hatless, bonnetless, gloveless, and
bootless, in the deep soft snow? While I stood in this perplexity, just
without the door, trying, by grim looks and angry words, to awe them
into subjection, I heard a voice behind me, in harshly piercing tones,
exclaiming,—

“Miss Grey! Is it possible? What, in the devil’s name, can you be
thinking about?”

“I can’t get them in, sir,” said I, turning round, and beholding Mr.
Bloomfield, with his hair on end, and his pale blue eyes bolting from
their sockets.

“But I INSIST upon their being got in!” cried he, approaching nearer,
and looking perfectly ferocious.

“Then, sir, you must call them yourself, if you please, for they won’t
listen to me,” I replied, stepping back.

“Come in with you, you filthy brats; or I’ll horsewhip you every one!”
roared he; and the children instantly obeyed. “There, you see!—they
come at the first word!”

“Yes, when _you_ speak.”

“And it’s very strange, that when you’ve the care of ’em you’ve no
better control over ’em than that!—Now, there they are—gone upstairs
with their nasty snowy feet! Do go after ’em and see them made decent,
for heaven’s sake!”

That gentleman’s mother was then staying in the house; and, as I
ascended the stairs and passed the drawing-room door, I had the
satisfaction of hearing the old lady declaiming aloud to her
daughter-in-law to this effect (for I could only distinguish the most
emphatic words)—

“Gracious heavens!—never in all my life—!—get their death as sure as—!
Do you think, my dear, she’s a _proper person_? Take my word for it—”

I heard no more; but that sufficed.

The senior Mrs. Bloomfield had been very attentive and civil to me; and
till now I had thought her a nice, kind-hearted, chatty old body. She
would often come to me and talk in a confidential strain; nodding and
shaking her head, and gesticulating with hands and eyes, as a certain
class of old ladies are wont to do; though I never knew one that
carried the peculiarity to so great an extent. She would even
sympathise with me for the trouble I had with the children, and express
at times, by half sentences, interspersed with nods and knowing winks,
her sense of the injudicious conduct of their mamma in so restricting
my power, and neglecting to support me with her authority. Such a mode
of testifying disapprobation was not much to my taste; and I generally
refused to take it in, or understand anything more than was openly
spoken; at least, I never went farther than an implied acknowledgment
that, if matters were otherwise ordered my task would be a less
difficult one, and I should be better able to guide and instruct my
charge; but now I must be doubly cautious. Hitherto, though I saw the
old lady had her defects (of which one was a proneness to proclaim her
perfections), I had always been wishful to excuse them, and to give her
credit for all the virtues she professed, and even imagine others yet
untold. Kindness, which had been the food of my life through so many
years, had lately been so entirely denied me, that I welcomed with
grateful joy the slightest semblance of it. No wonder, then, that my
heart warmed to the old lady, and always gladdened at her approach and
regretted her departure.

But now, the few words luckily or unluckily heard in passing had wholly
revolutionized my ideas respecting her: now I looked upon her as
hypocritical and insincere, a flatterer, and a spy upon my words and
deeds. Doubtless it would have been my interest still to meet her with
the same cheerful smile and tone of respectful cordiality as before;
but I could not, if I would: my manner altered with my feelings, and
became so cold and shy that she could not fail to notice it. She soon
did notice it, and _her_ manner altered too: the familiar nod was
changed to a stiff bow, the gracious smile gave place to a glare of
Gorgon ferocity; her vivacious loquacity was entirely transferred from
me to “the darling boy and girls,” whom she flattered and indulged more
absurdly than ever their mother had done.

I confess I was somewhat troubled at this change: I feared the
consequences of her displeasure, and even made some efforts to recover
the ground I had lost—and with better apparent success than I could
have anticipated. At one time, I, merely in common civility, asked
after her cough; immediately her long visage relaxed into a smile, and
she favoured me with a particular history of that and her other
infirmities, followed by an account of her pious resignation, delivered
in the usual emphatic, declamatory style, which no writing can portray.

“But there’s one remedy for all, my dear, and that’s resignation” (a
toss of the head), “resignation to the will of heaven!” (an uplifting
of the hands and eyes). “It has always supported me through all my
trials, and always will do” (a succession of nods). “But then, it isn’t
everybody that can say that” (a shake of the head); “but I’m one of the
pious ones, Miss Grey!” (a very significant nod and toss). “And, thank
heaven, I always was” (another nod), “and I glory in it!” (an emphatic
clasping of the hands and shaking of the head). And with several texts
of Scripture, misquoted or misapplied, and religious exclamations so
redolent of the ludicrous in the style of delivery and manner of
bringing in, if not in the expressions themselves, that I decline
repeating them, she withdrew; tossing her large head in high
good-humour—with herself at least—and left me hoping that, after all,
she was rather weak than wicked.

At her next visit to Wellwood House, I went so far as to say I was glad
to see her looking so well. The effect of this was magical: the words,
intended as a mark of civility, were received as a flattering
compliment; her countenance brightened up, and from that moment she
became as gracious and benign as heart could wish—in outward semblance
at least. From what I now saw of her, and what I heard from the
children, I know that, in order to gain her cordial friendship, I had
but to utter a word of flattery at each convenient opportunity: but
this was against my principles; and for lack of this, the capricious
old dame soon deprived me of her favour again, and I believe did me
much secret injury.

She could not greatly influence her daughter-in-law against me,
because, between that lady and herself there was a mutual
dislike—chiefly shown by her in secret detractions and calumniations;
by the other, in an excess of frigid formality in her demeanour; and no
fawning flattery of the elder could thaw away the wall of ice which the
younger interposed between them. But with her son, the old lady had
better success: he would listen to all she had to say, provided she
could soothe his fretful temper, and refrain from irritating him by her
own asperities; and I have reason to believe that she considerably
strengthened his prejudice against me. She would tell him that I
shamefully neglected the children, and even his wife did not attend to
them as she ought; and that he must look after them himself, or they
would all go to ruin.

Thus urged, he would frequently give himself the trouble of watching
them from the windows during their play; at times, he would follow them
through the grounds, and too often came suddenly upon them while they
were dabbling in the forbidden well, talking to the coachman in the
stables, or revelling in the filth of the farm-yard—and I, meanwhile,
wearily standing by, having previously exhausted my energy in vain
attempts to get them away. Often, too, he would unexpectedly pop his
head into the schoolroom while the young people were at meals, and find
them spilling their milk over the table and themselves, plunging their
fingers into their own or each other’s mugs, or quarrelling over their
victuals like a set of tiger’s cubs. If I were quiet at the moment, I
was conniving at their disorderly conduct; if (as was frequently the
case) I happened to be exalting my voice to enforce order, I was using
undue violence, and setting the girls a bad example by such
ungentleness of tone and language.

I remember one afternoon in spring, when, owing to the rain, they could
not go out; but, by some amazing good fortune, they had all finished
their lessons, and yet abstained from running down to tease their
parents—a trick that annoyed me greatly, but which, on rainy days, I
seldom could prevent their doing; because, below, they found novelty
and amusement—especially when visitors were in the house; and their
mother, though she bid me keep them in the schoolroom, would never
chide them for leaving it, or trouble herself to send them back. But
this day they appeared satisfied with their present abode, and what is
more wonderful still, seemed disposed to play together without
depending on me for amusement, and without quarrelling with each other.
Their occupation was a somewhat puzzling one: they were all squatted
together on the floor by the window, over a heap of broken toys and a
quantity of birds’ eggs—or rather egg-shells, for the contents had
luckily been abstracted. These shells they had broken up and were
pounding into small fragments, to what end I could not imagine; but so
long as they were quiet and not in positive mischief, I did not care;
and, with a feeling of unusual repose, I sat by the fire, putting the
finishing stitches to a frock for Mary Ann’s doll; intending, when that
was done, to begin a letter to my mother. Suddenly the door opened, and
the dingy head of Mr. Bloomfield looked in.

“All very quiet here! What are you doing?” said he. “No harm _to-day_,
at least,” thought I. But he was of a different opinion. Advancing to
the window, and seeing the children’s occupations, he testily
exclaimed—“What in the world are you about?”

“We’re grinding egg-shells, papa!” cried Tom.

“How _dare_ you make such a mess, you little devils? Don’t you see what
confounded work you’re making of the carpet?” (the carpet was a plain
brown drugget). “Miss Grey, did you know what they were doing?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You knew it?”

“Yes.”

“You knew it! and you actually sat there and permitted them to go on
without a word of reproof!”

“I didn’t think they were doing any harm.”

“Any harm! Why, look there! Just look at that carpet, and see—was there
ever anything like it in a Christian house before? No wonder your room
is not fit for a pigsty—no wonder your pupils are worse than a litter
of pigs!—no wonder—oh! I declare, it puts me quite past my patience”
and he departed, shutting the door after him with a bang that made the
children laugh.

“It puts me quite past my patience too!” muttered I, getting up; and,
seizing the poker, I dashed it repeatedly into the cinders, and stirred
them up with unwonted energy; thus easing my irritation under pretence
of mending the fire.

After this, Mr. Bloomfield was continually looking in to see if the
schoolroom was in order; and, as the children were continually
littering the floor with fragments of toys, sticks, stones, stubble,
leaves, and other rubbish, which I could not prevent their bringing, or
oblige them to gather up, and which the servants refused to “clean
after them,” I had to spend a considerable portion of my valuable
leisure moments on my knees upon the floor, in painsfully reducing
things to order. Once I told them that they should not taste their
supper till they had picked up everything from the carpet; Fanny might
have hers when she had taken up a certain quantity, Mary Ann when she
had gathered twice as many, and Tom was to clear away the rest.
Wonderful to state, the girls did their part; but Tom was in such a
fury that he flew upon the table, scattered the bread and milk about
the floor, struck his sisters, kicked the coals out of the coal-pan,
attempted to overthrow the table and chairs, and seemed inclined to
make a Douglas-larder of the whole contents of the room: but I seized
upon him, and, sending Mary Ann to call her mamma, held him, in spite
of kicks, blows, yells, and execrations, till Mrs. Bloomfield made her
appearance.

“What is the matter with my boy?” said she.

And when the matter was explained to her, all she did was to send for
the nursery-maid to put the room in order, and bring Master Bloomfield
his supper.

“There now,” cried Tom, triumphantly, looking up from his viands with
his mouth almost too full for speech. “There now, Miss Grey! you see
I’ve got my supper in spite of you: and I haven’t picked up a single
thing!”

The only person in the house who had any real sympathy for me was the
nurse; for she had suffered like afflictions, though in a smaller
degree; as she had not the task of teaching, nor was she so responsible
for the conduct of her charge.

“Oh, Miss Grey!” she would say, “you have some trouble with them
childer!”

“I have, indeed, Betty; and I daresay you know what it is.”

“Ay, I do so! But I don’t vex myself o’er ’em as you do. And then, you
see, I hit ’em a slap sometimes: and them little ’uns—I gives ’em a
good whipping now and then: there’s nothing else will do for ’em, as
what they say. Howsoever, I’ve lost my place for it.”

“Have you, Betty? I heard you were going to leave.”

“Eh, bless you, yes! Missis gave me warning a three wik sin”. She told
me afore Christmas how it mud be, if I hit ’em again; but I couldn’t
hold my hand off ’em at nothing. I know not how _you_ do, for Miss Mary
Ann’s worse by the half nor her sisters!”




CHAPTER V.
THE UNCLE


Besides the old lady, there was another relative of the family, whose
visits were a great annoyance to me—this was “Uncle Robson,” Mrs.
Bloomfield’s brother; a tall, self-sufficient fellow, with dark hair
and sallow complexion like his sister, a nose that seemed to disdain
the earth, and little grey eyes, frequently half-closed, with a mixture
of real stupidity and affected contempt of all surrounding objects. He
was a thick-set, strongly-built man, but he had found some means of
compressing his waist into a remarkably small compass; and that,
together with the unnatural stillness of his form, showed that the
lofty-minded, manly Mr. Robson, the scorner of the female sex, was not
above the foppery of stays. He seldom deigned to notice me; and, when
he did, it was with a certain supercilious insolence of tone and manner
that convinced me he was no gentleman: though it was intended to have a
contrary effect. But it was not for that I disliked his coming, so much
as for the harm he did the children—encouraging all their evil
propensities, and undoing in a few minutes the little good it had taken
me months of labour to achieve.

Fanny and little Harriet he seldom condescended to notice; but Mary Ann
was something of a favourite. He was continually encouraging her
tendency to affectation (which I had done my utmost to crush), talking
about her pretty face, and filling her head with all manner of
conceited notions concerning her personal appearance (which I had
instructed her to regard as dust in the balance compared with the
cultivation of her mind and manners); and I never saw a child so
susceptible of flattery as she was. Whatever was wrong, in either her
or her brother, he would encourage by laughing at, if not by actually
praising: people little know the injury they do to children by laughing
at their faults, and making a pleasant jest of what their true friends
have endeavoured to teach them to hold in grave abhorrence.

Though not a positive drunkard, Mr. Robson habitually swallowed great
quantities of wine, and took with relish an occasional glass of brandy
and water. He taught his nephew to imitate him in this to the utmost of
his ability, and to believe that the more wine and spirits he could
take, and the better he liked them, the more he manifested his bold,
and manly spirit, and rose superior to his sisters. Mr. Bloomfield had
not much to say against it, for his favourite beverage was gin and
water; of which he took a considerable portion every day, by dint of
constant sipping—and to that I chiefly attributed his dingy complexion
and waspish temper.

Mr. Robson likewise encouraged Tom’s propensity to persecute the lower
creation, both by precept and example. As he frequently came to course
or shoot over his brother-in-law’s grounds, he would bring his
favourite dogs with him; and he treated them so brutally that, poor as
I was, I would have given a sovereign any day to see one of them bite
him, provided the animal could have done it with impunity. Sometimes,
when in a very complacent mood, he would go a-birds’-nesting with the
children, a thing that irritated and annoyed me exceedingly; as, by
frequent and persevering attempts, I flattered myself I had partly
shown them the evil of this pastime, and hoped, in time, to bring them
to some general sense of justice and humanity; but ten minutes’
birds’-nesting with uncle Robson, or even a laugh from him at some
relation of their former barbarities, was sufficient at once to destroy
the effect of my whole elaborate course of reasoning and persuasion.
Happily, however, during that spring, they never, but once, got
anything but empty nests, or eggs—being too impatient to leave them
till the birds were hatched; that once, Tom, who had been with his
uncle into the neighbouring plantation, came running in high glee into
the garden, with a brood of little callow nestlings in his hands. Mary
Ann and Fanny, whom I was just bringing out, ran to admire his spoils,
and to beg each a bird for themselves. “No, not one!” cried Tom.
“They’re all mine; uncle Robson gave them to me—one, two, three, four,
five—you shan’t touch one of them! no, not one, for your lives!”
continued he, exultingly; laying the nest on the ground, and standing
over it with his legs wide apart, his hands thrust into his
breeches-pockets, his body bent forward, and his face twisted into all
manner of contortions in the ecstasy of his delight.

“But you shall see me fettle ’em off. My word, but I _will_ wallop ’em?
See if I don’t now. By gum! but there’s rare sport for me in that
nest.”

“But, Tom,” said I, “I shall not allow you to torture those birds. They
must either be killed at once or carried back to the place you took
them from, that the old birds may continue to feed them.”

“But you don’t know where that is, Madam: it’s only me and uncle Robson
that knows that.”

“But if you don’t tell me, I shall kill them myself—much as I hate it.”

“You daren’t. You daren’t touch them for your life! because you know
papa and mamma, and uncle Robson, would be angry. Ha, ha! I’ve caught
you there, Miss!”

“I shall do what I think right in a case of this sort without
consulting any one. If your papa and mamma don’t happen to approve of
it, I shall be sorry to offend them; but your uncle Robson’s opinions,
of course, are nothing to me.”

So saying—urged by a sense of duty—at the risk of both making myself
sick and incurring the wrath of my employers—I got a large flat stone,
that had been reared up for a mouse-trap by the gardener; then, having
once more vainly endeavoured to persuade the little tyrant to let the
birds be carried back, I asked what he intended to do with them. With
fiendish glee he commenced a list of torments; and while he was busied
in the relation, I dropped the stone upon his intended victims and
crushed them flat beneath it. Loud were the outcries, terrible the
execrations, consequent upon this daring outrage; uncle Robson had been
coming up the walk with his gun, and was just then pausing to kick his
dog. Tom flew towards him, vowing he would make him kick me instead of
Juno. Mr. Robson leant upon his gun, and laughed excessively at the
violence of his nephew’s passion, and the bitter maledictions and
opprobrious epithets he heaped upon me. “Well, you _are_ a good ’un!”
exclaimed he, at length, taking up his weapon and proceeding towards
the house. “Damme, but the lad has some spunk in him, too. Curse me, if
ever I saw a nobler little scoundrel than that. He’s beyond petticoat
government already: by God! he defies mother, granny, governess, and
all! Ha, ha, ha! Never mind, Tom, I’ll get you another brood
to-morrow.”

“If you do, Mr. Robson, I shall kill them too,” said I.

“Humph!” replied he, and having honoured me with a broad stare—which,
contrary to his expectations, I sustained without flinching—he turned
away with an air of supreme contempt, and stalked into the house. Tom
next went to tell his mamma. It was not her way to say much on any
subject; but, when she next saw me, her aspect and demeanour were
doubly dark and chilled. After some casual remark about the weather,
she observed—“I am sorry, Miss Grey, you should think it necessary to
interfere with Master Bloomfield’s amusements; he was very much
distressed about your destroying the birds.”

“When Master Bloomfield’s amusements consist in injuring sentient
creatures,” I answered, “I think it my duty to interfere.”

“You seemed to have forgotten,” said she, calmly, “that the creatures
were all created for our convenience.”

I thought that doctrine admitted some doubt, but merely replied—“If
they were, we have no right to torment them for our amusement.”

“I think,” said she, “a child’s amusement is scarcely to be weighed
against the welfare of a soulless brute.”

“But, for the child’s own sake, it ought not to be encouraged to have
such amusements,” answered I, as meekly as I could, to make up for such
unusual pertinacity. “‘Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain
mercy.’”

“Oh! of course; but that refers to our conduct towards each other.”

“‘The merciful man shows mercy to his beast,’” I ventured to add.

“I think _you_ have not shown much mercy,” replied she, with a short,
bitter laugh; “killing the poor birds by wholesale in that shocking
manner, and putting the dear boy to such misery for a mere whim.”

I judged it prudent to say no more. This was the nearest approach to a
quarrel I ever had with Mrs. Bloomfield; as well as the greatest number
of words I ever exchanged with her at one time, since the day of my
first arrival.

But Mr. Robson and old Mrs. Bloomfield were not the only guests whose
coming to Wellwood House annoyed me; every visitor disturbed me more or
less; not so much because they neglected me (though I did feel their
conduct strange and disagreeable in that respect), as because I found
it impossible to keep my pupils away from them, as I was repeatedly
desired to do: Tom must talk to them, and Mary Ann must be noticed by
them. Neither the one nor the other knew what it was to feel any degree
of shamefacedness, or even common modesty. They would indecently and
clamorously interrupt the conversation of their elders, tease them with
the most impertinent questions, roughly collar the gentlemen, climb
their knees uninvited, hang about their shoulders or rifle their
pockets, pull the ladies’ gowns, disorder their hair, tumble their
collars, and importunately beg for their trinkets.

Mrs. Bloomfield had the sense to be shocked and annoyed at all this,
but she had not sense to prevent it: she expected me to prevent it. But
how could I—when the guests, with their fine clothes and new faces,
continually flattered and indulged them, out of complaisance to their
parents—how could I, with my homely garments, every-day face, and
honest words, draw them away? I strained every nerve to do so: by
striving to amuse them, I endeavoured to attract them to my side; by
the exertion of such authority as I possessed, and by such severity as
I dared to use, I tried to deter them from tormenting the guests; and
by reproaching their unmannerly conduct, to make them ashamed to repeat
it. But they knew no shame; they scorned authority which had no terrors
to back it; and as for kindness and affection, either they had no
hearts, or such as they had were so strongly guarded, and so well
concealed, that I, with all my efforts, had not yet discovered how to
reach them.

But soon my trials in this quarter came to a close—sooner than I either
expected or desired; for one sweet evening towards the close of May, as
I was rejoicing in the near approach of the holidays, and
congratulating myself upon having made some progress with my pupils (as
far as their learning went, at least, for I _had_ instilled _something_
into their heads, and I had, at length, brought them to be a little—a
very little—more rational about getting their lessons done in time to
leave some space for recreation, instead of tormenting themselves and
me all day long to no purpose), Mrs. Bloomfield sent for me, and calmly
told me that after Midsummer my services would be no longer required.
She assured me that my character and general conduct were
unexceptionable; but the children had made so little improvement since
my arrival that Mr. Bloomfield and she felt it their duty to seek some
other mode of instruction. Though superior to most children of their
years in abilities, they were decidedly behind them in attainments;
their manners were uncultivated, and their tempers unruly. And this she
attributed to a want of sufficient firmness, and diligent, persevering
care on my part.

Unshaken firmness, devoted diligence, unwearied perseverance, unceasing
care, were the very qualifications on which I had secretly prided
myself; and by which I had hoped in time to overcome all difficulties,
and obtain success at last. I wished to say something in my own
justification; but in attempting to speak, I felt my voice falter; and
rather than testify any emotion, or suffer the tears to overflow that
were already gathering in my eyes, I chose to keep silence, and bear
all like a self-convicted culprit.

Thus was I dismissed, and thus I sought my home. Alas! what would they
think of me? unable, after all my boasting, to keep my place, even for
a single year, as governess to three small children, whose mother was
asserted by my own aunt to be a “very nice woman.” Having been thus
weighed in the balance and found wanting, I need not hope they would be
willing to try me again. And this was an unwelcome thought; for vexed,
harassed, disappointed as I had been, and greatly as I had learned to
love and value my home, I was not yet weary of adventure, nor willing
to relax my efforts. I knew that all parents were not like Mr. and Mrs.
Bloomfield, and I was certain all children were not like theirs. The
next family must be different, and any change must be for the better. I
had been seasoned by adversity, and tutored by experience, and I longed
to redeem my lost honour in the eyes of those whose opinion was more
than that of all the world to me.




CHAPTER VI.
THE PARSONAGE AGAIN


For a few months I remained peaceably at home, in the quiet enjoyment
of liberty and rest, and genuine friendship, from all of which I had
fasted so long; and in the earnest prosecution of my studies, to
recover what I had lost during my stay at Wellwood House, and to lay in
new stores for future use. My father’s health was still very infirm,
but not materially worse than when I last saw him; and I was glad I had
it in my power to cheer him by my return, and to amuse him with singing
his favourite songs.

No one triumphed over my failure, or said I had better have taken his
or her advice, and quietly stayed at home. All were glad to have me
back again, and lavished more kindness than ever upon me, to make up
for the sufferings I had undergone; but not one would touch a shilling
of what I had so cheerfully earned and so carefully saved, in the hope
of sharing it with them. By dint of pinching here, and scraping there,
our debts were already nearly paid. Mary had had good success with her
drawings; but our father had insisted upon _her_ likewise keeping all
the produce of her industry to herself. All we could spare from the
supply of our humble wardrobe and our little casual expenses, he
directed us to put into the savings’-bank; saying, we knew not how soon
we might be dependent on that alone for support: for he felt he had not
long to be with us, and what would become of our mother and us when he
was gone, God only knew!

Dear papa! if he had troubled himself less about the afflictions that
threatened us in case of his death, I am convinced that dreaded event
would not have taken place so soon. My mother would never suffer him to
ponder on the subject if she could help it.

“Oh, Richard!” exclaimed she, on one occasion, “if you would but
dismiss such gloomy subjects from your mind, you would live as long as
any of us; at least you would live to see the girls married, and
yourself a happy grandfather, with a canty old dame for your
companion.”

My mother laughed, and so did my father: but his laugh soon perished in
a dreary sigh.

“_They_ married—poor penniless things!” said he; “who will take them I
wonder!”

“Why, nobody shall that isn’t thankful for them. Wasn’t I penniless
when you took me? and you _pretended_, at least, to be vastly pleased
with your acquisition. But it’s no matter whether they get married or
not: we can devise a thousand honest ways of making a livelihood. And I
wonder, Richard, you can think of bothering your head about our
_poverty_ in case of your death; as if _that_ would be anything
compared with the calamity of losing you—an affliction that you well
know would swallow up all others, and which you ought to do your utmost
to preserve us from: and there is nothing like a cheerful mind for
keeping the body in health.”

“I know, Alice, it is wrong to keep repining as I do, but I cannot help
it: you must bear with me.”

“I _won’t_ bear with you, if I can alter you,” replied my mother: but
the harshness of her words was undone by the earnest affection of her
tone and pleasant smile, that made my father smile again, less sadly
and less transiently than was his wont.

“Mamma,” said I, as soon as I could find an opportunity of speaking
with her alone, “my money is but little, and cannot last long; if I
could increase it, it would lessen papa’s anxiety, on one subject at
least. I cannot draw like Mary, and so the best thing I could do would
be to look out for another situation.”

“And so you would actually try again, Agnes?”

“Decidedly, I would.”

“Why, my dear, I should have thought you had had enough of it.”

“I know,” said I, “everybody is not like Mr. and Mrs. Bloomfield—”

“Some are worse,” interrupted my mother.

“But not many, I think,” replied I, “and I’m sure all children are not
like theirs; for I and Mary were not: we always did as you bid us,
didn’t we?”

“Generally: but then, I did not spoil you; and you were not perfect
angels after all: Mary had a fund of quiet obstinacy, and you were
somewhat faulty in regard to temper; but you were very good children on
the whole.”

“I know I was sulky sometimes, and I should have been glad to see these
children sulky sometimes too; for then I could have understood them:
but they never were, for they _could_ not be offended, nor hurt, nor
ashamed: they could not be unhappy in any way, except when they were in
a passion.”

“Well, if they _could_ not, it was not their fault: you cannot expect
stone to be as pliable as clay.”

“No, but still it is very unpleasant to live with such unimpressible,
incomprehensible creatures. You cannot love them; and if you could,
your love would be utterly thrown away: they could neither return it,
nor value, nor understand it. But, however, even if I should stumble on
such a family again, which is quite unlikely, I have all this
experience to begin with, and I should manage better another time; and
the end and aim of this preamble is, let me try again.”

“Well, my girl, you are not easily discouraged, I see: I am glad of
that. But, let me tell you, you are a good deal paler and thinner than
when you first left home; and we cannot have you undermining your
health to hoard up money either for yourself or others.”

“Mary tells me I am changed too; and I don’t much wonder at it, for I
was in a constant state of agitation and anxiety all day long: but next
time I am determined to take things coolly.”

After some further discussion, my mother promised once more to assist
me, provided I would wait and be patient; and I left her to broach the
matter to my father, when and how she deemed it most advisable: never
doubting her ability to obtain his consent. Meantime, I searched, with
great interest, the advertising columns of the newspapers, and wrote
answers to every “Wanted a Governess” that appeared at all eligible;
but all my letters, as well as the replies, when I got any, were
dutifully shown to my mother; and she, to my chagrin, made me reject
the situations one after another: these were low people, these were too
exacting in their demands, and these too niggardly in their
remuneration.

“Your talents are not such as every poor clergyman’s daughter
possesses, Agnes,” she would say, “and you must not throw them away.
Remember, you promised to be patient: there is no need of hurry: you
have plenty of time before you, and may have many chances yet.”

At length, she advised me to put an advertisement, myself, in the
paper, stating my qualifications, &c.

“Music, singing, drawing, French, Latin, and German,” said she, “are no
mean assemblage: many will be glad to have so much in one instructor;
and this time, you shall try your fortune in a somewhat higher
family—in that of some genuine, thoroughbred gentleman; for such are
far more likely to treat you with proper respect and consideration than
those purse-proud tradespeople and arrogant upstarts. I have known
several among the higher ranks who treated their governesses quite as
one of the family; though some, I allow, are as insolent and exacting
as any one else can be: for there are bad and good in all classes.”

The advertisement was quickly written and despatched. Of the two
parties who answered it, but one would consent to give me fifty pounds,
the sum my mother bade me name as the salary I should require; and
here, I hesitated about engaging myself, as I feared the children would
be too old, and their parents would require some one more showy, or
more experienced, if not more accomplished than I. But my mother
dissuaded me from declining it on that account: I should do vastly
well, she said, if I would only throw aside my diffidence, and acquire
a little more confidence in myself. I was just to give a plain, true
statement of my acquirements and qualifications, and name what
stipulations I chose to make, and then await the result. The only
stipulation I ventured to propose, was that I might be allowed two
months’ holidays during the year to visit my friends, at Midsummer and
Christmas. The unknown lady, in her reply, made no objection to this,
and stated that, as to my acquirements, she had no doubt I should be
able to give satisfaction; but in the engagement of governesses she
considered those things as but subordinate points; as being situated in
the neighbourhood of O——, she could get masters to supply any
deficiencies in that respect: but, in her opinion, next to
unimpeachable morality, a mild and cheerful temper and obliging
disposition were the most essential requisities.

My mother did not relish this at all, and now made many objections to
my accepting the situation; in which my sister warmly supported her:
but, unwilling to be balked again, I overruled them all; and, having
first obtained the consent of my father (who had, a short time
previously, been apprised of these transactions), I wrote a most
obliging epistle to my unknown correspondent, and, finally, the bargain
was concluded.

It was decreed that on the last day of January I was to enter upon my
new office as governess in the family of Mr. Murray, of Horton Lodge,
near O——, about seventy miles from our village: a formidable distance
to me, as I had never been above twenty miles from home in all the
course of my twenty years’ sojourn on earth; and as, moreover, every
individual in that family and in the neighbourhood was utterly unknown
to myself and all my acquaintances. But this rendered it only the more
piquant to me. I had now, in some measure, got rid of the _mauvaise
honte_ that had formerly oppressed me so much; there was a pleasing
excitement in the idea of entering these unknown regions, and making my
way alone among its strange inhabitants. I now flattered myself I was
going to see something in the world: Mr. Murray’s residence was near a
large town, and not in a manufacturing district, where the people had
nothing to do but to make money; his rank from what I could gather,
appeared to be higher than that of Mr. Bloomfield; and, doubtless, he
was one of those genuine thoroughbred gentry my mother spoke of, who
would treat his governess with due consideration as a respectable
well-educated lady, the instructor and guide of his children, and not a
mere upper servant. Then, my pupils being older, would be more
rational, more teachable, and less troublesome than the last; they
would be less confined to the schoolroom, and not require that constant
labour and incessant watching; and, finally, bright visions mingled
with my hopes, with which the care of children and the mere duties of a
governess had little or nothing to do. Thus, the reader will see that I
had no claim to be regarded as a martyr to filial piety, going forth to
sacrifice peace and liberty for the sole purpose of laying up stores
for the comfort and support of my parents: though certainly the comfort
of my father, and the future support of my mother, had a large share in
my calculations; and fifty pounds appeared to me no ordinary sum. I
must have decent clothes becoming my station; I must, it seemed, put
out my washing, and also pay for my four annual journeys between Horton
Lodge and home; but with strict attention to economy, surely twenty
pounds, or little more, would cover those expenses, and then there
would be thirty for the bank, or little less: what a valuable addition
to our stock! Oh, I must struggle to keep this situation, whatever it
might be! both for my own honour among my friends and for the solid
services I might render them by my continuance there.




CHAPTER VII.
HORTON LODGE


The 31st of January was a wild, tempestuous day: there was a strong
north wind, with a continual storm of snow drifting on the ground and
whirling through the air. My friends would have had me delay my
departure, but fearful of prejudicing my employers against me by such
want of punctuality at the commencement of my undertaking, I persisted
in keeping the appointment.

I will not inflict upon my readers an account of my leaving home on
that dark winter morning: the fond farewells, the long, long journey to
O——, the solitary waitings in inns for coaches or trains—for there were
some railways then—and, finally, the meeting at O—— with Mr. Murray’s
servant, who had been sent with the phaeton to drive me from thence to
Horton Lodge. I will just state that the heavy snow had thrown such
impediments in the way of both horses and steam-engines, that it was
dark some hours before I reached my journey’s end, and that a most
bewildering storm came on at last, which made the few miles’ space
between O—— and Horton Lodge a long and formidable passage. I sat
resigned, with the cold, sharp snow drifting through my veil and
filling my lap, seeing nothing, and wondering how the unfortunate horse
and driver could make their way even as well as they did; and indeed it
was but a toilsome, creeping style of progression, to say the best of
it. At length we paused; and, at the call of the driver, someone
unlatched and rolled back upon their creaking hinges what appeared to
be the park gates. Then we proceeded along a smoother road, whence,
occasionally, I perceived some huge, hoary mass gleaming through the
darkness, which I took to be a portion of a snow-clad tree. After a
considerable time we paused again, before the stately portico of a
large house with long windows descending to the ground.

I rose with some difficulty from under the superincumbent snowdrift,
and alighted from the carriage, expecting that a kind and hospitable
reception would indemnify me for the toils and hardships of the day. A
gentlemanly person in black opened the door, and admitted me into a
spacious hall, lighted by an amber-coloured lamp suspended from the
ceiling; he led me through this, along a passage, and opening the door
of a back room, told me that was the schoolroom. I entered, and found
two young ladies and two young gentlemen—my future pupils, I supposed.
After a formal greeting, the elder girl, who was trifling over a piece
of canvas and a basket of German wools, asked if I should like to go
upstairs. I replied in the affirmative, of course.

“Matilda, take a candle, and show her her room,” said she.

Miss Matilda, a strapping hoyden of about fourteen, with a short frock
and trousers, shrugged her shoulders and made a slight grimace, but
took a candle and proceeded before me up the back stairs (a long,
steep, double flight), and through a long, narrow passage, to a small
but tolerably comfortable room. She then asked me if I would take some
tea or coffee. I was about to answer No; but remembering that I had
taken nothing since seven o’clock that morning, and feeling faint in
consequence, I said I would take a cup of tea. Saying she would tell
“Brown,” the young lady departed; and by the time I had divested myself
of my heavy, wet cloak, shawl, bonnet, &c., a mincing damsel came to
say the young ladies desired to know whether I would take my tea up
there or in the schoolroom. Under the plea of fatigue I chose to take
it there. She withdrew; and, after a while, returned again with a small
tea-tray, and placed it on the chest of drawers, which served as a
dressing-table. Having civilly thanked her, I asked at what time I
should be expected to rise in the morning.

“The young ladies and gentlemen breakfast at half-past eight, ma’am,”
said she; “they rise early; but, as they seldom do any lessons before
breakfast, I should think it will do if you rise soon after seven.”

I desired her to be so kind as to call me at seven, and, promising to
do so, she withdrew. Then, having broken my long fast on a cup of tea
and a little thin bread and butter, I sat down beside the small,
smouldering fire, and amused myself with a hearty fit of crying; after
which, I said my prayers, and then, feeling considerably relieved,
began to prepare for bed. Finding that none of my luggage was brought
up, I instituted a search for the bell; and failing to discover any
signs of such a convenience in any corner of the room, I took my candle
and ventured through the long passage, and down the steep stairs, on a
voyage of discovery. Meeting a well-dressed female on the way, I told
her what I wanted; but not without considerable hesitation, as I was
not quite sure whether it was one of the upper servants, or Mrs. Murray
herself: it happened, however, to be the lady’s-maid. With the air of
one conferring an unusual favour, she vouchsafed to undertake the
sending up of my things; and when I had re-entered my room, and waited
and wondered a long time (greatly fearing that she had forgotten or
neglected to perform her promise, and doubting whether to keep waiting
or go to bed, or go down again), my hopes, at length, were revived by
the sound of voices and laughter, accompanied by the tramp of feet
along the passage; and presently the luggage was brought in by a
rough-looking maid and a man, neither of them very respectful in their
demeanour to me. Having shut the door upon their retiring footsteps,
and unpacked a few of my things, I betook myself to rest; gladly
enough, for I was weary in body and mind.

It was with a strange feeling of desolation, mingled with a strong
sense of the novelty of my situation, and a joyless kind of curiosity
concerning what was yet unknown, that I awoke the next morning; feeling
like one whirled away by enchantment, and suddenly dropped from the
clouds into a remote and unknown land, widely and completely isolated
from all he had ever seen or known before; or like a thistle-seed borne
on the wind to some strange nook of uncongenial soil, where it must lie
long enough before it can take root and germinate, extracting
nourishment from what appears so alien to its nature: if, indeed, it
ever can. But this gives no proper idea of my feelings at all; and no
one that has not lived such a retired, stationary life as mine, can
possibly imagine what they were: hardly even if he has known what it is
to awake some morning, and find himself in Port Nelson, in New Zealand,
with a world of waters between himself and all that knew him.

I shall not soon forget the peculiar feeling with which I raised my
blind and looked out upon the unknown world: a wide, white wilderness
was all that met my gaze; a waste of

Deserts tossed in snow,
And heavy laden groves.


I descended to the schoolroom with no remarkable eagerness to join my
pupils, though not without some feeling of curiosity respecting what a
further acquaintance would reveal. One thing, among others of more
obvious importance, I determined with myself—I must begin with calling
them Miss and Master. It seemed to me a chilling and unnatural piece of
punctilio between the children of a family and their instructor and
daily companion; especially where the former were in their early
childhood, as at Wellwood House; but even there, my calling the little
Bloomfields by their simple names had been regarded as an offensive
liberty: as their parents had taken care to show me, by carefully
designating them _Master_ and _Miss_ Bloomfield, &c., in speaking to
me. I had been very slow to take the hint, because the whole affair
struck me as so very absurd; but now I determined to be wiser, and
begin at once with as much form and ceremony as any member of the
family would be likely to require: and, indeed, the children being so
much older, there would be less difficulty; though the little words
Miss and Master seemed to have a surprising effect in repressing all
familiar, open-hearted kindness, and extinguishing every gleam of
cordiality that might arise between us.

As I cannot, like Dogberry, find it in my heart to bestow all my
tediousness upon the reader, I will not go on to bore him with a minute
detail of all the discoveries and proceedings of this and the following
day. No doubt he will be amply satisfied with a slight sketch of the
different members of the family, and a general view of the first year
or two of my sojourn among them.

To begin with the head: Mr. Murray was, by all accounts, a blustering,
roystering, country squire: a devoted fox-hunter, a skilful
horse-jockey and farrier, an active, practical farmer, and a hearty
_bon vivant_. By all accounts, I say; for, except on Sundays, when he
went to church, I never saw him from month to month: unless, in
crossing the hall or walking in the grounds, the figure of a tall,
stout gentleman, with scarlet cheeks and crimson nose, happened to come
across me; on which occasions, if he passed near enough to speak, an
unceremonious nod, accompanied by a “Morning, Miss Grey,” or some such
brief salutation, was usually vouchsafed. Frequently, indeed, his loud
laugh reached me from afar; and oftener still I heard him swearing and
blaspheming against the footmen, groom, coachman, or some other hapless
dependant.

Mrs. Murray was a handsome, dashing lady of forty, who certainly
required neither rouge nor padding to add to her charms; and whose
chief enjoyments were, or seemed to be, in giving or frequenting
parties, and in dressing at the very top of the fashion. I did not see
her till eleven o’clock on the morning after my arrival; when she
honoured me with a visit, just as my mother might step into the kitchen
to see a new servant-girl: yet not so, either, for my mother would have
seen her immediately after her arrival, and not waited till the next
day; and, moreover, she would have addressed her in a more kind and
friendly manner, and given her some words of comfort as well as a plain
exposition of her duties; but Mrs. Murray did neither the one nor the
other. She just stepped into the schoolroom on her return from ordering
dinner in the housekeeper’s room, bade me good-morning, stood for two
minutes by the fire, said a few words about the weather and the “rather
rough” journey I must have had yesterday; petted her youngest child—a
boy of ten—who had just been wiping his mouth and hands on her gown,
after indulging in some savoury morsel from the housekeeper’s store;
told me what a sweet, good boy he was; and then sailed out, with a
self-complacent smile upon her face: thinking, no doubt, that she had
done quite enough for the present, and had been delightfully
condescending into the bargain. Her children evidently held the same
opinion, and I alone thought otherwise.

After this she looked in upon me once or twice, during the absence of
my pupils, to enlighten me concerning my duties towards them. For the
girls she seemed anxious only to render them as superficially
attractive and showily accomplished as they could possibly be made,
without present trouble or discomfort to themselves; and I was to act
accordingly—to study and strive to amuse and oblige, instruct, refine,
and polish, with the least possible exertion on their part, and no
exercise of authority on mine. With regard to the two boys, it was much
the same; only instead of accomplishments, I was to get the greatest
possible quantity of Latin grammar and Valpy’s Delectus into their
heads, in order to fit them for school—the greatest possible quantity
at least _without_ trouble to themselves. John might be a “little
high-spirited,” and Charles might be a little “nervous and tedious—”

“But at all events, Miss Grey,” said she, “I hope _you_ will keep your
temper, and be mild and patient throughout; especially with the dear
little Charles; he is so extremely nervous and susceptible, and so
utterly unaccustomed to anything but the tenderest treatment. You will
excuse my naming these things to you; for the fact is, I have hitherto
found all the governesses, even the very best of them, faulty in this
particular. They wanted that meek and quiet spirit, which St. Matthew,
or some of them, says is better than the putting on of apparel—you will
know the passage to which I allude, for you are a clergyman’s daughter.
But I have no doubt you will give satisfaction in this respect as well
as the rest. And remember, on all occasions, when any of the young
people do anything improper, if persuasion and gentle remonstrance will
not do, let one of the others come and tell me; for I can speak to them
more plainly than it would be proper for you to do. And make them as
happy as you can, Miss Grey, and I dare say you will do very well.”

I observed that while Mrs. Murray was so extremely solicitous for the
comfort and happiness of her children, and continually talking about
it, she never once mentioned mine; though they were at home, surrounded
by friends, and I an alien among strangers; and I did not yet know
enough of the world, not to be considerably surprised at this anomaly.

Miss Murray, otherwise Rosalie, was about sixteen when I came, and
decidedly a very pretty girl; and in two years longer, as time more
completely developed her form and added grace to her carriage and
deportment, she became positively beautiful; and that in no common
degree. She was tall and slender, yet not thin; perfectly formed,
exquisitely fair, though not without a brilliant, healthy bloom; her
hair, which she wore in a profusion of long ringlets, was of a very
light brown inclining to yellow; her eyes were pale blue, but so clear
and bright that few would wish them darker; the rest of her features
were small, not quite regular, and not remarkably otherwise: but
altogether you could not hesitate to pronounce her a very lovely girl.
I wish I could say as much for mind and disposition as I can for her
form and face.

Yet think not I have any dreadful disclosures to make: she was lively,
light-hearted, and could be very agreeable, with those who did not
cross her will. Towards me, when I first came, she was cold and
haughty, then insolent and overbearing; but, on a further acquaintance,
she gradually laid aside her airs, and in time became as deeply
attached to me as it was possible for _her_ to be to one of my
character and position: for she seldom lost sight, for above half an
hour at a time, of the fact of my being a hireling and a poor curate’s
daughter. And yet, upon the whole, I believe she respected me more than
she herself was aware of; because I was the only person in the house
who steadily professed good principles, habitually spoke the truth, and
generally endeavoured to make inclination bow to duty; and this I say,
not, of course, in commendation of myself, but to show the unfortunate
state of the family to which my services were, for the present,
devoted. There was no member of it in whom I regretted this sad want of
principle so much as Miss Murray herself; not only because she had
taken a fancy to me, but because there was so much of what was pleasant
and prepossessing in herself, that, in spite of her failings, I really
liked her—when she did not rouse my indignation, or ruffle my temper by
_too_ great a display of her faults. These, however, I would fain
persuade myself were rather the effect of her education than her
disposition: she had never been perfectly taught the distinction
between right and wrong; she had, like her brothers and sisters, been
suffered, from infancy, to tyrannize over nurses, governesses, and
servants; she had not been taught to moderate her desires, to control
her temper or bridle her will, or to sacrifice her own pleasure for the
good of others. Her temper being naturally good, she was never violent
or morose, but from constant indulgence, and habitual scorn of reason,
she was often testy and capricious; her mind had never been cultivated:
her intellect, at best, was somewhat shallow; she possessed
considerable vivacity, some quickness of perception, and some talent
for music and the acquisition of languages, but till fifteen she had
troubled herself to acquire nothing;—then the love of display had
roused her faculties, and induced her to apply herself, but only to the
more showy accomplishments. And when I came it was the same: everything
was neglected but French, German, music, singing, dancing, fancy-work,
and a little drawing—such drawing as might produce the greatest show
with the smallest labour, and the principal parts of which were
generally done by me. For music and singing, besides my occasional
instructions, she had the attendance of the best master the country
afforded; and in these accomplishments, as well as in dancing, she
certainly attained great proficiency. To music, indeed, she devoted too
much of her time, as, governess though I was, I frequently told her;
but her mother thought that if _she_ liked it, she _could_ not give too
much time to the acquisition of so attractive an art. Of fancy-work I
knew nothing but what I gathered from my pupil and my own observation;
but no sooner was I initiated, than she made me useful in twenty
different ways: all the tedious parts of her work were shifted on to my
shoulders; such as stretching the frames, stitching in the canvas,
sorting the wools and silks, putting in the grounds, counting the
stitches, rectifying mistakes, and finishing the pieces she was tired
of.

At sixteen, Miss Murray was something of a romp, yet not more so than
is natural and allowable for a girl of that age, but at seventeen, that
propensity, like all other things, began to give way to the ruling
passion, and soon was swallowed up in the all-absorbing ambition to
attract and dazzle the other sex. But enough of her: now let us turn to
her sister.

Miss Matilda Murray was a veritable hoyden, of whom little need be
said. She was about two years and a half younger than her sister; her
features were larger, her complexion much darker. She might possibly
make a handsome woman; but she was far too big-boned and awkward ever
to be called a pretty girl, and at present she cared little about it.
Rosalie knew all her charms, and thought them even greater than they
were, and valued them more highly than she ought to have done, had they
been three times as great; Matilda thought she was well enough, but
cared little about the matter; still less did she care about the
cultivation of her mind, and the acquisition of ornamental
accomplishments. The manner in which she learnt her lessons and
practised her music was calculated to drive any governess to despair.
Short and easy as her tasks were, if done at all, they were slurred
over, at any time and in any way; but generally at the least convenient
times, and in the way least beneficial to herself, and least
satisfactory to me: the short half-hour of practising was horribly
strummed through; she, meantime, unsparingly abusing me, either for
interrupting her with corrections, or for not rectifying her mistakes
before they were made, or something equally unreasonable. Once or
twice, I ventured to remonstrate with her seriously for such irrational
conduct; but on each of those occasions, I received such reprehensive
expostulations from her mother, as convinced me that, if I wished to
keep the situation, I must even let Miss Matilda go on in her own way.

When her lessons were over, however, her ill-humour was generally over
too: while riding her spirited pony, or romping with the dogs or her
brothers and sister, but especially with her dear brother John, she was
as happy as a lark. As an animal, Matilda was all right, full of life,
vigour, and activity; as an intelligent being, she was barbarously
ignorant, indocile, careless and irrational; and, consequently, very
distressing to one who had the task of cultivating her understanding,
reforming her manners, and aiding her to acquire those ornamental
attainments which, unlike her sister, she despised as much as the rest.
Her mother was partly aware of her deficiencies, and gave me many a
lecture as to how I should try to form her tastes, and endeavour to
rouse and cherish her dormant vanity; and, by insinuating, skilful
flattery, to win her attention to the desired objects—which I would not
do; and how I should prepare and smooth the path of learning till she
could glide along it without the least exertion to herself: which I
could not, for nothing can be taught to any purpose without some little
exertion on the part of the learner.

As a moral agent, Matilda was reckless, headstrong, violent, and
unamenable to reason. One proof of the deplorable state of her mind
was, that from her father’s example she had learned to swear like a
trooper. Her mother was greatly shocked at the “unlady-like trick,” and
wondered “how she had picked it up.” “But you can soon break her of it,
Miss Grey,” said she: “it is only a habit; and if you will just gently
remind her every time she does so, I am sure she will soon lay it
aside.” I not only “gently reminded” her, I tried to impress upon her
how wrong it was, and how distressing to the ears of decent people: but
all in vain: I was only answered by a careless laugh, and, “Oh, Miss
Grey, how shocked you are! I’m so glad!” or, “Well! I can’t help it;
papa shouldn’t have taught me: I learned it all from him; and maybe a
bit from the coachman.”

Her brother John, _alias_ Master Murray, was about eleven when I came:
a fine, stout, healthy boy, frank and good-natured in the main, and
might have been a decent lad had he been properly educated; but now he
was as rough as a young bear, boisterous, unruly, unprincipled,
untaught, unteachable—at least, for a governess under his mother’s eye.
His masters at school might be able to manage him better—for to school
he was sent, greatly to my relief, in the course of a year; in a state,
it is true, of scandalous ignorance as to Latin, as well as the more
useful though more neglected things: and this, doubtless, would all be
laid to the account of his education having been entrusted to an
ignorant female teacher, who had presumed to take in hand what she was
wholly incompetent to perform. I was not delivered from his brother
till full twelve months after, when he also was despatched in the same
state of disgraceful ignorance as the former.

Master Charles was his mother’s peculiar darling. He was little more
than a year younger than John, but much smaller, paler, and less active
and robust; a pettish, cowardly, capricious, selfish little fellow,
only active in doing mischief, and only clever in inventing falsehoods:
not simply to hide his faults, but, in mere malicious wantonness, to
bring odium upon others. In fact, Master Charles was a very great
nuisance to me: it was a trial of patience to live with him peaceably;
to watch over him was worse; and to teach him, or pretend to teach him,
was inconceivable. At ten years old, he could not read correctly the
easiest line in the simplest book; and as, according to his mother’s
principle, he was to be told every word, before he had time to hesitate
or examine its orthography, and never even to be informed, as a
stimulant to exertion, that other boys were more forward than he, it is
not surprising that he made but little progress during the two years I
had charge of his education. His minute portions of Latin grammar, &c.,
were to be repeated over to him, till he chose to say he knew them, and
then he was to be helped to say them; if he made mistakes in his little
easy sums in arithmetic, they were to be shown him at once, and the sum
done for him, instead of his being left to exercise his faculties in
finding them out himself; so that, of course, he took no pains to avoid
mistakes, but frequently set down his figures at random, without any
calculation at all.

I did not invariably confine myself to these rules: it was against my
conscience to do so; but I seldom could venture to deviate from them in
the slightest degree, without incurring the wrath of my little pupil,
and subsequently of his mamma; to whom he would relate my
transgressions maliciously exaggerated, or adorned with embellishments
of his own; and often, in consequence, was I on the point of losing or
resigning my situation. But, for their sakes at home, I smothered my
pride and suppressed my indignation, and managed to struggle on till my
little tormentor was despatched to school; his father declaring that
home education was “no go for him, it was plain; his mother spoiled him
outrageously, and his governess could make no hand of him at all.”

A few more observations about Horton Lodge and its ongoings, and I have
done with dry description for the present. The house was a very
respectable one; superior to Mr. Bloomfield’s, both in age, size, and
magnificence: the garden was not so tastefully laid out; but instead of
the smooth-shaven lawn, the young trees guarded by palings, the grove
of upstart poplars, and the plantation of firs, there was a wide park,
stocked with deer, and beautified by fine old trees. The surrounding
country itself was pleasant, as far as fertile fields, flourishing
trees, quiet green lanes, and smiling hedges with wild-flowers
scattered along their banks, could make it; but it was depressingly
flat to one born and nurtured among the rugged hills of ——.

We were situated nearly two miles from the village church, and,
consequently, the family carriage was put in requisition every Sunday
morning, and sometimes oftener. Mr. and Mrs. Murray generally thought
it sufficient to show themselves at church once in the course of the
day; but frequently the children preferred going a second time to
wandering about the grounds all the day with nothing to do. If some of
my pupils chose to walk and take me with them, it was well for me; for
otherwise my position in the carriage was to be crushed into the corner
farthest from the open window, and with my back to the horses: a
position which invariably made me sick; and if I were not actually
obliged to leave the church in the middle of the service, my devotions
were disturbed with a feeling of languor and sickliness, and the
tormenting fear of its becoming worse: and a depressing headache was
generally my companion throughout the day, which would otherwise have
been one of welcome rest, and holy, calm enjoyment.

“It’s very odd, Miss Grey, that the carriage should always make you
sick: it never makes _me_,” remarked Miss Matilda,

“Nor me either,” said her sister; “but I dare say it would, if I sat
where she does—such a nasty, horrid place, Miss Grey; I wonder how you
can bear it!”

“I am obliged to bear it, since no choice is left me,”—I might have
answered; but in tenderness for their feelings I only replied,—“Oh! it
is but a short way, and if I am not sick in church, I don’t mind it.”

If I were called upon to give a description of the usual divisions and
arrangements of the day, I should find it a very difficult matter. I
had all my meals in the schoolroom with my pupils, at such times as
suited their fancy: sometimes they would ring for dinner before it was
half cooked; sometimes they would keep it waiting on the table for
above an hour, and then be out of humour because the potatoes were
cold, and the gravy covered with cakes of solid fat; sometimes they
would have tea at four; frequently, they would storm at the servants
because it was not in precisely at five; and when these orders were
obeyed, by way of encouragement to punctuality, they would keep it on
the table till seven or eight.

Their hours of study were managed in much the same way; my judgment or
convenience was never once consulted. Sometimes Matilda and John would
determine “to get all the plaguy business over before breakfast,” and
send the maid to call me up at half-past five, without any scruple or
apology; sometimes, I was told to be ready precisely at six, and,
having dressed in a hurry, came down to an empty room, and after
waiting a long time in suspense, discovered that they had changed their
minds, and were still in bed; or, perhaps, if it were a fine summer
morning, Brown would come to tell me that the young ladies and
gentlemen had taken a holiday, and were gone out; and then I was kept
waiting for breakfast till I was almost ready to faint: they having
fortified themselves with something before they went.

Often they would do their lessons in the open air; which I had nothing
to say against: except that I frequently caught cold by sitting on the
damp grass, or from exposure to the evening dew, or some insidious
draught, which seemed to have no injurious effect on them. It was quite
right that they should be hardy; yet, surely, they might have been
taught some consideration for others who were less so. But I must not
blame them for what was, perhaps, my own fault; for I never made any
particular objections to sitting where they pleased; foolishly choosing
to risk the consequences, rather than trouble them for my convenience.
Their indecorous manner of doing their lessons was quite as remarkable
as the caprice displayed in their choice of time and place. While
receiving my instructions, or repeating what they had learned, they
would lounge upon the sofa, lie on the rug, stretch, yawn, talk to each
other, or look out of the window; whereas, I could not so much as stir
the fire, or pick up the handkerchief I had dropped, without being
rebuked for inattention by one of my pupils, or told that “mamma would
not like me to be so careless.”

The servants, seeing in what little estimation the governess was held
by both parents and children, regulated their behaviour by the same
standard. I have frequently stood up for them, at the risk of some
injury to myself, against the tyranny and injustice of their young
masters and mistresses; and I always endeavoured to give them as little
trouble as possible: but they entirely neglected my comfort, despised
my requests, and slighted my directions. All servants, I am convinced,
would not have done so; but domestics in general, being ignorant and
little accustomed to reason and reflection, are too easily corrupted by
the carelessness and bad example of those above them; and these, I
think, were not of the best order to begin with.

I sometimes felt myself degraded by the life I led, and ashamed of
submitting to so many indignities; and sometimes I thought myself a
fool for caring so much about them, and feared I must be sadly wanting
in Christian humility, or that charity which “suffereth long and is
kind, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, beareth all things,
endureth all things.”

But, with time and patience, matters began to be slightly ameliorated:
slowly, it is true, and almost imperceptibly; but I got rid of my male
pupils (that was no trifling advantage), and the girls, as I intimated
before concerning one of them, became a little less insolent, and began
to show some symptoms of esteem. “Miss Grey was a queer creature: she
never flattered, and did not praise them half enough; but whenever she
did speak favourably of them, or anything belonging to them, they could
be quite sure her approbation was sincere. She was very obliging,
quiet, and peaceable in the main, but there were some things that put
her out of temper: they did not much care for that, to be sure, but
still it was better to keep her in tune; as when she was in a good
humour she would talk to them, and be very agreeable and amusing
sometimes, in her way; which was quite different to mamma’s, but still
very well for a change. She had her own opinions on every subject, and
kept steadily to them—very tiresome opinions they often were; as she
was always thinking of what was right and what was wrong, and had a
strange reverence for matters connected with religion, and an
unaccountable liking to good people.”




CHAPTER VIII.
THE “COMING OUT”


At eighteen, Miss Murray was to emerge from the quiet obscurity of the
schoolroom into the full blaze of the fashionable world—as much of it,
at least, as could be had out of London; for her papa could not be
persuaded to leave his rural pleasures and pursuits, even for a few
weeks’ residence in town. She was to make her _débût_ on the third of
January, at a magnificent ball, which her mamma proposed to give to all
the nobility and choice gentry of O—— and its neighbourhood for twenty
miles round. Of course, she looked forward to it with the wildest
impatience, and the most extravagant anticipations of delight.

“Miss Grey,” said she, one evening, a month before the all-important
day, as I was perusing a long and extremely interesting letter of my
sister’s—which I had just glanced at in the morning to see that it
contained no very bad news, and kept till now, unable before to find a
quiet moment for reading it,—“Miss Grey, do put away that dull, stupid
letter, and listen to me! I’m sure my talk must be far more amusing
than that.”

She seated herself on the low stool at my feet; and I, suppressing a
sigh of vexation, began to fold up the epistle.

“You should tell the good people at home not to bore you with such long
letters,” said she; “and, above all, do bid them write on proper
note-paper, and not on those great vulgar sheets. You should see the
charming little lady-like notes mamma writes to her friends.”

“The good people at home,” replied I, “know very well that the longer
their letters are, the better I like them. I should be very sorry to
receive a charming little lady-like note from any of them; and I
thought you were too much of a lady yourself, Miss Murray, to talk
about the ‘vulgarity’ of writing on a large sheet of paper.”

“Well, I only said it to tease you. But now I want to talk about the
ball; and to tell you that you positively must put off your holidays
till it is over.”

“Why so?—I shall not be present at the ball.”

“No, but you will see the rooms decked out before it begins, and hear
the music, and, above all, see me in my splendid new dress. I shall be
so charming, you’ll be ready to worship me—you really must stay.”

“I should like to see you very much; but I shall have many
opportunities of seeing you equally charming, on the occasion of some
of the numberless balls and parties that are to be, and I cannot
disappoint my friends by postponing my return so long.”

“Oh, never mind your friends! Tell them we won’t let you go.”

“But, to say the truth, it would be a disappointment to myself: I long
to see them as much as they to see me—perhaps more.”

“Well, but it is such a short time.”

“Nearly a fortnight by my computation; and, besides, I cannot bear the
thoughts of a Christmas spent from home: and, moreover, my sister is
going to be married.”

“Is she—when?”

“Not till next month; but I want to be there to assist her in making
preparations, and to make the best of her company while we have her.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I’ve only got the news in this letter, which you stigmatize as dull
and stupid, and won’t let me read.”

“To whom is she to be married?”

“To Mr. Richardson, the vicar of a neighbouring parish.”

“Is he rich?”

“No; only comfortable.”

“Is he handsome?”

“No; only decent.”

“Young?”

“No; only middling.”

“Oh, mercy! what a wretch! What sort of a house is it?”

“A quiet little vicarage, with an ivy-clad porch, an old-fashioned
garden, and—”

“Oh, stop!—you’ll make me sick. How _can_ she bear it?”

“I expect she’ll not only be able to bear it, but to be very happy. You
did not ask me if Mr. Richardson were a good, wise, or amiable man; I
could have answered Yes, to all these questions—at least so Mary
thinks, and I hope she will not find herself mistaken.”

“But—miserable creature! how can she think of spending her life there,
cooped up with that nasty old man; and no hope of change?”

“He is not old: he’s only six or seven and thirty; and she herself is
twenty-eight, and as sober as if she were fifty.”

“Oh! that’s better then—they’re well matched; but do they call him the
‘worthy vicar’?”

“I don’t know; but if they do, I believe he merits the epithet.”

“Mercy, how shocking! and will she wear a white apron and make pies and
puddings?”

“I don’t know about the white apron, but I dare say she will make pies
and puddings now and then; but that will be no great hardship, as she
has done it before.”

“And will she go about in a plain shawl, and a large straw bonnet,
carrying tracts and bone soup to her husband’s poor parishioners?”

“I’m not clear about that; but I dare say she will do her best to make
them comfortable in body and mind, in accordance with our mother’s
example.”




CHAPTER IX.
THE BALL


“Now, Miss Grey,” exclaimed Miss Murray, immediately I entered the
schoolroom, after having taken off my outdoor garments, upon returning
from my four weeks’ recreation, “Now—shut the door, and sit down, and
I’ll tell you all about the ball.”

“No—damn it, no!” shouted Miss Matilda. “Hold your tongue, can’t ye?
and let me tell her about my new mare—_such_ a splendour, Miss Grey! a
fine blood mare—”

“Do be quiet, Matilda; and let me tell my news first.”

“No, no, Rosalie; you’ll be such a damned long time over it—she shall
hear me first—I’ll be hanged if she doesn’t!”

“I’m sorry to hear, Miss Matilda, that you’ve not got rid of that
shocking habit yet.”

“Well, I can’t help it: but I’ll never say a wicked word again, if
you’ll only listen to me, and tell Rosalie to hold her confounded
tongue.”

Rosalie remonstrated, and I thought I should have been torn in pieces
between them; but Miss Matilda having the loudest voice, her sister at
length gave in, and suffered her to tell her story first: so I was
doomed to hear a long account of her splendid mare, its breeding and
pedigree, its paces, its action, its spirit, &c., and of her own
amazing skill and courage in riding it; concluding with an assertion
that she could clear a five-barred gate “like winking,” that papa said
she might hunt the next time the hounds met, and mamma had ordered a
bright scarlet hunting-habit for her.

“Oh, Matilda! what stories you are telling!” exclaimed her sister.

“Well,” answered she, no whit abashed, “I know I _could_ clear a
five-barred gate, if I tried, and papa _will_ say I may hunt, and mamma
_will_ order the habit when I ask it.”

“Well, now get along,” replied Miss Murray; “and do, dear Matilda, try
to be a little more lady-like. Miss Grey, I wish you would tell her not
to use such shocking words; she will call her horse a mare: it is so
inconceivably shocking! and then she uses such dreadful expressions in
describing it: she must have learned it from the grooms. It nearly puts
me into fits when she begins.”

“I learned it from papa, you ass! and his jolly friends,” said the
young lady, vigorously cracking a hunting-whip, which she habitually
carried in her hand. “I’m as good judge of horseflesh as the best of
’m.”

“Well, now get along, you shocking girl! I really shall take a fit if
you go on in such a way. And now, Miss Grey, attend to me; I’m going to
tell you about the ball. You must be dying to hear about it, I know.
Oh, _such_ a ball! You never saw or heard, or read, or dreamt of
anything like it in all your life. The decorations, the entertainment,
the supper, the music were indescribable! and then the guests! There
were two noblemen, three baronets, and five titled ladies, and other
ladies and gentlemen innumerable. The ladies, of course, were of no
consequence to me, except to put me in a good humour with myself, by
showing how ugly and awkward most of them were; and the best, mamma
told me,—the most transcendent beauties among them, were nothing to me.
As for me, Miss Grey—I’m so _sorry_ you didn’t see me! I was
_charming_—wasn’t I, Matilda?”

“Middling.”

“No, but I really was—at least so mamma said—and Brown and Williamson.
Brown said she was sure no gentleman could set eyes on me without
falling in love that minute; and so I may be allowed to be a little
vain. I know you think me a shocking, conceited, frivolous girl; but
then, you know, I don’t attribute it _all_ to my personal attractions:
I give some praise to the hairdresser, and some to my exquisitely
lovely dress—you must see it to-morrow—white gauze over pink satin—and
so _sweetly_ made! and a necklace and bracelet of beautiful, large
pearls!”

“I have no doubt you looked very charming: but should that delight you
so very much?”

“Oh, no!—not that alone: but, then, I was so much admired; and I made
so _many_ conquests in that one night—you’d be astonished to hear—”

“But what good will they do you?”

“What good! Think of any woman asking that!”

“Well, I should think one conquest would be enough; and too much,
unless the subjugation were mutual.”

“Oh, but you know I never agree with you on those points. Now, wait a
bit, and I’ll tell you my principal admirers—those who made themselves
very conspicuous that night and after: for I’ve been to two parties
since. Unfortunately the two noblemen, Lord G—— and Lord F——, were
married, or I might have condescended to be particularly gracious to
_them_; as it was, I did not: though Lord F——, who hates his wife, was
evidently much struck with me. He asked me to dance with him twice—he
is a charming dancer, by-the-by, and so am I: you can’t think how well
I did—I was astonished at myself. My lord was very complimentary
too—rather too much so in fact—and I thought proper to be a little
haughty and repellent; but I had the pleasure of seeing his nasty,
cross wife ready to perish with spite and vexation—”

“Oh, Miss Murray! you don’t mean to say that such a thing could really
give you pleasure? However cross or—”

“Well, I know it’s very wrong;—but never mind! I mean to be good some
time—only don’t preach now, there’s a good creature. I haven’t told you
half yet. Let me see. Oh! I was going to tell you how many
unmistakeable admirers I had:—Sir Thomas Ashby was one,—Sir Hugh
Meltham and Sir Broadley Wilson are old codgers, only fit companions
for papa and mamma. Sir Thomas is young, rich, and gay; but an ugly
beast, nevertheless: however, mamma says I should not mind that after a
few months’ acquaintance. Then, there was Henry Meltham, Sir Hugh’s
younger son; rather good-looking, and a pleasant fellow to flirt with:
but _being_ a younger son, that is all he is good for; then there was
young Mr. Green, rich enough, but of no family, and a great stupid
fellow, a mere country booby! and then, our good rector, Mr. Hatfield:
an _humble_ admirer he ought to consider himself; but I fear he has
forgotten to number humility among his stock of Christian virtues.”

“Was Mr. Hatfield at the ball?”

“Yes, to be sure. Did you think he was too good to go?”

“I thought be might consider it unclerical.”

“By no means. He did not profane his cloth by dancing; but it was with
difficulty he could refrain, poor man: he looked as if he were dying to
ask my hand just for _one_ set; and—oh! by-the-by—he’s got a new
curate: that seedy old fellow Mr. Bligh has got his long-wished-for
living at last, and is gone.”

“And what is the new one like?”

“Oh, _such_ a beast! Weston his name is. I can give you his description
in three words—an insensate, ugly, stupid blockhead. That’s four, but
no matter—enough of _him_ now.”

Then she returned to the ball, and gave me a further account of her
deportment there, and at the several parties she had since attended;
and further particulars respecting Sir Thomas Ashby and Messrs.
Meltham, Green, and Hatfield, and the ineffaceable impression she had
wrought upon each of them.

“Well, which of the four do you like best?” said I, suppressing my
third or fourth yawn.

“I detest them all!” replied she, shaking her bright ringlets in
vivacious scorn.

“That means, I suppose, ‘I like them all’—but which most?”

“No, I really detest them all; but Harry Meltham is the handsomest and
most amusing, and Mr. Hatfield the cleverest, Sir Thomas the wickedest,
and Mr. Green the most stupid. But the one I’m to have, I suppose, if
I’m doomed to have any of them, is Sir Thomas Ashby.”

“Surely not, if he’s so wicked, and if you dislike him?”

“Oh, I don’t mind his being wicked: he’s all the better for that; and
as for disliking him—I shouldn’t greatly object to being Lady Ashby of
Ashby Park, if I must marry. But if I could be always young, I would be
always single. I should like to enjoy myself thoroughly, and coquet
with all the world, till I am on the verge of being called an old maid;
and then, to escape the infamy of that, after having made ten thousand
conquests, to break all their hearts save one, by marrying some
high-born, rich, indulgent husband, whom, on the other hand, fifty
ladies were dying to have.”

“Well, as long as you entertain these views, keep single by all means,
and never marry at all: not even to escape the infamy of
old-maidenhood.”




CHAPTER X.
THE CHURCH


“Well, Miss Grey, what do you think of the new curate?” asked Miss
Murray, on our return from church the Sunday after the recommencement
of our duties.

“I can scarcely tell,” was my reply: “I have not even heard him
preach.”

“Well, but you saw him, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but I cannot pretend to judge of a man’s character by a single
cursory glance at his face.”

“But isn’t he ugly?”

“He did not strike me as being particularly so; I don’t dislike that
cast of countenance: but the only thing I particularly noticed about
him was his style of reading; which appeared to me good—infinitely
better, at least, than Mr. Hatfield’s. He read the Lessons as if he
were bent on giving full effect to every passage; it seemed as if the
most careless person could not have helped attending, nor the most
ignorant have failed to understand; and the prayers he read as if he
were not reading at all, but praying earnestly and sincerely from his
own heart.”

“Oh, yes, that’s all he is good for: he can plod through the service
well enough; but he has not a single idea beyond it.”

“How do you know?”

“Oh! I know perfectly well; I am an excellent judge in such matters.
Did you see how he went out of church? stumping along—as if there were
nobody there but himself—never looking to the right hand or the left,
and evidently thinking of nothing but just getting out of the church,
and, perhaps, home to his dinner: his great stupid head could contain
no other idea.”

“I suppose you would have had him cast a glance into the squire’s pew,”
said I, laughing at the vehemence of her hostility.

“Indeed! I should have been highly indignant if he had dared to do such
a thing!” replied she, haughtily tossing her head; then, after a
moment’s reflection, she added—“Well, well! I suppose he’s good enough
for his place: but I’m glad I’m not dependent on _him_ for
amusement—that’s all. Did you see how Mr. Hatfield hurried out to get a
bow from me, and be in time to put us into the carriage?”

“Yes,” answered I; internally adding, “and I thought it somewhat
derogatory to his dignity as a clergyman to come flying from the pulpit
in such eager haste to shake hands with the squire, and hand his wife
and daughters into their carriage: and, moreover, I owe him a grudge
for nearly shutting me out of it”; for, in fact, though I was standing
before his face, close beside the carriage steps, waiting to get in, he
would persist in putting them up and closing the door, till one of the
family stopped him by calling out that the governess was not in yet;
then, without a word of apology, he departed, wishing them
good-morning, and leaving the footman to finish the business.

_Nota bene_.—Mr. Hatfield never spoke to me, neither did Sir Hugh or
Lady Meltham, nor Mr. Harry or Miss Meltham, nor Mr. Green or his
sisters, nor any other lady or gentleman who frequented that church:
nor, in fact, any one that visited at Horton Lodge.

Miss Murray ordered the carriage again, in the afternoon, for herself
and her sister: she said it was too cold for them to enjoy themselves
in the garden; and besides, she believed Harry Meltham would be at
church. “For,” said she, smiling slyly at her own fair image in the
glass, “he has been a most exemplary attendant at church these last few
Sundays: you would think he was quite a good Christian. And you may go
with us, Miss Grey: I want you to see him; he is so greatly improved
since he returned from abroad—you can’t think! And besides, then you
will have an opportunity of seeing the beautiful Mr. Weston again, and
of hearing him preach.”

I did hear him preach, and was decidedly pleased with the evangelical
truth of his doctrine, as well as the earnest simplicity of his manner,
and the clearness and force of his style. It was truly refreshing to
hear such a sermon, after being so long accustomed to the dry, prosy
discourses of the former curate, and the still less edifying harangues
of the rector. Mr. Hatfield would come sailing up the aisle, or rather
sweeping along like a whirlwind, with his rich silk gown flying behind
him and rustling against the pew doors, mount the pulpit like a
conqueror ascending his triumphal car; then, sinking on the velvet
cushion in an attitude of studied grace, remain in silent prostration
for a certain time; then mutter over a Collect, and gabble through the
Lord’s Prayer, rise, draw off one bright lavender glove, to give the
congregation the benefit of his sparkling rings, lightly pass his
fingers through his well-curled hair, flourish a cambric handkerchief,
recite a very short passage, or, perhaps, a mere phrase of Scripture,
as a head-piece to his discourse, and, finally, deliver a composition
which, as a composition, might be considered good, though far too
studied and too artificial to be pleasing to me: the propositions were
well laid down, the arguments logically conducted; and yet, it was
sometimes hard to listen quietly throughout, without some slight
demonstrations of disapproval or impatience.

His favourite subjects were church discipline, rites and ceremonies,
apostolical succession, the duty of reverence and obedience to the
clergy, the atrocious criminality of dissent, the absolute necessity of
observing all the forms of godliness, the reprehensible presumption of
individuals who attempted to think for themselves in matters connected
with religion, or to be guided by their own interpretations of
Scripture, and, occasionally (to please his wealthy parishioners) the
necessity of deferential obedience from the poor to the rich—supporting
his maxims and exhortations throughout with quotations from the
Fathers: with whom he appeared to be far better acquainted than with
the Apostles and Evangelists, and whose importance he seemed to
consider at least equal to theirs. But now and then he gave us a sermon
of a different order—what some would call a very good one; but sunless
and severe: representing the Deity as a terrible taskmaster rather than
a benevolent father. Yet, as I listened, I felt inclined to think the
man was sincere in all he said: he must have changed his views, and
become decidedly religious, gloomy and austere, yet still devout. But
such illusions were usually dissipated, on coming out of church, by
hearing his voice in jocund colloquy with some of the Melthams or
Greens, or, perhaps, the Murrays themselves; probably laughing at his
own sermon, and hoping that he had given the rascally people something
to think about; perchance, exulting in the thought that old Betty
Holmes would now lay aside the sinful indulgence of her pipe, which had
been her daily solace for upwards of thirty years: that George Higgins
would be frightened out of his Sabbath evening walks, and Thomas
Jackson would be sorely troubled in his conscience, and shaken in his
sure and certain hope of a joyful resurrection at the last day.

Thus, I could not but conclude that Mr. Hatfield was one of those who
“bind heavy burdens, and grievous to be borne, and lay them upon men’s
shoulders, while they themselves will not move them with one of their
fingers”; and who “make the word of God of none effect by their
traditions, teaching for doctrines the commandments of men.” I was well
pleased to observe that the new curate resembled him, as far as I could
see, in none of these particulars.

“Well, Miss Grey, what do you think of him now?” said Miss Murray, as
we took our places in the carriage after service.

“No harm still,” replied I.

“No harm!” repeated she in amazement. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I think no worse of him than I did before.”

“No worse! I should think not indeed—quite the contrary! Is he not
greatly improved?”

“Oh, yes; very much indeed,” replied I; for I had now discovered that
it was Harry Meltham she meant, not Mr. Weston. That gentleman had
eagerly come forward to speak to the young ladies: a thing he would
hardly have ventured to do had their mother been present; he had
likewise politely handed them into the carriage. He had not attempted
to shut me out, like Mr. Hatfield; neither, of course, had he offered
me his assistance (I should not have accepted it, if he had), but as
long as the door remained open he had stood smirking and chatting with
them, and then lifted his hat and departed to his own abode: but I had
scarcely noticed him all the time. My companions, however, had been
more observant; and, as we rolled along, they discussed between them
not only his looks, words, and actions, but every feature of his face,
and every article of his apparel.

“You shan’t have him all to yourself, Rosalie,” said Miss Matilda at
the close of this discussion; “I like him: I know he’d make a nice,
jolly companion for me.”

“Well, you’re quite welcome to him, Matilda,” replied her sister, in a
tone of affected indifference.

“And I’m sure,” continued the other, “he admires me quite as much as he
does you; doesn’t he, Miss Grey?”

“I don’t know; I’m not acquainted with his sentiments.”

“Well, but he _does_ though.”

“My _dear_ Matilda! nobody will ever admire you till you get rid of
your rough, awkward manners.”

“Oh, stuff! Harry Meltham likes such manners; and so do papa’s
friends.”

“Well, you _may_ captivate old men, and younger sons; but nobody else,
I am sure, will ever take a fancy to you.”

“I don’t care: I’m not always grabbing after money, like you and mamma.
If my husband is able to keep a few good horses and dogs, I shall be
quite satisfied; and all the rest may go to the devil!”

“Well, if you use such shocking expressions, I’m sure no real gentleman
will ever venture to come near you. Really, Miss Grey, you should not
let her do so.”

“I can’t possibly prevent it, Miss Murray.”

“And you’re quite mistaken, Matilda, in supposing that Harry Meltham
admires you: I assure you he does nothing of the kind.”

Matilda was beginning an angry reply; but, happily, our journey was now
at an end; and the contention was cut short by the footman opening the
carriage-door, and letting down the steps for our descent.




CHAPTER XI.
THE COTTAGERS


As I had now only one regular pupil—though she contrived to give me as
much trouble as three or four ordinary ones, and though her sister
still took lessons in German and drawing—I had considerably more time
at my own disposal than I had ever been blessed with before, since I
had taken upon me the governess’s yoke; which time I devoted partly to
correspondence with my friends, partly to reading, study, and the
practice of music, singing, &c., partly to wandering in the grounds or
adjacent fields, with my pupils if they wanted me, alone if they did
not.

Often, when they had no more agreeable occupation at hand, the Misses
Murray would amuse themselves with visiting the poor cottagers on their
father’s estate, to receive their flattering homage, or to hear the old
stories or gossiping news of the garrulous old women; or, perhaps, to
enjoy the purer pleasure of making the poor people happy with their
cheering presence and their occasional gifts, so easily bestowed, so
thankfully received. Sometimes, I was called upon to accompany one or
both of the sisters in these visits; and sometimes I was desired to go
alone, to fulfil some promise which they had been more ready to make
than to perform; to carry some small donation, or read to one who was
sick or seriously disposed: and thus I made a few acquaintances among
the cottagers; and, occasionally, I went to see them on my own account.

I generally had more satisfaction in going alone than with either of
the young ladies; for they, chiefly owing to their defective education,
comported themselves towards their inferiors in a manner that was
highly disagreeable for me to witness. They never, in thought,
exchanged places with them; and, consequently, had no consideration for
their feelings, regarding them as an order of beings entirely different
from themselves. They would watch the poor creatures at their meals,
making uncivil remarks about their food, and their manner of eating;
they would laugh at their simple notions and provincial expressions,
till some of them scarcely durst venture to speak; they would call the
grave elderly men and women old fools and silly old blockheads to their
faces: and all this without meaning to offend. I could see that the
people were often hurt and annoyed by such conduct, though their fear
of the “grand ladies” prevented them from testifying any resentment;
but _they_ never perceived it. They thought that, as these cottagers
were poor and untaught, they must be stupid and brutish; and as long as
they, their superiors, condescended to talk to them, and to give them
shillings and half-crowns, or articles of clothing, they had a right to
amuse themselves, even at their expense; and the people must adore them
as angels of light, condescending to minister to their necessities, and
enlighten their humble dwellings.

I made many and various attempts to deliver my pupils from these
delusive notions without alarming their pride—which was easily
offended, and not soon appeased—but with little apparent result; and I
know not which was the more reprehensible of the two: Matilda was more
rude and boisterous; but from Rosalie’s womanly age and lady-like
exterior better things were expected: yet she was as provokingly
careless and inconsiderate as a giddy child of twelve.

One bright day in the last week of February, I was walking in the park,
enjoying the threefold luxury of solitude, a book, and pleasant
weather; for Miss Matilda had set out on her daily ride, and Miss
Murray was gone in the carriage with her mamma to pay some morning
calls. But it struck me that I ought to leave these selfish pleasures,
and the park with its glorious canopy of bright blue sky, the west wind
sounding through its yet leafless branches, the snow-wreaths still
lingering in its hollows, but melting fast beneath the sun, and the
graceful deer browsing on its moist herbage already assuming the
freshness and verdure of spring—and go to the cottage of one Nancy
Brown, a widow, whose son was at work all day in the fields, and who
was afflicted with an inflammation in the eyes; which had for some time
incapacitated her from reading: to her own great grief, for she was a
woman of a serious, thoughtful turn of mind. I accordingly went, and
found her alone, as usual, in her little, close, dark cottage, redolent
of smoke and confined air, but as tidy and clean as she could make it.
She was seated beside her little fire (consisting of a few red cinders
and a bit of stick), busily knitting, with a small sackcloth cushion at
her feet, placed for the accommodation of her gentle friend the cat,
who was seated thereon, with her long tail half encircling her velvet
paws, and her half-closed eyes dreamily gazing on the low, crooked
fender.

“Well, Nancy, how are you to-day?”

“Why, middling, Miss, i’ myseln—my eyes is no better, but I’m a deal
easier i’ my mind nor I have been,” replied she, rising to welcome me
with a contented smile; which I was glad to see, for Nancy had been
somewhat afflicted with religious melancholy. I congratulated her upon
the change. She agreed that it was a great blessing, and expressed
herself “right down thankful for it”; adding, “If it please God to
spare my sight, and make me so as I can read my Bible again, I think I
shall be as happy as a queen.”

“I hope He will, Nancy,” replied I; “and, meantime, I’ll come and read
to you now and then, when I have a little time to spare.”

With expressions of grateful pleasure, the poor woman moved to get me a
chair; but, as I saved her the trouble, she busied herself with
stirring the fire, and adding a few more sticks to the decaying embers;
and then, taking her well-used Bible from the shelf, dusted it
carefully, and gave it me. On my asking if there was any particular
part she should like me to read, she answered—

“Well, Miss Grey, if it’s all the same to you, I should like to hear
that chapter in the First Epistle of St. John, that says, ‘God is love,
and he that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and God in him.’”

With a little searching, I found these words in the fourth chapter.
When I came to the seventh verse she interrupted me, and, with needless
apologies for such a liberty, desired me to read it very slowly, that
she might take it all in, and dwell on every word; hoping I would
excuse her, as she was but a “simple body.”

“The wisest person,” I replied, “might think over each of these verses
for an hour, and be all the better for it; and I would rather read them
slowly than not.”

Accordingly, I finished the chapter as slowly as need be, and at the
same time as impressively as I could; my auditor listened most
attentively all the while, and sincerely thanked me when I had done. I
sat still about half a minute to give her time to reflect upon it;
when, somewhat to my surprise, she broke the pause by asking me how I
liked Mr. Weston?

“I don’t know,” I replied, a little startled by the suddenness of the
question; “I think he preaches very well.”

“Ay, he does so; and talks well too.”

“Does he?”

“He does. Maybe, you haven’t seen him—not to talk to him much, yet?”

“No, I never see any one to talk to—except the young ladies of the
Hall.”

“Ah; they’re nice, kind young ladies; but they can’t talk as he does.”

“Then he comes to see you, Nancy?”

“He does, Miss; and I’se thankful for it. He comes to see all us poor
bodies a deal ofter nor Maister Bligh, or th’ Rector ever did; an’ it’s
well he does, for he’s always welcome: we can’t say as much for th’
Rector—there is “at says they’re fair feared on him. When he comes into
a house, they say he’s sure to find summut wrong, and begin a-calling
’em as soon as he crosses th’ doorstuns: but maybe he thinks it his
duty like to tell ’em what’s wrong. And very oft he comes o’ purpose to
reprove folk for not coming to church, or not kneeling an’ standing
when other folk does, or going to the Methody chapel, or summut o’ that
sort: but I can’t say ’at he ever fund much fault wi’ me. He came to
see me once or twice, afore Maister Weston come, when I was so ill
troubled in my mind; and as I had only very poor health besides, I made
bold to send for him—and he came right enough. I was sore distressed,
Miss Grey—thank God, it’s owered now—but when I took my Bible, I could
get no comfort of it at all. That very chapter “at you’ve just been
reading troubled me as much as aught—‘He that loveth not, knoweth not
God.’ It seemed fearsome to me; for I felt that I loved neither God nor
man as I should do, and could not, if I tried ever so. And th’ chapter
afore, where it says,—‘He that is born of God cannot commit sin.’ And
another place where it says,—‘Love is the fulfilling of the Law.’ And
many, many others, Miss: I should fair weary you out, if I was to tell
them all. But all seemed to condemn me, and to show me “at I was not in
the right way; and as I knew not how to get into it, I sent our Bill to
beg Maister Hatfield to be as kind as look in on me some day and when
he came, I telled him all my troubles.”

“And what did he say, Nancy?”

“Why, Miss, he seemed to scorn me. I might be mista’en—but he like gave
a sort of a whistle, and I saw a bit of a smile on his face; and he
said, ‘Oh, it’s all stuff! You’ve been among the Methodists, my good
woman.’ But I telled him I’d never been near the Methodies. And then he
said,—‘Well,’ says he, ‘you must come to church, where you’ll hear the
Scriptures properly explained, instead of sitting poring over your
Bible at home.’

“But I telled him I always used coming to church when I had my health;
but this very cold winter weather I hardly durst venture so far—and me
so bad wi’ th’ rheumatic and all.

“But he says, ‘It’ll do your rheumatiz good to hobble to church:
there’s nothing like exercise for the rheumatiz. You can walk about the
house well enough; why can’t you walk to church? The fact is,’ says he,
‘you’re getting too fond of your ease. It’s always easy to find excuses
for shirking one’s duty.’

“But then, you know, Miss Grey, it wasn’t so. However, I telled him I’d
try. ‘But please, sir,’ says I, ‘if I do go to church, what the better
shall I be? I want to have my sins blotted out, and to feel that they
are remembered no more against me, and that the love of God is shed
abroad in my heart; and if I can get no good by reading my Bible an’
saying my prayers at home, what good shall I get by going to church?’”

“‘The church,’ says he, ‘is the place appointed by God for His worship.
It’s your duty to go there as often as you can. If you want comfort,
you must seek it in the path of duty,’—an’ a deal more he said, but I
cannot remember all his fine words. However, it all came to this, that
I was to come to church as oft as ever I could, and bring my
prayer-book with me, an’ read up all the sponsers after the clerk, an’
stand, an’ kneel, an’ sit, an’ do all as I should, and take the Lord’s
Supper at every opportunity, an’ hearken his sermons, and Maister
Bligh’s, an’ it ’ud be all right: if I went on doing my duty, I should
get a blessing at last.

“‘But if you get no comfort that way,’ says he, ‘it’s all up.’

“‘Then, sir,’ says I, ‘should you think I’m a reprobate?’

“‘Why,’ says he—he says, ‘if you do your best to get to heaven and
can’t manage it, you must be one of those that seek to enter in at the
strait gate and shall not be able.’

“An’ then he asked me if I’d seen any of the ladies o’ th’ Hall about
that mornin’; so I telled him where I had seen the young misses go on
th’ Moss Lane;—an’ he kicked my poor cat right across th’ floor, an’
went after ’em as gay as a lark: but I was very sad. That last word o’
his fair sunk into my heart, an’ lay there like a lump o’ lead, till I
was weary to bear it.

“Howsever, I follered his advice: I thought he meant it all for th’
best, though he _had_ a queer way with him. But you know, Miss, he’s
rich an’ young, and such like cannot right understand the thoughts of a
poor old woman such as me. But, howsever, I did my best to do all as he
bade me—but maybe I’m plaguing you, Miss, wi’ my chatter.”

“Oh, no, Nancy! Go on, and tell me all.”

“Well, my rheumatiz got better—I know not whether wi’ going to church
or not, but one frosty Sunday I got this cold i’ my eyes. Th’
inflammation didn’t come on all at once like, but bit by bit—but I
wasn’t going to tell you about my eyes, I was talking about my trouble
o’ mind;—and to tell the truth, Miss Grey, I don’t think it was anyways
eased by coming to church—nought to speak on, at least: I like got my
health better; but that didn’t mend my soul. I hearkened and hearkened
the ministers, and read an’ read at my prayer-book; but it was all like
sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal: the sermons I couldn’t
understand, an’ th’ prayer-book only served to show me how wicked I
was, that I could read such good words an’ never be no better for it,
and oftens feel it a sore labour an’ a heavy task beside, instead of a
blessing and a privilege as all good Christians does. It seemed like as
all were barren an’ dark to me. And then, them dreadful words, ‘Many
shall seek to enter in, and shall not be able.’ They like as they fair
dried up my sperrit.

“But one Sunday, when Maister Hatfield gave out about the sacrament, I
noticed where he said, ‘If there be any of you that cannot quiet his
own conscience, but requireth further comfort or counsel, let him come
to me, or some other discreet and learned minister of God’s word, and
open his grief!’ So next Sunday morning, afore service, I just looked
into the vestry, an’ began a-talking to th’ Rector again. I hardly
could fashion to take such a liberty, but I thought when my soul was at
stake I shouldn’t stick at a trifle. But he said he hadn’t time to
attend to me then.

“‘And, indeed,’ says he, ‘I’ve nothing to say to you but what I’ve said
before. Take the sacrament, of course, and go on doing your duty; and
if that won’t serve you, nothing will. So don’t bother me any more.’

“So then, I went away. But I heard Maister Weston—Maister Weston was
there, Miss—this was his first Sunday at Horton, you know, an’ he was
i’ th’ vestry in his surplice, helping th’ Rector on with his gown—”

“Yes, Nancy.”

“And I heard him ask Maister Hatfield who I was, an’ he says, ‘Oh,
she’s a canting old fool.’

“And I was very ill grieved, Miss Grey; but I went to my seat, and I
tried to do my duty as aforetime: but I like got no peace. An’ I even
took the sacrament; but I felt as though I were eating and drinking to
my own damnation all th’ time. So I went home, sorely troubled.

“But next day, afore I’d gotten fettled up—for indeed, Miss, I’d no
heart to sweeping an’ fettling, an’ washing pots; so I sat me down i’
th’ muck—who should come in but Maister Weston! I started siding stuff
then, an’ sweeping an’ doing; and I expected he’d begin a-calling me
for my idle ways, as Maister Hatfield would a’ done; but I was
mista’en: he only bid me good-mornin’ like, in a quiet dacent way. So I
dusted him a chair, an’ fettled up th’ fireplace a bit; but I hadn’t
forgotten th’ Rector’s words, so says I, ‘I wonder, sir, you should
give yourself that trouble, to come so far to see a “canting old fool,”
such as me.’

“He seemed taken aback at that; but he would fain persuade me “at the
Rector was only in jest; and when that wouldn’t do, he says, ‘Well,
Nancy, you shouldn’t think so much about it: Mr. Hatfield was a little
out of humour just then: you know we’re none of us perfect—even Moses
spoke unadvisedly with his lips. But now sit down a minute, if you can
spare the time, and tell me all your doubts and fears; and I’ll try to
remove them.’

“So I sat me down anent him. He was quite a stranger, you know, Miss
Grey, and even _younger_ nor Maister Hatfield, I believe; and I had
thought him not so pleasant-looking as him, and rather a bit crossish,
at first, to look at; but he spake so civil like—and when th’ cat, poor
thing, jumped on to his knee, he only stroked her, and gave a bit of a
smile: so I thought that was a good sign; for once, when she did so to
th’ Rector, he knocked her off, like as it might be in scorn and anger,
poor thing. But you can’t expect a cat to know manners like a
Christian, you know, Miss Grey.”

“No; of course not, Nancy. But what did Mr. Weston say then?”

“He said nought; but he listened to me as steady an’ patient as could
be, an’ never a bit o’ scorn about him; so I went on, an’ telled him
all, just as I’ve telled you—an’ more too.

“‘Well,’ says he, ‘Mr. Hatfield was quite right in telling you to
persevere in doing your duty; but in advising you to go to church and
attend to the service, and so on, he didn’t mean that was the whole of
a Christian’s duty: he only thought you might there learn what more was
to be done, and be led to take delight in those exercises, instead of
finding them a task and a burden. And if you had asked him to explain
those words that trouble you so much, I think he would have told you,
that if many shall seek to enter in at the strait gate and shall not be
able, it is their own sins that hinder them; just as a man with a large
sack on his back might wish to pass through a narrow doorway, and find
it impossible to do so unless he would leave his sack behind him. But
you, Nancy, I dare say, have no sins that you would not gladly throw
aside, if you knew how?’

“‘Indeed, sir, you speak truth,’ said I.

“‘Well,’ says he, ‘you know the first and great commandment—and the
second, which is like unto it—on which two commandments hang all the
law and the prophets? You say you cannot love God; but it strikes me
that if you rightly consider who and what He is, you cannot help it. He
is your father, your best friend: every blessing, everything good,
pleasant, or useful, comes from Him; and everything evil, everything
you have reason to hate, to shun, or to fear, comes from Satan—_His_
enemy as well as ours. And for _this_ cause was God manifest in the
flesh, that He might destroy the works of the Devil: in one word, God
is LOVE; and the more of love we have within us, the nearer we are to
Him and the more of His spirit we possess.’

“‘Well, sir,’ I said, ‘if I can always think on these things, I think I
might well love God: but how can I love my neighbours, when they vex
me, and be so contrary and sinful as some on ’em is?’

“‘It may seem a hard matter,’ says he, ‘to love our neighbours, who
have so much of what is evil about them, and whose faults so often
awaken the evil that lingers within ourselves; but remember that _He_
made them, and _He_ loves them; and whosoever loveth him that begat,
loveth him that is begotten also. And if God so loveth us, that He gave
His only begotten Son to die for us, we ought also to love one another.
But if you cannot feel positive affection for those who do not care for
you, you can at least try to do to them as you would they should do
unto you: you can endeavour to pity their failings and excuse their
offences, and to do all the good you can to those about you. And if you
accustom yourself to this, Nancy, the very effort itself will make you
love them in some degree—to say nothing of the goodwill your kindness
would beget in them, though they might have little else that is good
about them. If we love God and wish to serve Him, let us try to be like
Him, to do His work, to labour for His glory—which is the good of
man—to hasten the coming of His kingdom, which is the peace and
happiness of all the world: however powerless we may seem to be, in
doing all the good we can through life, the humblest of us may do much
towards it: and let us dwell in love, that He may dwell in us and we in
Him. The more happiness we bestow, the more we shall receive, even
here; and the greater will be our reward in heaven when we rest from
our labours.’ I believe, Miss, them is his very words, for I’ve thought
’em ower many a time. An’ then he took that Bible, an’ read bits here
and there, an’ explained ’em as clear as the day: and it seemed like as
a new light broke in on my soul; an’ I felt fair aglow about my heart,
an’ only wished poor Bill an’ all the world could ha’ been there, an’
heard it all, and rejoiced wi’ me.

“After he was gone, Hannah Rogers, one o’ th’ neighbours, came in and
wanted me to help her to wash. I telled her I couldn’t just then, for I
hadn’t set on th’ potaties for th’ dinner, nor washed up th’ breakfast
stuff yet. So then she began a-calling me for my nasty idle ways. I was
a little bit vexed at first, but I never said nothing wrong to her: I
only telled her like all in a quiet way, ’at I’d had th’ new parson to
see me; but I’d get done as quick as ever I could, an’ then come an’
help her. So then she softened down; and my heart like as it warmed
towards her, an’ in a bit we was very good friends. An’ so it is, Miss
Grey, ‘a soft answer turneth away wrath; but grievous words stir up
anger.’ It isn’t only in them you speak to, but in yourself.”

“Very true, Nancy, if we could always remember it.”

“Ay, if we could!”

“And did Mr. Weston ever come to see you again?”

“Yes, many a time; and since my eyes has been so bad, he’s sat an’ read
to me by the half-hour together: but you know, Miss, he has other folks
to see, and other things to do—God bless him! An’ that next Sunday he
preached _such_ a sermon! His text was, ‘Come unto me all ye that
labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest,’ and them two
blessed verses that follows. You wasn’t there, Miss, you was with your
friends then—but it made me _so_ happy! And I _am_ happy now, thank
God! an’ I take a pleasure, now, in doing little bits o’ jobs for my
neighbours—such as a poor old body ’at’s half blind can do; and they
take it kindly of me, just as he said. You see, Miss, I’m knitting a
pair o’ stockings now;—they’re for Thomas Jackson: he’s a queerish old
body, an’ we’ve had many a bout at threaping, one anent t’other; an’ at
times we’ve differed sorely. So I thought I couldn’t do better nor knit
him a pair o’ warm stockings; an’ I’ve felt to like him a deal better,
poor old man, sin’ I began. It’s turned out just as Maister Weston
said.”

“Well, I’m very glad to see you so happy, Nancy, and so wise: but I
must go now; I shall be wanted at the Hall,” said I; and bidding her
good-bye, I departed, promising to come again when I had time, and
feeling nearly as happy as herself.

At another time I went to read to a poor labourer who was in the last
stage of consumption. The young ladies had been to see him, and somehow
a promise of reading had been extracted from them; but it was too much
trouble, so they begged me to do it instead. I went, willingly enough;
and there too I was gratified with the praises of Mr. Weston, both from
the sick man and his wife. The former told me that he derived great
comfort and benefit from the visits of the new parson, who frequently
came to see him, and was “another guess sort of man” to Mr. Hatfield;
who, before the other’s arrival at Horton, had now and then paid him a
visit; on which occasions he would always insist upon having the
cottage-door kept open, to admit the fresh air for his own convenience,
without considering how it might injure the sufferer; and having opened
his prayer-book and hastily read over a part of the Service for the
Sick, would hurry away again: if he did not stay to administer some
harsh rebuke to the afflicted wife, or to make some thoughtless, not to
say heartless, observation, rather calculated to increase than diminish
the troubles of the suffering pair.

“Whereas,” said the man, “Maister Weston ’ull pray with me quite in a
different fashion, an’ talk to me as kind as owt; an’ oft read to me
too, an’ sit beside me just like a brother.”

“Just for all the world!” exclaimed his wife; “an’ about a three wik
sin’, when he seed how poor Jem shivered wi’ cold, an’ what pitiful
fires we kept, he axed if wer stock of coals was nearly done. I telled
him it was, an’ we was ill set to get more: but you know, mum, I didn’t
think o’ him helping us; but, howsever, he sent us a sack o’ coals next
day; an’ we’ve had good fires ever sin’: and a great blessing it is,
this winter time. But that’s his way, Miss Grey: when he comes into a
poor body’s house a-seein’ sick folk, he like notices what they most
stand i’ need on; an’ if he thinks they can’t readily get it therseln,
he never says nowt about it, but just gets it for ’em. An’ it isn’t
everybody ’at ’ud do that, ’at has as little as he has: for you know,
mum, he’s nowt at all to live on but what he gets fra’ th’ Rector, an’
that’s little enough they say.”

I remembered then, with a species of exultation, that he had frequently
been styled a vulgar brute by the amiable Miss Murray, because he wore
a silver watch, and clothes not quite so bright and fresh as Mr.
Hatfield’s.

In returning to the Lodge I felt very happy, and thanked God that I had
now something to think about; something to dwell on as a relief from
the weary monotony, the lonely drudgery, of my present life: for I
_was_ lonely. Never, from month to month, from year to year, except
during my brief intervals of rest at home, did I see one creature to
whom I could open my heart, or freely speak my thoughts with any hope
of sympathy, or even comprehension: never one, unless it were poor
Nancy Brown, with whom I could enjoy a single moment of real social
intercourse, or whose conversation was calculated to render me better,
wiser, or happier than before; or who, as far as I could see, could be
greatly benefited by mine. My only companions had been unamiable
children, and ignorant, wrong-headed girls; from whose fatiguing folly,
unbroken solitude was often a relief most earnestly desired and dearly
prized. But to be restricted to such associates was a serious evil,
both in its immediate effects and the consequences that were likely to
ensue. Never a new idea or stirring thought came to me from without;
and such as rose within me were, for the most part, miserably crushed
at once, or doomed to sicken or fade away, because they could not see
the light.

Habitual associates are known to exercise a great influence over each
other’s minds and manners. Those whose actions are for ever before our
eyes, whose words are ever in our ears, will naturally lead us, albeit
against our will, slowly, gradually, imperceptibly, perhaps, to act and
speak as they do. I will not presume to say how far this irresistible
power of assimilation extends; but if one civilised man were doomed to
pass a dozen years amid a race of intractable savages, unless he had
power to improve them, I greatly question whether, at the close of that
period, he would not have become, at least, a barbarian himself. And I,
as I could not make my young companions better, feared exceedingly that
they would make me worse—would gradually bring my feelings, habits,
capacities, to the level of their own; without, however, imparting to
me their lightheartedness and cheerful vivacity.

Already, I seemed to feel my intellect deteriorating, my heart
petrifying, my soul contracting; and I trembled lest my very moral
perceptions should become deadened, my distinctions of right and wrong
confounded, and all my better faculties be sunk, at last, beneath the
baneful influence of such a mode of life. The gross vapours of earth
were gathering around me, and closing in upon my inward heaven; and
thus it was that Mr. Weston rose at length upon me, appearing like the
morning star in my horizon, to save me from the fear of utter darkness;
and I rejoiced that I had now a subject for contemplation that was
above me, not beneath. I was glad to see that all the world was not
made up of Bloomfields, Murrays, Hatfields, Ashbys, &c.; and that human
excellence was not a mere dream of the imagination. When we hear a
little good and no harm of a person, it is easy and pleasant to imagine
more: in short, it is needless to analyse all my thoughts; but Sunday
was now become a day of peculiar delight to me (I was now almost
broken-in to the back corner in the carriage), for I liked to hear
him—and I liked to see him, too; though I knew he was not handsome, or
even what is called agreeable, in outward aspect; but, certainly, he
was not ugly.

In stature he was a little, a very little, above the middle size; the
outline of his face would be pronounced too square for beauty, but to
me it announced decision of character; his dark brown hair was not
carefully curled, like Mr. Hatfield’s, but simply brushed aside over a
broad white forehead; the eyebrows, I suppose, were too projecting, but
from under those dark brows there gleamed an eye of singular power,
brown in colour, not large, and somewhat deep-set, but strikingly
brilliant, and full of expression; there was character, too, in the
mouth, something that bespoke a man of firm purpose and an habitual
thinker; and when he smiled—but I will not speak of that yet, for, at
the time I mention, I had never seen him smile: and, indeed, his
general appearance did not impress me with the idea of a man given to
such a relaxation, nor of such an individual as the cottagers described
him. I had early formed my opinion of him; and, in spite of Miss
Murray’s objurgations: was fully convinced that he was a man of strong
sense, firm faith, and ardent piety, but thoughtful and stern: and when
I found that, to his other good qualities, was added that of true
benevolence and gentle, considerate kindness, the discovery, perhaps,
delighted me the more, as I had not been prepared to expect it.




CHAPTER XII.
THE SHOWER


The next visit I paid to Nancy Brown was in the second week in March:
for, though I had many spare minutes during the day, I seldom could
look upon an hour as entirely my own; since, where everything was left
to the caprices of Miss Matilda and her sister, there could be no order
or regularity. Whatever occupation I chose, when not actually busied
about them or their concerns, I had, as it were, to keep my loins
girded, my shoes on my feet, and my staff in my hand; for not to be
immediately forthcoming when called for, was regarded as a grave and
inexcusable offence: not only by my pupils and their mother, but by the
very servant, who came in breathless haste to call me, exclaiming,
“You’re to go to the schoolroom _directly_, mum, the young ladies is
WAITING!!” Climax of horror! actually waiting for their governess!!!

But this time I was pretty sure of an hour or two to myself; for
Matilda was preparing for a long ride, and Rosalie was dressing for a
dinner-party at Lady Ashby’s: so I took the opportunity of repairing to
the widow’s cottage, where I found her in some anxiety about her cat,
which had been absent all day. I comforted her with as many anecdotes
of that animal’s roving propensities as I could recollect. “I’m feared
o’ th’ gamekeepers,” said she: “that’s all ’at I think on. If th’ young
gentlemen had been at home, I should a’ thought they’d been setting
their dogs at her, an’ worried her, poor thing, as they did _many_ a
poor thing’s cat; but I haven’t that to be feared on now.” Nancy’s eyes
were better, but still far from well: she had been trying to make a
Sunday shirt for her son, but told me she could only bear to do a
little bit at it now and then, so that it progressed but slowly, though
the poor lad wanted it sadly. So I proposed to help her a little, after
I had read to her, for I had plenty of time that evening, and need not
return till dusk. She thankfully accepted the offer. “An’ you’ll be a
bit o’ company for me too, Miss,” said she; “I like as I feel lonesome
without my cat.” But when I had finished reading, and done the half of
a seam, with Nancy’s capacious brass thimble fitted on to my finger by
means of a roll of paper, I was disturbed by the entrance of Mr.
Weston, with the identical cat in his arms. I now saw that he could
smile, and very pleasantly too.

“I’ve done you a piece of good service, Nancy,” he began: then seeing
me, he acknowledged my presence by a slight bow. I should have been
invisible to Hatfield, or any other gentleman of those parts. “I’ve
delivered your cat,” he continued, “from the hands, or rather the gun,
of Mr. Murray’s gamekeeper.”

“God bless you, sir!” cried the grateful old woman, ready to weep for
joy as she received her favourite from his arms.

“Take care of it,” said he, “and don’t let it go near the
rabbit-warren, for the gamekeeper swears he’ll shoot it if he sees it
there again: he would have done so to-day, if I had not been in time to
stop him. I believe it is raining, Miss Grey,” added he, more quietly,
observing that I had put aside my work, and was preparing to depart.
“Don’t let me disturb you—I shan’t stay two minutes.”

“You’ll _both_ stay while this shower gets owered,” said Nancy, as she
stirred the fire, and placed another chair beside it; “what! there’s
room for all.”

“I can see better here, thank you, Nancy,” replied I, taking my work to
the window, where she had the goodness to suffer me to remain
unmolested, while she got a brush to remove the cat’s hairs from Mr.
Weston’s coat, carefully wiped the rain from his hat, and gave the cat
its supper, busily talking all the time: now thanking her clerical
friend for what he had done; now wondering how the cat had found out
the warren; and now lamenting the probable consequences of such a
discovery. He listened with a quiet, good-natured smile, and at length
took a seat in compliance with her pressing invitations, but repeated
that he did not mean to stay.

“I have another place to go to,” said he, “and I see” (glancing at the
book on the table) “someone else has been reading to you.”

“Yes, sir; Miss Grey has been as kind as read me a chapter; an’ now
she’s helping me with a shirt for our Bill—but I’m feared she’ll be
cold there. Won’t you come to th’ fire, Miss?”

“No, thank you, Nancy, I’m quite warm. I must go as soon as this shower
is over.”

“Oh, Miss! You said you could stop while dusk!” cried the provoking old
woman, and Mr. Weston seized his hat.

“Nay, sir,” exclaimed she, “pray don’t go now, while it rains so fast.”

“But it strikes me I’m keeping your visitor away from the fire.”

“No, you’re not, Mr. Weston,” replied I, hoping there was no harm in a
falsehood of that description.

“No, sure!” cried Nancy. “What, there’s lots o’ room!”

“Miss Grey,” said he, half-jestingly, as if he felt it necessary to
change the present subject, whether he had anything particular to say
or not, “I wish you would make my peace with the squire, when you see
him. He was by when I rescued Nancy’s cat, and did not quite approve of
the deed. I told him I thought he might better spare all his rabbits
than she her cat, for which audacious assertion he treated me to some
rather ungentlemanly language; and I fear I retorted a trifle too
warmly.”

“Oh, lawful sir! I hope you didn’t fall out wi’ th’ maister for sake o’
my cat! he cannot bide answering again—can th’ maister.”

“Oh! it’s no matter, Nancy: I don’t care about it, really; I said
nothing _very_ uncivil; and I suppose Mr. Murray is accustomed to use
rather strong language when he’s heated.”

“Ay, sir: it’s a pity.”

“And now, I really must go. I have to visit a place a mile beyond this;
and you would not have me to return in the dark: besides, it has nearly
done raining now—so good-evening, Nancy. Good-evening, Miss Grey.”

“Good-evening, Mr. Weston; but don’t depend upon me for making your
peace with Mr. Murray, for I never see him—to speak to.”

“Don’t you; it can’t be helped then,” replied he, in dolorous
resignation: then, with a peculiar half-smile, he added, “But never
mind; I imagine the squire has more to apologise for than I;” and left
the cottage.

I went on with my sewing as long as I could see, and then bade Nancy
good-evening; checking her too lively gratitude by the undeniable
assurance that I had only done for her what she would have done for me,
if she had been in my place and I in hers. I hastened back to Horton
Lodge, where, having entered the schoolroom, I found the tea-table all
in confusion, the tray flooded with slops, and Miss Matilda in a most
ferocious humour.

“Miss Grey, whatever have you been about? I’ve had tea half an hour
ago, and had to make it myself, and drink it all alone! I wish you
would come in sooner!”

“I’ve been to see Nancy Brown. I thought you would not be back from
your ride.”

“How could I ride in the rain, I should like to know. That damned
pelting shower was vexatious enough—coming on when I was just in full
swing: and then to come and find nobody in to tea! and you know I can’t
make the tea as I like it.”

“I didn’t think of the shower,” replied I (and, indeed, the thought of
its driving her home had never entered my head).

“No, of course; you were under shelter yourself, and you never thought
of other people.”

I bore her coarse reproaches with astonishing equanimity, even with
cheerfulness; for I was sensible that I had done more good to Nancy
Brown than harm to her: and perhaps some other thoughts assisted to
keep up my spirits, and impart a relish to the cup of cold, overdrawn
tea, and a charm to the otherwise unsightly table; and—I had almost
said—to Miss Matilda’s unamiable face. But she soon betook herself to
the stables, and left me to the quiet enjoyment of my solitary meal.




CHAPTER XIII.
THE PRIMROSES


Miss Murray now always went twice to church, for she so loved
admiration that she could not bear to lose a single opportunity of
obtaining it; and she was so sure of it wherever she showed herself,
that, whether Harry Meltham and Mr. Green were there or not, there was
certain to be somebody present who would not be insensible to her
charms, besides the Rector, whose official capacity generally obliged
him to attend. Usually, also, if the weather permitted, both she and
her sister would walk home; Matilda, because she hated the confinement
of the carriage; she, because she disliked the privacy of it, and
enjoyed the company that generally enlivened the first mile of the
journey in walking from the church to Mr. Green’s park-gates: near
which commenced the private road to Horton Lodge, which lay in the
opposite direction, while the highway conducted in a straightforward
course to the still more distant mansion of Sir Hugh Meltham. Thus
there was always a chance of being accompanied, so far, either by Harry
Meltham, with or without Miss Meltham, or Mr. Green, with perhaps one
or both of his sisters, and any gentlemen visitors they might have.

Whether I walked with the young ladies or rode with their parents,
depended upon their own capricious will: if they chose to “take” me, I
went; if, for reasons best known to themselves, they chose to go alone,
I took my seat in the carriage. I liked walking better, but a sense of
reluctance to obtrude my presence on anyone who did not desire it,
always kept me passive on these and similar occasions; and I never
inquired into the causes of their varying whims. Indeed, this was the
best policy—for to submit and oblige was the governess’s part, to
consult their own pleasure was that of the pupils. But when I did walk,
the first half of journey was generally a great nuisance to me. As none
of the before-mentioned ladies and gentlemen ever noticed me, it was
disagreeable to walk beside them, as if listening to what they said, or
wishing to be thought one of them, while they talked over me, or
across; and if their eyes, in speaking, chanced to fall on me, it
seemed as if they looked on vacancy—as if they either did not see me,
or were very desirous to make it appear so. It was disagreeable, too,
to walk behind, and thus appear to acknowledge my own inferiority; for,
in truth, I considered myself pretty nearly as good as the best of
them, and wished them to know that I did so, and not to imagine that I
looked upon myself as a mere domestic, who knew her own place too well
to walk beside such fine ladies and gentlemen as they were—though her
young ladies might choose to have her with them, and even condescend to
converse with her when no better company were at hand. Thus—I am almost
ashamed to confess it—but indeed I gave myself no little trouble in my
endeavours (if I did keep up with them) to appear perfectly unconscious
or regardless of their presence, as if I were wholly absorbed in my own
reflections, or the contemplation of surrounding objects; or, if I
lingered behind, it was some bird or insect, some tree or flower, that
attracted my attention, and having duly examined that, I would pursue
my walk alone, at a leisurely pace, until my pupils had bidden adieu to
their companions and turned off into the quiet private road.

One such occasion I particularly well remember; it was a lovely
afternoon about the close of March; Mr. Green and his sisters had sent
their carriage back empty, in order to enjoy the bright sunshine and
balmy air in a sociable walk home along with their visitors, Captain
Somebody and Lieutenant Somebody-else (a couple of military fops), and
the Misses Murray, who, of course, contrived to join them. Such a party
was highly agreeable to Rosalie; but not finding it equally suitable to
my taste, I presently fell back, and began to botanise and entomologise
along the green banks and budding hedges, till the company was
considerably in advance of me, and I could hear the sweet song of the
happy lark; then my spirit of misanthropy began to melt away beneath
the soft, pure air and genial sunshine; but sad thoughts of early
childhood, and yearnings for departed joys, or for a brighter future
lot, arose instead. As my eyes wandered over the steep banks covered
with young grass and green-leaved plants, and surmounted by budding
hedges, I longed intensely for some familiar flower that might recall
the woody dales or green hill-sides of home: the brown moorlands, of
course, were out of the question. Such a discovery would make my eyes
gush out with water, no doubt; but that was one of my greatest
enjoyments now. At length I descried, high up between the twisted roots
of an oak, three lovely primroses, peeping so sweetly from their
hiding-place that the tears already started at the sight; but they grew
so high above me, that I tried in vain to gather one or two, to dream
over and to carry with me: I could not reach them unless I climbed the
bank, which I was deterred from doing by hearing a footstep at that
moment behind me, and was, therefore, about to turn away, when I was
startled by the words, “Allow me to gather them for you, Miss Grey,”
spoken in the grave, low tones of a well-known voice. Immediately the
flowers were gathered, and in my hand. It was Mr. Weston, of course—who
else would trouble himself to do so much for _me_?

“I thanked him; whether warmly or coldly, I cannot tell: but certain I
am that I did not express half the gratitude I felt. It was foolish,
perhaps, to feel any gratitude at all; but it seemed to me, at that
moment, as if this were a remarkable instance of his good-nature: an
act of kindness, which I could not repay, but never should forget: so
utterly unaccustomed was I to receive such civilities, so little
prepared to expect them from anyone within fifty miles of Horton Lodge.
Yet this did not prevent me from feeling a little uncomfortable in his
presence; and I proceeded to follow my pupils at a much quicker pace
than before; though, perhaps, if Mr. Weston had taken the hint, and let
me pass without another word, I might have repeated it an hour after:
but he did not. A somewhat rapid walk for me was but an ordinary pace
for him.

“Your young ladies have left you alone,” said he.

“Yes, they are occupied with more agreeable company.”

“Then don’t trouble yourself to overtake them.” I slackened my pace;
but next moment regretted having done so: my companion did not speak;
and I had nothing in the world to say, and feared he might be in the
same predicament. At length, however, he broke the pause by asking,
with a certain quiet abruptness peculiar to himself, if I liked
flowers.

“Yes; very much,” I answered, “wild-flowers especially.”

“_I_ like wild-flowers,” said he; “others I don’t care about, because I
have no particular associations connected with them—except one or two.
What are your favourite flowers?”

“Primroses, bluebells, and heath-blossoms.”

“Not violets?”

“No; because, as you say, I have no particular associations connected
with them; for there are no sweet violets among the hills and valleys
round my home.”

“It must be a great consolation to you to have a home, Miss Grey,”
observed my companion after a short pause: “however remote, or however
seldom visited, still it is something to look to.”

“It is so much that I think I could not live without it,” replied I,
with an enthusiasm of which I immediately repented; for I thought it
must have sounded essentially silly.

“Oh, yes, you could,” said he, with a thoughtful smile. “The ties that
bind us to life are tougher than you imagine, or than anyone can who
has not felt how roughly they may be pulled without breaking. You might
be miserable without a home, but even _you_ could live; and not so
miserably as you suppose. The human heart is like india-rubber; a
little swells it, but a great deal will not burst it. If ‘little more
than nothing will disturb it, little less than all things will suffice’
to break it. As in the outer members of our frame, there is a vital
power inherent in itself that strengthens it against external violence.
Every blow that shakes it will serve to harden it against a future
stroke; as constant labour thickens the skin of the hand, and
strengthens its muscles instead of wasting them away: so that a day of
arduous toil, that might excoriate a lady’s palm, would make no
sensible impression on that of a hardy ploughman.

“I speak from experience—partly my own. There was a time when I thought
as you do—at least, I was fully persuaded that home and its affections
were the only things that made life tolerable: that, if deprived of
these, existence would become a burden hard to be endured; but now I
have no home—unless you would dignify my two hired rooms at Horton by
such a name;—and not twelve months ago I lost the last and dearest of
my early friends; and yet, not only I live, but I am not wholly
destitute of hope and comfort, even for this life: though I must
acknowledge that I can seldom enter even an humble cottage at the close
of day, and see its inhabitants peaceably gathered around their
cheerful hearth, without a feeling _almost_ of envy at their domestic
enjoyment.”

“You don’t know what happiness lies before you yet,” said I: “you are
now only in the commencement of your journey.”

“The best of happiness,” replied he, “is mine already—the power and the
will to be useful.”

We now approached a stile communicating with a footpath that conducted
to a farm-house, where, I suppose, Mr. Weston purposed to make himself
“useful;” for he presently took leave of me, crossed the stile, and
traversed the path with his usual firm, elastic tread, leaving me to
ponder his words as I continued my course alone. I had heard before
that he had lost his mother not many months before he came. She then
was the last and dearest of his early friends; and he had _no home_. I
pitied him from my heart: I almost wept for sympathy. And this, I
thought, accounted for the shade of premature thoughtfulness that so
frequently clouded his brow, and obtained for him the reputation of a
morose and sullen disposition with the charitable Miss Murray and all
her kin. “But,” thought I, “he is not so miserable as I should be under
such a deprivation: he leads an active life; and a wide field for
useful exertion lies before him. He can _make_ friends; and he can make
a home too, if he pleases; and, doubtless, he will please some time.
God grant the partner of that home may be worthy of his choice, and
make it a happy one—such a home as he deserves to have! And how
delightful it would be to—” But no matter what I thought.

I began this book with the intention of concealing nothing; that those
who liked might have the benefit of perusing a fellow-creature’s heart:
but we have some thoughts that all the angels in heaven are welcome to
behold, but not our brother-men—not even the best and kindest amongst
them.

By this time the Greens had taken themselves to their own abode, and
the Murrays had turned down the private road, whither I hastened to
follow them. I found the two girls warm in an animated discussion on
the respective merits of the two young officers; but on seeing me
Rosalie broke off in the middle of a sentence to exclaim, with
malicious glee—

“Oh-ho, Miss Grey! you’re come at last, are you? No _wonder_ you
lingered so long behind; and no _wonder_ you always stand up so
vigorously for Mr. Weston when I abuse him. Ah-ha! I see it all now!”

“Now, come, Miss Murray, don’t be foolish,” said I, attempting a
good-natured laugh; “you know such nonsense can make no impression on
me.”

But she still went on talking such intolerable stuff—her sister helping
her with appropriate fiction coined for the occasion—that I thought it
necessary to say something in my own justification.

“What folly all this is!” I exclaimed. “If Mr. Weston’s road happened
to be the same as mine for a few yards, and if he chose to exchange a
word or two in passing, what is there so remarkable in that? I assure
you, I never spoke to him before: except once.”

“Where? where? and when?” cried they eagerly.

“In Nancy’s cottage.”

“Ah-ha! you’ve met him there, have you?” exclaimed Rosalie, with
exultant laughter. “Ah! now, Matilda, I’ve found out why she’s so fond
of going to Nancy Brown’s! She goes there to flirt with Mr. Weston.”

“Really, that is not worth contradicting—I only saw him there once, I
tell you—and how could I know he was coming?”

Irritated as I was at their foolish mirth and vexatious imputations,
the uneasiness did not continue long: when they had had their laugh
out, they returned again to the captain and lieutenant; and, while they
disputed and commented upon them, my indignation rapidly cooled; the
cause of it was quickly forgotten, and I turned my thoughts into a
pleasanter channel. Thus we proceeded up the park, and entered the
hall; and as I ascended the stairs to my own chamber, I had but one
thought within me: my heart was filled to overflowing with one single
earnest wish. Having entered the room, and shut the door, I fell upon
my knees and offered up a fervent but not impetuous prayer: “Thy will
be done,” I strove to say throughout; but, “Father, all things are
possible with Thee, and may it be Thy will,” was sure to follow. That
wish—that prayer—both men and women would have scorned me for—“But,
Father, _Thou_ wilt _not_ despise!” I said, and felt that it was true.
It seemed to me that another’s welfare was at least as ardently
implored for as my own; nay, even _that_ was the principal object of my
heart’s desire. I might have been deceiving myself; but that idea gave
me confidence to ask, and power to hope I did not ask in vain. As for
the primroses, I kept two of them in a glass in my room until they were
completely withered, and the housemaid threw them out; and the petals
of the other I pressed between the leaves of my Bible—I have them
still, and mean to keep them always.




CHAPTER XIV.
THE RECTOR


The following day was as fine as the preceding one. Soon after
breakfast Miss Matilda, having galloped and blundered through a few
unprofitable lessons, and vengeably thumped the piano for an hour, in a
terrible humour with both me and it, because her mamma would not give
her a holiday, had betaken herself to her favourite places of resort,
the yards, the stables, and the dog-kennels; and Miss Murray was gone
forth to enjoy a quiet ramble with a new fashionable novel for her
companion, leaving me in the schoolroom hard at work upon a
water-colour drawing which I had promised to do for her, and which she
insisted upon my finishing that day.

At my feet lay a little rough terrier. It was the property of Miss
Matilda; but she hated the animal, and intended to sell it, alleging
that it was quite spoiled. It was really an excellent dog of its kind;
but she affirmed it was fit for nothing, and had not even the sense to
know its own mistress.

The fact was she had purchased it when but a small puppy, insisting at
first that no one should touch it but herself; but soon becoming tired
of so helpless and troublesome a nursling, she had gladly yielded to my
entreaties to be allowed to take charge of it; and I, by carefully
nursing the little creature from infancy to adolescence, of course, had
obtained its affections: a reward I should have greatly valued, and
looked upon as far outweighing all the trouble I had had with it, had
not poor Snap’s grateful feelings exposed him to many a harsh word and
many a spiteful kick and pinch from his owner, and were he not now in
danger of being “put away” in consequence, or transferred to some
rough, stony-hearted master. But how could I help it? I could not make
the dog hate me by cruel treatment, and she would not propitiate him by
kindness.

However, while I thus sat, working away with my pencil, Mrs. Murray
came, half-sailing, half-bustling, into the room.

“Miss Grey,” she began,—“dear! how can you sit at your drawing such a
day as this?” (She thought I was doing it for my own pleasure.) “I
_wonder_ you don’t put on your bonnet and go out with the young
ladies.”

“I think, ma’am, Miss Murray is reading; and Miss Matilda is amusing
herself with her dogs.”

“If you would try to amuse Miss Matilda yourself a little more, I think
she would not be driven to seek amusement in the companionship of dogs
and horses and grooms, so much as she is; and if you would be a little
more cheerful and conversable with Miss Murray, she would not so often
go wandering in the fields with a book in her hand. However, I don’t
want to vex you,” added she, seeing, I suppose, that my cheeks burned
and my hand trembled with some unamiable emotion. “Do, pray, try not to
be so touchy—there’s no speaking to you else. And tell me if you know
where Rosalie is gone: and why she likes to be so much alone?”

“She says she likes to be alone when she has a new book to read.”

“But why can’t she read it in the park or the garden?—why should she go
into the fields and lanes? And how is it that that Mr. Hatfield so
often finds her out? She told me last week he’d walked his horse by her
side all up Moss Lane; and now I’m sure it was he I saw, from my
dressing-room window, walking so briskly past the park-gates, and on
towards the field where she so frequently goes. I wish you would go and
see if she is there; and just gently remind her that it is not proper
for a young lady of her rank and prospects to be wandering about by
herself in that manner, exposed to the attentions of anyone that
presumes to address her; like some poor neglected girl that has no park
to walk in, and no friends to take care of her: and tell her that her
papa would be extremely angry if he knew of her treating Mr. Hatfield
in the familiar manner that I fear she does; and—oh! if you—if _any_
governess had but half a mother’s watchfulness—half a mother’s anxious
care, I should be saved this trouble; and you would see at once the
necessity of keeping your eye upon her, and making your company
agreeable to— Well, go—go; there’s no time to be lost,” cried she,
seeing that I had put away my drawing materials, and was waiting in the
doorway for the conclusion of her address.

According to her prognostications, I found Miss Murray in her favourite
field just without the park; and, unfortunately, not alone; for the
tall, stately figure of Mr. Hatfield was slowly sauntering by her side.

Here was a poser for me. It was my duty to interrupt the _tête-à-tête_:
but how was it to be done? Mr. Hatfield could not to be driven away by
so insignificant person as I; and to go and place myself on the other
side of Miss Murray, and intrude my unwelcome presence upon her without
noticing her companion, was a piece of rudeness I could not be guilty
of: neither had I the courage to cry aloud from the top of the field
that she was wanted elsewhere. So I took the intermediate course of
walking slowly but steadily towards them; resolving, if my approach
failed to scare away the beau, to pass by and tell Miss Murray her
mamma wanted her.

She certainly looked very charming as she strolled, lingering along
under the budding horse-chestnut trees that stretched their long arms
over the park-palings; with her closed book in one hand, and in the
other a graceful sprig of myrtle, which served her as a very pretty
plaything; her bright ringlets escaping profusely from her little
bonnet, and gently stirred by the breeze, her fair cheek flushed with
gratified vanity, her smiling blue eyes, now slyly glancing towards her
admirer, now gazing downward at her myrtle sprig. But Snap, running
before me, interrupted her in the midst of some half-pert, half-playful
repartee, by catching hold of her dress and vehemently tugging thereat;
till Mr. Hatfield, with his cane, administered a resounding thwack upon
the animal’s skull, and sent it yelping back to me with a clamorous
outcry that afforded the reverend gentleman great amusement: but seeing
me so near, he thought, I suppose, he might as well be taking his
departure; and, as I stooped to caress the dog, with ostentatious pity
to show my disapproval of his severity, I heard him say: “When shall I
see you again, Miss Murray?”

“At church, I suppose,” replied she, “unless your business chances to
bring you here again at the precise moment when I happen to be walking
by.”

“I could always manage to have business here, if I knew precisely when
and where to find you.”

“But if I would, I could not inform you, for I am so immethodical, I
never can tell to-day what I shall do to-morrow.”

“Then give me that, meantime, to comfort me,” said he, half jestingly
and half in earnest, extending his hand for the sprig of myrtle.

“No, indeed, I shan’t.”

“Do! _pray_ do! I shall be the most miserable of men if you don’t. You
cannot be so cruel as to deny me a favour so easily granted and yet so
highly prized!” pleaded he as ardently as if his life depended on it.

By this time I stood within a very few yards of them, impatiently
waiting his departure.

“There then! take it and go,” said Rosalie.

He joyfully received the gift, murmured something that made her blush
and toss her head, but with a little laugh that showed her displeasure
was entirely affected; and then with a courteous salutation withdrew.

“Did you ever see such a man, Miss Grey?” said she, turning to me; “I’m
so _glad_ you came! I thought I never _should_ get rid of him; and I
was so terribly afraid of papa seeing him.”

“Has he been with you long?”

“No, not long, but he’s so extremely impertinent: and he’s always
hanging about, pretending his business or his clerical duties require
his attendance in these parts, and really watching for poor me, and
pouncing upon me wherever he sees me.”

“Well, your mamma thinks you ought not to go beyond the park or garden
without some discreet, matronly person like me to accompany you, and
keep off all intruders. She descried Mr. Hatfield hurrying past the
park-gates, and forthwith despatched me with instructions to seek you
up and to take care of you, and likewise to warn—”

“Oh, mamma’s so tiresome! As if I couldn’t take care of myself. She
bothered me before about Mr. Hatfield; and I told her she might trust
me: I never should forget my rank and station for the most delightful
man that ever breathed. I wish he would go down on his knees to-morrow,
and implore me to be his wife, that I might just show her how mistaken
she is in supposing that I could ever—Oh, it provokes me so! To think
that I could be such a fool as to fall in _love_! It is quite beneath
the dignity of a woman to do such a thing. Love! I detest the word! As
applied to one of our sex, I think it a perfect insult. A preference I
_might_ acknowledge; but never for one like poor Mr. Hatfield, who has
not seven hundred a year to bless himself with. I like to talk to him,
because he’s so clever and amusing—I wish Sir Thomas Ashby were half as
nice; besides, I must have _somebody_ to flirt with, and no one else
has the sense to come here; and when we go out, mamma won’t let me
flirt with anybody but Sir Thomas—if he’s there; and if he’s _not_
there, I’m bound hand and foot, for fear somebody should go and make up
some exaggerated story, and put it into his head that I’m engaged, or
likely to be engaged, to somebody else; or, what is more probable, for
fear his nasty old mother should see or hear of my ongoings, and
conclude that I’m not a fit wife for her excellent son: as if the said
son were not the greatest scamp in Christendom; and as if any woman of
common decency were not a world too good for him.”

“Is it really so, Miss Murray? and does your mamma know it, and yet
wish you to marry him?”

“To be sure, she does! She knows more against him than I do, I believe:
she keeps it from me lest I should be discouraged; not knowing how
little I care about such things. For it’s no great matter, really:
he’ll be all right when he’s married, as mamma says; and reformed rakes
make the best husbands, _everybody_ knows. I only wish he were not so
ugly—_that’s_ all _I_ think about: but then there’s no choice here in
the country; and papa _will not_ let us go to London—”

“But I should think Mr. Hatfield would be far better.”

“And so he would, if he were lord of Ashby Park—there’s not a doubt of
it: but the fact is, I _must_ have Ashby Park, whoever shares it with
me.”

“But Mr. Hatfield thinks you like him all this time; you don’t consider
how bitterly he will be disappointed when he finds himself mistaken.”

“_No_, indeed! It will be a proper punishment for his presumption—for
ever _daring_ to think I could like him. I should enjoy nothing so much
as lifting the veil from his eyes.”

“The sooner you do it the better then.”

“No; I tell you, I like to amuse myself with him. Besides, he doesn’t
really think I like him. I take good care of that: you don’t know how
cleverly I manage. He may presume to think he can induce me to like
him; for which I shall punish him as he deserves.”

“Well, mind you don’t give too much reason for such presumption—that’s
all,” replied I.

But all my exhortations were in vain: they only made her somewhat more
solicitous to disguise her wishes and her thoughts from me. She talked
no more to me about the Rector; but I could see that her mind, if not
her heart, was fixed upon him still, and that she was intent upon
obtaining another interview: for though, in compliance with her
mother’s request, I was now constituted the companion of her rambles
for a time, she still persisted in wandering in the fields and lanes
that lay in the nearest proximity to the road; and, whether she talked
to me or read the book she carried in her hand, she kept continually
pausing to look round her, or gaze up the road to see if anyone was
coming; and if a horseman trotted by, I could tell by her unqualified
abuse of the poor equestrian, whoever he might be, that she hated him
_because_ he was not Mr. Hatfield.

“Surely,” thought I, “she is not so indifferent to him as she believes
herself to be, or would have others to believe her; and her mother’s
anxiety is not so wholly causeless as she affirms.”

Three days passed away, and he did not make his appearance. On the
afternoon of the fourth, as we were walking beside the park-palings in
the memorable field, each furnished with a book (for I always took care
to provide myself with something to be doing when she did not require
me to talk), she suddenly interrupted my studies by exclaiming—

“Oh, Miss Grey! do be so kind as to go and see Mark Wood, and take his
wife half-a-crown from me—I should have given or sent it a week ago,
but quite forgot. There!” said she, throwing me her purse, and speaking
very fast—“Never mind getting it out now, but take the purse and give
them what you like; I would go with you, but I want to finish this
volume. I’ll come and meet you when I’ve done it. Be quick, will
you—and—oh, wait; hadn’t you better read to him a bit? Run to the house
and get some sort of a good book. Anything will do.”

I did as I was desired; but, suspecting something from her hurried
manner and the suddenness of the request, I just glanced back before I
quitted the field, and there was Mr. Hatfield about to enter at the
gate below. By sending me to the house for a book, she had just
prevented my meeting him on the road.

“Never mind!” thought I, “there’ll be no great harm done. Poor Mark
will be glad of the half-crown, and perhaps of the good book too; and
if the Rector does steal Miss Rosalie’s heart, it will only humble her
pride a little; and if they do get married at last, it will only save
her from a worse fate; and she will be quite a good enough partner for
him, and he for her.”

Mark Wood was the consumptive labourer whom I mentioned before. He was
now rapidly wearing away. Miss Murray, by her liberality, obtained
literally the blessing of him that was ready to perish; for though the
half-crown could be of very little service to him, he was glad of it
for the sake of his wife and children, so soon to be widowed and
fatherless. After I had sat a few minutes, and read a little for the
comfort and edification of himself and his afflicted wife, I left them;
but I had not proceeded fifty yards before I encountered Mr. Weston,
apparently on his way to the same abode. He greeted me in his usual
quiet, unaffected way, stopped to inquire about the condition of the
sick man and his family, and with a sort of unconscious, brotherly
disregard to ceremony took from my hand the book out of which I had
been reading, turned over its pages, made a few brief but very sensible
remarks, and restored it; then told me about some poor sufferer he had
just been visiting, talked a little about Nancy Brown, made a few
observations upon my little rough friend the terrier, that was frisking
at his feet, and finally upon the beauty of the weather, and departed.

I have omitted to give a detail of his words, from a notion that they
would not interest the reader as they did me, and not because I have
forgotten them. No; I remember them well; for I thought them over and
over again in the course of that day and many succeeding ones, I know
not how often; and recalled every intonation of his deep, clear voice,
every flash of his quick, brown eye, and every gleam of his pleasant,
but too transient smile. Such a confession will look very absurd, I
fear: but no matter: I have written it: and they that read it will not
know the writer.

While I was walking along, happy within, and pleased with all around,
Miss Murray came hastening to meet me; her buoyant step, flushed cheek,
and radiant smiles showing that she, too, was happy, in her own way.
Running up to me, she put her arm through mine, and without waiting to
recover breath, began—“Now, Miss Grey, think yourself highly honoured,
for I’m come to tell you my news before I’ve breathed a word of it to
anyone else.”

“Well, what is it?”

“Oh, _such_ news! In the first place, you must know that Mr. Hatfield
came upon me just after you were gone. I was in such a way for fear
papa or mamma should see him; but you know I couldn’t call you back
again, and so!—oh, dear! I can’t tell you all about it now, for there’s
Matilda, I see, in the park, and I must go and open my budget to her.
But, however, Hatfield was most uncommonly audacious, unspeakably
complimentary, and unprecedentedly tender—tried to be so, at least—he
didn’t succeed very well in _that_, because it’s not his vein. I’ll
tell you all he said another time.”

“But what did _you_ say—I’m more interested in that?”

“I’ll tell you that, too, at some future period. I happened to be in a
very good humour just then; but, though I was complaisant and gracious
enough, I took care not to compromise myself in any possible way. But,
however, the conceited wretch chose to interpret my amiability of
temper his own way, and at length presumed upon my indulgence so
far—what do you think?—he actually made me an offer!”

“And you—”

“I proudly drew myself up, and with the greatest coolness expressed my
astonishment at such an occurrence, and hoped he had seen nothing in my
conduct to justify his expectations. You should have _seen_ how his
countenance fell! He went perfectly white in the face. I assured him
that I esteemed him and all that, but could not possibly accede to his
proposals; and if I did, papa and mamma could never be brought to give
their consent.”

“‘But if they could,’ said he, ‘would yours be wanting?’

“‘Certainly, Mr. Hatfield,’ I replied, with a cool decision which
quelled all hope at once. Oh, if you had seen how dreadfully mortified
he was—how crushed to the earth by his disappointment! really, I almost
pitied him myself.

“One more desperate attempt, however, he made. After a silence of
considerable duration, during which he struggled to be calm, and I to
be grave—for I felt a strong propensity to laugh—which would have
ruined all—he said, with the ghost of a smile—‘But tell me plainly,
Miss Murray, if I had the wealth of Sir Hugh Meltham, or the prospects
of his eldest son, would you still refuse me? Answer me truly, upon
your honour.’

“‘Certainly,’ said I. ‘That would make no difference whatever.’

“It was a great lie, but he looked so confident in his own attractions
still, that I determined not to leave him one stone upon another. He
looked me full in the face; but I kept my countenance so well that he
could not imagine I was saying anything more than the actual truth.

“‘Then it’s all over, I suppose,’ he said, looking as if he could have
died on the spot with vexation and the intensity of his despair. But he
was angry as well as disappointed. There was he, suffering so
unspeakably, and there was I, the pitiless cause of it all, so utterly
impenetrable to all the artillery of his looks and words, so calmly
cold and proud, he could not but feel some resentment; and with
singular bitterness he began—‘I certainly did not expect this, Miss
Murray. I might say something about your past conduct, and the hopes
you have led me to foster, but I forbear, on condition—’

“‘No conditions, Mr. Hatfield!’ said I, now truly indignant at his
insolence.

“‘Then let me beg it as a favour,’ he replied, lowering his voice at
once, and taking a humbler tone: ‘let me entreat that you will not
mention this affair to anyone whatever. If you will keep silence about
it, there need be no unpleasantness on either side—nothing, I mean,
beyond what is quite unavoidable: for my own feelings I will endeavour
to keep to myself, if I cannot annihilate them—I will try to forgive,
if I cannot forget the cause of my sufferings. I will not suppose, Miss
Murray, that you know how deeply you have injured me. I would not have
you aware of it; but if, in addition to the injury you have already
done me—pardon me, but, whether innocently or not, you _have_ done
it—and if you add to it by giving publicity to this unfortunate affair,
or naming it _at all_, you will find that I too can speak, and though
you scorned my love, you will hardly scorn my—’

“He stopped, but he bit his bloodless lip, and looked so terribly
fierce that I was quite frightened. However, my pride upheld me still,
and I answered disdainfully; ‘I do not know what motive you suppose I
could have for naming it to anyone, Mr. Hatfield; but if I were
disposed to do so, you would not deter me by threats; and it is
scarcely the part of a gentleman to attempt it.’

“‘Pardon me, Miss Murray,’ said he, ‘I have loved you so intensely—I do
still adore you so deeply, that I would not willingly offend you; but
though I never have loved, and never _can_ love any woman as I have
loved you, it is equally certain that I never was so ill-treated by
any. On the contrary, I have always found your sex the kindest and most
tender and obliging of God’s creation, till now.’ (Think of the
conceited fellow saying that!) ‘And the novelty and harshness of the
lesson you have taught me to-day, and the bitterness of being
disappointed in the only quarter on which the happiness of my life
depended, must excuse any appearance of asperity. If my presence is
disagreeable to you, Miss Murray,’ he said (for I was looking about me
to show how little I cared for him, so he thought I was tired of him, I
suppose)—‘if my presence is disagreeable to you, Miss Murray, you have
only to promise me the favour I named, and I will relieve you at once.
There are many ladies—some even in this parish—who would be delighted
to accept what you have so scornfully trampled under your feet. They
would be naturally inclined to hate one whose surpassing loveliness has
so completely estranged my heart from them and blinded me to their
attractions; and a single hint of the truth from me to one of these
would be sufficient to raise such a talk against you as would seriously
injure your prospects, and diminish your chance of success with any
other gentleman you or your mamma might design to entangle.’

“‘What do your mean, sir?’ said I, ready to stamp with passion.

“‘I mean that this affair from beginning to end appears to me like a
case of arrant flirtation, to say the least of it—such a case as you
would find it rather inconvenient to have blazoned through the world:
especially with the additions and exaggerations of your female rivals,
who would be too glad to publish the matter, if I only gave them a
handle to it. But I promise you, on the faith of a gentleman, that no
word or syllable that could tend to your prejudice shall ever escape my
lips, provided you will—’

“‘Well, well, I won’t mention it,’ said I. ‘You may rely upon my
silence, if that can afford you any consolation.’

“‘You promise it?’

“‘Yes,’ I answered; for I wanted to get rid of him now.

“‘Farewell, then!’ said he, in a most doleful, heart-sick tone; and
with a look where pride vainly struggled against despair, he turned and
went away: longing, no doubt, to get home, that he might shut himself
up in his study and cry—if he doesn’t burst into tears before he gets
there.”

“But you have broken your promise already,” said I, truly horrified at
her perfidy.

“Oh! it’s only to you; I know you won’t repeat it.”

“Certainly, I shall not: but you say you are going to tell your sister;
and she will tell your brothers when they come home, and Brown
immediately, if you do not tell her yourself; and Brown will blazon it,
or be the means of blazoning it, throughout the country.”

“No, indeed, she won’t. We shall not tell her at all, unless it be
under the promise of the strictest secrecy.”

“But how can you expect her to keep her promises better than her more
enlightened mistress?”

“Well, well, she shan’t hear it then,” said Miss Murray, somewhat
snappishly.

“But you will tell your mamma, of course,” pursued I; “and she will
tell your papa.”

“Of course I shall tell mamma—that is the very thing that pleases me so
much. I shall now be able to convince her how mistaken she was in her
fears about me.”

“Oh, _that’s_ it, is it? I was wondering what it was that delighted you
so much.”

“Yes; and another thing is, that I’ve humbled Mr. Hatfield so
charmingly; and another—why, you must allow me some share of female
vanity: I don’t pretend to be without that most essential attribute of
our sex—and if you had seen poor Hatfield’s intense eagerness in making
his ardent declaration and his flattering proposal, and his agony of
mind, that no effort of pride could conceal, on being refused, you
would have allowed I had some cause to be gratified.”

“The greater his agony, I should think, the less your cause for
gratification.”

“Oh, nonsense!” cried the young lady, shaking herself with vexation.
“You either can’t understand me, or you won’t. If I had not confidence
in your magnanimity, I should think you envied me. But you will,
perhaps, comprehend this cause of pleasure—which is as great as
any—namely, that I am delighted with myself for my prudence, my
self-command, my heartlessness, if you please. I was not a bit taken by
surprise, not a bit confused, or awkward, or foolish; I just acted and
spoke as I ought to have done, and was completely my own mistress
throughout. And here was a man, decidedly good-looking—Jane and Susan
Green call him bewitchingly handsome—I suppose they’re two of the
ladies he pretends would be so glad to have him; but, however, he was
certainly a very clever, witty, agreeable companion—not what you call
clever, but just enough to make him entertaining; and a man one needn’t
be ashamed of anywhere, and would not soon grow tired of; and to
confess the truth, I rather liked him—better even, of late, than Harry
Meltham—and he evidently idolised me; and yet, though he came upon me
all alone and unprepared, I had the wisdom, and the pride, and the
strength to refuse him—and so scornfully and coolly as I did: I have
good reason to be proud of that.”

“And are you equally proud of having told him that his having the
wealth of Sir Hugh Meltham would make no difference to you, when that
was not the case; and of having promised to tell no one of his
misadventure, apparently without the slightest intention of keeping
your promise?”

“Of course! what else could I do? You would not have had me—but I see,
Miss Grey, you’re not in a good temper. Here’s Matilda; I’ll see what
she and mamma have to say about it.”

She left me, offended at my want of sympathy, and thinking, no doubt,
that I envied her. I did not—at least, I firmly believed I did not. I
was sorry for her; I was amazed, disgusted at her heartless vanity; I
wondered why so much beauty should be given to those who made so bad a
use of it, and denied to some who would make it a benefit to both
themselves and others.

But, God knows best, I concluded. There are, I suppose, some men as
vain, as selfish, and as heartless as she is, and, perhaps, such women
may be useful to punish them.




CHAPTER XV.
THE WALK


“Oh, dear! I wish Hatfield had not been so precipitate!” said Rosalie
next day at four P.M., as, with a portentous yawn, she laid down her
worsted-work and looked listlessly towards the window. “There’s no
inducement to go out now; and nothing to look forward to. The days will
be so long and dull when there are no parties to enliven them; and
there are none this week, or next either, that I know of.”

“Pity you were so cross to him,” observed Matilda, to whom this
lamentation was addressed. “He’ll never come again: and I suspect you
liked him after all. I hoped you would have taken him for your beau,
and left dear Harry to me.”

“Humph! my beau must be an Adonis indeed, Matilda, the admired of all
beholders, if I am to be contented with him alone. I’m sorry to lose
Hatfield, I confess; but the first decent man, or number of men, that
come to supply his place, will be more than welcome. It’s Sunday
to-morrow—I do wonder how he’ll look, and whether he’ll be able to go
through the service. Most likely he’ll pretend he’s got a cold, and
make Mr. Weston do it all.”

“Not he!” exclaimed Matilda, somewhat contemptuously. “Fool as he is,
he’s not so soft as that comes to.”

Her sister was slightly offended; but the event proved Matilda was
right: the disappointed lover performed his pastoral duties as usual.
Rosalie, indeed, affirmed he looked very pale and dejected: he might be
a little paler; but the difference, if any, was scarcely perceptible.
As for his dejection, I certainly did not hear his laugh ringing from
the vestry as usual, nor his voice loud in hilarious discourse; though
I did hear it uplifted in rating the sexton in a manner that made the
congregation stare; and, in his transits to and from the pulpit and the
communion-table, there was more of solemn pomp, and less of that
irreverent, self-confident, or rather self-delighted imperiousness with
which he usually swept along—that air that seemed to say, “You all
reverence and adore me, I know; but if anyone does not, I defy him to
the teeth!” But the most remarkable change was, that he never once
suffered his eyes to wander in the direction of Mr. Murray’s pew, and
did not leave the church till we were gone.

Mr. Hatfield had doubtless received a very severe blow; but his pride
impelled him to use every effort to conceal the effects of it. He had
been disappointed in his certain hope of obtaining not only a
beautiful, and, to him, highly attractive wife, but one whose rank and
fortune might give brilliance to far inferior charms: he was likewise,
no doubt, intensely mortified by his repulse, and deeply offended at
the conduct of Miss Murray throughout. It would have given him no
little consolation to have known how disappointed she was to find him
apparently so little moved, and to see that he was able to refrain from
casting a single glance at her throughout both services; though, she
declared, it showed he was thinking of her all the time, or his eyes
would have fallen upon her, if it were only by chance: but if they had
so chanced to fall, she would have affirmed it was because they could
not resist the attraction. It might have pleased him, too, in some
degree, to have seen how dull and dissatisfied she was throughout that
week (the greater part of it, at least), for lack of her usual source
of excitement; and how often she regretted having “used him up so
soon,” like a child that, having devoured its plumcake too hastily,
sits sucking its fingers, and vainly lamenting its greediness.

At length I was called upon, one fine morning, to accompany her in a
walk to the village. Ostensibly she went to get some shades of Berlin
wool, at a tolerably respectable shop that was chiefly supported by the
ladies of the vicinity: really—I trust there is no breach of charity in
supposing that she went with the idea of meeting either with the Rector
himself, or some other admirer by the way; for as we went along, she
kept wondering “what Hatfield would do or say, if we met him,” &c. &c.;
as we passed Mr. Green’s park-gates, she “wondered whether he was at
home—great stupid blockhead”; as Lady Meltham’s carriage passed us, she
“wondered what Mr. Harry was doing this fine day”; and then began to
abuse his elder brother for being “such a fool as to get married and go
and live in London.”

“Why,” said I, “I thought you wanted to live in London yourself.”

“Yes, because it’s so dull here: but then he makes it still duller by
taking himself off: and if he were not married I might have him instead
of that odious Sir Thomas.”

Then, observing the prints of a horse’s feet on the somewhat miry road,
she “wondered whether it was a gentleman’s horse,” and finally
concluded it was, for the impressions were too small to have been made
by a “great clumsy cart-horse”; and then she “wondered who the rider
could be,” and whether we should meet him coming back, for she was sure
he had only passed that morning; and lastly, when we entered the
village and saw only a few of its humble inhabitants moving about, she
“wondered why the stupid people couldn’t keep in their houses; she was
sure she didn’t want to see their ugly faces, and dirty, vulgar
clothes—it wasn’t for that she came to Horton!”

Amid all this, I confess, I wondered, too, in secret, whether we should
meet, or catch a glimpse of somebody else; and as we passed his
lodgings, I even went so far as to wonder whether he was at the window.
On entering the shop, Miss Murray desired me to stand in the doorway
while she transacted her business, and tell her if anyone passed. But
alas! there was no one visible besides the villagers, except Jane and
Susan Green coming down the single street, apparently returning from a
walk.

“Stupid things!” muttered she, as she came out after having concluded
her bargain. “Why couldn’t they have their dolt of a brother with them?
even he would be better than nothing.”

She greeted them, however, with a cheerful smile, and protestations of
pleasure at the happy meeting equal to their own. They placed
themselves one on each side of her, and all three walked away chatting
and laughing as young ladies do when they get together, if they be but
on tolerably intimate terms. But I, feeling myself to be one too many,
left them to their merriment and lagged behind, as usual on such
occasions: I had no relish for walking beside Miss Green or Miss Susan
like one deaf and dumb, who could neither speak nor be spoken to.

But this time I was not long alone. It struck me, first, as very odd,
that just as I was thinking about Mr. Weston he should come up and
accost me; but afterwards, on due reflection, I thought there was
nothing odd about it, unless it were the fact of his speaking to me;
for on such a morning and so near his own abode, it was natural enough
that he should be about; and as for my thinking of him, I had been
doing that, with little intermission, ever since we set out on our
journey; so there was nothing remarkable in that.

“You are alone again, Miss Grey,” said he.

“Yes.”

“What kind of people are those ladies—the Misses Green?”

“I really don’t know.”

“That’s strange—when you live so near and see them so often!”

“Well, I suppose they are lively, good-tempered girls; but I imagine
you must know them better than I do, yourself, for I never exchanged a
word with either of them.”

“Indeed? They don’t strike me as being particularly reserved.”

“Very likely they are not so to people of their own class; but they
consider themselves as moving in quite a different sphere from me!”

He made no reply to this: but after a short pause, he said,—“I suppose
it’s these things, Miss Grey, that make you think you could not live
without a home?”

“Not exactly. The fact is I am too socially disposed to be able to live
contentedly without a friend; and as the only friends I have, or am
likely to have, are at home, if it—or rather, if they were gone—I will
not say I could not live—but I would rather not live in such a desolate
world.”

“But why do you say the only friends you are likely to have? Are you so
unsociable that you cannot make friends?”

“No, but I never made one yet; and in my present position there is no
possibility of doing so, or even of forming a common acquaintance. The
fault may be partly in myself, but I hope not altogether.”

“The fault is partly in society, and partly, I should think, in your
immediate neighbours: and partly, too, in yourself; for many ladies, in
your position, would make themselves be noticed and accounted of. But
your pupils should be companions for you in some degree; they cannot be
many years younger than yourself.”

“Oh, yes, they are good company sometimes; but I cannot call them
friends, nor would they think of bestowing such a name on me—they have
other companions better suited to their tastes.”

“Perhaps you are too wise for them. How do you amuse yourself when
alone—do you read much?”

“Reading is my favourite occupation, when I have leisure for it and
books to read.”

From speaking of books in general, he passed to different books in
particular, and proceeded by rapid transitions from topic to topic,
till several matters, both of taste and opinion, had been discussed
considerably within the space of half an hour, but without the
embellishment of many observations from himself; he being evidently
less bent upon communicating his own thoughts and predilections, than
on discovering mine. He had not the tact, or the art, to effect such a
purpose by skilfully drawing out my sentiments or ideas through the
real or apparent statement of his own, or leading the conversation by
imperceptible gradations to such topics as he wished to advert to: but
such gentle abruptness, and such single-minded straightforwardness,
could not possibly offend me.

“And why should he interest himself at all in my moral and intellectual
capacities: what is it to him what I think or feel?” I asked myself.
And my heart throbbed in answer to the question.

But Jane and Susan Green soon reached their home. As they stood
parleying at the park-gates, attempting to persuade Miss Murray to come
in, I wished Mr. Weston would go, that she might not see him with me
when she turned round; but, unfortunately, his business, which was to
pay one more visit to poor Mark Wood, led him to pursue the same path
as we did, till nearly the close of our journey. When, however, he saw
that Rosalie had taken leave of her friends and I was about to join
her, he would have left me and passed on at a quicker pace; but, as he
civilly lifted his hat in passing her, to my surprise, instead of
returning the salute with a stiff, ungracious bow, she accosted him
with one of her sweetest smiles, and, walking by his side, began to
talk to him with all imaginable cheerfulness and affability; and so we
proceeded all three together.

After a short pause in the conversation, Mr. Weston made some remark
addressed particularly to me, as referring to something we had been
talking of before; but before I could answer, Miss Murray replied to
the observation and enlarged upon it: he rejoined; and, from thence to
the close of the interview, she engrossed him entirely to herself. It
might be partly owing to my own stupidity, my want of tact and
assurance: but I felt myself wronged: I trembled with apprehension; and
I listened with envy to her easy, rapid flow of utterance, and saw with
anxiety the bright smile with which she looked into his face from time
to time: for she was walking a little in advance, for the purpose (as I
judged) of being seen as well as heard. If her conversation was light
and trivial, it was amusing, and she was never at a loss for something
to say, or for suitable words to express it in. There was nothing pert
or flippant in her manner now, as when she walked with Mr. Hatfield,
there was only a gentle, playful kind of vivacity, which I thought must
be peculiarly pleasing to a man of Mr. Weston’s disposition and
temperament.

When he was gone she began to laugh, and muttered to herself, “I
thought I could do it!”

“Do what?” I asked.

“Fix that man.”

“What in the world do you mean?”

“I mean that he will go home and dream of me. I have shot him through
the heart!”

“How do you know?”

“By many infallible proofs: more especially the look he gave me when he
went away. It was not an impudent look—I exonerate him from that—it was
a look of reverential, tender adoration. Ha, ha! he’s not quite such a
stupid blockhead as I thought him!”

I made no answer, for my heart was in my throat, or something like it,
and I could not trust myself to speak. “O God, avert it!” I cried,
internally—“for his sake, not for mine!”

Miss Murray made several trivial observations as we passed up the park,
to which (in spite of my reluctance to let one glimpse of my feelings
appear) I could only answer by monosyllables. Whether she intended to
torment me, or merely to amuse herself, I could not tell—and did not
much care; but I thought of the poor man and his one lamb, and the rich
man with his thousand flocks; and I dreaded I knew not what for Mr.
Weston, independently of my own blighted hopes.

Right glad was I to get into the house, and find myself alone once more
in my own room. My first impulse was to sink into the chair beside the
bed; and laying my head on the pillow, to seek relief in a passionate
burst of tears: there was an imperative craving for such an indulgence;
but, alas! I must restrain and swallow back my feelings still: there
was the bell—the odious bell for the schoolroom dinner; and I must go
down with a calm face, and smile, and laugh, and talk nonsense—yes, and
eat, too, if possible, as if all was right, and I was just returned
from a pleasant walk.




CHAPTER XVI.
THE SUBSTITUTION


Next Sunday was one of the gloomiest of April days—a day of thick, dark
clouds, and heavy showers. None of the Murrays were disposed to attend
church in the afternoon, excepting Rosalie: she was bent upon going as
usual; so she ordered the carriage, and I went with her: nothing loth,
of course, for at church I might look without fear of scorn or censure
upon a form and face more pleasing to me than the most beautiful of
God’s creations; I might listen without disturbance to a voice more
charming than the sweetest music to my ears; I might seem to hold
communion with that soul in which I felt so deeply interested, and
imbibe its purest thoughts and holiest aspirations, with no alloy to
such felicity except the secret reproaches of my conscience, which
would too often whisper that I was deceiving my own self, and mocking
God with the service of a heart more bent upon the creature than the
Creator.

Sometimes, such thoughts would give me trouble enough; but sometimes I
could quiet them with thinking—it is not the man, it is his goodness
that I love. “Whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely,
whatsoever things are honest and of good report, think on these
things.” We do well to worship God in His works; and I know none of
them in which so many of His attributes—so much of His own spirit
shines, as in this His faithful servant; whom to know and not to
appreciate, were obtuse insensibility in me, who have so little else to
occupy my heart.

Almost immediately after the conclusion of the service, Miss Murray
left the church. We had to stand in the porch, for it was raining, and
the carriage was not yet come. I wondered at her coming forth so
hastily, for neither young Meltham nor Squire Green was there; but I
soon found it was to secure an interview with Mr. Weston as he came
out, which he presently did. Having saluted us both, he would have
passed on, but she detained him; first with observations upon the
disagreeable weather, and then with asking if he would be so kind as to
come some time to-morrow to see the granddaughter of the old woman who
kept the porter’s lodge, for the girl was ill of a fever, and wished to
see him. He promised to do so.

“And at what time will you be most likely to come, Mr. Weston? The old
woman will like to know when to expect you—you know such people think
more about having their cottages in order when decent people come to
see them than we are apt to suppose.”

Here was a wonderful instance of consideration from the thoughtless
Miss Murray. Mr. Weston named an hour in the morning at which he would
endeavour to be there. By this time the carriage was ready, and the
footman was waiting, with an open umbrella, to escort Miss Murray
through the churchyard. I was about to follow; but Mr. Weston had an
umbrella too, and offered me the benefit of its shelter, for it was
raining heavily.

“No, thank you, I don’t mind the rain,” I said. I always lacked common
sense when taken by surprise.

“But you don’t _like_ it, I suppose?—an umbrella will do you no harm at
any rate,” he replied, with a smile that showed he was not offended; as
a man of worse temper or less penetration would have been at such a
refusal of his aid. I could not deny the truth of his assertion, and so
went with him to the carriage; he even offered me his hand on getting
in: an unnecessary piece of civility, but I accepted that too, for fear
of giving offence. One glance he gave, one little smile at parting—it
was but for a moment; but therein I read, or thought I read, a meaning
that kindled in my heart a brighter flame of hope than had ever yet
arisen.

“I would have sent the footman back for you, Miss Grey, if you’d waited
a moment—you needn’t have taken Mr. Weston’s umbrella,” observed
Rosalie, with a very unamiable cloud upon her pretty face.

“I would have come without an umbrella, but Mr. Weston offered me the
benefit of his, and I could not have refused it more than I did without
offending him,” replied I, smiling placidly; for my inward happiness
made that amusing, which would have wounded me at another time.

The carriage was now in motion. Miss Murray bent forwards, and looked
out of the window as we were passing Mr. Weston. He was pacing
homewards along the causeway, and did not turn his head.

“Stupid ass!” cried she, throwing herself back again in the seat. “You
don’t know what you’ve lost by not looking this way!”

“What has he lost?”

“A bow from me, that would have raised him to the seventh heaven!”

I made no answer. I saw she was out of humour, and I derived a secret
gratification from the fact, not that she was vexed, but that she
thought she had reason to be so. It made me think my hopes were not
entirely the offspring of my wishes and imagination.

“I mean to take up Mr. Weston instead of Mr. Hatfield,” said my
companion, after a short pause, resuming something of her usual
cheerfulness. “The ball at Ashby Park takes place on Tuesday, you know;
and mamma thinks it very likely that Sir Thomas will propose to me
then: such things are often done in the privacy of the ball-room, when
gentlemen are most easily ensnared, and ladies most enchanting. But if
I am to be married so soon, I must make the best of the present time: I
am determined Hatfield shall not be the only man who shall lay his
heart at my feet, and implore me to accept the worthless gift in vain.”

“If you mean Mr. Weston to be one of your victims,” said I, with
affected indifference, “you will have to make such overtures yourself
that you will find it difficult to draw back when he asks you to fulfil
the expectations you have raised.”

“I don’t suppose he will ask me to marry him, nor should I desire it:
that would be rather too much presumption! but I intend him to feel my
power. He has felt it already, indeed: but he shall _acknowledge_ it
too; and what visionary hopes he may have, he must keep to himself, and
only amuse me with the result of them—for a time.”

“Oh! that some kind spirit would whisper those words in his ear,” I
inwardly exclaimed. I was far too indignant to hazard a reply to her
observation aloud; and nothing more was said about Mr. Weston that day,
by me or in my hearing. But next morning, soon after breakfast, Miss
Murray came into the schoolroom, where her sister was employed at her
studies, or rather her lessons, for studies they were not, and said,
“Matilda, I want you to take a walk with me about eleven o’clock.”

“Oh, I can’t, Rosalie! I have to give orders about my new bridle and
saddle-cloth, and speak to the rat-catcher about his dogs: Miss Grey
must go with you.”

“No, I want you,” said Rosalie; and calling her sister to the window,
she whispered an explanation in her ear; upon which the latter
consented to go.

I remembered that eleven was the hour at which Mr. Weston proposed to
come to the porter’s lodge; and remembering that, I beheld the whole
contrivance. Accordingly, at dinner, I was entertained with a long
account of how Mr. Weston had overtaken them as they were walking along
the road; and how they had had a long walk and talk with him, and
really found him quite an agreeable companion; and how he must have
been, and evidently was, delighted with them and their amazing
condescension, &c. &c.




CHAPTER XVII.
CONFESSIONS


As I am in the way of confessions I may as well acknowledge that, about
this time, I paid more attention to dress than ever I had done before.
This is not saying much—for hitherto I had been a little neglectful in
that particular; but now, also, it was no uncommon thing to spend as
much as two minutes in the contemplation of my own image in the glass;
though I never could derive any consolation from such a study. I could
discover no beauty in those marked features, that pale hollow cheek,
and ordinary dark brown hair; there might be intellect in the forehead,
there might be expression in the dark grey eyes, but what of that?—a
low Grecian brow, and large black eyes devoid of sentiment would be
esteemed far preferable. It is foolish to wish for beauty. Sensible
people never either desire it for themselves or care about it in
others. If the mind be but well cultivated, and the heart well
disposed, no one ever cares for the exterior. So said the teachers of
our childhood; and so say we to the children of the present day. All
very judicious and proper, no doubt; but are such assertions supported
by actual experience?

We are naturally disposed to love what gives us pleasure, and what more
pleasing than a beautiful face—when we know no harm of the possessor at
least? A little girl loves her bird—Why? Because it lives and feels;
because it is helpless and harmless? A toad, likewise, lives and feels,
and is equally helpless and harmless; but though she would not hurt a
toad, she cannot love it like the bird, with its graceful form, soft
feathers, and bright, speaking eyes. If a woman is fair and amiable,
she is praised for both qualities, but especially the former, by the
bulk of mankind: if, on the other hand, she is disagreeable in person
and character, her plainness is commonly inveighed against as her
greatest crime, because, to common observers, it gives the greatest
offence; while, if she is plain and good, provided she is a person of
retired manners and secluded life, no one ever knows of her goodness,
except her immediate connections. Others, on the contrary, are disposed
to form unfavourable opinions of her mind, and disposition, if it be
but to excuse themselves for their instinctive dislike of one so
unfavoured by nature; and _vice versâ_ with her whose angel form
conceals a vicious heart, or sheds a false, deceitful charm over
defects and foibles that would not be tolerated in another. They that
have beauty, let them be thankful for it, and make a good use of it,
like any other talent; they that have it not, let them console
themselves, and do the best they can without it: certainly, though
liable to be over-estimated, it is a gift of God, and not to be
despised. Many will feel this who have felt that they could love, and
whose hearts tell them that they are worthy to be loved again; while
yet they are debarred, by the lack of this or some such seeming trifle,
from giving and receiving that happiness they seem almost made to feel
and to impart. As well might the humble glowworm despise that power of
giving light without which the roving fly might pass her and repass her
a thousand times, and never rest beside her: she might hear her winged
darling buzzing over and around her; he vainly seeking her, she longing
to be found, but with no power to make her presence known, no voice to
call him, no wings to follow his flight;—the fly must seek another
mate, the worm must live and die alone.

Such were some of my reflections about this period. I might go on
prosing more and more, I might dive much deeper, and disclose other
thoughts, propose questions the reader might be puzzled to answer, and
deduce arguments that might startle his prejudices, or, perhaps,
provoke his ridicule, because he could not comprehend them; but I
forbear.

Now, therefore, let us return to Miss Murray. She accompanied her mamma
to the ball on Tuesday; of course splendidly attired, and delighted
with her prospects and her charms. As Ashby Park was nearly ten miles
distant from Horton Lodge, they had to set out pretty early, and I
intended to have spent the evening with Nancy Brown, whom I had not
seen for a long time; but my kind pupil took care I should spend it
neither there nor anywhere else beyond the limits of the schoolroom, by
giving me a piece of music to copy, which kept me closely occupied till
bed-time. About eleven next morning, as soon as she had left her room,
she came to tell me her news. Sir Thomas had indeed proposed to her at
the ball; an event which reflected great credit on her mamma’s
sagacity, if not upon her skill in contrivance. I rather incline to the
belief that she had first laid her plans, and then predicted their
success. The offer had been accepted, of course, and the bridegroom
elect was coming that day to settle matters with Mr. Murray.

Rosalie was pleased with the thoughts of becoming mistress of Ashby
Park; she was elated with the prospect of the bridal ceremony and its
attendant splendour and éclat, the honeymoon spent abroad, and the
subsequent gaieties she expected to enjoy in London and elsewhere; she
appeared pretty well pleased too, for the time being, with Sir Thomas
himself, because she had so lately seen him, danced with him, and been
flattered by him; but, after all, she seemed to shrink from the idea of
being so soon united: she wished the ceremony to be delayed some
months, at least; and I wished it too. It seemed a horrible thing to
hurry on the inauspicious match, and not to give the poor creature time
to think and reason on the irrevocable step she was about to take. I
made no pretension to “a mother’s watchful, anxious care,” but I was
amazed and horrified at Mrs. Murray’s heartlessness, or want of thought
for the real good of her child; and by my unheeded warnings and
exhortations, I vainly strove to remedy the evil. Miss Murray only
laughed at what I said; and I soon found that her reluctance to an
immediate union arose chiefly from a desire to do what execution she
could among the young gentlemen of her acquaintance, before she was
incapacitated from further mischief of the kind. It was for this cause
that, before confiding to me the secret of her engagement, she had
extracted a promise that I would not mention a word on the subject to
any one. And when I saw this, and when I beheld her plunge more
recklessly than ever into the depths of heartless coquetry, I had no
more pity for her. “Come what will,” I thought, “she deserves it. Sir
Thomas cannot be too bad for her; and the sooner she is incapacitated
from deceiving and injuring others the better.”

The wedding was fixed for the first of June. Between that and the
critical ball was little more than six weeks; but, with Rosalie’s
accomplished skill and resolute exertion, much might be done, even
within that period; especially as Sir Thomas spent most of the interim
in London; whither he went up, it was said, to settle affairs with his
lawyer, and make other preparations for the approaching nuptials. He
endeavoured to supply the want of his presence by a pretty constant
fire of billets-doux; but these did not attract the neighbours’
attention, and open their eyes, as personal visits would have done; and
old Lady Ashby’s haughty, sour spirit of reserve withheld her from
spreading the news, while her indifferent health prevented her coming
to visit her future daughter-in-law; so that, altogether, this affair
was kept far closer than such things usually are.

Rosalie would sometimes show her lover’s epistles to me, to convince me
what a kind, devoted husband he would make. She showed me the letters
of another individual, too, the unfortunate Mr. Green, who had not the
courage, or, as she expressed it, the “spunk,” to plead his cause in
person, but whom one denial would not satisfy: he must write again and
again. He would not have done so if he could have seen the grimaces his
fair idol made over his moving appeals to her feelings, and heard her
scornful laughter, and the opprobrious epithets she heaped upon him for
his perseverance.

“Why don’t you tell him, at once, that you are engaged?” I asked.

“Oh, I don’t want him to know that,” replied she. “If he knew it, his
sisters and everybody would know it, and then there would be an end of
my—ahem! And, besides, if I told him that, he would think my engagement
was the only obstacle, and that I would have him if I were free; which
I could not bear that any man should think, and he, of all others, at
least. Besides, I don’t care for his letters,” she added,
contemptuously; “he may write as often as he pleases, and look as great
a calf as he likes when I meet him; it only amuses me.”

Meantime, young Meltham was pretty frequent in his visits to the house
or transits past it; and, judging by Matilda’s execrations and
reproaches, her sister paid more attention to him than civility
required; in other words, she carried on as animated a flirtation as
the presence of her parents would admit. She made some attempts to
bring Mr. Hatfield once more to her feet; but finding them
unsuccessful, she repaid his haughty indifference with still loftier
scorn, and spoke of him with as much disdain and detestation as she had
formerly done of his curate. But, amid all this, she never for a moment
lost sight of Mr. Weston. She embraced every opportunity of meeting
him, tried every art to fascinate him, and pursued him with as much
perseverance as if she really loved him and no other, and the happiness
of her life depended upon eliciting a return of affection. Such conduct
was completely beyond my comprehension. Had I seen it depicted in a
novel, I should have thought it unnatural; had I heard it described by
others, I should have deemed it a mistake or an exaggeration; but when
I saw it with my own eyes, and suffered from it too, I could only
conclude that excessive vanity, like drunkenness, hardens the heart,
enslaves the faculties, and perverts the feelings; and that dogs are
not the only creatures which, when gorged to the throat, will yet gloat
over what they cannot devour, and grudge the smallest morsel to a
starving brother.

She now became extremely beneficent to the poor cottagers. Her
acquaintance among them was more widely extended, her visits to their
humble dwellings were more frequent and excursive than they had ever
been before. Hereby, she earned among them the reputation of a
condescending and very charitable young lady; and their encomiums were
sure to be repeated to Mr. Weston: whom also she had thus a daily
chance of meeting in one or other of their abodes, or in her transits
to and fro; and often, likewise, she could gather, through their
gossip, to what places he was likely to go at such and such a time,
whether to baptize a child, or to visit the aged, the sick, the sad, or
the dying; and most skilfully she laid her plans accordingly. In these
excursions she would sometimes go with her sister—whom, by some means,
she had persuaded or bribed to enter into her schemes—sometimes alone,
never, now, with me; so that I was debarred the pleasure of seeing Mr.
Weston, or hearing his voice even in conversation with another: which
would certainly have been a very great pleasure, however hurtful or
however fraught with pain. I could not even see him at church: for Miss
Murray, under some trivial pretext, chose to take possession of that
corner in the family pew which had been mine ever since I came; and,
unless I had the presumption to station myself between Mr. and Mrs.
Murray, I must sit with my back to the pulpit, which I accordingly did.

Now, also, I never walked home with my pupils: they said their mamma
thought it did not look well to see three people out of the family
walking, and only two going in the carriage; and, as they greatly
preferred walking in fine weather, I should be honoured by going with
the seniors. “And besides,” said they, “you can’t walk as fast as we
do; you know you’re always lagging behind.” I knew these were false
excuses, but I made no objections, and never contradicted such
assertions, well knowing the motives which dictated them. And in the
afternoons, during those six memorable weeks, I never went to church at
all. If I had a cold, or any slight indisposition, they took advantage
of that to make me stay at home; and often they would tell me they were
not going again that day, themselves, and then pretend to change their
minds, and set off without telling me: so managing their departure that
I never discovered the change of purpose till too late. Upon their
return home, on one of these occasions, they entertained me with an
animated account of a conversation they had had with Mr. Weston as they
came along. “And he asked if you were ill, Miss Grey,” said Matilda;
“but we told him you were quite well, only you didn’t want to come to
church—so he’ll think you’re turned wicked.”

All chance meetings on week-days were likewise carefully prevented;
for, lest I should go to see poor Nancy Brown or any other person, Miss
Murray took good care to provide sufficient employment for all my
leisure hours. There was always some drawing to finish, some music to
copy, or some work to do, sufficient to incapacitate me from indulging
in anything beyond a short walk about the grounds, however she or her
sister might be occupied.

One morning, having sought and waylaid Mr. Weston, they returned in
high glee to give me an account of their interview. “And he asked after
you again,” said Matilda, in spite of her sister’s silent but
imperative intimation that she should hold her tongue. “He wondered why
you were never with us, and thought you must have delicate health, as
you came out so seldom.”

“He didn’t Matilda—what nonsense you’re talking!”

“Oh, Rosalie, what a lie! He did, you know; and you said—Don’t,
Rosalie—hang it!—I won’t be pinched so! And, Miss Grey, Rosalie told
him you were quite well, but you were always so buried in your books
that you had no pleasure in anything else.”

“What an idea he must have of me!” I thought.

“And,” I asked, “does old Nancy ever inquire about me?”

“Yes; and we tell her you are so fond of reading and drawing that you
can do nothing else.”

“That is not the case though; if you had told her I was so busy I could
not come to see her, it would have been nearer the truth.”

“I don’t think it would,” replied Miss Murray, suddenly kindling up;
“I’m sure you have plenty of time to yourself now, when you have so
little teaching to do.”

It was no use beginning to dispute with such indulged, unreasoning
creatures: so I held my peace. I was accustomed, now, to keeping
silence when things distasteful to my ear were uttered; and now, too, I
was used to wearing a placid smiling countenance when my heart was
bitter within me. Only those who have felt the like can imagine my
feelings, as I sat with an assumption of smiling indifference,
listening to the accounts of those meetings and interviews with Mr.
Weston, which they seemed to find such pleasure in describing to me;
and hearing things asserted of him which, from the character of the
man, I knew to be exaggerations and perversions of the truth, if not
entirely false—things derogatory to him, and flattering to
them—especially to Miss Murray—which I burned to contradict, or, at
least, to show my doubts about, but dared not; lest, in expressing my
disbelief, I should display my interest too. Other things I heard,
which I felt or feared were indeed too true: but I must still conceal
my anxiety respecting him, my indignation against them, beneath a
careless aspect; others, again, mere hints of something said or done,
which I longed to hear more of, but could not venture to inquire. So
passed the weary time. I could not even comfort myself with saying,
“She will soon be married; and then there may be hope.”

Soon after her marriage the holidays would come; and when I returned
from home, most likely, Mr. Weston would be gone, for I was told that
he and the Rector could not agree (the Rector’s fault, of course), and
he was about to remove to another place.

No—besides my hope in God, my only consolation was in thinking that,
though he know it not, I was more worthy of his love than Rosalie
Murray, charming and engaging as she was; for I could appreciate his
excellence, which she could not: I would devote my life to the
promotion of his happiness; she would destroy his happiness for the
momentary gratification of her own vanity. “Oh, if he could but know
the difference!” I would earnestly exclaim. “But no! I would not have
him see my heart: yet, if he could but know her hollowness, her
worthless, heartless frivolity, he would then be safe, and I should
be—_almost_ happy, though I might never see him more!”

I fear, by this time, the reader is well nigh disgusted with the folly
and weakness I have so freely laid before him. I never disclosed it
then, and would not have done so had my own sister or my mother been
with me in the house. I was a close and resolute dissembler—in this one
case at least. My prayers, my tears, my wishes, fears, and
lamentations, were witnessed by myself and heaven alone.

When we are harassed by sorrows or anxieties, or long oppressed by any
powerful feelings which we must keep to ourselves, for which we can
obtain and seek no sympathy from any living creature, and which yet we
cannot, or will not wholly crush, we often naturally seek relief in
poetry—and often find it, too—whether in the effusions of others, which
seem to harmonize with our existing case, or in our own attempts to
give utterance to those thoughts and feelings in strains less musical,
perchance, but more appropriate, and therefore more penetrating and
sympathetic, and, for the time, more soothing, or more powerful to
rouse and to unburden the oppressed and swollen heart. Before this
time, at Wellwood House and here, when suffering from home-sick
melancholy, I had sought relief twice or thrice at this secret source
of consolation; and now I flew to it again, with greater avidity than
ever, because I seemed to need it more. I still preserve those relics
of past sufferings and experience, like pillars of witness set up in
travelling through the vale of life, to mark particular occurrences.
The footsteps are obliterated now; the face of the country may be
changed; but the pillar is still there, to remind me how all things
were when it was reared. Lest the reader should be curious to see any
of these effusions, I will favour him with one short specimen: cold and
languid as the lines may seem, it was almost a passion of grief to
which they owed their being:—

Oh, they have robbed me of the hope
    My spirit held so dear;
They will not let me hear that voice
    My soul delights to hear.

They will not let me see that face
    I so delight to see;
And they have taken all thy smiles,
    And all thy love from me.

Well, let them seize on all they can;—
    One treasure still is mine,—
A heart that loves to think on thee,
    And feels the worth of thine.


Yes, at least, they could not deprive me of that: I could think of him
day and night; and I could feel that he was worthy to be thought of.
Nobody knew him as I did; nobody could appreciate him as I did; nobody
could love him as I—could, if I might: but there was the evil. What
business had I to think so much of one that never thought of me? Was it
not foolish? was it not wrong? Yet, if I found such deep delight in
thinking of him, and if I kept those thoughts to myself, and troubled
no one else with them, where was the harm of it? I would ask myself.
And such reasoning prevented me from making any sufficient effort to
shake off my fetters.

But, if those thoughts brought delight, it was a painful, troubled
pleasure, too near akin to anguish; and one that did me more injury
than I was aware of. It was an indulgence that a person of more wisdom
or more experience would doubtless have denied herself. And yet, how
dreary to turn my eyes from the contemplation of that bright object and
force them to dwell on the dull, grey, desolate prospect around: the
joyless, hopeless, solitary path that lay before me. It was wrong to be
so joyless, so desponding; I should have made God my friend, and to do
His will the pleasure and the business of my life; but faith was weak,
and passion was too strong.

In this time of trouble I had two other causes of affliction. The first
may seem a trifle, but it cost me many a tear: Snap, my little dumb,
rough-visaged, but bright-eyed, warm-hearted companion, the only thing
I had to love me, was taken away, and delivered over to the tender
mercies of the village rat-catcher, a man notorious for his brutal
treatment of his canine slaves. The other was serious enough; my
letters from home gave intimation that my father’s health was worse. No
boding fears were expressed, but I was grown timid and despondent, and
could not help fearing that some dreadful calamity awaited us there. I
seemed to see the black clouds gathering round my native hills, and to
hear the angry muttering of a storm that was about to burst, and
desolate our hearth.




CHAPTER XVIII.
MIRTH AND MOURNING


The 1st of June arrived at last: and Rosalie Murray was transmuted into
Lady Ashby. Most splendidly beautiful she looked in her bridal costume.
Upon her return from church, after the ceremony, she came flying into
the schoolroom, flushed with excitement, and laughing, half in mirth,
and half in reckless desperation, as it seemed to me.

“Now, Miss Grey, I’m Lady Ashby!” she exclaimed. “It’s done, my fate is
sealed: there’s no drawing back now. I’m come to receive your
congratulations and bid you good-by; and then I’m off for Paris, Rome,
Naples, Switzerland, London—oh, dear! what a deal I shall see and hear
before I come back again. But don’t forget me: I shan’t forget you,
though I’ve been a naughty girl. Come, why don’t you congratulate me?”

“I cannot congratulate you,” I replied, “till I know whether this
change is really for the better: but I sincerely hope it is; and I wish
you true happiness and the best of blessings.”

“Well, good-by, the carriage is waiting, and they’re calling me.”

She gave me a hasty kiss, and was hurrying away; but, suddenly
returning, embraced me with more affection than I thought her capable
of evincing, and departed with tears in her eyes. Poor girl! I really
loved her then; and forgave her from my heart all the injury she had
done me—and others also: she had not half known it, I was sure; and I
prayed God to pardon her too.

During the remainder of that day of festal sadness, I was left to my
own devices. Being too much unhinged for any steady occupation, I
wandered about with a book in my hand for several hours, more thinking
than reading, for I had many things to think about. In the evening, I
made use of my liberty to go and see my old friend Nancy once again; to
apologize for my long absence (which must have seemed so neglectful and
unkind) by telling her how busy I had been; and to talk, or read, or
work for her, whichever might be most acceptable, and also, of course,
to tell her the news of this important day: and perhaps to obtain a
little information from her in return, respecting Mr. Weston’s expected
departure. But of this she seemed to know nothing, and I hoped, as she
did, that it was all a false report. She was very glad to see me; but,
happily, her eyes were now so nearly well that she was almost
independent of my services. She was deeply interested in the wedding;
but while I amused her with the details of the festive day, the
splendours of the bridal party and of the bride herself, she often
sighed and shook her head, and wished good might come of it; she
seemed, like me, to regard it rather as a theme for sorrow than
rejoicing. I sat a long time talking to her about that and other
things—but no one came.

Shall I confess that I sometimes looked towards the door with a
half-expectant wish to see it open and give entrance to Mr. Weston, as
had happened once before? and that, returning through the lanes and
fields, I often paused to look round me, and walked more slowly than
was at all necessary—for, though a fine evening, it was not a hot
one—and, finally, felt a sense of emptiness and disappointment at
having reached the house without meeting or even catching a distant
glimpse of any one, except a few labourers returning from their work?

Sunday, however, was approaching: I should see him then: for now that
Miss Murray was gone, I could have my old corner again. I should see
him, and by look, speech, and manner, I might judge whether the
circumstance of her marriage had very much afflicted him. Happily I
could perceive no shadow of a difference: he wore the same aspect as he
had worn two months ago—voice, look, manner, all alike unchanged: there
was the same keen-sighted, unclouded truthfulness in his discourse, the
same forcible clearness in his style, the same earnest simplicity in
all he said and did, that made itself, not marked by the eye and ear,
but felt upon the hearts of his audience.

I walked home with Miss Matilda; but _he did not join us_. Matilda was
now sadly at a loss for amusement, and wofully in want of a companion:
her brothers at school, her sister married and gone, she too young to
be admitted into society; for which, from Rosalie’s example, she was in
some degree beginning to acquire a taste—a taste at least for the
company of certain classes of gentlemen; at this dull time of year—no
hunting going on, no shooting even—for, though she might not join in
that, it was _something_ to see her father or the gamekeeper go out
with the dogs, and to talk with them on their return, about the
different birds they had bagged. Now, also, she was denied the solace
which the companionship of the coachman, grooms, horses, greyhounds,
and pointers might have afforded; for her mother having,
notwithstanding the disadvantages of a country life, so satisfactorily
disposed of her elder daughter, the pride of her heart had begun
seriously to turn her attention to the younger; and, being truly
alarmed at the roughness of her manners, and thinking it high time to
work a reform, had been roused at length to exert her authority, and
prohibited entirely the yards, stables, kennels, and coach-house. Of
course, she was not implicitly obeyed; but, indulgent as she had
hitherto been, when once her spirit was roused, her temper was not so
gentle as she required that of her governesses to be, and her will was
not to be thwarted with impunity. After many a scene of contention
between mother and daughter, many a violent outbreak which I was
ashamed to witness, in which the father’s authority was often called in
to confirm with oaths and threats the mother’s slighted
prohibitions—for even _he_ could see that “Tilly, though she would have
made a fine lad, was not quite what a young lady ought to be”—Matilda
at length found that her easiest plan was to keep clear of the
forbidden regions; unless she could now and then steal a visit without
her watchful mother’s knowledge.

Amid all this, let it not be imagined that I escaped without many a
reprimand, and many an implied reproach, that lost none of its sting
from not being openly worded; but rather wounded the more deeply,
because, from that very reason, it seemed to preclude self-defence.
Frequently, I was told to amuse Miss Matilda with other things, and to
remind her of her mother’s precepts and prohibitions. I did so to the
best of my power: but she would not be amused against her will, and
could not against her taste; and though I went beyond mere reminding,
such gentle remonstrances as I could use were utterly ineffectual.

“_Dear_ Miss Grey! it is the _strangest_ thing. I suppose you can’t
help it, if it’s not in your nature—but I _wonder_ you can’t win the
confidence of that girl, and make your society at _least_ as agreeable
to her as that of Robert or Joseph!”

“They can talk the best about the things in which she is most
interested,” I replied.

“Well! that is a strange confession, _however_, to come from her
_governess_! Who is to form a young lady’s tastes, I wonder, if the
governess doesn’t do it? I have known governesses who have so
completely identified themselves with the reputation of their young
ladies for elegance and propriety in mind and manners, that they would
blush to speak a word against them; and to hear the slightest blame
imputed to their pupils was worse than to be censured in their own
persons—and I really think it very natural, for my part.”

“Do you, ma’am?”

“Yes, of course: the young lady’s proficiency and elegance is of more
consequence to the governess than her own, as well as to the world. If
she wishes to prosper in her vocation she must devote all her energies
to her business: all her ideas and all her ambition will tend to the
accomplishment of that one object. When we wish to decide upon the
merits of a governess, we naturally look at the young ladies she
professes to have educated, and judge accordingly. The _judicious_
governess knows this: she knows that, while she lives in obscurity
herself, her pupils’ virtues and defects will be open to every eye; and
that, unless she loses sight of herself in their cultivation, she need
not hope for success. You see, Miss Grey, it is just the same as any
other trade or profession: they that wish to prosper must devote
themselves body and soul to their calling; and if they begin to yield
to indolence or self-indulgence they are speedily distanced by wiser
competitors: there is little to choose between a person that ruins her
pupils by neglect, and one that corrupts them by her example. You will
excuse my dropping these little hints: you know it is all for your own
good. Many ladies would speak to you much more strongly; and many would
not trouble themselves to speak at all, but quietly look out for a
substitute. That, of course, would be the _easiest_ plan: but I know
the advantages of a place like this to a person in your situation; and
I have no desire to part with you, as I am sure you would do very well
if you will only think of these things and try to exert yourself a
_little_ more: then, I am convinced, you would _soon_ acquire that
delicate tact which alone is wanting to give you a proper influence
over the mind of your pupil.”

I was about to give the lady some idea of the fallacy of her
expectations; but she sailed away as soon as she had concluded her
speech. Having said what she wished, it was no part of her plan to
await my answer: it was my business to hear, and not to speak.

However, as I have said, Matilda at length yielded in some degree to
her mother’s authority (pity it had not been exerted before); and being
thus deprived of almost every source of amusement, there was nothing
for it but to take long rides with the groom and long walks with the
governess, and to visit the cottages and farmhouses on her father’s
estate, to kill time in chatting with the old men and women that
inhabited them. In one of these walks, it was our chance to meet Mr.
Weston. This was what I had long desired; but now, for a moment, I
wished either he or I were away: I felt my heart throb so violently
that I dreaded lest some outward signs of emotion should appear; but I
think he hardly glanced at me, and I was soon calm enough. After a
brief salutation to both, he asked Matilda if she had lately heard from
her sister.

“Yes,” replied she. “She was at Paris when she wrote, and very well,
and very happy.”

She spoke the last word emphatically, and with a glance impertinently
sly. He did not seem to notice it, but replied, with equal emphasis,
and very seriously—

“I hope she will continue to be so.”

“Do you think it likely?” I ventured to inquire: for Matilda had
started off in pursuit of her dog, that was chasing a leveret.

“I cannot tell,” replied he. “Sir Thomas may be a better man than I
suppose; but, from all I have heard and seen, it seems a pity that one
so young and gay, and—and interesting, to express many things by one
word—whose greatest, if not her only fault, appears to be
thoughtlessness—no trifling fault to be sure, since it renders the
possessor liable to almost every other, and exposes him to so many
temptations—but it seems a pity that she should be thrown away on such
a man. It was her mother’s wish, I suppose?”

“Yes; and her own too, I think, for she always laughed at my attempts
to dissuade her from the step.”

“You did attempt it? Then, at least, you will have the satisfaction of
knowing that it is no fault of yours, if any harm should come of it. As
for Mrs. Murray, I don’t know how she can justify her conduct: if I had
sufficient acquaintance with her, I’d ask her.”

“It seems unnatural: but some people think rank and wealth the chief
good; and, if they can secure that for their children, they think they
have done their duty.”

“True: but is it not strange that persons of experience, who have been
married themselves, should judge so falsely?” Matilda now came panting
back, with the lacerated body of the young hare in her hand.

“Was it your intention to kill that hare, or to save it, Miss Murray?”
asked Mr. Weston, apparently puzzled at her gleeful countenance.

“I pretended to want to save it,” she answered, honestly enough, “as it
was so glaringly out of season; but I was better pleased to see it
lolled. However, you can both witness that I couldn’t help it: Prince
was determined to have her; and he clutched her by the back, and killed
her in a minute! Wasn’t it a noble chase?”

“Very! for a young lady after a leveret.”

There was a quiet sarcasm in the tone of his reply which was not lost
upon her; she shrugged her shoulders, and, turning away with a
significant “Humph!” asked me how I had enjoyed the fun. I replied that
I saw no fun in the matter; but admitted that I had not observed the
transaction very narrowly.

“Didn’t you see how it doubled—just like an old hare? and didn’t you
hear it scream?”

“I’m happy to say I did not.”

“It cried out just like a child.”

“Poor little thing! What will you do with it?”

“Come along—I shall leave it in the first house we come to. I don’t
want to take it home, for fear papa should scold me for letting the dog
kill it.”

Mr. Weston was now gone, and we too went on our way; but as we
returned, after having deposited the hare in a farm-house, and
demolished some spice-cake and currant-wine in exchange, we met him
returning also from the execution of his mission, whatever it might be.
He carried in his hand a cluster of beautiful bluebells, which he
offered to me; observing, with a smile, that though he had seen so
little of me for the last two months, he had not forgotten that
bluebells were numbered among my favourite flowers. It was done as a
simple act of goodwill, without compliment or remarkable courtesy, or
any look that could be construed into “reverential, tender adoration”
(_vide_ Rosalie Murray); but still, it was something to find my
unimportant saying so well remembered: it was something that he had
noticed so accurately the time I had ceased to be visible.

“I was told,” said he, “that you were a perfect bookworm, Miss Grey: so
completely absorbed in your studies that you were lost to every other
pleasure.”

“Yes, and it’s quite true!” cried Matilda.

“No, Mr. Weston: don’t believe it: it’s a scandalous libel. These young
ladies are too fond of making random assertions at the expense of their
friends; and you ought to be careful how you listen to them.”

“I hope _this_ assertion is groundless, at any rate.”

“Why? Do you particularly object to ladies studying?”

“No; but I object to anyone so devoting himself or herself to study, as
to lose sight of everything else. Except under peculiar circumstances,
I consider very close and constant study as a waste of time, and an
injury to the mind as well as the body.”

“Well, I have neither the time nor the inclination for such
transgressions.”

We parted again.

Well! what is there remarkable in all this? Why have I recorded it?
Because, reader, it was important enough to give me a cheerful evening,
a night of pleasing dreams, and a morning of felicitous hopes.
Shallow-brained cheerfulness, foolish dreams, unfounded hopes, you
would say; and I will not venture to deny it: suspicions to that effect
arose too frequently in my own mind. But our wishes are like tinder:
the flint and steel of circumstances are continually striking out
sparks, which vanish immediately, unless they chance to fall upon the
tinder of our wishes; then, they instantly ignite, and the flame of
hope is kindled in a moment.

But alas! that very morning, my flickering flame of hope was dismally
quenched by a letter from my mother, which spoke so seriously of my
father’s increasing illness, that I feared there was little or no
chance of his recovery; and, close at hand as the holidays were, I
almost trembled lest they should come too late for me to meet him in
this world. Two days after, a letter from Mary told me his life was
despaired of, and his end seemed fast approaching. Then, immediately, I
sought permission to anticipate the vacation, and go without delay.
Mrs. Murray stared, and wondered at the unwonted energy and boldness
with which I urged the request, and thought there was no occasion to
hurry; but finally gave me leave: stating, however, that there was “no
need to be in such agitation about the matter—it might prove a false
alarm after all; and if not—why, it was only in the common course of
nature: we must all die some time; and I was not to suppose myself the
only afflicted person in the world;” and concluding with saying I might
have the phaeton to take me to O——. “And instead of _repining_, Miss
Grey, be thankful for the _privileges_ you enjoy. There’s many a poor
clergyman whose family would be plunged into ruin by the event of his
death; but you, you see, have influential friends ready to continue
their patronage, and to show you every consideration.”

I thanked her for her “consideration,” and flew to my room to make some
hurried preparations for my departure. My bonnet and shawl being on,
and a few things hastily crammed into my largest trunk, I descended.
But I might have done the work more leisurely, for no one else was in a
hurry; and I had still a considerable time to wait for the phaeton. At
length it came to the door, and I was off: but, oh, what a dreary
journey was that! how utterly different from my former passages
homewards! Being too late for the last coach to ——, I had to hire a cab
for ten miles, and then a car to take me over the rugged hills.

It was half-past ten before I reached home. They were not in bed.

My mother and sister both met me in the passage—sad—silent—pale! I was
so much shocked and terror-stricken that I could not speak, to ask the
information I so much longed yet dreaded to obtain.

“Agnes!” said my mother, struggling to repress some strong emotion.

“Oh, Agnes!” cried Mary, and burst into tears.

“How is he?” I asked, gasping for the answer.

“Dead!”

It was the reply I had anticipated: but the shock seemed none the less
tremendous.




CHAPTER XIX.
THE LETTER


My father’s mortal remains had been consigned to the tomb; and we, with
sad faces and sombre garments, sat lingering over the frugal
breakfast-table, revolving plans for our future life. My mother’s
strong mind had not given way beneath even this affliction: her spirit,
though crushed, was not broken. Mary’s wish was that I should go back
to Horton Lodge, and that our mother should come and live with her and
Mr. Richardson at the vicarage: she affirmed that he wished it no less
than herself, and that such an arrangement could not fail to benefit
all parties; for my mother’s society and experience would be of
inestimable value to them, and they would do all they could to make her
happy. But no arguments or entreaties could prevail: my mother was
determined not to go. Not that she questioned, for a moment, the kind
wishes and intentions of her daughter; but she affirmed that so long as
God spared her health and strength, she would make use of them to earn
her own livelihood, and be chargeable to no one; whether her dependence
would be felt as a burden or not. If she could afford to reside as a
lodger in —— vicarage, she would choose that house before all others as
the place of her abode; but not being so circumstanced, she would never
come under its roof, except as an occasional visitor: unless sickness
or calamity should render her assistance really needful, or until age
or infirmity made her incapable of maintaining herself.

“No, Mary,” said she, “if Richardson and you have anything to spare,
you must lay it aside for your family; and Agnes and I must gather
honey for ourselves. Thanks to my having had daughters to educate, I
have not forgotten my accomplishments. God willing, I will check this
vain repining,” she said, while the tears coursed one another down her
cheeks in spite of her efforts; but she wiped them away, and resolutely
shaking back her head, continued, “I will exert myself, and look out
for a small house, commodiously situated in some populous but healthy
district, where we will take a few young ladies to board and educate—if
we can get them—and as many day pupils as will come, or as we can
manage to instruct. Your father’s relations and old friends will be
able to send us some pupils, or to assist us with their
recommendations, no doubt: I shall not apply to my own. What say you to
it, Agnes? will you be willing to leave your present situation and
try?”

“Quite willing, mamma; and the money I have saved will do to furnish
the house. It shall be taken from the bank directly.”

“When it is wanted: we must get the house, and settle on preliminaries
first.”

Mary offered to lend the little she possessed; but my mother declined
it, saying that we must begin on an economical plan; and she hoped that
the whole or part of mine, added to what we could get by the sale of
the furniture, and what little our dear papa had contrived to lay aside
for her since the debts were paid, would be sufficient to last us till
Christmas; when, it was hoped, something would accrue from our united
labours. It was finally settled that this should be our plan; and that
inquiries and preparations should immediately be set on foot; and while
my mother busied herself with these, I should return to Horton Lodge at
the close of my four weeks’ vacation, and give notice for my final
departure when things were in train for the speedy commencement of our
school.

We were discussing these affairs on the morning I have mentioned, about
a fortnight after my father’s death, when a letter was brought in for
my mother, on beholding which the colour mounted to her face—lately
pale enough with anxious watchings and excessive sorrow. “From my
father!” murmured she, as she hastily tore off the cover. It was many
years since she had heard from any of her own relations before.
Naturally wondering what the letter might contain, I watched her
countenance while she read it, and was somewhat surprised to see her
bite her lip and knit her brows as if in anger. When she had done, she
somewhat irreverently cast it on the table, saying with a scornful
smile,—

“Your grandpapa has been so kind as to write to me. He says he has no
doubt I have long repented of my ‘unfortunate marriage,’ and if I will
only acknowledge this, and confess I was wrong in neglecting his
advice, and that I have justly suffered for it, he will make a lady of
me once again—if that be possible after my long degradation—and
remember my girls in his will. Get my desk, Agnes, and send these
things away: I will answer the letter directly. But first, as I may be
depriving you both of a legacy, it is just that I should tell you what
I mean to say. I shall say that he is mistaken in supposing that I can
regret the birth of my daughters (who have been the pride of my life,
and are likely to be the comfort of my old age), or the thirty years I
have passed in the company of my best and dearest friend;—that, had our
misfortunes been three times as great as they were (unless they had
been of my bringing on), I should still the more rejoice to have shared
them with your father, and administered what consolation I was able;
and, had his sufferings in illness been ten times what they were, I
could not regret having watched over and laboured to relieve
them;—that, if he had married a richer wife, misfortunes and trials
would no doubt have come upon him still; while I am egotist enough to
imagine that no other woman could have cheered him through them so
well: not that I am superior to the rest, but I was made for him, and
he for me; and I can no more repent the hours, days, years of happiness
we have spent together, and which neither could have had without the
other, than I can the privilege of having been his nurse in sickness,
and his comfort in affliction.

“Will this do, children?—or shall I say we are all very sorry for what
has happened during the last thirty years, and my daughters wish they
had never been born; but since they have had that misfortune, they will
be thankful for any trifle their grandpapa will be kind enough to
bestow?”

Of course, we both applauded our mother’s resolution; Mary cleared away
the breakfast things; I brought the desk; the letter was quickly
written and despatched; and, from that day, we heard no more of our
grandfather, till we saw his death announced in the newspaper a
considerable time after—all his worldly possessions, of course, being
left to our wealthy unknown cousins.




CHAPTER XX.
THE FAREWELL


A house in A——, the fashionable watering-place, was hired for our
seminary; and a promise of two or three pupils was obtained to commence
with. I returned to Horton Lodge about the middle of July, leaving my
mother to conclude the bargain for the house, to obtain more pupils, to
sell off the furniture of our old abode, and to fit out the new one.

We often pity the poor, because they have no leisure to mourn their
departed relatives, and necessity obliges them to labour through their
severest afflictions: but is not active employment the best remedy for
overwhelming sorrow—the surest antidote for despair? It may be a rough
comforter: it may seem hard to be harassed with the cares of life when
we have no relish for its enjoyments; to be goaded to labour when the
heart is ready to break, and the vexed spirit implores for rest only to
weep in silence: but is not labour better than the rest we covet? and
are not those petty, tormenting cares less hurtful than a continual
brooding over the great affliction that oppresses us? Besides, we
cannot have cares, and anxieties, and toil, without hope—if it be but
the hope of fulfilling our joyless task, accomplishing some needful
project, or escaping some further annoyance. At any rate, I was glad my
mother had so much employment for every faculty of her action-loving
frame. Our kind neighbours lamented that she, once so exalted in wealth
and station, should be reduced to such extremity in her time of sorrow;
but I am persuaded that she would have suffered thrice as much had she
been left in affluence, with liberty to remain in that house, the scene
of her early happiness and late affliction, and no stern necessity to
prevent her from incessantly brooding over and lamenting her
bereavement.

I will not dilate upon the feelings with which I left the old house,
the well-known garden, the little village church—then doubly dear to
me, because my father, who, for thirty years, had taught and prayed
within its walls, lay slumbering now beneath its flags—and the old bare
hills, delightful in their very desolation, with the narrow vales
between, smiling in green wood and sparkling water—the house where I
was born, the scene of all my early associations, the place where
throughout life my earthly affections had been centred;—and left them
to return no more! True, I was going back to Horton Lodge, where, amid
many evils, one source of pleasure yet remained: but it was pleasure
mingled with excessive pain; and my stay, alas! was limited to six
weeks. And even of that precious time, day after day slipped by and I
did not see him: except at church, I never saw him for a fortnight
after my return. It seemed a long time to me: and, as I was often out
with my rambling pupil, of course hopes would keep rising, and
disappointments would ensue; and then, I would say to my own heart,
“Here is a convincing proof—if you would but have the sense to see it,
or the candour to acknowledge it—that he does not care for you. If he
only thought _half_ as much about you as you do about him, he would
have contrived to meet you many times ere this: you must know that, by
consulting your own feelings. Therefore, have done with this nonsense:
you have no ground for hope: dismiss, at once, these hurtful thoughts
and foolish wishes from your mind, and turn to your own duty, and the
dull blank life that lies before you. You might have known such
happiness was not for you.”

But I saw him at last. He came suddenly upon me as I was crossing a
field in returning from a visit to Nancy Brown, which I had taken the
opportunity of paying while Matilda Murray was riding her matchless
mare. He must have heard of the heavy loss I had sustained: he
expressed no sympathy, offered no condolence: but almost the first
words he uttered were,—“How is your mother?” And this was no
matter-of-course question, for I never told him that I had a mother: he
must have learned the fact from others, if he knew it at all; and,
besides, there was sincere goodwill, and even deep, touching,
unobtrusive sympathy in the tone and manner of the inquiry. I thanked
him with due civility, and told him she was as well as could be
expected. “What will she do?” was the next question. Many would have
deemed it an impertinent one, and given an evasive reply; but such an
idea never entered my head, and I gave a brief but plain statement of
my mother’s plans and prospects.

“Then you will leave this place shortly?” said he.

“Yes, in a month.”

He paused a minute, as if in thought. When he spoke again, I hoped it
would be to express his concern at my departure; but it was only to
say,—“I should think you will be willing enough to go?”

“Yes—for some things,” I replied.

“For _some_ things only—I wonder what should make you regret it?”

I was annoyed at this in some degree; because it embarrassed me: I had
only one reason for regretting it; and that was a profound secret,
which he had no business to trouble me about.

“Why,” said I—“why should you suppose that I dislike the place?”

“You told me so yourself,” was the decisive reply. “You said, at least,
that you could not live contentedly, without a friend; and that you had
no friend here, and no possibility of making one—and, besides, I know
you _must_ dislike it.”

“But if you remember rightly, I said, or meant to say, I could not live
contentedly without a friend in the world: I was not so unreasonable as
to require one always near me. I think I could be happy in a house full
of enemies, if—” but no; that sentence must not be continued—I paused,
and hastily added,—“And, besides, we cannot well leave a place where we
have lived for two or three years, without some feeling of regret.”

“Will you regret to part with Miss Murray, your sole remaining pupil
and companion?”

“I dare say I shall in some degree: it was not without sorrow I parted
with her sister.”

“I can imagine that.”

“Well, Miss Matilda is quite as good—better in one respect.”

“What is that?”

“She’s honest.”

“And the other is not?”

“I should not call her _dis_honest; but it must be confessed she’s a
little artful.”

“_Artful_ is she?—I saw she was giddy and vain—and now,” he added,
after a pause, “I can well believe she was artful too; but so
excessively so as to assume an aspect of extreme simplicity and
unguarded openness. Yes,” continued he, musingly, “that accounts for
some little things that puzzled me a trifle before.”

After that, he turned the conversation to more general subjects. He did
not leave me till we had nearly reached the park-gates: he had
certainly stepped a little out of his way to accompany me so far, for
he now went back and disappeared down Moss Lane, the entrance of which
we had passed some time before. Assuredly I did not regret this
circumstance: if sorrow had any place in my heart, it was that he was
gone at last—that he was no longer walking by my side, and that that
short interval of delightful intercourse was at an end. He had not
breathed a word of love, or dropped one hint of tenderness or
affection, and yet I had been supremely happy. To be near him, to hear
him talk as he did talk, and to feel that he thought me worthy to be so
spoken to—capable of understanding and duly appreciating such
discourse—was enough.

“Yes, Edward Weston, I could indeed be happy in a house full of
enemies, if I had but one friend, who truly, deeply, and faithfully
loved me; and if that friend were you—though we might be far
apart—seldom to hear from each other, still more seldom to meet—though
toil, and trouble, and vexation might surround me, still—it would be
too much happiness for me to dream of! Yet who can tell,” said I within
myself, as I proceeded up the park,—“who can tell what this one month
may bring forth? I have lived nearly three-and-twenty years, and I have
suffered much, and tasted little pleasure yet; is it likely my life all
through will be so clouded? Is it not possible that God may hear my
prayers, disperse these gloomy shadows, and grant me some beams of
heaven’s sunshine yet? Will He entirely deny to me those blessings
which are so freely given to others, who neither ask them nor
acknowledge them when received? May I not still hope and trust? I did
hope and trust for a while: but, alas, alas! the time ebbed away: one
week followed another, and, excepting one distant glimpse and two
transient meetings—during which scarcely anything was said—while I was
walking with Miss Matilda, I saw nothing of him: except, of course, at
church.

And now, the last Sunday was come, and the last service. I was often on
the point of melting into tears during the sermon—the last I was to
hear from him: the best I should hear from anyone, I was well assured.
It was over—the congregation were departing; and I must follow. I had
then seen him, and heard his voice, too, probably for the last time. In
the churchyard, Matilda was pounced upon by the two Misses Green. They
had many inquiries to make about her sister, and I know not what
besides. I only wished they would have done, that we might hasten back
to Horton Lodge: I longed to seek the retirement of my own room, or
some sequestered nook in the grounds, that I might deliver myself up to
my feelings—to weep my last farewell, and lament my false hopes and
vain delusions. Only this once, and then adieu to fruitless
dreaming—thenceforth, only sober, solid, sad reality should occupy my
mind. But while I thus resolved, a low voice close beside me said—“I
suppose you are going this week, Miss Grey?” “Yes,” I replied. I was
very much startled; and had I been at all hysterically inclined, I
certainly should have committed myself in some way then. Thank God, I
was not.

“Well,” said Mr. Weston, “I want to bid you good-bye—it is not likely I
shall see you again before you go.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Weston,” I said. Oh, how I struggled to say it calmly! I
gave him my hand. He retained it a few seconds in his.

“It is possible we may meet again,” said he; “will it be of any
consequence to you whether we do or not?”

“Yes, I should be very glad to see you again.”

I _could_ say no less. He kindly pressed my hand, and went. Now, I was
happy again—though more inclined to burst into tears than ever. If I
had been forced to speak at that moment, a succession of sobs would
have inevitably ensued; and as it was, I could not keep the water out
of my eyes. I walked along with Miss Murray, turning aside my face, and
neglecting to notice several successive remarks, till she bawled out
that I was either deaf or stupid; and then (having recovered my
self-possession), as one awakened from a fit of abstraction, I suddenly
looked up and asked what she had been saying.




CHAPTER XXI.
THE SCHOOL


I left Horton Lodge, and went to join my mother in our new abode at
A——. I found her well in health, resigned in spirit, and even cheerful,
though subdued and sober, in her general demeanour. We had only three
boarders and half a dozen day-pupils to commence with; but by due care
and diligence we hoped ere long to increase the number of both.

I set myself with befitting energy to discharge the duties of this new
mode of life. I call it _new_, for there was, indeed, a considerable
difference between working with my mother in a school of our own, and
working as a hireling among strangers, despised and trampled upon by
old and young; and for the first few weeks I was by no means unhappy.
“It is possible we may meet again,” and “will it be of any consequence
to you whether we do or not?”—Those words still rang in my ear and
rested on my heart: they were my secret solace and support. “I shall
see him again.—He will come; or he will write.” No promise, in fact,
was too bright or too extravagant for Hope to whisper in my ear. I did
not believe half of what she told me: I pretended to laugh at it all;
but I was far more credulous than I myself supposed; otherwise, why did
my heart leap up when a knock was heard at the front door, and the
maid, who opened it, came to tell my mother a gentleman wished to see
her? and why was I out of humour for the rest of the day, because it
proved to be a music-master come to offer his services to our school?
and what stopped my breath for a moment, when the postman having
brought a couple of letters, my mother said, “Here, Agnes, this is for
you,” and threw one of them to me? and what made the hot blood rush
into my face when I saw it was directed in a gentleman’s hand? and
why—oh! why did that cold, sickening sense of disappointment fall upon
me, when I had torn open the cover and found it was _only_ a letter
from Mary, which, for some reason or other, her husband had directed
for her?

Was it then come to this—that I should be _disappointed_ to receive a
letter from my only sister: and because it was not written by a
comparative stranger? Dear Mary! and she had written it so kindly—and
thinking I should be so pleased to have it!—I was not worthy to read
it! And I believe, in my indignation against myself, I should have put
it aside till I had schooled myself into a better frame of mind, and
was become more deserving of the honour and privilege of its perusal:
but there was my mother looking on, and wishful to know what news it
contained; so I read it and delivered it to her, and then went into the
schoolroom to attend to the pupils: but amidst the cares of copies and
sums—in the intervals of correcting errors here, and reproving
derelictions of duty there, I was inwardly taking myself to task with
far sterner severity. “What a fool you must be,” said my head to my
heart, or my sterner to my softer self;—“how could you ever dream that
he would write to you? What grounds have you for such a hope—or that he
will see you, or give himself any trouble about you—or even think of
you again?” “What grounds?”—and then Hope set before me that last,
short interview, and repeated the words I had so faithfully treasured
in my memory. “Well, and what was there in that?—Who ever hung his
hopes upon so frail a twig? What was there in those words that any
common acquaintance might not say to another? Of course, it was
possible you might meet again: he might have said so if you had been
going to New Zealand; but that did not imply any _intention_ of seeing
you—and then, as to the question that followed, anyone might ask that:
and how did you answer?—Merely with a stupid, commonplace reply, such
as you would have given to Master Murray, or anyone else you had been
on tolerably civil terms with.” “But, then,” persisted Hope, “the tone
and manner in which he spoke.” “Oh, that is nonsense! he always speaks
impressively; and at that moment there were the Greens and Miss Matilda
Murray just before, and other people passing by, and he was obliged to
stand close beside you, and to speak very low, unless he wished
everybody to hear what he said, which—though it was nothing at all
particular—of course, he would rather not.” But then, above all, that
emphatic, yet gentle pressure of the hand, which seemed to say,
“_Trust_ me;” and many other things besides—too delightful, almost too
flattering, to be repeated even to one’s self. “Egregious folly—too
absurd to require contradiction—mere inventions of the imagination,
which you ought to be ashamed of. If you would but consider your own
unattractive exterior, your unamiable reserve, your foolish
diffidence—which must make you appear cold, dull, awkward, and perhaps
ill-tempered too;—if you had but rightly considered these from the
beginning, you would never have harboured such presumptuous thoughts:
and now that you have been so foolish, pray repent and amend, and let
us have no more of it!”

I cannot say that I implicitly obeyed my own injunctions: but such
reasoning as this became more and more effective as time wore on, and
nothing was seen or heard of Mr. Weston; until, at last, I gave up
hoping, for even my heart acknowledged it was all in vain. But still, I
would think of him: I would cherish his image in my mind; and treasure
every word, look, and gesture that my memory could retain; and brood
over his excellences and his peculiarities, and, in fact, all I had
seen, heard, or imagined respecting him.

“Agnes, this sea air and change of scene do you no good, I think: I
never saw you look so wretched. It must be that you sit too much, and
allow the cares of the schoolroom to worry you. You must learn to take
things easy, and to be more active and cheerful; you must take exercise
whenever you can get it, and leave the most tiresome duties to me: they
will only serve to exercise my patience, and, perhaps, try my temper a
little.”

So said my mother, as we sat at work one morning during the Easter
holidays. I assured her that my employments were not at all oppressive;
that I was well; or, if there was anything amiss, it would be gone as
soon as the trying months of spring were over: when summer came I
should be as strong and hearty as she could wish to see me: but
inwardly her observation startled me. I knew my strength was declining,
my appetite had failed, and I was grown listless and desponding;—and
if, indeed, he could never care for me, and I could never see him
more—if I was forbidden to minister to his happiness—forbidden, for
ever, to taste the joys of love, to bless, and to be blessed—then, life
must be a burden, and if my heavenly Father would call me away, I
should be glad to rest. But it would not do to die and leave my mother.
Selfish, unworthy daughter, to forget her for a moment! Was not her
happiness committed in a great measure to my charge?—and the welfare of
our young pupils too? Should I shrink from the work that God had set
before me, because it was not fitted to my taste? Did not He know best
what I should do, and where I ought to labour?—and should I long to
quit His service before I had finished my task, and expect to enter
into His rest without having laboured to earn it? “No; by His help I
will arise and address myself diligently to my appointed duty. If
happiness in this world is not for me, I will endeavour to promote the
welfare of those around me, and my reward shall be hereafter.” So said
I in my heart; and from that hour I only permitted my thoughts to
wander to Edward Weston—or at least to dwell upon him now and then—as a
treat for rare occasions: and, whether it was really the approach of
summer or the effect of these good resolutions, or the lapse of time,
or all together, tranquillity of mind was soon restored; and bodily
health and vigour began likewise, slowly, but surely, to return.

Early in June, I received a letter from Lady Ashby, late Miss Murray.
She had written to me twice or thrice before, from the different stages
of her bridal tour, always in good spirits, and professing to be very
happy. I wondered every time that she had not forgotten me, in the
midst of so much gaiety and variety of scene. At length, however, there
was a pause; and it seemed she had forgotten me, for upwards of seven
months passed away and no letter. Of course, I did not break my heart
about _that_, though I often wondered how she was getting on; and when
this last epistle so unexpectedly arrived, I was glad enough to receive
it. It was dated from Ashby Park, where she was come to settle down at
last, having previously divided her time between the continent and the
metropolis. She made many apologies for having neglected me so long,
assured me she had not forgotten me, and had often intended to write,
&c. &c., but had always been prevented by something. She acknowledged
that she had been leading a very dissipated life, and I should think
her very wicked and very thoughtless; but, notwithstanding that, she
thought a great deal, and, among other things, that she should vastly
like to see me. “We have been several days here already,” wrote she.
“We have not a single friend with us, and are likely to be very dull.
You know I never had a fancy for living with my husband like two
turtles in a nest, were he the most delightful creature that ever wore
a coat; so do take pity upon me and come. I suppose your Midsummer
holidays commence in June, the same as other people’s; therefore you
cannot plead want of time; and you must and shall come—in fact, I shall
die if you don’t. I want you to visit me as a friend, and stay a long
time. There is nobody with me, as I told you before, but Sir Thomas and
old Lady Ashby: but you needn’t mind them—they’ll trouble us but little
with their company. And you shall have a room to yourself, whenever you
like to retire to it, and plenty of books to read when my company is
not sufficiently amusing. I forget whether you like babies; if you do,
you may have the pleasure of seeing mine—the most charming child in the
world, no doubt; and all the more so, that I am not troubled with
nursing it—I was determined I wouldn’t be bothered with that.
Unfortunately, it is a girl, and Sir Thomas has never forgiven me: but,
however, if you will only come, I promise you shall be its governess as
soon as it can speak; and you shall bring it up in the way it should
go, and make a better woman of it than its mamma. And you shall see my
poodle, too: a splendid little charmer imported from Paris: and two
fine Italian paintings of great value—I forget the artist. Doubtless
you will be able to discover prodigious beauties in them, which you
must point out to me, as I only admire by hearsay; and many elegant
curiosities besides, which I purchased at Rome and elsewhere; and,
finally, you shall see my new home—the splendid house and grounds I
used to covet so greatly. Alas! how far the promise of anticipation
exceeds the pleasure of possession! There’s a fine sentiment! I assure
you I am become quite a grave old matron: pray come, if it be only to
witness the wonderful change. Write by return of post, and tell me when
your vacation commences, and say that you will come the day after, and
stay till the day before it closes—in mercy to

“Yours affectionately,
“ROSALIE ASHBY.”


I showed this strange epistle to my mother, and consulted her on what I
ought to do. She advised me to go; and I went—willing enough to see
Lady Ashby, and her baby, too, and to do anything I could to benefit
her, by consolation or advice; for I imagined she must be unhappy, or
she would not have applied to me thus—but feeling, as may readily be
conceived, that, in accepting the invitation, I made a great sacrifice
for her, and did violence to my feelings in many ways, instead of being
delighted with the honourable distinction of being entreated by the
baronet’s lady to visit her as a friend. However, I determined my visit
should be only for a few days at most; and I will not deny that I
derived some consolation from the idea that, as Ashby Park was not very
far from Horton, I might possibly see Mr. Weston, or, at least, hear
something about him.




CHAPTER XXII.
THE VISIT


Ashby Park was certainly a very delightful residence. The mansion was
stately without, commodious and elegant within; the park was spacious
and beautiful, chiefly on account of its magnificent old trees, its
stately herds of deer, its broad sheet of water, and the ancient woods
that stretched beyond it: for there was no broken ground to give
variety to the landscape, and but very little of that undulating swell
which adds so greatly to the charm of park scenery. And so, this was
the place Rosalie Murray had so longed to call her own, that she must
have a share of it, on whatever terms it might be offered—whatever
price was to be paid for the title of mistress, and whoever was to be
her partner in the honour and bliss of such a possession! Well I am not
disposed to censure her now.

She received me very kindly; and, though I was a poor clergyman’s
daughter, a governess, and a schoolmistress, she welcomed me with
unaffected pleasure to her home; and—what surprised me rather—took some
pains to make my visit agreeable. I could see, it is true, that she
expected me to be greatly struck with the magnificence that surrounded
her; and, I confess, I was rather annoyed at her evident efforts to
reassure me, and prevent me from being overwhelmed by so much
grandeur—too much awed at the idea of encountering her husband and
mother-in-law, or too much ashamed of my own humble appearance. I was
not ashamed of it at all; for, though plain, I had taken good care not
to be shabby or mean, and should have been pretty considerably at my
ease, if my condescending hostess had not taken such manifest pains to
make me so; and, as for the magnificence that surrounded her, nothing
that met my eyes struck me or affected me half so much as her own
altered appearance. Whether from the influence of fashionable
dissipation, or some other evil, a space of little more than twelve
months had had the effect that might be expected from as many years, in
reducing the plumpness of her form, the freshness of her complexion,
the vivacity of her movements, and the exuberance of her spirits.

I wished to know if she was unhappy; but I felt it was not my province
to inquire: I might endeavour to win her confidence; but, if she chose
to conceal her matrimonial cares from me, I would trouble her with no
obtrusive questions. I, therefore, at first, confined myself to a few
general inquiries about her health and welfare, and a few commendations
on the beauty of the park, and of the little girl that should have been
a boy: a small delicate infant of seven or eight weeks old, whom its
mother seemed to regard with no remarkable degree of interest or
affection, though full as much as I expected her to show.

Shortly after my arrival, she commissioned her maid to conduct me to my
room and see that I had everything I wanted; it was a small,
unpretending, but sufficiently comfortable apartment. When I descended
thence—having divested myself of all travelling encumbrances, and
arranged my toilet with due consideration for the feelings of my lady
hostess, she conducted me herself to the room I was to occupy when I
chose to be alone, or when she was engaged with visitors, or obliged to
be with her mother-in-law, or otherwise prevented, as she said, from
enjoying the pleasure of my society. It was a quiet, tidy little
sitting-room; and I was not sorry to be provided with such a harbour of
refuge.

“And some time,” said she, “I will show you the library: I never
examined its shelves, but, I daresay, it is full of wise books; and you
may go and burrow among them whenever you please. And now you shall
have some tea—it will soon be dinner-time, but I thought, as you were
accustomed to dine at one, you would perhaps like better to have a cup
of tea about this time, and to dine when we lunch: and then, you know,
you can have your tea in this room, and that will save you from having
to dine with Lady Ashby and Sir Thomas: which would be rather
awkward—at least, not awkward, but rather—a—you know what I mean. I
thought you mightn’t like it so well—especially as we may have other
ladies and gentlemen to dine with us occasionally.”

“Certainly,” said I, “I would much rather have it as you say, and, if
you have no objection, I should prefer having all my meals in this
room.”

“Why so?”

“Because, I imagine, it would be more agreeable to Lady Ashby and Sir
Thomas.”

“Nothing of the kind.”

“At any rate it would be more agreeable to me.”

She made some faint objections, but soon conceded; and I could see that
the proposal was a considerable relief to her.

“Now, come into the drawing-room,” said she. “There’s the dressing
bell; but I won’t go yet: it’s no use dressing when there’s no one to
see you; and I want to have a little discourse.”

The drawing-room was certainly an imposing apartment, and very
elegantly furnished; but I saw its young mistress glance towards me as
we entered, as if to notice how I was impressed by the spectacle, and
accordingly I determined to preserve an aspect of stony indifference,
as if I saw nothing at all remarkable. But this was only for a moment:
immediately conscience whispered, “Why should I disappoint her to save
my pride? No—rather let me sacrifice my pride to give her a little
innocent gratification.” And I honestly looked round, and told her it
was a noble room, and very tastefully furnished. She said little, but I
saw she was pleased.

She showed me her fat French poodle, that lay curled up on a silk
cushion, and the two fine Italian paintings: which, however, she would
not give me time to examine, but, saying I must look at them some other
day, insisted upon my admiring the little jewelled watch she had
purchased in Geneva; and then she took me round the room to point out
sundry articles of _vertu_ she had brought from Italy: an elegant
little timepiece, and several busts, small graceful figures, and vases,
all beautifully carved in white marble. She spoke of these with
animation, and heard my admiring comments with a smile of pleasure:
that soon, however, vanished, and was followed by a melancholy sigh; as
if in consideration of the insufficiency of all such baubles to the
happiness of the human heart, and their woeful inability to supply its
insatiate demands.

Then, stretching herself upon a couch, she motioned me to a capacious
easy-chair that stood opposite—not before the fire, but before a wide
open window; for it was summer, be it remembered; a sweet, warm evening
in the latter half of June. I sat for a moment in silence, enjoying the
still, pure air, and the delightful prospect of the park that lay
before me, rich in verdure and foliage, and basking in yellow sunshine,
relieved by the long shadows of declining day. But I must take
advantage of this pause: I had inquiries to make, and, like the
substance of a lady’s postscript, the most important must come last. So
I began with asking after Mr. and Mrs. Murray, and Miss Matilda and the
young gentlemen.

I was told that papa had the gout, which made him very ferocious; and
that he would not give up his choice wines, and his substantial dinners
and suppers, and had quarrelled with his physician, because the latter
had dared to say that no medicine could cure him while he lived so
freely; that mamma and the rest were well. Matilda was still wild and
reckless, but she had got a fashionable governess, and was considerably
improved in her manners, and soon to be introduced to the world; and
John and Charles (now at home for the holidays) were, by all accounts,
“fine, bold, unruly, mischievous boys.”

“And how are the other people getting on?” said I—“the Greens, for
instance?”

“Ah! Mr. Green is heart-broken, you know,” replied she, with a languid
smile: “he hasn’t got over his disappointment yet, and never will, I
suppose. He’s doomed to be an old bachelor; and his sisters are doing
their best to get married.”

“And the Melthams?”

“Oh, they’re jogging on as usual, I suppose: but I know very little
about any of them—except Harry,” said she, blushing slightly, and
smiling again. “I saw a great deal of him while we were in London; for,
as soon as he heard we were there, he came up under pretence of
visiting his brother, and either followed me, like a shadow, wherever I
went, or met me, like a reflection, at every turn. You needn’t look so
shocked, Miss Grey; I was very discreet, I assure you, but, you know,
one can’t help being admired. Poor fellow! He was not my only
worshipper; though he was certainly the most conspicuous, and, I think,
the most devoted among them all. And that detestable—ahem—and Sir
Thomas chose to take offence at him—or my profuse expenditure, or
something—I don’t exactly know what—and hurried me down to the country
at a moment’s notice; where I’m to play the hermit, I suppose, for
life.”

And she bit her lip, and frowned vindictively upon the fair domain she
had once so coveted to call her own.

“And Mr. Hatfield,” said I, “what is become of him?”

Again she brightened up, and answered gaily—“Oh! he made up to an
elderly spinster, and married her, not long since; weighing her heavy
purse against her faded charms, and expecting to find that solace in
gold which was denied him in love—ha, ha!”

“Well, and I think that’s all—except Mr. Weston: what is he doing?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure. He’s gone from Horton.”

“How long since? and where is he gone to?”

“I know nothing about him,” replied she, yawning—“except that he went
about a month ago—I never asked where”(I would have asked whether it
was to a living or merely another curacy, but thought it better not);
“and the people made a great rout about his leaving,” continued she,
“much to Mr. Hatfield’s displeasure; for Hatfield didn’t like him,
because he had too much influence with the common people, and because
he was not sufficiently tractable and submissive to him—and for some
other unpardonable sins, I don’t know what. But now I positively must
go and dress: the second bell will ring directly, and if I come to
dinner in this guise, I shall never hear the end of it from Lady Ashby.
It’s a strange thing one can’t be mistress in one’s own house! Just
ring the bell, and I’ll send for my maid, and tell them to get you some
tea. Only think of that intolerable woman—”

“Who—your maid?”

“No;—my mother-in-law—and my unfortunate mistake! Instead of letting
her take herself off to some other house, as she offered to do when I
married, I was fool enough to ask her to live here still, and direct
the affairs of the house for me; because, in the first place, I hoped
we should spend the greater part of the year, in town, and in the
second place, being so young and inexperienced, I was frightened at the
idea of having a houseful of servants to manage, and dinners to order,
and parties to entertain, and all the rest of it, and I thought she
might assist me with her experience; never dreaming she would prove a
usurper, a tyrant, an incubus, a spy, and everything else that’s
detestable. I wish she was dead!”

She then turned to give her orders to the footman, who had been
standing bolt upright within the door for the last half minute, and had
heard the latter part of her animadversions; and, of course, made his
own reflections upon them, notwithstanding the inflexible, wooden
countenance he thought proper to preserve in the drawing-room. On my
remarking afterwards that he must have heard her, she replied—“Oh, no
matter! I never care about the footmen; they’re mere automatons: it’s
nothing to them what their superiors say or do; they won’t dare to
repeat it; and as to what they think—if they presume to think at all—of
course, nobody cares for that. It would be a pretty thing indeed, it we
were to be tongue-tied by our servants!”

So saying, she ran off to make her hasty toilet, leaving me to pilot my
way back to my sitting-room, where, in due time, I was served with a
cup of tea. After that, I sat musing on Lady Ashby’s past and present
condition; and on what little information I had obtained respecting Mr.
Weston, and the small chance there was of ever seeing or hearing
anything more of him throughout my quiet, drab-colour life: which,
henceforth, seemed to offer no alternative between positive rainy days,
and days of dull grey clouds without downfall. At length, however, I
began to weary of my thoughts, and to wish I knew where to find the
library my hostess had spoken of; and to wonder whether I was to remain
there doing nothing till bed-time.

As I was not rich enough to possess a watch, I could not tell how time
was passing, except by observing the slowly lengthening shadows from
the window; which presented a side view, including a corner of the
park, a clump of trees whose topmost branches had been colonized by an
innumerable company of noisy rooks, and a high wall with a massive
wooden gate: no doubt communicating with the stable-yard, as a broad
carriage-road swept up to it from the park. The shadow of this wall
soon took possession of the whole of the ground as far as I could see,
forcing the golden sunlight to retreat inch by inch, and at last take
refuge in the very tops of the trees. Ere long, even they were left in
shadow—the shadow of the distant hills, or of the earth itself; and, in
sympathy for the busy citizens of the rookery, I regretted to see their
habitation, so lately bathed in glorious light, reduced to the sombre,
work-a-day hue of the lower world, or of my own world within. For a
moment, such birds as soared above the rest might still receive the
lustre on their wings, which imparted to their sable plumage the hue
and brilliance of deep red gold; at last, that too departed. Twilight
came stealing on; the rooks became more quiet; I became more weary, and
wished I were going home to-morrow. At length it grew dark; and I was
thinking of ringing for a candle, and betaking myself to bed, when my
hostess appeared, with many apologies for having neglected me so long,
and laying all the blame upon that “nasty old woman,” as she called her
mother-in-law.

“If I didn’t sit with her in the drawing-room while Sir Thomas is
taking his wine,” said she, “she would never forgive me; and then, if I
leave the room the instant he comes—as I have done once or twice—it is
an unpardonable offence against her dear Thomas. _She_ never showed
such disrespect to _her_ husband: and as for affection, wives never
think of that now-a-days, she supposes: but things were different in
_her_ time—as if there was any good to be done by staying in the room,
when he does nothing but grumble and scold when he’s in a bad humour,
talk disgusting nonsense when he’s in a good one, and go to sleep on
the sofa when he’s too stupid for either; which is most frequently the
case now, when he has nothing to do but to sot over his wine.”

“But could you not try to occupy his mind with something better; and
engage him to give up such habits? I’m sure you have powers of
persuasion, and qualifications for amusing a gentleman, which many
ladies would be glad to possess.”

“And so you think I would lay myself out for his amusement! No: that’s
not _my_ idea of a wife. It’s the husband’s part to please the wife,
not hers to please him; and if he isn’t satisfied with her as she
is—and thankful to possess her too—he isn’t worthy of her, that’s all.
And as for persuasion, I assure you I shan’t trouble myself with that:
I’ve enough to do to bear with him as he is, without attempting to work
a reform. But I’m sorry I left you so long alone, Miss Grey. How have
you passed the time?”

“Chiefly in watching the rooks.”

“Mercy, how dull you must have been! I really must show you the
library; and you must ring for everything you want, just as you would
in an inn, and make yourself comfortable. I have selfish reasons for
wishing to make you happy, because I want you to stay with me, and not
fulfil your horrid threat of running away in a day or two.”

“Well, don’t let me keep you out of the drawing-room any longer
to-night, for at present I am tired and wish to go to bed.”




CHAPTER XXIII.
THE PARK


I came down a little before eight, next morning, as I knew by the
striking of a distant clock. There was no appearance of breakfast. I
waited above an hour before it came, still vainly longing for access to
the library; and, after that lonely repast was concluded, I waited
again about an hour and a half in great suspense and discomfort,
uncertain what to do. At length Lady Ashby came to bid me good-morning.
She informed me she had only just breakfasted, and now wanted me to
take an early walk with her in the park. She asked how long I had been
up, and on receiving my answer, expressed the deepest regret, and again
promised to show me the library. I suggested she had better do so at
once, and then there would be no further trouble either with
remembering or forgetting. She complied, on condition that I would not
think of reading, or bothering with the books now; for she wanted to
show me the gardens, and take a walk in the park with me, before it
became too hot for enjoyment; which, indeed, was nearly the case
already. Of course I readily assented; and we took our walk
accordingly.

As we were strolling in the park, talking of what my companion had seen
and heard during her travelling experience, a gentleman on horseback
rode up and passed us. As he turned, in passing, and stared me full in
the face, I had a good opportunity of seeing what he was like. He was
tall, thin, and wasted, with a slight stoop in the shoulders, a pale
face, but somewhat blotchy, and disagreeably red about the eyelids,
plain features, and a general appearance of languor and flatness,
relieved by a sinister expression in the mouth and the dull, soulless
eyes.

“I detest that man!” whispered Lady Ashby, with bitter emphasis, as he
slowly trotted by.

“Who is it?” I asked, unwilling to suppose that she should so speak of
her husband.

“Sir Thomas Ashby,” she replied, with dreary composure.

“And do you _detest_ him, Miss Murray?” said I, for I was too much
shocked to remember her name at the moment.

“Yes, I do, Miss Grey, and despise him too; and if you knew him you
would not blame me.”

“But you knew what he was before you married him.”

“No; I only thought so: I did not half know him really. I know you
warned me against it, and I wish I had listened to you: but it’s too
late to regret that now. And besides, mamma ought to have known better
than either of us, and she never said anything against it—quite the
contrary. And then I thought he adored me, and would let me have my own
way: he did pretend to do so at first, but now he does not care a bit
about me. Yet I should not care for that: he might do as he pleased, if
I might only be free to amuse myself and to stay in London, or have a
few friends down here: but _he will_ do as he pleases, and I must be a
prisoner and a slave. The moment he saw I could enjoy myself without
him, and that others knew my value better than himself, the selfish
wretch began to accuse me of coquetry and extravagance; and to abuse
Harry Meltham, whose shoes he was not worthy to clean. And then he must
needs have me down in the country, to lead the life of a nun, lest I
should dishonour him or bring him to ruin; as if he had not been ten
times worse every way, with his betting-book, and his gaming-table, and
his opera-girls, and his Lady This and Mrs. That—yes, and his bottles
of wine, and glasses of brandy-and-water too! Oh, I would give ten
thousand worlds to be Miss Murray again! It is _too_ bad to feel life,
health, and beauty wasting away, unfelt and unenjoyed, for such a brute
as that!” exclaimed she, fairly bursting into tears in the bitterness
of her vexation.

Of course, I pitied her exceedingly; as well for her false idea of
happiness and disregard of duty, as for the wretched partner with whom
her fate was linked. I said what I could to comfort her, and offered
such counsels as I thought she most required: advising her, first, by
gentle reasoning, by kindness, example, and persuasion, to try to
ameliorate her husband; and then, when she had done all she could, if
she still found him incorrigible, to endeavour to abstract herself from
him—to wrap herself up in her own integrity, and trouble herself as
little about him as possible. I exhorted her to seek consolation in
doing her duty to God and man, to put her trust in Heaven, and solace
herself with the care and nurture of her little daughter; assuring her
she would be amply rewarded by witnessing its progress in strength and
wisdom, and receiving its genuine affection.

“But I can’t devote myself entirely to a child,” said she; “it may
die—which is not at all improbable.”

“But, with care, many a delicate infant has become a strong man or
woman.”

“But it may grow so intolerably like its father that I shall hate it.”

“That is not likely; it is a little girl, and strongly resembles its
mother.”

“No matter; I should like it better if it were a boy—only that its
father will leave it no inheritance that he can possibly squander away.
What pleasure can I have in seeing a girl grow up to eclipse me, and
enjoy those pleasures that I am for ever debarred from? But supposing I
could be so generous as to take delight in this, still it is _only_ a
child; and I can’t centre all my hopes in a child: that is only one
degree better than devoting oneself to a dog. And as for all the wisdom
and goodness you have been trying to instil into me—that is all very
right and proper, I daresay, and if I were some twenty years older, I
might fructify by it: but people must enjoy themselves when they are
young; and if others won’t let them—why, they must hate them for it!”

“The best way to enjoy yourself is to do what is right and hate nobody.
The end of Religion is not to teach us how to die, but how to live; and
the earlier you become wise and good, the more of happiness you secure.
And now, Lady Ashby, I have one more piece of advice to offer you,
which is, that you will not make an enemy of your mother-in-law. Don’t
get into the way of holding her at arms’ length, and regarding her with
jealous distrust. I never saw her, but I have heard good as well as
evil respecting her; and I imagine that, though cold and haughty in her
general demeanour, and even exacting in her requirements, she has
strong affections for those who can reach them; and, though so blindly
attached to her son, she is not without good principles, or incapable
of hearing reason. If you would but conciliate her a little, and adopt
a friendly, open manner—and even confide your grievances to her—real
grievances, such as you have a right to complain of—it is my firm
belief that she would, in time, become your faithful friend, and a
comfort and support to you, instead of the incubus you describe her.”
But I fear my advice had little effect upon the unfortunate young lady;
and, finding I could render myself so little serviceable, my residence
at Ashby Park became doubly painful. But still, I must stay out that
day and the following one, as I had promised to do so: though,
resisting all entreaties and inducements to prolong my visit further, I
insisted upon departing the next morning; affirming that my mother
would be lonely without me, and that she impatiently expected my
return. Nevertheless, it was with a heavy heart that I bade adieu to
poor Lady Ashby, and left her in her princely home. It was no slight
additional proof of her unhappiness, that she should so cling to the
consolation of my presence, and earnestly desire the company of one
whose general tastes and ideas were so little congenial to her own—whom
she had completely forgotten in her hour of prosperity, and whose
presence would be rather a nuisance than a pleasure, if she could but
have half her heart’s desire.




CHAPTER XXIV.
THE SANDS


Our school was not situated in the heart of the town: on entering A——
from the north-west there is a row of respectable-looking houses, on
each side of the broad, white road, with narrow slips of garden-ground
before them, Venetian blinds to the windows, and a flight of steps
leading to each trim, brass-handled door. In one of the largest of
these habitations dwelt my mother and I, with such young ladies as our
friends and the public chose to commit to our charge. Consequently, we
were a considerable distance from the sea, and divided from it by a
labyrinth of streets and houses. But the sea was my delight; and I
would often gladly pierce the town to obtain the pleasure of a walk
beside it, whether with the pupils, or alone with my mother during the
vacations. It was delightful to me at all times and seasons, but
especially in the wild commotion of a rough sea-breeze, and in the
brilliant freshness of a summer morning.

I awoke early on the third morning after my return from Ashby Park—the
sun was shining through the blind, and I thought how pleasant it would
be to pass through the quiet town and take a solitary ramble on the
sands while half the world was in bed. I was not long in forming the
resolution, nor slow to act upon it. Of course I would not disturb my
mother, so I stole noiselessly downstairs, and quietly unfastened the
door. I was dressed and out, when the church clock struck a quarter to
six. There was a feeling of freshness and vigour in the very streets;
and when I got free of the town, when my foot was on the sands and my
face towards the broad, bright bay, no language can describe the effect
of the deep, clear azure of the sky and ocean, the bright morning
sunshine on the semicircular barrier of craggy cliffs surmounted by
green swelling hills, and on the smooth, wide sands, and the low rocks
out at sea—looking, with their clothing of weeds and moss, like little
grass-grown islands—and above all, on the brilliant, sparkling waves.
And then, the unspeakable purity—and freshness of the air! There was
just enough heat to enhance the value of the breeze, and just enough
wind to keep the whole sea in motion, to make the waves come bounding
to the shore, foaming and sparkling, as if wild with glee. Nothing else
was stirring—no living creature was visible besides myself. My
footsteps were the first to press the firm, unbroken sands;—nothing
before had trampled them since last night’s flowing tide had
obliterated the deepest marks of yesterday, and left them fair and
even, except where the subsiding water had left behind it the traces of
dimpled pools and little running streams.

Refreshed, delighted, invigorated, I walked along, forgetting all my
cares, feeling as if I had wings to my feet, and could go at least
forty miles without fatigue, and experiencing a sense of exhilaration
to which I had been an entire stranger since the days of early youth.
About half-past six, however, the grooms began to come down to air
their masters’ horses—first one, and then another, till there were some
dozen horses and five or six riders: but that need not trouble me, for
they would not come as far as the low rocks which I was now
approaching. When I had reached these, and walked over the moist,
slippery sea-weed (at the risk of floundering into one of the numerous
pools of clear, salt water that lay between them), to a little mossy
promontory with the sea splashing round it, I looked back again to see
who next was stirring. Still, there were only the early grooms with
their horses, and one gentleman with a little dark speck of a dog
running before him, and one water-cart coming out of the town to get
water for the baths. In another minute or two, the distant bathing
machines would begin to move, and then the elderly gentlemen of regular
habits and sober quaker ladies would be coming to take their salutary
morning walks. But however interesting such a scene might be, I could
not wait to witness it, for the sun and the sea so dazzled my eyes in
that direction, that I could but afford one glance; and then I turned
again to delight myself with the sight and the sound of the sea,
dashing against my promontory—with no prodigious force, for the swell
was broken by the tangled sea-weed and the unseen rocks beneath;
otherwise I should soon have been deluged with spray. But the tide was
coming in; the water was rising; the gulfs and lakes were filling; the
straits were widening: it was time to seek some safer footing; so I
walked, skipped, and stumbled back to the smooth, wide sands, and
resolved to proceed to a certain bold projection in the cliffs, and
then return.

Presently, I heard a snuffling sound behind me and then a dog came
frisking and wriggling to my feet. It was my own Snap—the little dark,
wire-haired terrier! When I spoke his name, he leapt up in my face and
yelled for joy. Almost as much delighted as himself, I caught the
little creature in my arms, and kissed him repeatedly. But how came he
to be there? He could not have dropped from the sky, or come all that
way alone: it must be either his master, the rat-catcher, or somebody
else that had brought him; so, repressing my extravagant caresses, and
endeavouring to repress his likewise, I looked round, and beheld—Mr.
Weston!

“Your dog remembers you well, Miss Grey,” said he, warmly grasping the
hand I offered him without clearly knowing what I was about. “You rise
early.”

“Not often so early as this,” I replied, with amazing composure,
considering all the circumstances of the case.

“How far do you purpose to extend your walk?”

“I was thinking of returning—it must be almost time, I think.”

He consulted his watch—a gold one now—and told me it was only five
minutes past seven.

“But, doubtless, you have had a long enough walk,” said he, turning
towards the town, to which I now proceeded leisurely to retrace my
steps; and he walked beside me.

“In what part of the town do you live?” asked he. “I never could
discover.”

Never could discover? Had he endeavoured to do so then? I told him the
place of our abode. He asked how we prospered in our affairs. I told
him we were doing very well—that we had had a considerable addition to
our pupils after the Christmas vacation, and expected a still further
increase at the close of this.

“You must be an accomplished instructor,” he observed.

“No, it is my mother,” I replied; “she manages things so well, and is
so active, and clever, and kind.”

“I should like to know your mother. Will you introduce me to her some
time, if I call?”

“Yes, willingly.”

“And will you allow me the privilege of an old friend, of looking in
upon you now and then?”

“Yes, if—I suppose so.”

This was a very foolish answer, but the truth was, I considered that I
had no right to invite anyone to my mother’s house without her
knowledge; and if I had said, “Yes, if my mother does not object,” it
would appear as if by his question I understood more than was expected;
so, _supposing_ she would not, I added, “I suppose so:” but of course I
should have said something more sensible and more polite, if I had had
my wits about me. We continued our walk for a minute in silence; which,
however, was shortly relieved (no small relief to me) by Mr. Weston
commenting upon the brightness of the morning and the beauty of the
bay, and then upon the advantages A—— possessed over many other
fashionable places of resort.

“You don’t ask what brings me to A——” said he. “You can’t suppose I’m
rich enough to come for my own pleasure.”

“I heard you had left Horton.”

“You didn’t hear, then, that I had got the living of F——?”

F—— was a village about two miles distant from A——.

“No,” said I; “we live so completely out of the world, even here, that
news seldom reaches me through any quarter; except through the medium
of the —— _Gazette_. But I hope you like your new parish; and that I
may congratulate you on the acquisition?”

“I expect to like my parish better a year or two hence, when I have
worked certain reforms I have set my heart upon—or, at least,
progressed some steps towards such an achievement. But you may
congratulate me now; for I find it very agreeable to _have_ a parish
all to myself, with nobody to interfere with me—to thwart my plans or
cripple my exertions: and besides, I have a respectable house in a
rather pleasant neighbourhood, and three hundred pounds a year; and, in
fact, I have nothing but solitude to complain of, and nothing but a
companion to wish for.”

He looked at me as he concluded: and the flash of his dark eyes seemed
to set my face on fire; greatly to my own discomfiture, for to evince
confusion at such a juncture was intolerable. I made an effort,
therefore, to remedy the evil, and disclaim all personal application of
the remark by a hasty, ill-expressed reply, to the effect that, if he
waited till he was well known in the neighbourhood, he might have
numerous opportunities for supplying his want among the residents of
F—— and its vicinity, or the visitors of A——, if he required so ample a
choice: not considering the compliment implied by such an assertion,
till his answer made me aware of it.

“I am not so presumptuous as to believe that,” said he, “though you
tell it me; but if it were so, I am rather particular in my notions of
a companion for life, and perhaps I might not find one to suit me among
the ladies you mention.”

“If you require perfection, you never will.”

“I do not—I have no right to require it, as being so far from perfect
myself.”

Here the conversation was interrupted by a water-cart lumbering past
us, for we were now come to the busy part of the sands; and, for the
next eight or ten minutes, between carts and horses, and asses, and
men, there was little room for social intercourse, till we had turned
our backs upon the sea, and begun to ascend the precipitous road
leading into the town. Here my companion offered me his arm, which I
accepted, though not with the intention of using it as a support.

“You don’t often come on to the sands, I think,” said he, “for I have
walked there many times, both morning and evening, since I came, and
never seen you till now; and several times, in passing through the
town, too, I have looked about for your school—but I did not think of
the —— Road; and once or twice I made inquiries, but without obtaining
the requisite information.”

When we had surmounted the acclivity, I was about to withdraw my arm
from his, but by a slight tightening of the elbow was tacitly informed
that such was not his will, and accordingly desisted. Discoursing on
different subjects, we entered the town, and passed through several
streets. I saw that he was going out of his way to accompany me,
notwithstanding the long walk that was yet before him; and, fearing
that he might be inconveniencing himself from motives of politeness, I
observed—“I fear I am taking you out of your way, Mr. Weston—I believe
the road to F—— lies quite in another direction.”

“I’ll leave you at the end of the next street,” said he.

“And when will you come to see mamma?”

“To-morrow—God willing.”

The end of the next street was nearly the conclusion of my journey. He
stopped there, however, bid me good-morning, and called Snap, who
seemed a little doubtful whether to follow his old mistress or his new
master, but trotted away upon being summoned by the latter.

“I won’t offer to restore him to you, Miss Grey,” said Mr. Weston,
smiling, “because I like him.”

“Oh, I don’t want him,” replied I, “now that he has a good master; I’m
quite satisfied.”

“You take it for granted that I am a good one, then?”

The man and the dog departed, and I returned home, full of gratitude to
heaven for so much bliss, and praying that my hopes might not again be
crushed.




CHAPTER XXV.
CONCLUSION


“Well, Agnes, you must not take such long walks again before
breakfast,” said my mother, observing that I drank an extra cup of
coffee and ate nothing—pleading the heat of the weather, and the
fatigue of my long walk as an excuse. I certainly did feel feverish and
tired too.

“You always do things by extremes: now, if you had taken a _short_ walk
every morning, and would continue to do so, it would do you good.”

“Well, mamma, I will.”

“But this is worse than lying in bed or bending over your books: you
have quite put yourself into a fever.”

“I won’t do it again,” said I.

I was racking my brains with thinking how to tell her about Mr. Weston,
for she must know he was coming to-morrow. However, I waited till the
breakfast things were removed, and I was more calm and cool; and then,
having sat down to my drawing, I began—“I met an old friend on the
sands to-day, mamma.”

“An old friend! Who could it be?”

“Two old friends, indeed. One was a dog;” and then I reminded her of
Snap, whose history I had recounted before, and related the incident of
his sudden appearance and remarkable recognition; “and the other,”
continued I, “was Mr. Weston, the curate of Horton.”

“Mr. Weston! I never heard of him before.”

“Yes, you have: I’ve mentioned him several times, I believe: but you
don’t remember.”

“I’ve heard you speak of Mr. Hatfield.”

“Mr. Hatfield was the rector, and Mr. Weston the curate: I used to
mention him sometimes in contradistinction to Mr. Hatfield, as being a
more efficient clergyman. However, he was on the sands this morning
with the dog—he had bought it, I suppose, from the rat-catcher; and he
knew me as well as it did—probably through its means: and I had a
little conversation with him, in the course of which, as he asked about
our school, I was led to say something about you, and your good
management; and he said he should like to know you, and asked if I
would introduce him to you, if he should take the liberty of calling
to-morrow; so I said I would. Was I right?”

“Of course. What kind of a man is he?”

“A very _respectable_ man, I think: but you will see him to-morrow. He
is the new vicar of F——, and as he has only been there a few weeks, I
suppose he has made no friends yet, and wants a little society.”

The morrow came. What a fever of anxiety and expectation I was in from
breakfast till noon—at which time he made his appearance! Having
introduced him to my mother, I took my work to the window, and sat down
to await the result of the interview. They got on extremely well
together—greatly to my satisfaction, for I had felt very anxious about
what my mother would think of him. He did not stay long that time: but
when he rose to take leave, she said she should be happy to see him,
whenever he might find it convenient to call again; and when he was
gone, I was gratified by hearing her say,—“Well! I think he’s a very
sensible man. But why did you sit back there, Agnes,” she added, “and
talk so little?”

“Because you talked so well, mamma, I thought you required no
assistance from me: and, besides, he was your visitor, not mine.”

After that, he often called upon us—several times in the course of a
week. He generally addressed most of his conversation to my mother: and
no wonder, for she could converse. I almost envied the unfettered,
vigorous fluency of her discourse, and the strong sense evinced by
everything she said—and yet, I did not; for, though I occasionally
regretted my own deficiencies for his sake, it gave me very great
pleasure to sit and hear the two beings I loved and honoured above
every one else in the world, discoursing together so amicably, so
wisely, and so well. I was not always silent, however; nor was I at all
neglected. I was quite as much noticed as I would wish to be: there was
no lack of kind words and kinder looks, no end of delicate attentions,
too fine and subtle to be grasped by words, and therefore
indescribable—but deeply felt at heart.

Ceremony was quickly dropped between us: Mr. Weston came as an expected
guest, welcome at all times, and never deranging the economy of our
household affairs. He even called me “Agnes:” the name had been timidly
spoken at first, but, finding it gave no offence in any quarter, he
seemed greatly to prefer that appellation to “Miss Grey;” and so did I.
How tedious and gloomy were those days in which he did not come! And
yet not miserable; for I had still the remembrance of the last visit
and the hope of the next to cheer me. But when two or three days passed
without my seeing him, I certainly felt very anxious—absurdly,
unreasonably so; for, of course, he had his own business and the
affairs of his parish to attend to. And I dreaded the close of the
holidays, when _my_ business also would begin, and I should be
sometimes unable to see him, and sometimes—when my mother was in the
schoolroom—obliged to be with him alone: a position I did not at all
desire, in the house; though to meet him out of doors, and walk beside
him, had proved by no means disagreeable.

One evening, however, in the last week of the vacation, he
arrived—unexpectedly: for a heavy and protracted thunder-shower during
the afternoon had almost destroyed my hopes of seeing him that day; but
now the storm was over, and the sun was shining brightly.

“A beautiful evening, Mrs. Grey!” said he, as he entered. “Agnes, I
want you to take a walk with me to ——” (he named a certain part of the
coast—a bold hill on the land side, and towards the sea a steep
precipice, from the summit of which a glorious view is to be had). “The
rain has laid the dust, and cooled and cleared the air, and the
prospect will be magnificent. Will you come?”

“Can I go, mamma?”

“Yes; to be sure.”

I went to get ready, and was down again in a few minutes; though, of
course, I took a little more pains with my attire than if I had merely
been going out on some shopping expedition alone. The thunder-shower
had certainly had a most beneficial effect upon the weather, and the
evening was most delightful. Mr. Weston would have me to take his arm;
he said little during our passage through the crowded streets, but
walked very fast, and appeared grave and abstracted. I wondered what
was the matter, and felt an indefinite dread that something unpleasant
was on his mind; and vague surmises, concerning what it might be,
troubled me not a little, and made me grave and silent enough. But
these fantasies vanished upon reaching the quiet outskirts of the town;
for as soon as we came within sight of the venerable old church, and
the —— hill, with the deep blue beyond it, I found my companion was
cheerful enough.

“I’m afraid I’ve been walking too fast for you, Agnes,” said he: “in my
impatience to be rid of the town, I forgot to consult your convenience;
but now we’ll walk as slowly as you please. I see, by those light
clouds in the west, there will be a brilliant sunset, and we shall be
in time to witness its effect upon the sea, at the most moderate rate
of progression.”

When we had got about half-way up the hill, we fell into silence again;
which, as usual, he was the first to break.

“My house is desolate yet, Miss Grey,” he smilingly observed, “and I am
acquainted now with all the ladies in my parish, and several in this
town too; and many others I know by sight and by report; but not one of
them will suit me for a companion; in fact, there is only one person in
the world that will: and that is yourself; and I want to know your
decision?”

“Are you in earnest, Mr. Weston?”

“In earnest! How could you think I should jest on such a subject?”

He laid his hand on mine, that rested on his arm: he must have felt it
tremble—but it was no great matter now.

“I hope I have not been too precipitate,” he said, in a serious tone.
“You must have known that it was not my way to flatter and talk soft
nonsense, or even to speak the admiration that I felt; and that a
single word or glance of mine meant more than the honied phrases and
fervent protestations of most other men.”

I said something about not liking to leave my mother, and doing nothing
without her consent.

“I settled everything with Mrs. Grey, while you were putting on your
bonnet,” replied he. “She said I might have her consent, if I could
obtain yours; and I asked her, in case I should be so happy, to come
and live with us—for I was sure you would like it better. But she
refused, saying she could now afford to employ an assistant, and would
continue the school till she could purchase an annuity sufficient to
maintain her in comfortable lodgings; and, meantime, she would spend
her vacations alternately with us and your sister, and should be quite
contented if you were happy. And so now I have overruled your
objections on her account. Have you any other?”

“No—none.”

“You love me then?” said he, fervently pressing my hand.

“Yes.”


Here I pause. My Diary, from which I have compiled these pages, goes
but little further. I could go on for years, but I will content myself
with adding, that I shall never forget that glorious summer evening,
and always remember with delight that steep hill, and the edge of the
precipice where we stood together, watching the splendid sunset
mirrored in the restless world of waters at our feet—with hearts filled
with gratitude to heaven, and happiness, and love—almost too full for
speech.

A few weeks after that, when my mother had supplied herself with an
assistant, I became the wife of Edward Weston; and never have found
cause to repent it, and am certain that I never shall. We have had
trials, and we know that we must have them again; but we bear them well
together, and endeavour to fortify ourselves and each other against the
final separation—that greatest of all afflictions to the survivor. But,
if we keep in mind the glorious heaven beyond, where both may meet
again, and sin and sorrow are unknown, surely that too may be borne;
and, meantime, we endeavour to live to the glory of Him who has
scattered so many blessings in our path.

Edward, by his strenuous exertions, has worked surprising reforms in
his parish, and is esteemed and loved by its inhabitants—as he
deserves; for whatever his faults may be as a man (and no one is
entirely without), I defy anybody to blame him as a pastor, a husband,
or a father.

Our children, Edward, Agnes, and little Mary, promise well; their
education, for the time being, is chiefly committed to me; and they
shall want no good thing that a mother’s care can give. Our modest
income is amply sufficient for our requirements: and by practising the
economy we learnt in harder times, and never attempting to imitate our
richer neighbours, we manage not only to enjoy comfort and contentment
ourselves, but to have every year something to lay by for our children,
and something to give to those who need it.

And now I think I have said sufficient.



_Spottiswode & Co. Ltd._, _Printers_, _London_. _Colchester and Eton_.




*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AGNES GREY ***

***** This file should be named 767-0.txt or 767-0.zip *****
This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
    https://www.gutenberg.org/7/6/767/

Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will
be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the
United States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm
concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may
do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
license, especially commercial redistribution.

START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project
Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at
www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the
person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph
1.E.8.

1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this
agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the
Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual
works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting
free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm
works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily
comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when
you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no
representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear
prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work
on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the
phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed,
performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

  This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
  most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
  restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
  under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
  eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the
  United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where
  you are located before using this eBook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is
derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project
Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm
trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works
posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg-tm License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format
other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official
version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm website
(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain
Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the
full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
provided that:

* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
  the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
  you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
  to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has
  agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
  Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
  within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
  legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
  payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
  Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
  Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
  Literary Archive Foundation."

* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
  you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
  does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
  License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
  copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
  all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm
  works.

* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
  any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
  electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
  receipt of the work.

* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
  distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than
are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right
of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO
OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in
accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or
additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any
Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm

Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future
generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at
www.gutenberg.org

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.

The Foundation's business office is located at 809 North 1500 West,
Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up
to date contact information can be found at the Foundation's website
and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without
widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular
state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be
freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of
volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
facility: www.gutenberg.org

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.