"CHAPTER I--THE PARSONAGE\n\n\nAll true histories contain instruction; though, in some, the treasure may\nbe hard to find, and when found, so trivial in quantity, that the dry,\nshrivelled kernel scarcely compensates for the trouble of cracking the\nnut. Whether this be the case with my history or not, I am hardly\ncompetent to judge. I sometimes think it might prove useful to some, and\nentertaining to others; but the world may judge for itself. Shielded by\nmy own obscurity, and by the lapse of years, and a few fictitious names,\nI do not fear to venture; and will candidly lay before the public what I\nwould not disclose to the most intimate friend.\n\nMy father was a clergyman of the north of England, who was deservedly\nrespected by all who knew him; and, in his younger days, lived pretty\ncomfortably on the joint income of a small incumbency and a snug little\nproperty of his own. My mother, who married him against the wishes of\nher friends, was a squire's daughter, and a woman of spirit. In vain it\nwas represented to her, that if she became the poor parson's wife, she\nmust relinquish her carriage and her lady's-maid, and all the luxuries\nand elegancies of affluence; which to her were little less than the\nnecessaries of life. A carriage and a lady's-maid were great\nconveniences; but, thank heaven, she had feet to carry her, and hands to\nminister to her own necessities. An elegant house and spacious grounds\nwere not to be despised; but she would rather live in a cottage with\nRichard Grey than in a palace with any other man in the world.\n\nFinding arguments of no avail, her father, at length, told the lovers\nthey might marry if they pleased; but, in so doing, his daughter would\nforfeit every fraction of her fortune. He expected this would cool the\nardour of both; but he was mistaken. My father knew too well my mother's\nsuperior worth not to be sensible that she was a valuable fortune in\nherself: and if she would but consent to embellish his humble hearth he\nshould be happy to take her on any terms; while she, on her part, would\nrather labour with her own hands than be divided from the man she loved,\nwhose happiness it would be her joy to make, and who was already one with\nher in heart and soul. So her fortune went to swell the purse of a wiser\nsister, who had married a rich nabob; and she, to the wonder and\ncompassionate regret of all who knew her, went to bury herself in the\nhomely village parsonage among the hills of ---. And yet, in spite of\nall this, and in spite of my mother's high spirit and my father's whims,\nI believe you might search all England through, and fail to find a\nhappier couple.\n\nOf six children, my sister Mary and myself were the only two that\nsurvived the perils of infancy and early childhood. I, being the younger\nby five or six years, was always regarded as _the_ child, and the pet of\nthe family: father, mother, and sister, all combined to spoil me--not by\nfoolish indulgence, to render me fractious and ungovernable, but by\nceaseless kindness, to make me too helpless and dependent--too unfit for\nbuffeting with the cares and turmoils of life.\n\nMary and I were brought up in the strictest seclusion. My mother, being\nat once highly accomplished, well informed, and fond of employment, took\nthe whole charge of our education on herself, with the exception of\nLatin--which my father undertook to teach us--so that we never even went\nto school; and, as there was no society in the neighbourhood, our only\nintercourse with the world consisted in a stately tea-party, now and\nthen, with the principal farmers and tradespeople of the vicinity (just\nto avoid being stigmatized as too proud to consort with our neighbours),\nand an annual visit to our paternal grandfather's; where himself, our\nkind grandmamma, a maiden aunt, and two or three elderly ladies and\ngentlemen, were the only persons we ever saw. Sometimes our mother would\namuse us with stories and anecdotes of her younger days, which, while\nthey entertained us amazingly, frequently awoke--in _me_, at least--a\nsecret wish to see a little more of the world.\n\nI thought she must have been very happy: but she never seemed to regret\npast times. My father, however, whose temper was neither tranquil nor\ncheerful by nature, often unduly vexed himself with thinking of the\nsacrifices his dear wife had made for him; and troubled his head with\nrevolving endless schemes for the augmentation of his little fortune, for\nher sake and ours. In vain my mother assured him she was quite\nsatisfied; and if he would but lay by a little for the children, we\nshould all have plenty, both for time present and to come: but saving was\nnot my father's forte. He would not run in debt (at least, my mother\ntook good care he should not), but while he had money he must spend it:\nhe liked to see his house comfortable, and his wife and daughters well\nclothed, and well attended; and besides, he was charitably disposed, and\nliked to give to the poor, according to his means: or, as some might\nthink, beyond them.\n\nAt length, however, a kind friend suggested to him a means of doubling\nhis private property at one stroke; and further increasing it, hereafter,\nto an untold amount. This friend was a merchant, a man of enterprising\nspirit and undoubted talent, who was somewhat straitened in his\nmercantile pursuits for want of capital; but generously proposed to give\nmy father a fair share of his profits, if he would only entrust him with\nwhat he could spare; and he thought he might safely promise that whatever\nsum the latter chose to put into his hands, it should bring him in cent.\nper cent. The small patrimony was speedily sold, and the whole of its\nprice was deposited in the hands of the friendly merchant; who as\npromptly proceeded to ship his cargo, and prepare for his voyage.\n\nMy father was delighted, so were we all, with our brightening prospects.\nFor the present, it is true, we were reduced to the narrow income of the\ncuracy; but my father seemed to think there was no necessity for\nscrupulously restricting our expenditure to that; so, with a standing\nbill at Mr. Jackson's, another at Smith's, and a third at Hobson's, we\ngot along even more comfortably than before: though my mother affirmed we\nhad better keep within bounds, for our prospects of wealth were but\nprecarious, after all; and if my father would only trust everything to\nher management, he should never feel himself stinted: but he, for once,\nwas incorrigible.\n\nWhat happy hours Mary and I have passed while sitting at our work by the\nfire, or wandering on the heath-clad hills, or idling under the weeping\nbirch (the only considerable tree in the garden), talking of future\nhappiness to ourselves and our parents, of what we would do, and see, and\npossess; with no firmer foundation for our goodly superstructure than the\nriches that were expected to flow in upon us from the success of the\nworthy merchant's speculations. Our father was nearly as bad as\nourselves; only that he affected not to be so much in earnest: expressing\nhis bright hopes and sanguine expectations in jests and playful sallies,\nthat always struck me as being exceedingly witty and pleasant. Our\nmother laughed with delight to see him so hopeful and happy: but still\nshe feared he was setting his heart too much upon the matter; and once I\nheard her whisper as she left the room, 'God grant he be not\ndisappointed! I know not how he would bear it.'\n\nDisappointed he was; and bitterly, too. It came like a thunder-clap on\nus all, that the vessel which contained our fortune had been wrecked, and\ngone to the bottom with all its stores, together with several of the\ncrew, and the unfortunate merchant himself. I was grieved for him; I was\ngrieved for the overthrow of all our air-built castles: but, with the\nelasticity of youth, I soon recovered the shook.\n\nThough riches had charms, poverty had no terrors for an inexperienced\ngirl like me. Indeed, to say the truth, there was something exhilarating\nin the idea of being driven to straits, and thrown upon our own\nresources. I only wished papa, mamma, and Mary were all of the same mind\nas myself; and then, instead of lamenting past calamities we might all\ncheerfully set to work to remedy them; and the greater the difficulties,\nthe harder our present privations, the greater should be our cheerfulness\nto endure the latter, and our vigour to contend against the former.\n\nMary did not lament, but she brooded continually over the misfortune, and\nsank into a state of dejection from which no effort of mine could rouse\nher. I could not possibly bring her to regard the matter on its bright\nside as I did: and indeed I was so fearful of being charged with childish\nfrivolity, or stupid insensibility, that I carefully kept most of my\nbright ideas and cheering notions to myself; well knowing they could not\nbe appreciated.\n\nMy mother thought only of consoling my father, and paying our debts and\nretrenching our expenditure by every available means; but my father was\ncompletely overwhelmed by the calamity: health, strength, and spirits\nsank beneath the blow, and he never wholly recovered them. In vain my\nmother strove to cheer him, by appealing to his piety, to his courage, to\nhis affection for herself and us. That very affection was his greatest\ntorment: it was for our sakes he had so ardently longed to increase his\nfortune--it was our interest that had lent such brightness to his hopes,\nand that imparted such bitterness to his present distress. He now\ntormented himself with remorse at having neglected my mother's advice;\nwhich would at least have saved him from the additional burden of\ndebt--he vainly reproached himself for having brought her from the\ndignity, the ease, the luxury of her former station to toil with him\nthrough the cares and toils of poverty. It was gall and wormwood to his\nsoul to see that splendid, highly-accomplished woman, once so courted and\nadmired, transformed into an active managing housewife, with hands and\nhead continually occupied with household labours and household economy.\nThe very willingness with which she performed these duties, the\ncheerfulness with which she bore her reverses, and the kindness which\nwithheld her from imputing the smallest blame to him, were all perverted\nby this ingenious self-tormentor into further aggravations of his\nsufferings. And thus the mind preyed upon the body, and disordered the\nsystem of the nerves, and they in turn increased the troubles of the\nmind, till by action and reaction his health was seriously impaired; and\nnot one of us could convince him that the aspect of our affairs was not\nhalf so gloomy, so utterly hopeless, as his morbid imagination\nrepresented it to be.\n\nThe useful pony phaeton was sold, together with the stout, well-fed\npony--the old favourite that we had fully determined should end its days\nin peace, and never pass from our hands; the little coach-house and\nstable were let; the servant boy, and the more efficient (being the more\nexpensive) of the two maid-servants, were dismissed. Our clothes were\nmended, turned, and darned to the utmost verge of decency; our food,\nalways plain, was now simplified to an unprecedented degree--except my\nfather's favourite dishes; our coals and candles were painfully\neconomized--the pair of candles reduced to one, and that most sparingly\nused; the coals carefully husbanded in the half-empty grate: especially\nwhen my father was out on his parish duties, or confined to bed through\nillness--then we sat with our feet on the fender, scraping the perishing\nembers together from time to time, and occasionally adding a slight\nscattering of the dust and fragments of coal, just to keep them alive.\nAs for our carpets, they in time were worn threadbare, and patched and\ndarned even to a greater extent than our garments. To save the expense\nof a gardener, Mary and I undertook to keep the garden in order; and all\nthe cooking and household work that could not easily be managed by one\nservant-girl, was done by my mother and sister, with a little occasional\nhelp from me: only a little, because, though a woman in my own\nestimation, I was still a child in theirs; and my mother, like most\nactive, managing women, was not gifted with very active daughters: for\nthis reason--that being so clever and diligent herself, she was never\ntempted to trust her affairs to a deputy, but, on the contrary, was\nwilling to act and think for others as well as for number one; and\nwhatever was the business in hand, she was apt to think that no one could\ndo it so well as herself: so that whenever I offered to assist her, I\nreceived such an answer as--'No, love, you cannot indeed--there's nothing\nhere you can do. Go and help your sister, or get her to take a walk with\nyou--tell her she must not sit so much, and stay so constantly in the\nhouse as she does--she may well look thin and dejected.'\n\n'Mary, mamma says I'm to help you; or get you to take a walk with me; she\nsays you may well look thin and dejected, if you sit so constantly in the\nhouse.'\n\n'Help me you cannot, Agnes; and I cannot go out with _you_--I have far\ntoo much to do.'\n\n'Then let me help you.'\n\n'You cannot, indeed, dear child. Go and practise your music, or play\nwith the kitten.'\n\nThere was always plenty of sewing on hand; but I had not been taught to\ncut out a single garment, and except plain hemming and seaming, there was\nlittle I could do, even in that line; for they both asserted that it was\nfar easier to do the work themselves than to prepare it for me: and\nbesides, they liked better to see me prosecuting my studies, or amusing\nmyself--it was time enough for me to sit bending over my work, like a\ngrave matron, when my favourite little pussy was become a steady old cat.\nUnder such circumstances, although I was not many degrees more useful\nthan the kitten, my idleness was not entirely without excuse.\n\nThrough all our troubles, I never but once heard my mother complain of\nour want of money. As summer was coming on she observed to Mary and me,\n'What a desirable thing it would be for your papa to spend a few weeks at\na watering-place. I am convinced the sea-air and the change of scene\nwould be of incalculable service to him. But then, you see, there's no\nmoney,' she added, with a sigh. We both wished exceedingly that the\nthing might be done, and lamented greatly that it could not. 'Well,\nwell!' said she, 'it's no use complaining. Possibly something might be\ndone to further the project after all. Mary, you are a beautiful drawer.\nWhat do you say to doing a few more pictures in your best style, and\ngetting them framed, with the water-coloured drawings you have already\ndone, and trying to dispose of them to some liberal picture-dealer, who\nhas the sense to discern their merits?'\n\n'Mamma, I should be delighted if you think they _could_ be sold; and for\nanything worth while.'\n\n'It's worth while trying, however, my dear: do you procure the drawings,\nand I'll endeavour to find a purchaser.'\n\n'I wish _I_ could do something,' said I.\n\n'You, Agnes! well, who knows? You draw pretty well, too: if you choose\nsome simple piece for your subject, I daresay you will be able to produce\nsomething we shall all be proud to exhibit.'\n\n'But I have another scheme in my head, mamma, and have had long, only I\ndid not like to mention it.'\n\n'Indeed! pray tell us what it is.'\n\n'I should like to be a governess.'\n\nMy mother uttered an exclamation of surprise, and laughed. My sister\ndropped her work in astonishment, exclaiming, '_You_ a governess, Agnes!\nWhat can you be dreaming of?'\n\n'Well! I don't see anything so _very_ extraordinary in it. I do not\npretend to be able to instruct great girls; but surely I could teach\nlittle ones: and I should like it so much: I am so fond of children. Do\nlet me, mamma!'\n\n'But, my love, you have not learned to take care of _yourself _yet: and\nyoung children require more judgment and experience to manage than elder\nones.'\n\n'But, mamma, I am above eighteen, and quite able to take care of myself,\nand others too. You do not know half the wisdom and prudence I possess,\nbecause I have never been tried.'\n\n'Only think,' said Mary, 'what would you do in a house full of strangers,\nwithout me or mamma to speak and act for you--with a parcel of children,\nbesides yourself, to attend to; and no one to look to for advice? You\nwould not even know what clothes to put on.'\n\n'You think, because I always do as you bid me, I have no judgment of my\nown: but only try me--that is all I ask--and you shall see what I can\ndo.'\n\nAt that moment my father entered and the subject of our discussion was\nexplained to him.\n\n'What, my little Agnes a governess!' cried he, and, in spite of his\ndejection, he laughed at the idea.\n\n'Yes, papa, don't _you_ say anything against it: I should like it so\nmuch; and I am sure I could manage delightfully.'\n\n'But, my darling, we could not spare you.' And a tear glistened in his\neye as he added--'No, no! afflicted as we are, surely we are not brought\nto that pass yet.'\n\n'Oh, no!' said my mother. 'There is no necessity whatever for such a\nstep; it is merely a whim of her own. So you must hold your tongue, you\nnaughty girl; for, though you are so ready to leave us, you know very\nwell we cannot part with _you_.'\n\nI was silenced for that day, and for many succeeding ones; but still I\ndid not wholly relinquish my darling scheme. Mary got her drawing\nmaterials, and steadily set to work. I got mine too; but while I drew, I\nthought of other things. How delightful it would be to be a governess!\nTo go out into the world; to enter upon a new life; to act for myself; to\nexercise my unused faculties; to try my unknown powers; to earn my own\nmaintenance, and something to comfort and help my father, mother, and\nsister, besides exonerating them from the provision of my food and\nclothing; to show papa what his little Agnes could do; to convince mamma\nand Mary that I was not quite the helpless, thoughtless being they\nsupposed. And then, how charming to be entrusted with the care and\neducation of children! Whatever others said, I felt I was fully\ncompetent to the task: the clear remembrance of my own thoughts in early\nchildhood would be a surer guide than the instructions of the most mature\nadviser. I had but to turn from my little pupils to myself at their age,\nand I should know, at once, how to win their confidence and affections:\nhow to waken the contrition of the erring; how to embolden the timid and\nconsole the afflicted; how to make Virtue practicable, Instruction\ndesirable, and Religion lovely and comprehensible.\n\n --Delightful task!\n To teach the young idea how to shoot!\n\nTo train the tender plants, and watch their buds unfolding day by day!\n\nInfluenced by so many inducements, I determined still to persevere;\nthough the fear of displeasing my mother, or distressing my father's\nfeelings, prevented me from resuming the subject for several days. At\nlength, again, I mentioned it to my mother in private; and, with some\ndifficulty, got her to promise to assist me with her endeavours. My\nfather's reluctant consent was next obtained, and then, though Mary still\nsighed her disapproval, my dear, kind mother began to look out for a\nsituation for me. She wrote to my father's relations, and consulted the\nnewspaper advertisements--her own relations she had long dropped all\ncommunication with: a formal interchange of occasional letters was all\nshe had ever had since her marriage, and she would not at any time have\napplied to them in a case of this nature. But so long and so entire had\nbeen my parents' seclusion from the world, that many weeks elapsed before\na suitable situation could be procured. At last, to my great joy, it was\ndecreed that I should take charge of the young family of a certain Mrs.\nBloomfield; whom my kind, prim aunt Grey had known in her youth, and\nasserted to be a very nice woman. Her husband was a retired tradesman,\nwho had realized a very comfortable fortune; but could not be prevailed\nupon to give a greater salary than twenty-five pounds to the instructress\nof his children. I, however, was glad to accept this, rather than refuse\nthe situation--which my parents were inclined to think the better plan.\n\nBut some weeks more were yet to be devoted to preparation. How long, how\ntedious those weeks appeared to me! Yet they were happy ones in the\nmain--full of bright hopes and ardent expectations. With what peculiar\npleasure I assisted at the making of my new clothes, and, subsequently,\nthe packing of my trunks! But there was a feeling of bitterness mingling\nwith the latter occupation too; and when it was done--when all was ready\nfor my departure on the morrow, and the last night at home approached--a\nsudden anguish seemed to swell my heart. My dear friends looked so sad,\nand spoke so very kindly, that I could scarcely keep my eyes from\noverflowing: but I still affected to be gay. I had taken my last ramble\nwith Mary on the moors, my last walk in the garden, and round the house;\nI had fed, with her, our pet pigeons for the last time--the pretty\ncreatures that we had tamed to peck their food from our hands: I had\ngiven a farewell stroke to all their silky backs as they crowded in my\nlap. I had tenderly kissed my own peculiar favourites, the pair of\nsnow-white fantails; I had played my last tune on the old familiar piano,\nand sung my last song to papa: not the last, I hoped, but the last for\nwhat appeared to me a very long time. And, perhaps, when I did these\nthings again it would be with different feelings: circumstances might be\nchanged, and this house might never be my settled home again. My dear\nlittle friend, the kitten, would certainly be changed: she was already\ngrowing a fine cat; and when I returned, even for a hasty visit at\nChristmas, would, most likely, have forgotten both her playmate and her\nmerry pranks. I had romped with her for the last time; and when I\nstroked her soft bright fur, while she lay purring herself to sleep in my\nlap, it was with a feeling of sadness I could not easily disguise. Then\nat bed-time, when I retired with Mary to our quiet little chamber, where\nalready my drawers were cleared out and my share of the bookcase was\nempty--and where, hereafter, she would have to sleep alone, in dreary\nsolitude, as she expressed it--my heart sank more than ever: I felt as if\nI had been selfish and wrong to persist in leaving her; and when I knelt\nonce more beside our little bed, I prayed for a blessing on her and on my\nparents more fervently than ever I had done before. To conceal my\nemotion, I buried my face in my hands, and they were presently bathed in\ntears. I perceived, on rising, that she had been crying too: but neither\nof us spoke; and in silence we betook ourselves to our repose, creeping\nmore closely together from the consciousness that we were to part so\nsoon.\n\nBut the morning brought a renewal of hope and spirits. I was to depart\nearly; that the conveyance which took me (a gig, hired from Mr. Smith,\nthe draper, grocer, and tea-dealer of the village) might return the same\nday. I rose, washed, dressed, swallowed a hasty breakfast, received the\nfond embraces of my father, mother, and sister, kissed the cat--to the\ngreat scandal of Sally, the maid--shook hands with her, mounted the gig,\ndrew my veil over my face, and then, but not till then, burst into a\nflood of tears. The gig rolled on; I looked back; my dear mother and\nsister were still standing at the door, looking after me, and waving\ntheir adieux. I returned their salute, and prayed God to bless them from\nmy heart: we descended the hill, and I could see them no more.\n\n'It's a coldish mornin' for you, Miss Agnes,' observed Smith; 'and a\ndarksome 'un too; but we's happen get to yon spot afore there come much\nrain to signify.'\n\n'Yes, I hope so,' replied I, as calmly as I could.\n\n'It's comed a good sup last night too.'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'But this cold wind will happen keep it off.'\n\n'Perhaps it will.'\n\nHere ended our colloquy. We crossed the valley, and began to ascend the\nopposite hill. As we were toiling up, I looked back again; there was the\nvillage spire, and the old grey parsonage beyond it, basking in a\nslanting beam of sunshine--it was but a sickly ray, but the village and\nsurrounding hills were all in sombre shade, and I hailed the wandering\nbeam as a propitious omen to my home. With clasped hands I fervently\nimplored a blessing on its inhabitants, and hastily turned away; for I\nsaw the sunshine was departing; and I carefully avoided another glance,\nlest I should see it in gloomy shadow, like the rest of the landscape.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II--FIRST LESSONS IN THE ART OF INSTRUCTION\n\n\nAs we drove along, my spirits revived again, and I turned, with pleasure,\nto the contemplation of the new life upon which I was entering. But\nthough it was not far past the middle of September, the heavy clouds and\nstrong north-easterly wind combined to render the day extremely cold and\ndreary; and the journey seemed a very long one, for, as Smith observed,\nthe roads were 'very heavy'; and certainly, his horse was very heavy too:\nit crawled up the hills, and crept down them, and only condescended to\nshake its sides in a trot where the road was at a dead level or a very\ngentle slope, which was rarely the case in those rugged regions; so that\nit was nearly one o'clock before we reached the place of our destination.\nYet, after all, when we entered the lofty iron gateway, when we drove\nsoftly up the smooth, well-rolled carriage-road, with the green lawn on\neach side, studded with young trees, and approached the new but stately\nmansion of Wellwood, rising above its mushroom poplar-groves, my heart\nfailed me, and I wished it were a mile or two farther off. For the first\ntime in my life I must stand alone: there was no retreating now. I must\nenter that house, and introduce myself among its strange inhabitants.\nBut how was it to be done? True, I was near nineteen; but, thanks to my\nretired life and the protecting care of my mother and sister, I well knew\nthat many a girl of fifteen, or under, was gifted with a more womanly\naddress, and greater ease and self-possession, than I was. Yet, if Mrs.\nBloomfield were a kind, motherly woman, I might do very well, after all;\nand the children, of course, I should soon be at ease with them--and Mr.\nBloomfield, I hoped, I should have but little to do with.\n\n'Be calm, be calm, whatever happens,' I said within myself; and truly I\nkept this resolution so well, and was so fully occupied in steadying my\nnerves and stifling the rebellious flutter of my heart, that when I was\nadmitted into the hall and ushered into the presence of Mrs. Bloomfield,\nI almost forgot to answer her polite salutation; and it afterwards struck\nme, that the little I did say was spoken in the tone of one half-dead or\nhalf-asleep. The lady, too, was somewhat chilly in her manner, as I\ndiscovered when I had time to reflect. She was a tall, spare, stately\nwoman, with thick black hair, cold grey eyes, and extremely sallow\ncomplexion.\n\nWith due politeness, however, she showed me my bedroom, and left me there\nto take a little refreshment. I was somewhat dismayed at my appearance\non looking in the glass: the cold wind had swelled and reddened my hands,\nuncurled and entangled my hair, and dyed my face of a pale purple; add to\nthis my collar was horridly crumpled, my frock splashed with mud, my feet\nclad in stout new boots, and as the trunks were not brought up, there was\nno remedy; so having smoothed my hair as well as I could, and repeatedly\ntwitched my obdurate collar, I proceeded to clomp down the two flights of\nstairs, philosophizing as I went; and with some difficulty found my way\ninto the room where Mrs. Bloomfield awaited me.\n\nShe led me into the dining-room, where the family luncheon had been laid\nout. Some beefsteaks and half-cold potatoes were set before me; and\nwhile I dined upon these, she sat opposite, watching me (as I thought)\nand endeavouring to sustain something like a conversation--consisting\nchiefly of a succession of commonplace remarks, expressed with frigid\nformality: but this might be more my fault than hers, for I really could\n_not_ converse. In fact, my attention was almost wholly absorbed in my\ndinner: not from ravenous appetite, but from distress at the toughness of\nthe beefsteaks, and the numbness of my hands, almost palsied by their\nfive-hours' exposure to the bitter wind. I would gladly have eaten the\npotatoes and let the meat alone, but having got a large piece of the\nlatter on to my plate, I could not be so impolite as to leave it; so,\nafter many awkward and unsuccessful attempts to cut it with the knife, or\ntear it with the fork, or pull it asunder between them, sensible that the\nawful lady was a spectator to the whole transaction, I at last\ndesperately grasped the knife and fork in my fists, like a child of two\nyears old, and fell to work with all the little strength I possessed.\nBut this needed some apology--with a feeble attempt at a laugh, I said,\n'My hands are so benumbed with the cold that I can scarcely handle my\nknife and fork.'\n\n'I daresay you would find it cold,' replied she with a cool, immutable\ngravity that did not serve to reassure me.\n\nWhen the ceremony was concluded, she led me into the sitting-room again,\nwhere she rang and sent for the children.\n\n'You will find them not very far advanced in their attainments,' said\nshe, 'for I have had so little time to attend to their education myself,\nand we have thought them too young for a governess till now; but I think\nthey are clever children, and very apt to learn, especially the little\nboy; he is, I think, the flower of the flock--a generous, noble-spirited\nboy, one to be led, but not driven, and remarkable for always speaking\nthe truth. He seems to scorn deception' (this was good news). 'His\nsister Mary Ann will require watching,' continued she, 'but she is a very\ngood girl upon the whole; though I wish her to be kept out of the nursery\nas much as possible, as she is now almost six years old, and might\nacquire bad habits from the nurses. I have ordered her crib to be placed\nin your room, and if you will be so kind as to overlook her washing and\ndressing, and take charge of her clothes, she need have nothing further\nto do with the nursery maid.'\n\nI replied I was quite willing to do so; and at that moment my young\npupils entered the apartment, with their two younger sisters. Master Tom\nBloomfield was a well-grown boy of seven, with a somewhat wiry frame,\nflaxen hair, blue eyes, small turned-up nose, and fair complexion. Mary\nAnn was a tall girl too, somewhat dark like her mother, but with a round\nfull face and a high colour in her cheeks. The second sister was Fanny,\na very pretty little girl; Mrs. Bloomfield assured me she was a\nremarkably gentle child, and required encouragement: she had not learned\nanything yet; but in a few days, she would be four years old, and then\nshe might take her first lesson in the alphabet, and be promoted to the\nschoolroom. The remaining one was Harriet, a little broad, fat, merry,\nplayful thing of scarcely two, that I coveted more than all the rest--but\nwith her I had nothing to do.\n\nI talked to my little pupils as well as I could, and tried to render\nmyself agreeable; but with little success I fear, for their mother's\npresence kept me under an unpleasant restraint. They, however, were\nremarkably free from shyness. They seemed bold, lively children, and I\nhoped I should soon be on friendly terms with them--the little boy\nespecially, of whom I had heard such a favourable character from his\nmamma. In Mary Ann there was a certain affected simper, and a craving\nfor notice, that I was sorry to observe. But her brother claimed all my\nattention to himself; he stood bolt upright between me and the fire, with\nhis hands behind his back, talking away like an orator, occasionally\ninterrupting his discourse with a sharp reproof to his sisters when they\nmade too much noise.\n\n'Oh, Tom, what a darling you are!' exclaimed his mother. 'Come and kiss\ndear mamma; and then won't you show Miss Grey your schoolroom, and your\nnice new books?'\n\n'I won't kiss _you_, mamma; but I _will_ show Miss Grey my schoolroom,\nand my new books.'\n\n'And _my_ schoolroom, and _my_ new books, Tom,' said Mary Ann. 'They're\nmine too.'\n\n'They're _mine_,' replied he decisively. 'Come along, Miss Grey--I'll\nescort you.'\n\nWhen the room and books had been shown, with some bickerings between the\nbrother and sister that I did my utmost to appease or mitigate, Mary Ann\nbrought me her doll, and began to be very loquacious on the subject of\nits fine clothes, its bed, its chest of drawers, and other appurtenances;\nbut Tom told her to hold her clamour, that Miss Grey might see his\nrocking-horse, which, with a most important bustle, he dragged forth from\nits corner into the middle of the room, loudly calling on me to attend to\nit. Then, ordering his sister to hold the reins, he mounted, and made me\nstand for ten minutes, watching how manfully he used his whip and spurs.\nMeantime, however, I admired Mary Ann's pretty doll, and all its\npossessions; and then told Master Tom he was a capital rider, but I hoped\nhe would not use his whip and spurs so much when he rode a real pony.\n\n'Oh, yes, I will!' said he, laying on with redoubled ardour. 'I'll cut\ninto him like smoke! Eeh! my word! but he shall sweat for it.'\n\nThis was very shocking; but I hoped in time to be able to work a\nreformation.\n\n'Now you must put on your bonnet and shawl,' said the little hero, 'and\nI'll show you my garden.'\n\n'And _mine_,' said Mary Ann.\n\nTom lifted his fist with a menacing gesture; she uttered a loud, shrill\nscream, ran to the other side of me, and made a face at him.\n\n'Surely, Tom, you would not strike your sister! I hope I shall _never_\nsee you do that.'\n\n'You will sometimes: I'm obliged to do it now and then to keep her in\norder.'\n\n'But it is not your business to keep her in order, you know--that is\nfor--'\n\n'Well, now go and put on your bonnet.'\n\n'I don't know--it is so very cloudy and cold, it seems likely to\nrain;--and you know I have had a long drive.'\n\n'No matter--you _must_ come; I shall allow of no excuses,' replied the\nconsequential little gentleman. And, as it was the first day of our\nacquaintance, I thought I might as well indulge him. It was too cold for\nMary Ann to venture, so she stayed with her mamma, to the great relief of\nher brother, who liked to have me all to himself.\n\nThe garden was a large one, and tastefully laid out; besides several\nsplendid dahlias, there were some other fine flowers still in bloom: but\nmy companion would not give me time to examine them: I must go with him,\nacross the wet grass, to a remote sequestered corner, the most important\nplace in the grounds, because it contained _his_ garden. There were two\nround beds, stocked with a variety of plants. In one there was a pretty\nlittle rose-tree. I paused to admire its lovely blossoms.\n\n'Oh, never mind that!' said he, contemptuously. 'That's only _Mary\nAnn's_ garden; look, THIS is mine.'\n\nAfter I had observed every flower, and listened to a disquisition on\nevery plant, I was permitted to depart; but first, with great pomp, he\nplucked a polyanthus and presented it to me, as one conferring a\nprodigious favour. I observed, on the grass about his garden, certain\napparatus of sticks and corn, and asked what they were.\n\n'Traps for birds.'\n\n'Why do you catch them?'\n\n'Papa says they do harm.'\n\n'And what do you do with them when you catch them?'\n\n'Different things. Sometimes I give them to the cat; sometimes I cut\nthem in pieces with my penknife; but the next, I mean to roast alive.'\n\n'And why do you mean to do such a horrible thing?'\n\n'For two reasons: first, to see how long it will live--and then, to see\nwhat it will taste like.'\n\n'But don't you know it is extremely wicked to do such things? Remember,\nthe birds can feel as well as you; and think, how would you like it\nyourself?'\n\n'Oh, that's nothing! I'm not a bird, and I can't feel what I do to\nthem.'\n\n'But you will have to feel it some time, Tom: you have heard where wicked\npeople go to when they die; and if you don't leave off torturing innocent\nbirds, remember, you will have to go there, and suffer just what you have\nmade them suffer.'\n\n'Oh, pooh! I shan't. Papa knows how I treat them, and he never blames\nme for it: he says it is just what _he_ used to do when _he_ was a boy.\nLast summer, he gave me a nest full of young sparrows, and he saw me\npulling off their legs and wings, and heads, and never said anything;\nexcept that they were nasty things, and I must not let them soil my\ntrousers: end Uncle Robson was there too, and he laughed, and said I was\na fine boy.'\n\n'But what would your mamma say?'\n\n'Oh, she doesn't care! she says it's a pity to kill the pretty singing\nbirds, but the naughty sparrows, and mice, and rats, I may do what I like\nwith. So now, Miss Grey, you see it is _not_ wicked.'\n\n'I still think it is, Tom; and perhaps your papa and mamma would think so\ntoo, if they thought much about it. However,' I internally added, 'they\nmay say what they please, but I am determined you shall do nothing of the\nkind, as long as I have power to prevent it.'\n\nHe next took me across the lawn to see his mole-traps, and then into the\nstack-yard to see his weasel-traps: one of which, to his great joy,\ncontained a dead weasel; and then into the stable to see, not the fine\ncarriage-horses, but a little rough colt, which he informed me had been\nbred on purpose for him, and he was to ride it as soon as it was properly\ntrained. I tried to amuse the little fellow, and listened to all his\nchatter as complacently as I could; for I thought if he had any\naffections at all, I would endeavour to win them; and then, in time, I\nmight be able to show him the error of his ways: but I looked in vain for\nthat generous, noble spirit his mother talked of; though I could see he\nwas not without a certain degree of quickness and penetration, when he\nchose to exert it.\n\nWhen we re-entered the house it was nearly tea-time. Master Tom told me\nthat, as papa was from home, he and I and Mary Ann were to have tea with\nmamma, for a treat; for, on such occasions, she always dined at\nluncheon-time with them, instead of at six o'clock. Soon after tea, Mary\nAnn went to bed, but Tom favoured us with his company and conversation\ntill eight. After he was gone, Mrs. Bloomfield further enlightened me on\nthe subject of her children's dispositions and acquirements, and on what\nthey were to learn, and how they were to be managed, and cautioned me to\nmention their defects to no one but herself. My mother had warned me\nbefore to mention them as little as possible to _her_, for people did not\nlike to be told of their children's faults, and so I concluded I was to\nkeep silence on them altogether. About half-past nine, Mrs. Bloomfield\ninvited me to partake of a frugal supper of cold meat and bread. I was\nglad when that was over, and she took her bedroom candlestick and retired\nto rest; for though I wished to be pleased with her, her company was\nextremely irksome to me; and I could not help feeling that she was cold,\ngrave, and forbidding--the very opposite of the kind, warm-hearted matron\nmy hopes had depicted her to be.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III--A FEW MORE LESSONS\n\n\nI rose next morning with a feeling of hopeful exhilaration, in spite of\nthe disappointments already experienced; but I found the dressing of Mary\nAnn was no light matter, as her abundant hair was to be smeared with\npomade, plaited in three long tails, and tied with bows of ribbon: a task\nmy unaccustomed fingers found great difficulty in performing. She told\nme her nurse could do it in half the time, and, by keeping up a constant\nfidget of impatience, contrived to render me still longer. When all was\ndone, we went into the schoolroom, where I met my other pupil, and\nchatted with the two till it was time to go down to breakfast. That meal\nbeing concluded, and a few civil words having been exchanged with Mrs.\nBloomfield, we repaired to the schoolroom again, and commenced the\nbusiness of the day. I found my pupils very backward, indeed; but Tom,\nthough averse to every species of mental exertion, was not without\nabilities. Mary Ann could scarcely read a word, and was so careless and\ninattentive that I could hardly get on with her at all. However, by dint\nof great labour and patience, I managed to get something done in the\ncourse of the morning, and then accompanied my young charge out into the\ngarden and adjacent grounds, for a little recreation before dinner.\nThere we got along tolerably together, except that I found they had no\nnotion of going with me: I must go with them, wherever they chose to lead\nme. I must run, walk, or stand, exactly as it suited their fancy. This,\nI thought, was reversing the order of things; and I found it doubly\ndisagreeable, as on this as well as subsequent occasions, they seemed to\nprefer the dirtiest places and the most dismal occupations. But there\nwas no remedy; either I must follow them, or keep entirely apart from\nthem, and thus appear neglectful of my charge. To-day, they manifested a\nparticular attachment to a well at the bottom of the lawn, where they\npersisted in dabbling with sticks and pebbles for above half an hour. I\nwas in constant fear that their mother would see them from the window,\nand blame me for allowing them thus to draggle their clothes and wet\ntheir feet and hands, instead of taking exercise; but no arguments,\ncommands, or entreaties could draw them away. If _she_ did not see them,\nsome one else did--a gentleman on horseback had entered the gate and was\nproceeding up the road; at the distance of a few paces from us he paused,\nand calling to the children in a waspish penetrating tone, bade them\n'keep out of that water.' 'Miss Grey,' said he, '(I suppose it _is_ Miss\nGrey), I am surprised that you should allow them to dirty their clothes\nin that manner! Don't you see how Miss Bloomfield has soiled her frock?\nand that Master Bloomfield's socks are quite wet? and both of them\nwithout gloves? Dear, dear! Let me _request_ that in future you will\nkeep them _decent_ at least!' so saying, he turned away, and continued\nhis ride up to the house. This was Mr. Bloomfield. I was surprised that\nhe should nominate his children Master and Miss Bloomfield; and still\nmore so, that he should speak so uncivilly to me, their governess, and a\nperfect stranger to himself. Presently the bell rang to summon us in. I\ndined with the children at one, while he and his lady took their luncheon\nat the same table. His conduct there did not greatly raise him in my\nestimation. He was a man of ordinary stature--rather below than\nabove--and rather thin than stout, apparently between thirty and forty\nyears of age: he had a large mouth, pale, dingy complexion, milky blue\neyes, and hair the colour of a hempen cord. There was a roast leg of\nmutton before him: he helped Mrs. Bloomfield, the children, and me,\ndesiring me to cut up the children's meat; then, after twisting about the\nmutton in various directions, and eyeing it from different points, he\npronounced it not fit to be eaten, and called for the cold beef.\n\n'What is the matter with the mutton, my dear?' asked his mate.\n\n'It is quite overdone. Don't you taste, Mrs. Bloomfield, that all the\ngoodness is roasted out of it? And can't you see that all that nice, red\ngravy is completely dried away?'\n\n'Well, I think the _beef_ will suit you.'\n\nThe beef was set before him, and he began to carve, but with the most\nrueful expressions of discontent.\n\n'What is the matter with the _beef_, Mr. Bloomfield? I'm sure I thought\nit was very nice.'\n\n'And so it _was_ very nice. A nicer joint could not be; but it is\n_quite_ spoiled,' replied he, dolefully.\n\n'How so?'\n\n'How so! Why, don't you see how it is cut? Dear--dear! it is quite\nshocking!'\n\n'They must have cut it wrong in the kitchen, then, for I'm sure I carved\nit quite properly here, yesterday.'\n\n'No _doubt_ they cut it wrong in the kitchen--the savages! Dear--dear!\nDid ever any one see such a fine piece of beef so completely ruined? But\nremember that, in future, when a decent dish leaves this table, they\nshall not _touch_ it in the kitchen. Remember _that_, Mrs. Bloomfield!'\n\nNotwithstanding the ruinous state of the beef, the gentleman managed to\nout himself some delicate slices, part of which he ate in silence. When\nhe next spoke, it was, in a less querulous tone, to ask what there was\nfor dinner.\n\n'Turkey and grouse,' was the concise reply.\n\n'And what besides?'\n\n'Fish.'\n\n'What kind of fish?'\n\n'I don't know.'\n\n'_You don't know_?' cried he, looking solemnly up from his plate, and\nsuspending his knife and fork in astonishment.\n\n'No. I told the cook to get some fish--I did not particularize what.'\n\n'Well, that beats everything! A lady professes to keep house, and\ndoesn't even know what fish is for dinner! professes to order fish, and\ndoesn't specify what!'\n\n'Perhaps, Mr. Bloomfield, you will order dinner yourself in future.'\n\nNothing more was said; and I was very glad to get out of the room with my\npupils; for I never felt so ashamed and uncomfortable in my life for\nanything that was not my own fault.\n\nIn the afternoon we applied to lessons again: then went out again; then\nhad tea in the schoolroom; then I dressed Mary Ann for dessert; and when\nshe and her brother had gone down to the dining-room, I took the\nopportunity of beginning a letter to my dear friends at home: but the\nchildren came up before I had half completed it. At seven I had to put\nMary Ann to bed; then I played with Tom till eight, when he, too, went;\nand I finished my letter and unpacked my clothes, which I had hitherto\nfound no opportunity for doing, and, finally, went to bed myself.\n\nBut this is a very favourable specimen of a day's proceedings.\n\nMy task of instruction and surveillance, instead of becoming easier as my\ncharges and I got better accustomed to each other, became more arduous as\ntheir characters unfolded. The name of governess, I soon found, was a\nmere mockery as applied to me: my pupils had no more notion of obedience\nthan a wild, unbroken colt. The habitual fear of their father's peevish\ntemper, and the dread of the punishments he was wont to inflict when\nirritated, kept them generally within bounds in his immediate presence.\nThe girls, too, had some fear of their mother's anger; and the boy might\noccasionally be bribed to do as she bid him by the hope of reward; but I\nhad no rewards to offer; and as for punishments, I was given to\nunderstand, the parents reserved that privilege to themselves; and yet\nthey expected me to keep my pupils in order. Other children might be\nguided by the fear of anger and the desire of approbation; but neither\nthe one nor the other had any effect upon these.\n\nMaster Tom, not content with refusing to be ruled, must needs set up as a\nruler, and manifested a determination to keep, not only his sisters, but\nhis governess in order, by violent manual and pedal applications; and, as\nhe was a tall, strong boy of his years, this occasioned no trifling\ninconvenience. A few sound boxes on the ear, on such occasions, might\nhave settled the matter easily enough: but as, in that case, he might\nmake up some story to his mother which she would be sure to believe, as\nshe had such unshaken faith in his veracity--though I had already\ndiscovered it to be by no means unimpeachable--I determined to refrain\nfrom striking him, even in self-defence; and, in his most violent moods,\nmy only resource was to throw him on his back and hold his hands and feet\ntill the frenzy was somewhat abated. To the difficulty of preventing him\nfrom doing what he ought not, was added that of forcing him to do what he\nought. Often he would positively refuse to learn, or to repeat his\nlessons, or even to look at his book. Here, again, a good birch rod\nmight have been serviceable; but, as my powers were so limited, I must\nmake the best use of what I had.\n\nAs there were no settled hours for study and play, I resolved to give my\npupils a certain task, which, with moderate attention, they could perform\nin a short time; and till this was done, however weary I was, or however\nperverse they might be, nothing short of parental interference should\ninduce me to suffer them to leave the schoolroom, even if I should sit\nwith my chair against the door to keep them in. Patience, Firmness, and\nPerseverance were my only weapons; and these I resolved to use to the\nutmost. I determined always strictly to fulfil the threats and promises\nI made; and, to that end, I must be cautious to threaten and promise\nnothing that I could not perform. Then, I would carefully refrain from\nall useless irritability and indulgence of my own ill-temper: when they\nbehaved tolerably, I would be as kind and obliging as it was in my power\nto be, in order to make the widest possible distinction between good and\nbad conduct; I would reason with them, too, in the simplest and most\neffective manner. When I reproved them, or refused to gratify their\nwishes, after a glaring fault, it should be more in sorrow than in anger:\ntheir little hymns and prayers I would make plain and clear to their\nunderstanding; when they said their prayers at night and asked pardon for\ntheir offences, I would remind them of the sins of the past day,\nsolemnly, but in perfect kindness, to avoid raising a spirit of\nopposition; penitential hymns should be said by the naughty, cheerful\nones by the comparatively good; and every kind of instruction I would\nconvey to them, as much as possible, by entertaining\ndiscourse--apparently with no other object than their present amusement\nin view.\n\nBy these means I hoped in time both to benefit the children and to gain\nthe approbation of their parents; and also to convince my friends at home\nthat I was not so wanting in skill and prudence as they supposed. I knew\nthe difficulties I had to contend with were great; but I knew (at least I\nbelieved) unremitting patience and perseverance could overcome them; and\nnight and morning I implored Divine assistance to this end. But either\nthe children were so incorrigible, the parents so unreasonable, or myself\nso mistaken in my views, or so unable to carry them out, that my best\nintentions and most strenuous efforts seemed productive of no better\nresult than sport to the children, dissatisfaction to their parents, and\ntorment to myself.\n\nThe task of instruction was as arduous for the body as the mind. I had\nto run after my pupils to catch them, to carry or drag them to the table,\nand often forcibly to hold them there till the lesson was done. Tom I\nfrequently put into a corner, seating myself before him in a chair, with\na book which contained the little task that must be said or read, before\nhe was released, in my hand. He was not strong enough to push both me\nand the chair away, so he would stand twisting his body and face into the\nmost grotesque and singular contortions--laughable, no doubt, to an\nunconcerned spectator, but not to me--and uttering loud yells and doleful\noutcries, intended to represent weeping but wholly without the\naccompaniment of tears. I knew this was done solely for the purpose of\nannoying me; and, therefore, however I might inwardly tremble with\nimpatience and irritation, I manfully strove to suppress all visible\nsigns of molestation, and affected to sit with calm indifference, waiting\ntill it should please him to cease this pastime, and prepare for a run in\nthe garden, by casting his eye on the book and reading or repeating the\nfew words he was required to say. Sometimes he was determined to do his\nwriting badly; and I had to hold his hand to prevent him from purposely\nblotting or disfiguring the paper. Frequently I threatened that, if he\ndid not do better, he should have another line: then he would stubbornly\nrefuse to write this line; and I, to save my word, had finally to resort\nto the expedient of holding his fingers upon the pen, and forcibly\ndrawing his hand up and down, till, in spite of his resistance, the line\nwas in some sort completed.\n\nYet Tom was by no means the most unmanageable of my pupils: sometimes, to\nmy great joy, he would have the sense to see that his wisest policy was\nto finish his tasks, and go out and amuse himself till I and his sisters\ncame to join him; which frequently was not at all, for Mary Ann seldom\nfollowed his example in this particular: she apparently preferred rolling\non the floor to any other amusement: down she would drop like a leaden\nweight; and when I, with great difficulty, had succeeded in rooting her\nthence, I had still to hold her up with one arm, while with the other I\nheld the book from which she was to read or spell her lesson. As the\ndead weight of the big girl of six became too heavy for one arm to bear,\nI transferred it to the other; or, if both were weary of the burden, I\ncarried her into a corner, and told her she might come out when she\nshould find the use of her feet, and stand up: but she generally\npreferred lying there like a log till dinner or tea-time, when, as I\ncould not deprive her of her meals, she must be liberated, and would come\ncrawling out with a grin of triumph on her round, red face. Often she\nwould stubbornly refuse to pronounce some particular word in her lesson;\nand now I regret the lost labour I have had in striving to conquer her\nobstinacy. If I had passed it over as a matter of no consequence, it\nwould have been better for both parties, than vainly striving to overcome\nit as I did; but I thought it my absolute duty to crush this vicious\ntendency in the bud: and so it was, if I could have done it; and had my\npowers been less limited, I might have enforced obedience; but, as it\nwas, it was a trial of strength between her and me, in which she\ngenerally came off victorious; and every victory served to encourage and\nstrengthen her for a future contest. In vain I argued, coaxed,\nentreated, threatened, scolded; in vain I kept her in from play, or, if\nobliged to take her out, refused to play with her, or to speak kindly or\nhave anything to do with her; in vain I tried to set before her the\nadvantages of doing as she was bid, and being loved, and kindly treated\nin consequence, and the disadvantages of persisting in her absurd\nperversity. Sometimes, when she would ask me to do something for her, I\nwould answer,--'Yes, I will, Mary Ann, if you will only say that word.\nCome! you'd better say it at once, and have no more trouble about it.'\n\n'No.'\n\n'Then, of course, I can do nothing for you.'\n\nWith me, at her age, or under, neglect and disgrace were the most\ndreadful of punishments; but on her they made no impression. Sometimes,\nexasperated to the utmost pitch, I would shake her violently by the\nshoulder, or pull her long hair, or put her in the corner; for which she\npunished me with loud, shrill, piercing screams, that went through my\nhead like a knife. She knew I hated this, and when she had shrieked her\nutmost, would look into my face with an air of vindictive satisfaction,\nexclaiming,--'_Now_, then! _that's_ for you!' and then shriek again and\nagain, till I was forced to stop my ears. Often these dreadful cries\nwould bring Mrs. Bloomfield up to inquire what was the matter?\n\n'Mary Ann is a naughty girl, ma'am.'\n\n'But what are these shocking screams?'\n\n'She is screaming in a passion.'\n\n'I never heard such a dreadful noise! You might be killing her. Why is\nshe not out with her brother?'\n\n'I cannot get her to finish her lessons.'\n\n'But Mary Ann must be a _good_ girl, and finish her lessons.' This was\nblandly spoken to the child. 'And I hope I shall _never_ hear such\nterrible cries again!'\n\nAnd fixing her cold, stony eyes upon me with a look that could not be\nmistaken, she would shut the door, and walk away. Sometimes I would try\nto take the little obstinate creature by surprise, and casually ask her\nthe word while she was thinking of something else; frequently she would\nbegin to say it, and then suddenly cheek herself, with a provoking look\nthat seemed to say, 'Ah! I'm too sharp for you; you shan't trick it out\nof me, either.'\n\nOn another occasion, I pretended to forget the whole affair; and talked\nand played with her as usual, till night, when I put her to bed; then\nbending over her, while she lay all smiles and good humour, just before\ndeparting, I said, as cheerfully and kindly as before--'Now, Mary Ann,\njust tell me that word before I kiss you good-night. You are a good girl\nnow, and, of course, you will say it.'\n\n'No, I won't.'\n\n'Then I can't kiss you.'\n\n'Well, I don't care.'\n\nIn vain I expressed my sorrow; in vain I lingered for some symptom of\ncontrition; she really 'didn't care,' and I left her alone, and in\ndarkness, wondering most of all at this last proof of insensate\nstubbornness. In _my_ childhood I could not imagine a more afflictive\npunishment than for my mother to refuse to kiss me at night: the very\nidea was terrible. More than the idea I never felt, for, happily, I\nnever committed a fault that was deemed worthy of such penalty; but once\nI remember, for some transgression of my sister's, our mother thought\nproper to inflict it upon her: what _she_ felt, I cannot tell; but my\nsympathetic tears and suffering for her sake I shall not soon forget.\n\nAnother troublesome trait in Mary Ann was her incorrigible propensity to\nkeep running into the nursery, to play with her little sisters and the\nnurse. This was natural enough, but, as it was against her mother's\nexpress desire, I, of course, forbade her to do so, and did my utmost to\nkeep her with me; but that only increased her relish for the nursery, and\nthe more I strove to keep her out of it, the oftener she went, and the\nlonger she stayed, to the great dissatisfaction of Mrs. Bloomfield, who,\nI well knew, would impute all the blame of the matter to me. Another of\nmy trials was the dressing in the morning: at one time she would not be\nwashed; at another she would not be dressed, unless she might wear some\nparticular frock, that I knew her mother would not like her to have; at\nanother she would scream and run away if I attempted to touch her hair.\nSo that, frequently, when, after much trouble and toil, I had, at length,\nsucceeded in bringing her down, the breakfast was nearly half over; and\nblack looks from 'mamma,' and testy observations from 'papa,' spoken at\nme, if not to me, were sure to be my meed: for few things irritated the\nlatter so much as want of punctuality at meal times. Then, among the\nminor annoyances, was my inability to satisfy Mrs. Bloomfield with her\ndaughter's dress; and the child's hair 'was never fit to be seen.'\nSometimes, as a powerful reproach to me, she would perform the office of\ntire woman herself, and then complain bitterly of the trouble it gave\nher.\n\nWhen little Fanny came into the schoolroom, I hoped she would be mild and\ninoffensive, at least; but a few days, if not a few hours, sufficed to\ndestroy the illusion: I found her a mischievous, intractable little\ncreature, given up to falsehood and deception, young as she was, and\nalarmingly fond of exercising her two favourite weapons of offence and\ndefence: that of spitting in the faces of those who incurred her\ndispleasure, and bellowing like a bull when her unreasonable desires were\nnot gratified. As she, generally, was pretty quiet in her parents'\npresence, and they were impressed with the notion of her being a\nremarkably gentle child, her falsehoods were readily believed, and her\nloud uproars led them to suspect harsh and injudicious treatment on my\npart; and when, at length, her bad disposition became manifest even to\ntheir prejudiced eyes, I felt that the whole was attributed to me.\n\n'What a naughty girl Fanny is getting!' Mrs. Bloomfield would say to her\nspouse. 'Don't you observe, my dear, how she is altered since she\nentered the schoolroom? She will soon be as bad as the other two; and, I\nam sorry to say, they have quite deteriorated of late.'\n\n'You may say that,' was the answer. 'I've been thinking that same\nmyself. I thought when we got them a governess they'd improve; but,\ninstead of that, they get worse and worse: I don't know how it is with\ntheir learning, but their habits, I know, make no sort of improvement;\nthey get rougher, and dirtier, and more unseemly every day.'\n\nI knew this was all pointed at me; and these, and all similar innuendoes,\naffected me far more deeply than any open accusations would have done;\nfor against the latter I should have been roused to speak in my own\ndefence: now I judged it my wisest plan to subdue every resentful\nimpulse, suppress every sensitive shrinking, and go on perseveringly,\ndoing my best; for, irksome as my situation was, I earnestly wished to\nretain it. I thought, if I could struggle on with unremitting firmness\nand integrity, the children would in time become more humanized: every\nmonth would contribute to make them some little wiser, and, consequently,\nmore manageable; for a child of nine or ten as frantic and ungovernable\nas these at six and seven would be a maniac.\n\nI flattered myself I was benefiting my parents and sister by my\ncontinuance here; for small as the salary was, I still was earning\nsomething, and with strict economy I could easily manage to have\nsomething to spare for them, if they would favour me by taking it. Then\nit was by my own will that I had got the place: I had brought all this\ntribulation on myself, and I was determined to bear it; nay, more than\nthat, I did not even regret the step I had taken. I longed to show my\nfriends that, even now, I was competent to undertake the charge, and able\nto acquit myself honourably to the end; and if ever I felt it degrading\nto submit so quietly, or intolerable to toil so constantly, I would turn\ntowards my home, and say within myself--\n\n They may crush, but they shall not subdue me!\n 'Tis of thee that I think, not of them.\n\nAbout Christmas I was allowed to visit home; but my holiday was only of a\nfortnight's duration: 'For,' said Mrs. Bloomfield, 'I thought, as you had\nseen your friends so lately, you would not care for a longer stay.' I\nleft her to think so still: but she little knew how long, how wearisome\nthose fourteen weeks of absence had been to me; how intensely I had\nlonged for my holidays, how greatly I was disappointed at their\ncurtailment. Yet she was not to blame in this. I had never told her my\nfeelings, and she could not be expected to divine them; I had not been\nwith her a full term, and she was justified in not allowing me a full\nvacation.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV--THE GRANDMAMMA\n\n\nI spare my readers the account of my delight on coming home, my happiness\nwhile there--enjoying a brief space of rest and liberty in that dear,\nfamiliar place, among the loving and the loved--and my sorrow on being\nobliged to bid them, once more, a long adieu.\n\nI returned, however, with unabated vigour to my work--a more arduous task\nthan anyone can imagine, who has not felt something like the misery of\nbeing charged with the care and direction of a set of mischievous,\nturbulent rebels, whom his utmost exertions cannot bind to their duty;\nwhile, at the same time, he is responsible for their conduct to a higher\npower, who exacts from him what cannot be achieved without the aid of the\nsuperior's more potent authority; which, either from indolence, or the\nfear of becoming unpopular with the said rebellious gang, the latter\nrefuses to give. I can conceive few situations more harassing than that\nwherein, however you may long for success, however you may labour to\nfulfil your duty, your efforts are baffled and set at nought by those\nbeneath you, and unjustly censured and misjudged by those above.\n\nI have not enumerated half the vexatious propensities of my pupils, or\nhalf the troubles resulting from my heavy responsibilities, for fear of\ntrespassing too much upon the reader's patience; as, perhaps, I have\nalready done; but my design in writing the few last pages was not to\namuse, but to benefit those whom it might concern; he that has no\ninterest in such matters will doubtless have skipped them over with a\ncursory glance, and, perhaps, a malediction against the prolixity of the\nwriter; but if a parent has, therefrom, gathered any useful hint, or an\nunfortunate governess received thereby the slightest benefit, I am well\nrewarded for my pains.\n\nTo avoid trouble and confusion, I have taken my pupils one by one, and\ndiscussed their various qualities; but this can give no adequate idea of\nbeing worried by the whole three together; when, as was often the case,\nall were determined to 'be naughty, and to tease Miss Grey, and put her\nin a passion.'\n\nSometimes, on such occasions, the thought has suddenly occurred to\nme--'If they could see me now!' meaning, of course, my friends at home;\nand the idea of how they would pity me has made me pity myself--so\ngreatly that I have had the utmost difficulty to restrain my tears: but I\nhave restrained them, till my little tormentors were gone to dessert, or\ncleared off to bed (my only prospects of deliverance), and then, in all\nthe bliss of solitude, I have given myself up to the luxury of an\nunrestricted burst of weeping. But this was a weakness I did not often\nindulge: my employments were too numerous, my leisure moments too\nprecious, to admit of much time being given to fruitless lamentations.\n\nI particularly remember one wild, snowy afternoon, soon after my return\nin January: the children had all come up from dinner, loudly declaring\nthat they meant 'to be naughty;' and they had well kept their resolution,\nthough I had talked myself hoarse, and wearied every muscle in my throat,\nin the vain attempt to reason them out of it. I had got Tom pinned up in\na corner, whence, I told him, he should not escape till he had done his\nappointed task. Meantime, Fanny had possessed herself of my work-bag,\nand was rifling its contents--and spitting into it besides. I told her\nto let it alone, but to no purpose, of course. 'Burn it, Fanny!' cried\nTom: and _this_ command she hastened to obey. I sprang to snatch it from\nthe fire, and Tom darted to the door. 'Mary Ann, throw her desk out of\nthe window!' cried he: and my precious desk, containing my letters and\npapers, my small amount of cash, and all my valuables, was about to be\nprecipitated from the three-storey window. I flew to rescue it.\nMeanwhile Tom had left the room, and was rushing down the stairs,\nfollowed by Fanny. Having secured my desk, I ran to catch them, and Mary\nAnn came scampering after. All three escaped me, and ran out of the\nhouse into the garden, where they plunged about in the snow, shouting and\nscreaming in exultant glee.\n\nWhat must I do? If I followed them, I should probably be unable to\ncapture one, and only drive them farther away; if I did not, how was I to\nget them in? And what would their parents think of me, if they saw or\nheard the children rioting, hatless, bonnetless, gloveless, and bootless,\nin the deep soft snow? While I stood in this perplexity, just without\nthe door, trying, by grim looks and angry words, to awe them into\nsubjection, I heard a voice behind me, in harshly piercing tones,\nexclaiming,--\n\n'Miss Grey! Is it possible? What, in the devil's name, can you be\nthinking about?'\n\n'I can't get them in, sir,' said I, turning round, and beholding Mr.\nBloomfield, with his hair on end, and his pale blue eyes bolting from\ntheir sockets.\n\n'But I INSIST upon their being got in!' cried he, approaching nearer, and\nlooking perfectly ferocious.\n\n'Then, sir, you must call them yourself, if you please, for they won't\nlisten to me,' I replied, stepping back.\n\n'Come in with you, you filthy brats; or I'll horsewhip you every one!'\nroared he; and the children instantly obeyed. 'There, you see!--they\ncome at the first word!'\n\n'Yes, when _you_ speak.'\n\n'And it's very strange, that when you've the care of 'em you've no better\ncontrol over 'em than that!--Now, there they are--gone upstairs with\ntheir nasty snowy feet! Do go after 'em and see them made decent, for\nheaven's sake!'\n\nThat gentleman's mother was then staying in the house; and, as I ascended\nthe stairs and passed the drawing-room door, I had the satisfaction of\nhearing the old lady declaiming aloud to her daughter-in-law to this\neffect (for I could only distinguish the most emphatic words)--\n\n'Gracious heavens!--never in all my life--!--get their death as sure\nas--! Do you think, my dear, she's a _proper person_? Take my word for\nit--'\n\nI heard no more; but that sufficed.\n\nThe senior Mrs. Bloomfield had been very attentive and civil to me; and\ntill now I had thought her a nice, kind-hearted, chatty old body. She\nwould often come to me and talk in a confidential strain; nodding and\nshaking her head, and gesticulating with hands and eyes, as a certain\nclass of old ladies are won't to do; though I never knew one that carried\nthe peculiarity to so great an extent. She would even sympathise with me\nfor the trouble I had with the children, and express at times, by half\nsentences, interspersed with nods and knowing winks, her sense of the\ninjudicious conduct of their mamma in so restricting my power, and\nneglecting to support me with her authority. Such a mode of testifying\ndisapprobation was not much to my taste; and I generally refused to take\nit in, or understand anything more than was openly spoken; at least, I\nnever went farther than an implied acknowledgment that, if matters were\notherwise ordered my task would be a less difficult one, and I should be\nbetter able to guide and instruct my charge; but now I must be doubly\ncautious. Hitherto, though I saw the old lady had her defects (of which\none was a proneness to proclaim her perfections), I had always been\nwishful to excuse them, and to give her credit for all the virtues she\nprofessed, and even imagine others yet untold. Kindness, which had been\nthe food of my life through so many years, had lately been so entirely\ndenied me, that I welcomed with grateful joy the slightest semblance of\nit. No wonder, then, that my heart warmed to the old lady, and always\ngladdened at her approach and regretted her departure.\n\nBut now, the few words luckily or unluckily heard in passing had wholly\nrevolutionized my ideas respecting her: now I looked upon her as\nhypocritical and insincere, a flatterer, and a spy upon my words and\ndeeds. Doubtless it would have been my interest still to meet her with\nthe same cheerful smile and tone of respectful cordiality as before; but\nI could not, if I would: my manner altered with my feelings, and became\nso cold and shy that she could not fail to notice it. She soon did\nnotice it, and _her_ manner altered too: the familiar nod was changed to\na stiff bow, the gracious smile gave place to a glare of Gorgon ferocity;\nher vivacious loquacity was entirely transferred from me to 'the darling\nboy and girls,' whom she flattered and indulged more absurdly than ever\ntheir mother had done.\n\nI confess I was somewhat troubled at this change: I feared the\nconsequences of her displeasure, and even made some efforts to recover\nthe ground I had lost--and with better apparent success than I could have\nanticipated. At one time, I, merely in common civility, asked after her\ncough; immediately her long visage relaxed into a smile, and she favoured\nme with a particular history of that and her other infirmities, followed\nby an account of her pious resignation, delivered in the usual emphatic,\ndeclamatory style, which no writing can portray.\n\n'But there's one remedy for all, my dear, and that's resignation' (a toss\nof the head), 'resignation to the will of heaven!' (an uplifting of the\nhands and eyes). 'It has always supported me through all my trials, and\nalways will do' (a succession of nods). 'But then, it isn't everybody\nthat can say that' (a shake of the head); 'but I'm one of the pious ones,\nMiss Grey!' (a very significant nod and toss). 'And, thank heaven, I\nalways was' (another nod), 'and I glory in it!' (an emphatic clasping of\nthe hands and shaking of the head). And with several texts of Scripture,\nmisquoted or misapplied, and religious exclamations so redolent of the\nludicrous in the style of delivery and manner of bringing in, if not in\nthe expressions themselves, that I decline repeating them, she withdrew;\ntossing her large head in high good-humour--with herself at least--and\nleft me hoping that, after all, she was rather weak than wicked.\n\nAt her next visit to Wellwood House, I went so far as to say I was glad\nto see her looking so well. The effect of this was magical: the words,\nintended as a mark of civility, were received as a flattering compliment;\nher countenance brightened up, and from that moment she became as\ngracious and benign as heart could wish--in outward semblance at least.\nFrom what I now saw of her, and what I heard from the children, I know\nthat, in order to gain her cordial friendship, I had but to utter a word\nof flattery at each convenient opportunity: but this was against my\nprinciples; and for lack of this, the capricious old dame soon deprived\nme of her favour again, and I believe did me much secret injury.\n\nShe could not greatly influence her daughter-in-law against me, because,\nbetween that lady and herself there was a mutual dislike--chiefly shown\nby her in secret detractions and calumniations; by the other, in an\nexcess of frigid formality in her demeanour; and no fawning flattery of\nthe elder could thaw away the wall of ice which the younger interposed\nbetween them. But with her son, the old lady had better success: he\nwould listen to all she had to say, provided she could soothe his fretful\ntemper, and refrain from irritating him by her own asperities; and I have\nreason to believe that she considerably strengthened his prejudice\nagainst me. She would tell him that I shamefully neglected the children,\nand even his wife did not attend to them as she ought; and that he must\nlook after them himself, or they would all go to ruin.\n\nThus urged, he would frequently give himself the trouble of watching them\nfrom the windows during their play; at times, he would follow them\nthrough the grounds, and too often came suddenly upon them while they\nwere dabbling in the forbidden well, talking to the coachman in the\nstables, or revelling in the filth of the farm-yard--and I, meanwhile,\nwearily standing, by, having previously exhausted my energy in vain\nattempts to get them away. Often, too, he would unexpectedly pop his\nhead into the schoolroom while the young people were at meals, and find\nthem spilling their milk over the table and themselves, plunging their\nfingers into their own or each other's mugs, or quarrelling over their\nvictuals like a set of tiger's cubs. If I were quiet at the moment, I\nwas conniving at their disorderly conduct; if (as was frequently the\ncase) I happened to be exalting my voice to enforce order, I was using\nundue violence, and setting the girls a bad example by such ungentleness\nof tone and language.\n\nI remember one afternoon in spring, when, owing to the rain, they could\nnot go out; but, by some amazing good fortune, they had all finished\ntheir lessons, and yet abstained from running down to tease their\nparents--a trick that annoyed me greatly, but which, on rainy days, I\nseldom could prevent their doing; because, below, they found novelty and\namusement--especially when visitors were in the house; and their mother,\nthough she bid me keep them in the schoolroom, would never chide them for\nleaving it, or trouble herself to send them back. But this day they\nappeared satisfied with, their present abode, and what is more wonderful\nstill, seemed disposed to play together without depending on me for\namusement, and without quarrelling with each other. Their occupation was\na somewhat puzzling one: they were all squatted together on the floor by\nthe window, over a heap of broken toys and a quantity of birds' eggs--or\nrather egg-shells, for the contents had luckily been abstracted. These\nshells they had broken up and were pounding into small fragments, to what\nend I could not imagine; but so long as they were quiet and not in\npositive mischief, I did not care; and, with a feeling of unusual repose,\nI sat by the fire, putting the finishing stitches to a frock for Mary\nAnn's doll; intending, when that was done, to begin a letter to my\nmother. Suddenly the door opened, and the dingy head of Mr. Bloomfield\nlooked in.\n\n'All very quiet here! What are you doing?' said he. 'No harm _to-day_,\nat least,' thought I. But he was of a different opinion. Advancing to\nthe window, and seeing the children's occupations, he testily\nexclaimed--'What in the world are you about?'\n\n'We're grinding egg-shells, papa!' cried Tom.\n\n'How _dare_ you make such a mess, you little devils? Don't you see what\nconfounded work you're making of the carpet?' (the carpet was a plain\nbrown drugget). 'Miss Grey, did you know what they were doing?'\n\n'Yes, sir.'\n\n'You knew it?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'You knew it! and you actually sat there and permitted them to go on\nwithout a word of reproof!'\n\n'I didn't think they were doing any harm.'\n\n'Any harm! Why, look there! Just look at that carpet, and see--was\nthere ever anything like it in a Christian house before? No wonder your\nroom is not fit for a pigsty--no wonder your pupils are worse than a\nlitter of pigs!--no wonder--oh! I declare, it puts me quite past my\npatience' and he departed, shutting the door after him with a bang that\nmade the children laugh.\n\n'It puts me quite past my patience too!' muttered I, getting up; and,\nseizing the poker, I dashed it repeatedly into the cinders, and stirred\nthem up with unwonted energy; thus easing my irritation under pretence of\nmending the fire.\n\nAfter this, Mr. Bloomfield was continually looking in to see if the\nschoolroom was in order; and, as the children were continually littering\nthe floor with fragments of toys, sticks, stones, stubble, leaves, and\nother rubbish, which I could not prevent their bringing, or oblige them\nto gather up, and which the servants refused to 'clean after them,' I had\nto spend a considerable portion of my valuable leisure moments on my\nknees upon the floor, in painsfully reducing things to order. Once I\ntold them that they should not taste their supper till they had picked up\neverything from the carpet; Fanny might have hers when she had taken up a\ncertain quantity, Mary Ann when she had gathered twice as many, and Tom\nwas to clear away the rest. Wonderful to state, the girls did their\npart; but Tom was in such a fury that he flew upon the table, scattered\nthe bread and milk about the floor, struck his sisters, kicked the coals\nout of the coal-pan, attempted to overthrow the table and chairs, and\nseemed inclined to make a Douglas-larder of the whole contents of the\nroom: but I seized upon him, and, sending Mary Ann to call her mamma,\nheld him, in spite of kicks, blows, yells, and execrations, till Mrs.\nBloomfield made her appearance.\n\n'What is the matter with my boy?' said she.\n\nAnd when the matter was explained to her, all she did was to send for the\nnursery-maid to put the room in order, and bring Master Bloomfield his\nsupper.\n\n'There now,' cried Tom, triumphantly, looking up from his viands with his\nmouth almost too full for speech. 'There now, Miss Grey! you see I've\ngot my supper in spite of you: and I haven't picked up a single thing!'\n\nThe only person in the house who had any real sympathy for me was the\nnurse; for she had suffered like afflictions, though in a smaller degree;\nas she had not the task of teaching, nor was she so responsible for the\nconduct of her charge.\n\n'Oh, Miss Grey!' she would say, 'you have some trouble with them\nchilder!'\n\n'I have, indeed, Betty; and I daresay you know what it is.'\n\n'Ay, I do so! But I don't vex myself o'er 'em as you do. And then, you\nsee, I hit 'em a slap sometimes: and them little 'uns--I gives 'em a good\nwhipping now and then: there's nothing else will do for 'em, as what they\nsay. Howsoever, I've lost my place for it.'\n\n'Have you, Betty? I heard you were going to leave.'\n\n'Eh, bless you, yes! Missis gave me warning a three wik sin'. She told\nme afore Christmas how it mud be, if I hit 'em again; but I couldn't hold\nmy hand off 'em at nothing. I know not how _you_ do, for Miss Mary Ann's\nworse by the half nor her sisters!'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V--THE UNCLE\n\n\nBesides the old lady, there was another relative of the family, whose\nvisits were a great annoyance to me--this was 'Uncle Robson,' Mrs.\nBloomfield's brother; a tall, self-sufficient fellow, with dark hair and\nsallow complexion like his sister, a nose that seemed to disdain the\nearth, and little grey eyes, frequently half-closed, with a mixture of\nreal stupidity and affected contempt of all surrounding objects. He was\na thick-set, strongly-built man, but he had found some means of\ncompressing his waist into a remarkably small compass; and that, together\nwith the unnatural stillness of his form, showed that the lofty-minded,\nmanly Mr. Robson, the scorner of the female sex, was not above the\nfoppery of stays. He seldom deigned to notice me; and, when he did, it\nwas with a certain supercilious insolence of tone and manner that\nconvinced me he was no gentleman: though it was intended to have a\ncontrary effect. But it was not for that I disliked his coming, so much\nas for the harm he did the children--encouraging all their evil\npropensities, and undoing in a few minutes the little good it had taken\nme months of labour to achieve.\n\nFanny and little Harriet he seldom condescended to notice; but Mary Ann\nwas something of a favourite. He was continually encouraging her\ntendency to affectation (which I had done my utmost to crush), talking\nabout her pretty face, and filling her head with all manner of conceited\nnotions concerning her personal appearance (which I had instructed her to\nregard as dust in the balance compared with the cultivation of her mind\nand manners); and I never saw a child so susceptible of flattery as she\nwas. Whatever was wrong, in either her or her brother, he would\nencourage by laughing at, if not by actually praising: people little know\nthe injury they do to children by laughing at their faults, and making a\npleasant jest of what their true friends have endeavoured to teach them\nto hold in grave abhorrence.\n\nThough not a positive drunkard, Mr. Robson habitually swallowed great\nquantities of wine, and took with relish an occasional glass of brandy\nand water. He taught his nephew to imitate him in this to the utmost of\nhis ability, and to believe that the more wine and spirits he could take,\nand the better he liked them, the more he manifested his bold, and manly\nspirit, and rose superior to his sisters. Mr. Bloomfield had not much to\nsay against it, for his favourite beverage was gin and water; of which he\ntook a considerable portion every day, by dint of constant sipping--and\nto that I chiefly attributed his dingy complexion and waspish temper.\n\nMr. Robson likewise encouraged Tom's propensity to persecute the lower\ncreation, both by precept and example. As he frequently came to course\nor shoot over his brother-in-law's grounds, he would bring his favourite\ndogs with him; and he treated them so brutally that, poor as I was, I\nwould have given a sovereign any day to see one of them bite him,\nprovided the animal could have done it with impunity. Sometimes, when in\na very complacent mood, he would go a-birds'-nesting with the children, a\nthing that irritated and annoyed me exceedingly; as, by frequent and\npersevering attempts, I flattered myself I had partly shown them the evil\nof this pastime, and hoped, in time, to bring them to some general sense\nof justice and humanity; but ten minutes' birds'-nesting with uncle\nRobson, or even a laugh from him at some relation of their former\nbarbarities, was sufficient at once to destroy the effect of my whole\nelaborate course of reasoning and persuasion. Happily, however, during\nthat spring, they never, but once, got anything but empty nests, or\neggs--being too impatient to leave them till the birds were hatched; that\nonce, Tom, who had been with his uncle into the neighbouring plantation,\ncame running in high glee into the garden, with a brood of little callow\nnestlings in his hands. Mary Ann and Fanny, whom I was just bringing\nout, ran to admire his spoils, and to beg each a bird for themselves.\n'No, not one!' cried Tom. 'They're all mine; uncle Robson gave them to\nme--one, two, three, four, five--you shan't touch one of them! no, not\none, for your lives!' continued he, exultingly; laying the nest on the\nground, and standing over it with his legs wide apart, his hands thrust\ninto his breeches-pockets, his body bent forward, and his face twisted\ninto all manner of contortions in the ecstasy of his delight.\n\n'But you shall see me fettle 'em off. My word, but I _will_ wallop 'em?\nSee if I don't now. By gum! but there's rare sport for me in that nest.'\n\n'But, Tom,' said I, 'I shall not allow you to torture those birds. They\nmust either be killed at once or carried back to the place you took them\nfrom, that the old birds may continue to feed them.'\n\n'But you don't know where that is, Madam: it's only me and uncle Robson\nthat knows that.'\n\n'But if you don't tell me, I shall kill them myself--much as I hate it.'\n\n'You daren't. You daren't touch them for your life! because you know\npapa and mamma, and uncle Robson, would be angry. Ha, ha! I've caught\nyou there, Miss!'\n\n'I shall do what I think right in a case of this sort without consulting\nany one. If your papa and mamma don't happen to approve of it, I shall\nbe sorry to offend them; but your uncle Robson's opinions, of course, are\nnothing to me.'\n\nSo saying--urged by a sense of duty--at the risk of both making myself\nsick and incurring the wrath of my employers--I got a large flat stone,\nthat had been reared up for a mouse-trap by the gardener; then, having\nonce more vainly endeavoured to persuade the little tyrant to let the\nbirds be carried back, I asked what he intended to do with them. With\nfiendish glee he commenced a list of torments; and while he was busied in\nthe relation, I dropped the stone upon his intended victims and crushed\nthem flat beneath it. Loud were the outcries, terrible the execrations,\nconsequent upon this daring outrage; uncle Robson had been coming up the\nwalk with his gun, and was just then pausing to kick his dog. Tom flew\ntowards him, vowing he would make him kick me instead of Juno. Mr.\nRobson leant upon his gun, and laughed excessively at the violence of his\nnephew's passion, and the bitter maledictions and opprobrious epithets he\nheaped upon me. 'Well, you _are_ a good 'un!' exclaimed he, at length,\ntaking up his weapon and proceeding towards the house. 'Damme, but the\nlad has some spunk in him, too. Curse me, if ever I saw a nobler little\nscoundrel than that. He's beyond petticoat government already: by God!\nhe defies mother, granny, governess, and all! Ha, ha, ha! Never mind,\nTom, I'll get you another brood to-morrow.'\n\n'If you do, Mr. Robson, I shall kill them too,' said I.\n\n'Humph!' replied he, and having honoured me with a broad stare--which,\ncontrary to his expectations, I sustained without flinching--he turned\naway with an air of supreme contempt, and stalked into the house. Tom\nnext went to tell his mamma. It was not her way to say much on any\nsubject; but, when she next saw me, her aspect and demeanour were doubly\ndark and chilled. After some casual remark about the weather, she\nobserved--'I am sorry, Miss Grey, you should think it necessary to\ninterfere with Master Bloomfield's amusements; he was very much\ndistressed about your destroying the birds.'\n\n'When Master Bloomfield's amusements consist in injuring sentient\ncreatures,' I answered, 'I think it my duty to interfere.'\n\n'You seemed to have forgotten,' said she, calmly, 'that the creatures\nwere all created for our convenience.'\n\nI thought that doctrine admitted some doubt, but merely replied--'If they\nwere, we have no right to torment them for our amusement.'\n\n'I think,' said she, 'a child's amusement is scarcely to be weighed\nagainst the welfare of a soulless brute.'\n\n'But, for the child's own sake, it ought not to be encouraged to have\nsuch amusements,' answered I, as meekly as I could, to make up for such\nunusual pertinacity. '\"Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain\nmercy.\"'\n\n'Oh! of course; but that refers to our conduct towards each other.'\n\n'\"The merciful man shows mercy to his beast,\"' I ventured to add.\n\n'I think _you_ have not shown much mercy,' replied she, with a short,\nbitter laugh; 'killing the poor birds by wholesale in that shocking\nmanner, and putting the dear boy to such misery for a mere whim.'\n\nI judged it prudent to say no more. This was the nearest approach to a\nquarrel I ever had with Mrs. Bloomfield; as well as the greatest number\nof words I ever exchanged with her at one time, since the day of my first\narrival.\n\nBut Mr. Robson and old Mrs. Bloomfield were not the only guests whose\ncoming to Wellwood House annoyed me; every visitor disturbed me more or\nless; not so much because they neglected me (though I did feel their\nconduct strange and disagreeable in that respect), as because I found it\nimpossible to keep my pupils away from them, as I was repeatedly desired\nto do: Tom must talk to them, and Mary Ann must be noticed by them.\nNeither the one nor the other knew what it was to feel any degree of\nshamefacedness, or even common modesty. They would indecently and\nclamorously interrupt the conversation of their elders, tease them with\nthe most impertinent questions, roughly collar the gentlemen, climb their\nknees uninvited, hang about their shoulders or rifle their pockets, pull\nthe ladies' gowns, disorder their hair, tumble their collars, and\nimportunately beg for their trinkets.\n\nMrs. Bloomfield had the sense to be shocked and annoyed at all this, but\nshe had not sense to prevent it: she expected me to prevent it. But how\ncould I--when the guests, with their fine clothes and new faces,\ncontinually flattered and indulged them, out of complaisance to their\nparents--how could I, with my homely garments, every-day face, and honest\nwords, draw them away? I strained every nerve to do so: by striving to\namuse them, I endeavoured to attract them to my side; by the exertion of\nsuch authority as I possessed, and by such severity as I dared to use, I\ntried to deter them from tormenting the guests; and by reproaching their\nunmannerly conduct, to make them ashamed to repeat it. But they knew no\nshame; they scorned authority which had no terrors to back it; and as for\nkindness and affection, either they had no hearts, or such as they had\nwere so strongly guarded, and so well concealed, that I, with all my\nefforts, had not yet discovered how to reach them.\n\nBut soon my trials in this quarter came to a close--sooner than I either\nexpected or desired; for one sweet evening towards the close of May, as I\nwas rejoicing in the near approach of the holidays, and congratulating\nmyself upon having made some progress with my pupils (as far as their\nlearning went, at least, for I _had_ instilled _something_ into their\nheads, and I had, at length, brought them to be a little--a very\nlittle--more rational about getting their lessons done in time to leave\nsome space for recreation, instead of tormenting themselves and me all\nday long to no purpose), Mrs. Bloomfield sent for me, and calmly told me\nthat after Midsummer my services would be no longer required. She\nassured me that my character and general conduct were unexceptionable;\nbut the children had made so little improvement since my arrival that Mr.\nBloomfield and she felt it their duty to seek some other mode of\ninstruction. Though superior to most children of their years in\nabilities, they were decidedly behind them in attainments; their manners\nwere uncultivated, and their tempers unruly. And this she attributed to\na want of sufficient firmness, and diligent, persevering care on my part.\n\nUnshaken firmness, devoted diligence, unwearied perseverance, unceasing\ncare, were the very qualifications on which I had secretly prided myself;\nand by which I had hoped in time to overcome all difficulties, and obtain\nsuccess at last. I wished to say something in my own justification; but\nin attempting to speak, I felt my voice falter; and rather than testify\nany emotion, or suffer the tears to overflow that were already gathering\nin my eyes, I chose to keep silence, and bear all like a self-convicted\nculprit.\n\nThus was I dismissed, and thus I sought my home. Alas! what would they\nthink of me? unable, after all my boasting, to keep my place, even for a\nsingle year, as governess to three small children, whose mother was\nasserted by my own aunt to be a 'very nice woman.' Having been thus\nweighed in the balance and found wanting, I need not hope they would be\nwilling to try me again. And this was an unwelcome thought; for vexed,\nharassed, disappointed as I had been, and greatly as I had learned to\nlove and value my home, I was not yet weary of adventure, nor willing to\nrelax my efforts. I knew that all parents were not like Mr. and Mrs.\nBloomfield, and I was certain all children were not like theirs. The\nnext family must be different, and any change must be for the better. I\nhad been seasoned by adversity, and tutored by experience, and I longed\nto redeem my lost honour in the eyes of those whose opinion was more than\nthat of all the world to me.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI--THE PARSONAGE AGAIN\n\n\nFor a few months I remained peaceably at home, in the quiet enjoyment of\nliberty and rest, and genuine friendship, from all of which I had fasted\nso long; and in the earnest prosecution of my studies, to recover what I\nhad lost during my stay at Wellwood House, and to lay in new stores for\nfuture use. My father's health was still very infirm, but not materially\nworse than when I last saw him; and I was glad I had it in my power to\ncheer him by my return, and to amuse him with singing his favourite\nsongs.\n\nNo one triumphed over my failure, or said I had better have taken his or\nher advice, and quietly stayed at home. All were glad to have me back\nagain, and lavished more kindness than ever upon me, to make up for the\nsufferings I had undergone; but not one would touch a shilling of what I\nhad so cheerfully earned and so carefully saved, in the hope of sharing\nit with them. By dint of pinching here, and scraping there, our debts\nwere already nearly paid. Mary had had good success with her drawings;\nbut our father had insisted upon _her_ likewise keeping all the produce\nof her industry to herself. All we could spare from the supply of our\nhumble wardrobe and our little casual expenses, he directed us to put\ninto the savings'-bank; saying, we knew not how soon we might be\ndependent on that alone for support: for he felt he had not long to be\nwith us, and what would become of our mother and us when he was gone, God\nonly knew!\n\nDear papa! if he had troubled himself less about the afflictions that\nthreatened us in case of his death, I am convinced that dreaded event\nwould not have taken place so soon. My mother would never suffer him to\nponder on the subject if she could help it.\n\n'Oh, Richard!' exclaimed she, on one occasion, 'if you would but dismiss\nsuch gloomy subjects from your mind, you would live as long as any of us;\nat least you would live to see the girls married, and yourself a happy\ngrandfather, with a canty old dame for your companion.'\n\nMy mother laughed, and so did my father: but his laugh soon perished in a\ndreary sigh.\n\n'_They_ married--poor penniless things!' said he; 'who will take them I\nwonder!'\n\n'Why, nobody shall that isn't thankful for them. Wasn't I penniless when\nyou took me? and you _pretended_, at least, to be vastly pleased with\nyour acquisition. But it's no matter whether they get married or not: we\ncan devise a thousand honest ways of making a livelihood. And I wonder,\nRichard, you can think of bothering your head about our _poverty_ in case\nof your death; as if _that_ would be anything compared with the calamity\nof losing you--an affliction that you well know would swallow up all\nothers, and which you ought to do your utmost to preserve us from: and\nthere is nothing like a cheerful mind for keeping the body in health.'\n\n'I know, Alice, it is wrong to keep repining as I do, but I cannot help\nit: you must bear with me.'\n\n'I _won't_ bear with you, if I can alter you,' replied my mother: but the\nharshness of her words was undone by the earnest affection of her tone\nand pleasant smile, that made my father smile again, less sadly and less\ntransiently than was his wont.\n\n'Mamma,' said I, as soon as I could find an opportunity of speaking with\nher alone, 'my money is but little, and cannot last long; if I could\nincrease it, it would lessen papa's anxiety, on one subject at least. I\ncannot draw like Mary, and so the best thing I could do would be to look\nout for another situation.'\n\n'And so you would actually try again, Agnes?'\n\n'Decidedly, I would.'\n\n'Why, my dear, I should have thought you had had enough of it.'\n\n'I know,' said I, 'everybody is not like Mr. and Mrs. Bloomfield--'\n\n'Some are worse,' interrupted my mother.\n\n'But not many, I think,' replied I, 'and I'm sure all children are not\nlike theirs; for I and Mary were not: we always did as you bid us, didn't\nwe?'\n\n'Generally: but then, I did not spoil you; and you were not perfect\nangels after all: Mary had a fund of quiet obstinacy, and you were\nsomewhat faulty in regard to temper; but you were very good children on\nthe whole.'\n\n'I know I was sulky sometimes, and I should have been glad to see these\nchildren sulky sometimes too; for then I could have understood them: but\nthey never were, for they _could_ not be offended, nor hurt, nor ashamed:\nthey could not be unhappy in any way, except when they were in a\npassion.'\n\n'Well, if they _could_ not, it was not their fault: you cannot expect\nstone to be as pliable as clay.'\n\n'No, but still it is very unpleasant to live with such unimpressible,\nincomprehensible creatures. You cannot love them; and if you could, your\nlove would be utterly thrown away: they could neither return it, nor\nvalue, nor understand it. But, however, even if I should stumble on such\na family again, which is quite unlikely, I have all this experience to\nbegin with, and I should manage better another time; and the end and aim\nof this preamble is, let me try again.'\n\n'Well, my girl, you are not easily discouraged, I see: I am glad of that.\nBut, let me tell you, you are a good deal paler and thinner than when you\nfirst left home; and we cannot have you undermining your health to hoard\nup money either for yourself or others.'\n\n'Mary tells me I am changed too; and I don't much wonder at it, for I was\nin a constant state of agitation and anxiety all day long: but next time\nI am determined to take things coolly.'\n\nAfter some further discussion, my mother promised once more to assist me,\nprovided I would wait and be patient; and I left her to broach the matter\nto my father, when and how she deemed it most advisable: never doubting\nher ability to obtain his consent. Meantime, I searched, with great\ninterest, the advertising columns of the newspapers, and wrote answers to\nevery 'Wanted a Governess' that appeared at all eligible; but all my\nletters, as well as the replies, when I got any, were dutifully shown to\nmy mother; and she, to my chagrin, made me reject the situations one\nafter another: these were low people, these were too exacting in their\ndemands, and these too niggardly in their remuneration.\n\n'Your talents are not such as every poor clergyman's daughter possesses,\nAgnes,' she would say, 'and you must not throw them away. Remember, you\npromised to be patient: there is no need of hurry: you have plenty of\ntime before you, and may have many chances yet.'\n\nAt length, she advised me to put an advertisement, myself, in the paper,\nstating my qualifications, &c.\n\n'Music, singing, drawing, French, Latin, and German,' said she, 'are no\nmean assemblage: many will be glad to have so much in one instructor; and\nthis time, you shall try your fortune in a somewhat higher family in that\nof some genuine, thoroughbred gentleman; for such are far more likely to\ntreat you with proper respect and consideration than those purse-proud\ntradespeople and arrogant upstarts. I have known several among the\nhigher ranks who treated their governesses quite as one of the family;\nthough some, I allow, are as insolent and exacting as any one else can\nbe: for there are bad and good in all classes.'\n\nThe advertisement was quickly written and despatched. Of the two parties\nwho answered it, but one would consent to give me fifty pounds, the sum\nmy mother bade me name as the salary I should require; and here, I\nhesitated about engaging myself, as I feared the children would be too\nold, and their parents would require some one more showy, or more\nexperienced, if not more accomplished than I. But my mother dissuaded me\nfrom declining it on that account: I should do vastly well, she said, if\nI would only throw aside my diffidence, and acquire a little more\nconfidence in myself. I was just to give a plain, true statement of my\nacquirements and qualifications, and name what stipulations I chose to\nmake, and then await the result. The only stipulation I ventured to\npropose, was that I might be allowed two months' holidays during the year\nto visit my friends, at Midsummer and Christmas. The unknown lady, in\nher reply, made no objection to this, and stated that, as to my\nacquirements, she had no doubt I should be able to give satisfaction; but\nin the engagement of governesses she considered those things as but\nsubordinate points; as being situated in the neighbourhood of O---, she\ncould get masters to supply any deficiencies in that respect: but, in her\nopinion, next to unimpeachable morality, a mild and cheerful temper and\nobliging disposition were the most essential requisities.\n\nMy mother did not relish this at all, and now made many objections to my\naccepting the situation; in which my sister warmly supported her: but,\nunwilling to be balked again, I overruled them all; and, having first\nobtained the consent of my father (who had, a short time previously, been\napprised of these transactions), I wrote a most obliging epistle to my\nunknown correspondent, and, finally, the bargain was concluded.\n\nIt was decreed that on the last day of January I was to enter upon my new\noffice as governess in the family of Mr. Murray, of Horton Lodge, near\nO---, about seventy miles from our village: a formidable distance to me,\nas I had never been above twenty miles from home in all the course of my\ntwenty years' sojourn on earth; and as, moreover, every individual in\nthat family and in the neighbourhood was utterly unknown to myself and\nall my acquaintances. But this rendered it only the more piquant to me.\nI had now, in some measure, got rid of the _mauvaise honte_ that had\nformerly oppressed me so much; there was a pleasing excitement in the\nidea of entering these unknown regions, and making my way alone among its\nstrange inhabitants. I now flattered myself I was going to see something\nin the world: Mr. Murray's residence was near a large town, and not in a\nmanufacturing district, where the people had nothing to do but to make\nmoney; his rank from what I could gather, appeared to be higher than that\nof Mr. Bloomfield; and, doubtless, he was one of those genuine\nthoroughbred gentry my mother spoke of, who would treat his governess\nwith due consideration as a respectable well-educated lady, the\ninstructor and guide of his children, and not a mere upper servant.\nThen, my pupils being older, would be more rational, more teachable, and\nless troublesome than the last; they would be less confined to the\nschoolroom, and not require that constant labour and incessant watching;\nand, finally, bright visions mingled with my hopes, with which the care\nof children and the mere duties of a governess had little or nothing to\ndo. Thus, the reader will see that I had no claim to be regarded as a\nmartyr to filial piety, going forth to sacrifice peace and liberty for\nthe sole purpose of laying up stores for the comfort and support of my\nparents: though certainly the comfort of my father, and the future\nsupport of my mother, had a large share in my calculations; and fifty\npounds appeared to me no ordinary sum. I must have decent clothes\nbecoming my station; I must, it seemed, put out my washing, and also pay\nfor my four annual journeys between Horton Lodge and home; but with\nstrict attention to economy, surely twenty pounds, or little more, would\ncover those expenses, and then there would be thirty for the bank, or\nlittle less: what a valuable addition to our stock! Oh, I must struggle\nto keep this situation, whatever it might be! both for my own honour\namong my friends and for the solid services I might render them by my\ncontinuance there.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII--HORTON LODGE\n\n\nThe 31st of January was a wild, tempestuous day: there was a strong north\nwind, with a continual storm of snow drifting on the ground and whirling\nthrough the air. My friends would have had me delay my departure, but\nfearful of prejudicing my employers against me by such want of\npunctuality at the commencement of my undertaking, I persisted in keeping\nthe appointment.\n\nI will not inflict upon my readers an account of my leaving home on that\ndark winter morning: the fond farewells, the long, long journey to O---,\nthe solitary waitings in inns for coaches or trains--for there were some\nrailways then--and, finally, the meeting at O--- with Mr. Murray's\nservant, who had been sent with the phaeton to drive me from thence to\nHorton Lodge. I will just state that the heavy snow had thrown such\nimpediments in the way of both horses and steam-engines, that it was dark\nsome hours before I reached my journey's end, and that a most bewildering\nstorm came on at last, which made the few miles' space between O--- and\nHorton Lodge a long and formidable passage. I sat resigned, with the\ncold, sharp snow drifting through my veil and filling my lap, seeing\nnothing, and wondering how the unfortunate horse and driver could make\ntheir way even as well as they did; and indeed it was but a toilsome,\ncreeping style of progression, to say the best of it. At length we\npaused; and, at the call of the driver, someone unlatched and rolled back\nupon their creaking hinges what appeared to be the park gates. Then we\nproceeded along a smoother road, whence, occasionally, I perceived some\nhuge, hoary mass gleaming through the darkness, which I took to be a\nportion of a snow-clad tree. After a considerable time we paused again,\nbefore the stately portico of a large house with long windows descending\nto the ground.\n\nI rose with some difficulty from under the superincumbent snowdrift, and\nalighted from the carriage, expecting that a kind and hospitable\nreception would indemnify me for the toils and hardships of the day. A\ngentleman person in black opened the door, and admitted me into a\nspacious hall, lighted by an amber-coloured lamp suspended from the\nceiling; he led me through this, along a passage, and opening the door of\na back room, told me that was the schoolroom. I entered, and found two\nyoung ladies and two young gentlemen--my future pupils, I supposed.\nAfter a formal greeting, the elder girl, who was trifling over a piece of\ncanvas and a basket of German wools, asked if I should like to go\nupstairs. I replied in the affirmative, of course.\n\n'Matilda, take a candle, and show her her room,' said she.\n\nMiss Matilda, a strapping hoyden of about fourteen, with a short frock\nand trousers, shrugged her shoulders and made a slight grimace, but took\na candle and proceeded before me up the back stairs (a long, steep,\ndouble flight), and through a long, narrow passage, to a small but\ntolerably comfortable room. She then asked me if I would take some tea\nor coffee. I was about to answer No; but remembering that I had taken\nnothing since seven o'clock that morning, and feeling faint in\nconsequence, I said I would take a cup of tea. Saying she would tell\n'Brown,' the young lady departed; and by the time I had divested myself\nof my heavy, wet cloak, shawl, bonnet, &c., a mincing damsel came to say\nthe young ladies desired to know whether I would take my tea up there or\nin the schoolroom. Under the plea of fatigue I chose to take it there.\nShe withdrew; and, after a while, returned again with a small tea-tray,\nand placed it on the chest of drawers, which served as a dressing-table.\nHaving civilly thanked her, I asked at what time I should be expected to\nrise in the morning.\n\n'The young ladies and gentlemen breakfast at half-past eight, ma'am,'\nsaid she; 'they rise early; but, as they seldom do any lessons before\nbreakfast, I should think it will do if you rise soon after seven.'\n\nI desired her to be so kind as to call me at seven, and, promising to do\nso, she withdrew. Then, having broken my long fast on a cup of tea and a\nlittle thin bread and butter, I sat down beside the small, smouldering\nfire, and amused myself with a hearty fit of crying; after which, I said\nmy prayers, and then, feeling considerably relieved, began to prepare for\nbed. Finding that none of my luggage was brought up, I instituted a\nsearch for the bell; and failing to discover any signs of such a\nconvenience in any corner of the room, I took my candle and ventured\nthrough the long passage, and down the steep stairs, on a voyage of\ndiscovery. Meeting a well-dressed female on the way, I told her what I\nwanted; but not without considerable hesitation, as I was not quite sure\nwhether it was one of the upper servants, or Mrs. Murray herself: it\nhappened, however, to be the lady's-maid. With the air of one conferring\nan unusual favour, she vouchsafed to undertake the sending up of my\nthings; and when I had re-entered my room, and waited and wondered a long\ntime (greatly fearing that she had forgotten or neglected to perform her\npromise, and doubting whether to keep waiting or go to bed, or go down\nagain), my hopes, at length, were revived by the sound of voices and\nlaughter, accompanied by the tramp of feet along the passage; and\npresently the luggage was brought in by a rough-looking maid and a man,\nneither of them very respectful in their demeanour to me. Having shut\nthe door upon their retiring footsteps, and unpacked a few of my things,\nI betook myself to rest; gladly enough, for I was weary in body and mind.\n\nIt was with a strange feeling of desolation, mingled with a strong sense\nof the novelty of my situation, and a joyless kind of curiosity\nconcerning what was yet unknown, that I awoke the next morning; feeling\nlike one whirled away by enchantment, and suddenly dropped from the\nclouds into a remote and unknown land, widely and completely isolated\nfrom all he had ever seen or known before; or like a thistle-seed borne\non the wind to some strange nook of uncongenial soil, where it must lie\nlong enough before it can take root and germinate, extracting nourishment\nfrom what appears so alien to its nature: if, indeed, it ever can. But\nthis gives no proper idea of my feelings at all; and no one that has not\nlived such a retired, stationary life as mine, can possibly imagine what\nthey were: hardly even if he has known what it is to awake some morning,\nand find himself in Port Nelson, in New Zealand, with a world of waters\nbetween himself and all that knew him.\n\nI shall not soon forget the peculiar feeling with which I raised my blind\nand looked out upon the unknown world: a wide, white wilderness was all\nthat met my gaze; a waste of\n\n Deserts tossed in snow,\n And heavy laden groves.\n\nI descended to the schoolroom with no remarkable eagerness to join my\npupils, though not without some feeling of curiosity respecting what a\nfurther acquaintance would reveal. One thing, among others of more\nobvious importance, I determined with myself--I must begin with calling\nthem Miss and Master. It seemed to me a chilling and unnatural piece of\npunctilio between the children of a family and their instructor and daily\ncompanion; especially where the former were in their early childhood, as\nat Wellwood House; but even there, my calling the little Bloomfields by\ntheir simple names had been regarded as an offensive liberty: as their\nparents had taken care to show me, by carefully designating them _Master_\nand _Miss_ Bloomfield, &c., in speaking to me. I had been very slow to\ntake the hint, because the whole affair struck me as so very absurd; but\nnow I determined to be wiser, and begin at once with as much form and\nceremony as any member of the family would be likely to require: and,\nindeed, the children being so much older, there would be less difficulty;\nthough the little words Miss and Master seemed to have a surprising\neffect in repressing all familiar, open-hearted kindness, and\nextinguishing every gleam of cordiality that might arise between us.\n\nAs I cannot, like Dogberry, find it in my heart to bestow all my\ntediousness upon the reader, I will not go on to bore him with a minute\ndetail of all the discoveries and proceedings of this and the following\nday. No doubt he will be amply satisfied with a slight sketch of the\ndifferent members of the family, and a general view of the first year or\ntwo of my sojourn among them.\n\nTo begin with the head: Mr. Murray was, by all accounts, a blustering,\nroystering, country squire: a devoted fox-hunter, a skilful horse-jockey\nand farrier, an active, practical farmer, and a hearty _bon vivant_. By\nall accounts, I say; for, except on Sundays, when he went to church, I\nnever saw him from month to month: unless, in crossing the hall or\nwalking in the grounds, the figure of a tall, stout gentleman, with\nscarlet cheeks and crimson nose, happened to come across me; on which\noccasions, if he passed near enough to speak, an unceremonious nod,\naccompanied by a 'Morning, Miss Grey,' or some such brief salutation, was\nusually vouchsafed. Frequently, indeed, his loud laugh reached me from\nafar; and oftener still I heard him swearing and blaspheming against the\nfootmen, groom, coachman, or some other hapless dependant.\n\nMrs. Murray was a handsome, dashing lady of forty, who certainly required\nneither rouge nor padding to add to her charms; and whose chief\nenjoyments were, or seemed to be, in giving or frequenting parties, and\nin dressing at the very top of the fashion. I did not see her till\neleven o'clock on the morning after my arrival; when she honoured me with\na visit, just as my mother might step into the kitchen to see a new\nservant-girl: yet not so, either, for my mother would have seen her\nimmediately after her arrival, and not waited till the next day; and,\nmoreover, she would have addressed her in a more kind and friendly\nmanner, and given her some words of comfort as well as a plain exposition\nof her duties; but Mrs. Murray did neither the one nor the other. She\njust stepped into the schoolroom on her return from ordering dinner in\nthe housekeeper's room, bade me good-morning, stood for two minutes by\nthe fire, said a few words about the weather and the 'rather rough'\njourney I must have had yesterday; petted her youngest child--a boy of\nten--who had just been wiping his mouth and hands on her gown, after\nindulging in some savoury morsel from the housekeeper's store; told me\nwhat a sweet, good boy he was; and then sailed out, with a\nself-complacent smile upon her face: thinking, no doubt, that she had\ndone quite enough for the present, and had been delightfully\ncondescending into the bargain. Her children evidently held the same\nopinion, and I alone thought otherwise.\n\nAfter this she looked in upon me once or twice, during the absence of my\npupils, to enlighten me concerning my duties towards them. For the girls\nshe seemed anxious only to render them as superficially attractive and\nshowily accomplished as they could possibly be made, without present\ntrouble or discomfort to themselves; and I was to act accordingly--to\nstudy and strive to amuse and oblige, instruct, refine, and polish, with\nthe least possible exertion on their part, and no exercise of authority\non mine. With regard to the two boys, it was much the same; only instead\nof accomplishments, I was to get the greatest possible quantity of Latin\ngrammar and Valpy's Delectus into their heads, in order to fit them for\nschool--the greatest possible quantity at least _without_ trouble to\nthemselves. John might be a 'little high-spirited,' and Charles might be\na little 'nervous and tedious--'\n\n'But at all events, Miss Grey,' said she, 'I hope _you_ will keep your\ntemper, and be mild and patient throughout; especially with the dear\nlittle Charles; he is so extremely nervous and susceptible, and so\nutterly unaccustomed to anything but the tenderest treatment. You will\nexcuse my naming these things to you; for the fact is, I have hitherto\nfound all the governesses, even the very best of them, faulty in this\nparticular. They wanted that meek and quiet spirit, which St. Matthew,\nor some of them, says is better than the putting on of apparel--you will\nknow the passage to which I allude, for you are a clergyman's daughter.\nBut I have no doubt you will give satisfaction in this respect as well as\nthe rest. And remember, on all occasions, when any of the young people\ndo anything improper, if persuasion and gentle remonstrance will not do,\nlet one of the others come and tell me; for I can speak to them more\nplainly than it would be proper for you to do. And make them as happy as\nyou can, Miss Grey, and I dare say you will do very well.'\n\nI observed that while Mrs. Murray was so extremely solicitous for the\ncomfort and happiness of her children, and continually talking about it,\nshe never once mentioned mine; though they were at home, surrounded by\nfriends, and I an alien among strangers; and I did not yet know enough of\nthe world, not to be considerably surprised at this anomaly.\n\nMiss Murray, otherwise Rosalie, was about sixteen when I came, and\ndecidedly a very pretty girl; and in two years longer, as time more\ncompletely developed her form and added grace to her carriage and\ndeportment, she became positively beautiful; and that in no common\ndegree. She was tall and slender, yet not thin; perfectly formed,\nexquisitely fair, though not without a brilliant, healthy bloom; her\nhair, which she wore in a profusion of long ringlets, was of a very light\nbrown inclining to yellow; her eyes were pale blue, but so clear and\nbright that few would wish them darker; the rest of her features were\nsmall, not quite regular, and not remarkably otherwise: but altogether\nyou could not hesitate to pronounce her a very lovely girl. I wish I\ncould say as much for mind and disposition as I can for her form and\nface.\n\nYet think not I have any dreadful disclosures to make: she was lively,\nlight-hearted, and could be very agreeable, with those who did not cross\nher will. Towards me, when I first came, she was cold and haughty, then\ninsolent and overbearing; but, on a further acquaintance, she gradually\nlaid aside her airs, and in time became as deeply attached to me as it\nwas possible for _her_ to be to one of my character and position: for she\nseldom lost sight, for above half an hour at a time, of the fact of my\nbeing a hireling and a poor curate's daughter. And yet, upon the whole,\nI believe she respected me more than she herself was aware of; because I\nwas the only person in the house who steadily professed good principles,\nhabitually spoke the truth, and generally endeavoured to make inclination\nbow to duty; and this I say, not, of course, in commendation of myself,\nbut to show the unfortunate state of the family to which my services\nwere, for the present, devoted. There was no member of it in whom I\nregretted this sad want of principle so much as Miss Murray herself; not\nonly because she had taken a fancy to me, but because there was so much\nof what was pleasant and prepossessing in herself, that, in spite of her\nfailings, I really liked her--when she did not rouse my indignation, or\nruffle my temper by _too_ great a display of her faults. These, however,\nI would fain persuade myself were rather the effect of her education than\nher disposition: she had never been perfectly taught the distinction\nbetween right and wrong; she had, like her brothers and sisters, been\nsuffered, from infancy, to tyrannize over nurses, governesses, and\nservants; she had not been taught to moderate her desires, to control her\ntemper or bridle her will, or to sacrifice her own pleasure for the good\nof others. Her temper being naturally good, she was never violent or\nmorose, but from constant indulgence, and habitual scorn of reason, she\nwas often testy and capricious; her mind had never been cultivated: her\nintellect, at best, was somewhat shallow; she possessed considerable\nvivacity, some quickness of perception, and some talent for music and the\nacquisition of languages, but till fifteen she had troubled herself to\nacquire nothing;--then the love of display had roused her faculties, and\ninduced her to apply herself, but only to the more showy accomplishments.\nAnd when I came it was the same: everything was neglected but French,\nGerman, music, singing, dancing, fancy-work, and a little drawing--such\ndrawing as might produce the greatest show with the smallest labour, and\nthe principal parts of which were generally done by me. For music and\nsinging, besides my occasional instructions, she had the attendance of\nthe best master the country afforded; and in these accomplishments, as\nwell as in dancing, she certainly attained great proficiency. To music,\nindeed, she devoted too much of her time, as, governess though I was, I\nfrequently told her; but her mother thought that if _she_ liked it, she\n_could_ not give too much time to the acquisition of so attractive an\nart. Of fancy-work I knew nothing but what I gathered from my pupil and\nmy own observation; but no sooner was I initiated, than she made me\nuseful in twenty different ways: all the tedious parts of her work were\nshifted on to my shoulders; such as stretching the frames, stitching in\nthe canvas, sorting the wools and silks, putting in the grounds, counting\nthe stitches, rectifying mistakes, and finishing the pieces she was tired\nof.\n\nAt sixteen, Miss Murray was something of a romp, yet not more so than is\nnatural and allowable for a girl of that age, but at seventeen, that\npropensity, like all other things, began to give way to the ruling\npassion, and soon was swallowed up in the all-absorbing ambition to\nattract and dazzle the other sex. But enough of her: now let us turn to\nher sister.\n\nMiss Matilda Murray was a veritable hoyden, of whom little need be said.\nShe was about two years and a half younger than her sister; her features\nwere larger, her complexion much darker. She might possibly make a\nhandsome woman; but she was far too big-boned and awkward ever to be\ncalled a pretty girl, and at present she cared little about it. Rosalie\nknew all her charms, and thought them even greater than they were, and\nvalued them more highly than she ought to have done, had they been three\ntimes as great; Matilda thought she was well enough, but cared little\nabout the matter; still less did she care about the cultivation of her\nmind, and the acquisition of ornamental accomplishments. The manner in\nwhich she learnt her lessons and practised her music was calculated to\ndrive any governess to despair. Short and easy as her tasks were, if\ndone at all, they were slurred over, at any time and in any way; but\ngenerally at the least convenient times, and in the way least beneficial\nto herself, and least satisfactory to me: the short half-hour of\npractising was horribly strummed through; she, meantime, unsparingly\nabusing me, either for interrupting her with corrections, or for not\nrectifying her mistakes before they were made, or something equally\nunreasonable. Once or twice, I ventured to remonstrate with her\nseriously for such irrational conduct; but on each of those occasions, I\nreceived such reprehensive expostulations from her mother, as convinced\nme that, if I wished to keep the situation, I must even let Miss Matilda\ngo on in her own way.\n\nWhen her lessons were over, however, her ill-humour was generally over\ntoo: while riding her spirited pony, or romping with the dogs or her\nbrothers and sister, but especially with her dear brother John, she was\nas happy as a lark. As an animal, Matilda was all right, full of life,\nvigour, and activity; as an intelligent being, she was barbarously\nignorant, indocile, careless and irrational; and, consequently, very\ndistressing to one who had the task of cultivating her understanding,\nreforming her manners, and aiding her to acquire those ornamental\nattainments which, unlike her sister, she despised as much as the rest.\nHer mother was partly aware of her deficiencies, and gave me many a\nlecture as to how I should try to form her tastes, and endeavour to rouse\nand cherish her dormant vanity; and, by insinuating, skilful flattery, to\nwin her attention to the desired objects--which I would not do; and how I\nshould prepare and smooth the path of learning till she could glide along\nit without the least exertion to herself: which I could not, for nothing\ncan be taught to any purpose without some little exertion on the part of\nthe learner.\n\nAs a moral agent, Matilda was reckless, headstrong, violent, and\nunamenable to reason. One proof of the deplorable state of her mind was,\nthat from her father's example she had learned to swear like a trooper.\nHer mother was greatly shocked at the 'unlady-like trick,' and wondered\n'how she had picked it up.' 'But you can soon break her of it, Miss\nGrey,' said she: 'it is only a habit; and if you will just gently remind\nher every time she does so, I am sure she will soon lay it aside.' I not\nonly 'gently reminded' her, I tried to impress upon her how wrong it was,\nand how distressing to the ears of decent people: but all in vain: I was\nonly answered by a careless laugh, and, 'Oh, Miss Grey, how shocked you\nare! I'm so glad!' or, 'Well! I can't help it; papa shouldn't have\ntaught me: I learned it all from him; and maybe a bit from the coachman.'\n\nHer brother John, _alias_ Master Murray, was about eleven when I came: a\nfine, stout, healthy boy, frank and good-natured in the main, and might\nhave been a decent lad had he been properly educated; but now he was as\nrough as a young bear, boisterous, unruly, unprincipled, untaught,\nunteachable--at least, for a governess under his mother's eye. His\nmasters at school might be able to manage him better--for to school he\nwas sent, greatly to my relief, in the course of a year; in a state, it\nis true, of scandalous ignorance as to Latin, as well as the more useful\nthough more neglected things: and this, doubtless, would all be laid to\nthe account of his education having been entrusted to an ignorant female\nteacher, who had presumed to take in hand what she was wholly incompetent\nto perform. I was not delivered from his brother till full twelve months\nafter, when he also was despatched in the same state of disgraceful\nignorance as the former.\n\nMaster Charles was his mother's peculiar darling. He was little more\nthan a year younger than John, but much smaller, paler, and less active\nand robust; a pettish, cowardly, capricious, selfish little fellow, only\nactive in doing mischief, and only clever in inventing falsehoods: not\nsimply to hide his faults, but, in mere malicious wantonness, to bring\nodium upon others. In fact, Master Charles was a very great nuisance to\nme: it was a trial of patience to live with him peaceably; to watch over\nhim was worse; and to teach him, or pretend to teach him, was\ninconceivable. At ten years old, he could not read correctly the easiest\nline in the simplest book; and as, according to his mother's principle,\nhe was to be told every word, before he had time to hesitate or examine\nits orthography, and never even to be informed, as a stimulant to\nexertion, that other boys were more forward than he, it is not surprising\nthat he made but little progress during the two years I had charge of his\neducation. His minute portions of Latin grammar, &c., were to be\nrepeated over to him, till he chose to say he knew them, and then he was\nto be helped to say them; if he made mistakes in his little easy sums in\narithmetic, they were to be shown him at once, and the sum done for him,\ninstead of his being left to exercise his faculties in finding them out\nhimself; so that, of course, he took no pains to avoid mistakes, but\nfrequently set down his figures at random, without any calculation at\nall.\n\nI did not invariably confine myself to these rules: it was against my\nconscience to do so; but I seldom could venture to deviate from them in\nthe slightest degree, without incurring the wrath of my little pupil, and\nsubsequently of his mamma; to whom he would relate my transgressions\nmaliciously exaggerated, or adorned with embellishments of his own; and\noften, in consequence, was I on the point of losing or resigning my\nsituation. But, for their sakes at home, I smothered my pride and\nsuppressed my indignation, and managed to struggle on till my little\ntormentor was despatched to school; his father declaring that home\neducation was 'no go; for him, it was plain; his mother spoiled him\noutrageously, and his governess could make no hand of him at all.'\n\nA few more observations about Horton Lodge and its ongoings, and I have\ndone with dry description for the present. The house was a very\nrespectable one; superior to Mr. Bloomfield's, both in age, size, and\nmagnificence: the garden was not so tastefully laid out; but instead of\nthe smooth-shaven lawn, the young trees guarded by palings, the grove of\nupstart poplars, and the plantation of firs, there was a wide park,\nstocked with deer, and beautified by fine old trees. The surrounding\ncountry itself was pleasant, as far as fertile fields, flourishing trees,\nquiet green lanes, and smiling hedges with wild-flowers scattered along\ntheir banks, could make it; but it was depressingly flat to one born and\nnurtured among the rugged hills of ---.\n\nWe were situated nearly two miles from the village church, and,\nconsequently, the family carriage was put in requisition every Sunday\nmorning, and sometimes oftener. Mr. and Mrs. Murray generally thought it\nsufficient to show themselves at church once in the course of the day;\nbut frequently the children preferred going a second time to wandering\nabout the grounds all the day with nothing to do. If some of my pupils\nchose to walk and take me with them, it was well for me; for otherwise my\nposition in the carriage was to be crushed into the corner farthest from\nthe open window, and with my back to the horses: a position which\ninvariably made me sick; and if I were not actually obliged to leave the\nchurch in the middle of the service, my devotions were disturbed with a\nfeeling of languor and sickliness, and the tormenting fear of its\nbecoming worse: and a depressing headache was generally my companion\nthroughout the day, which would otherwise have been one of welcome rest,\nand holy, calm enjoyment.\n\n'It's very odd, Miss Grey, that the carriage should always make you sick:\nit never makes _me_,' remarked Miss Matilda,\n\n'Nor me either,' said her sister; 'but I dare say it would, if I sat\nwhere she does--such a nasty, horrid place, Miss Grey; I wonder how you\ncan bear it!'\n\n'I am obliged to bear it, since no choice is left me,'--I might have\nanswered; but in tenderness for their feelings I only replied,--'Oh! it\nis but a short way, and if I am not sick in church, I don't mind it.'\n\nIf I were called upon to give a description of the usual divisions and\narrangements of the day, I should find it a very difficult matter. I had\nall my meals in the schoolroom with my pupils, at such times as suited\ntheir fancy: sometimes they would ring for dinner before it was half\ncooked; sometimes they would keep it waiting on the table for above an\nhour, and then be out of humour because the potatoes were cold, and the\ngravy covered with cakes of solid fat; sometimes they would have tea at\nfour; frequently, they would storm at the servants because it was not in\nprecisely at five; and when these orders were obeyed, by way of\nencouragement to punctuality, they would keep it on the table till seven\nor eight.\n\nTheir hours of study were managed in much the same way; my judgment or\nconvenience was never once consulted. Sometimes Matilda and John would\ndetermine 'to get all the plaguy business over before breakfast,' and\nsend the maid to call me up at half-past five, without any scruple or\napology; sometimes, I was told to be ready precisely at six, and, having\ndressed in a hurry, came down to an empty room, and after waiting a long\ntime in suspense, discovered that they had changed their minds, and were\nstill in bed; or, perhaps, if it were a fine summer morning, Brown would\ncome to tell me that the young ladies and gentlemen had taken a holiday,\nand were gone out; and then I was kept waiting for breakfast till I was\nalmost ready to faint: they having fortified themselves with something\nbefore they went.\n\nOften they would do their lessons in the open air; which I had nothing to\nsay against: except that I frequently caught cold by sitting on the damp\ngrass, or from exposure to the evening dew, or some insidious draught,\nwhich seemed to have no injurious effect on them. It was quite right\nthat they should be hardy; yet, surely, they might have been taught some\nconsideration for others who were less so. But I must not blame them for\nwhat was, perhaps, my own fault; for I never made any particular\nobjections to sitting where they pleased; foolishly choosing to risk the\nconsequences, rather than trouble them for my convenience. Their\nindecorous manner of doing their lessons was quite as remarkable as the\ncaprice displayed in their choice of time and place. While receiving my\ninstructions, or repeating what they had learned, they would lounge upon\nthe sofa, lie on the rug, stretch, yawn, talk to each other, or look out\nof the window; whereas, I could not so much as stir the fire, or pick up\nthe handkerchief I had dropped, without being rebuked for inattention by\none of my pupils, or told that 'mamma would not like me to be so\ncareless.'\n\nThe servants, seeing in what little estimation the governess was held by\nboth parents and children, regulated their behaviour by the same\nstandard. I have frequently stood up for them, at the risk of some\ninjury to myself, against the tyranny and injustice of their young\nmasters and mistresses; and I always endeavoured to give them as little\ntrouble as possible: but they entirely neglected my comfort, despised my\nrequests, and slighted my directions. All servants, I am convinced,\nwould not have done so; but domestics in general, being ignorant and\nlittle accustomed to reason and reflection, are too easily corrupted by\nthe carelessness and bad example of those above them; and these, I think,\nwere not of the best order to begin with.\n\nI sometimes felt myself degraded by the life I led, and ashamed of\nsubmitting to so many indignities; and sometimes I thought myself a fool\nfor caring so much about them, and feared I must be sadly wanting in\nChristian humility, or that charity which 'suffereth long and is kind,\nseeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, beareth all things, endureth\nall things.'\n\nBut, with time and patience, matters began to be slightly ameliorated:\nslowly, it is true, and almost imperceptibly; but I got rid of my male\npupils (that was no trifling advantage), and the girls, as I intimated\nbefore concerning one of them, became a little less insolent, and began\nto show some symptoms of esteem. 'Miss Grey was a queer creature: she\nnever flattered, and did not praise them half enough; but whenever she\ndid speak favourably of them, or anything belonging to them, they could\nbe quite sure her approbation was sincere. She was very obliging, quiet,\nand peaceable in the main, but there were some things that put her out of\ntemper: they did not much care for that, to be sure, but still it was\nbetter to keep her in tune; as when she was in a good humour she would\ntalk to them, and be very agreeable and amusing sometimes, in her way;\nwhich was quite different to mamma's, but still very well for a change.\nShe had her own opinions on every subject, and kept steadily to\nthem--very tiresome opinions they often were; as she was always thinking\nof what was right and what was wrong, and had a strange reverence for\nmatters connected with religion, and an unaccountable liking to good\npeople.'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII--THE 'COMING OUT'\n\n\nAt eighteen, Miss Murray was to emerge from the quiet obscurity of the\nschoolroom into the full blaze of the fashionable world--as much of it,\nat least, as could be had out of London; for her papa could not be\npersuaded to leave his rural pleasures and pursuits, even for a few\nweeks' residence in town. She was to make her debut on the third of\nJanuary, at a magnificent ball, which her mamma proposed to give to all\nthe nobility and choice gentry of O--- and its neighbourhood for twenty\nmiles round. Of course, she looked forward to it with the wildest\nimpatience, and the most extravagant anticipations of delight.\n\n'Miss Grey,' said she, one evening, a month before the all-important day,\nas I was perusing a long and extremely interesting letter of my\nsister's--which I had just glanced at in the morning to see that it\ncontained no very bad news, and kept till now, unable before to find a\nquiet moment for reading it,--'Miss Grey, do put away that dull, stupid\nletter, and listen to me! I'm sure my talk must be far more amusing than\nthat.'\n\nShe seated herself on the low stool at my feet; and I, suppressing a sigh\nof vexation, began to fold up the epistle.\n\n'You should tell the good people at home not to bore you with such long\nletters,' said she; 'and, above all, do bid them write on proper\nnote-paper, and not on those great vulgar sheets. You should see the\ncharming little lady-like notes mamma writes to her friends.'\n\n'The good people at home,' replied I, 'know very well that the longer\ntheir letters are, the better I like them. I should be very sorry to\nreceive a charming little lady-like note from any of them; and I thought\nyou were too much of a lady yourself, Miss Murray, to talk about the\n\"vulgarity\" of writing on a large sheet of paper.'\n\n'Well, I only said it to tease you. But now I want to talk about the\nball; and to tell you that you positively must put off your holidays till\nit is over.'\n\n'Why so?--I shall not be present at the ball.'\n\n'No, but you will see the rooms decked out before it begins, and hear the\nmusic, and, above all, see me in my splendid new dress. I shall be so\ncharming, you'll be ready to worship me--you really must stay.'\n\n'I should like to see you very much; but I shall have many opportunities\nof seeing you equally charming, on the occasion of some of the numberless\nballs and parties that are to be, and I cannot disappoint my friends by\npostponing my return so long.'\n\n'Oh, never mind your friends! Tell them we won't let you go.'\n\n'But, to say the truth, it would be a disappointment to myself: I long to\nsee them as much as they to see me--perhaps more.'\n\n'Well, but it is such a short time.'\n\n'Nearly a fortnight by my computation; and, besides, I cannot bear the\nthoughts of a Christmas spent from home: and, moreover, my sister is\ngoing to be married.'\n\n'Is she--when?'\n\n'Not till next month; but I want to be there to assist her in making\npreparations, and to make the best of her company while we have her.'\n\n'Why didn't you tell me before?'\n\n'I've only got the news in this letter, which you stigmatize as dull and\nstupid, and won't let me read.'\n\n'To whom is she to be married?'\n\n'To Mr. Richardson, the vicar of a neighbouring parish.'\n\n'Is he rich?'\n\n'No; only comfortable.'\n\n'Is he handsome?'\n\n'No; only decent.'\n\n'Young?'\n\n'No; only middling.'\n\n'Oh, mercy! what a wretch! What sort of a house is it?'\n\n'A quiet little vicarage, with an ivy-clad porch, an old-fashioned\ngarden, and--'\n\n'Oh, stop!--you'll make me sick. How _can_ she bear it?'\n\n'I expect she'll not only be able to bear it, but to be very happy. You\ndid not ask me if Mr. Richardson were a good, wise, or amiable man; I\ncould have answered Yes, to all these questions--at least so Mary thinks,\nand I hope she will not find herself mistaken.'\n\n'But--miserable creature! how can she think of spending her life there,\ncooped up with that nasty old man; and no hope of change?'\n\n'He is not old: he's only six or seven and thirty; and she herself is\ntwenty-eight, and as sober as if she were fifty.'\n\n'Oh! that's better then--they're well matched; but do they call him the\n\"worthy vicar\"?'\n\n'I don't know; but if they do, I believe he merits the epithet.'\n\n'Mercy, how shocking! and will she wear a white apron and make pies and\npuddings?'\n\n'I don't know about the white apron, but I dare say she will make pies\nand puddings now and then; but that will be no great hardship, as she has\ndone it before.'\n\n'And will she go about in a plain shawl, and a large straw bonnet,\ncarrying tracts and bone soup to her husband's poor parishioners?'\n\n'I'm not clear about that; but I dare say she will do her best to make\nthem comfortable in body and mind, in accordance with our mother's\nexample.'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX--THE BALL\n\n\n'Now, Miss Grey,' exclaimed Miss Murray, immediately I entered the\nschoolroom, after having taken off my outdoor garments, upon returning\nfrom my four weeks' recreation, 'Now--shut the door, and sit down, and\nI'll tell you all about the ball.'\n\n'No--damn it, no!' shouted Miss Matilda. 'Hold your tongue, can't ye?\nand let me tell her about my new mare--_such_ a splendour, Miss Grey! a\nfine blood mare--'\n\n'Do be quiet, Matilda; and let me tell my news first.'\n\n'No, no, Rosalie; you'll be such a damned long time over it--she shall\nhear me first--I'll be hanged if she doesn't!'\n\n'I'm sorry to hear, Miss Matilda, that you've not got rid of that\nshocking habit yet.'\n\n'Well, I can't help it: but I'll never say a wicked word again, if you'll\nonly listen to me, and tell Rosalie to hold her confounded tongue.'\n\nRosalie remonstrated, and I thought I should have been torn in pieces\nbetween them; but Miss Matilda having the loudest voice, her sister at\nlength gave in, and suffered her to tell her story first: so I was doomed\nto hear a long account of her splendid mare, its breeding and pedigree,\nits paces, its action, its spirit, &c., and of her own amazing skill and\ncourage in riding it; concluding with an assertion that she could clear a\nfive-barred gate 'like winking,' that papa said she might hunt the next\ntime the hounds met, and mamma had ordered a bright scarlet hunting-habit\nfor her.\n\n'Oh, Matilda! what stories you are telling!' exclaimed her sister.\n\n'Well,' answered she, no whit abashed, 'I know I _could_ clear a\nfive-barred gate, if I tried, and papa _will_ say I may hunt, and mamma\n_will_ order the habit when I ask it.'\n\n'Well, now get along,' replied Miss Murray; 'and do, dear Matilda, try to\nbe a little more lady-like. Miss Grey, I wish you would tell her not to\nuse such shocking words; she will call her horse a mare: it is so\ninconceivably shocking! and then she uses such dreadful expressions in\ndescribing it: she must have learned it from the grooms. It nearly puts\nme into fits when she begins.'\n\n'I learned it from papa, you ass! and his jolly friends,' said the young\nlady, vigorously cracking a hunting-whip, which she habitually carried in\nher hand. 'I'm as good judge of horseflesh as the best of 'm.'\n\n'Well, now get along, you shocking girl! I really shall take a fit if\nyou go on in such a way. And now, Miss Grey, attend to me; I'm going to\ntell you about the ball. You must be dying to hear about it, I know.\nOh, _such_ a ball! You never saw or heard, or read, or dreamt of\nanything like it in all your life. The decorations, the entertainment,\nthe supper, the music were indescribable! and then the guests! There\nwere two noblemen, three baronets, and five titled ladies, and other\nladies and gentlemen innumerable. The ladies, of course, were of no\nconsequence to me, except to put me in a good humour with myself, by\nshowing how ugly and awkward most of them were; and the best, mamma told\nme,--the most transcendent beauties among them, were nothing to me. As\nfor me, Miss Grey--I'm so _sorry_ you didn't see me! I was\n_charming_--wasn't I, Matilda?'\n\n'Middling.'\n\n'No, but I really was--at least so mamma said--and Brown and Williamson.\nBrown said she was sure no gentleman could set eyes on me without falling\nin love that minute; and so I may be allowed to be a little vain. I know\nyou think me a shocking, conceited, frivolous girl; but then, you know, I\ndon't attribute it _all_ to my personal attractions: I give some praise\nto the hairdresser, and some to my exquisitely lovely dress--you must see\nit to-morrow--white gauze over pink satin--and so _sweetly_ made! and a\nnecklace and bracelet of beautiful, large pearls!'\n\n'I have no doubt you looked very charming: but should that delight you so\nvery much?'\n\n'Oh, no!--not that alone: but, then, I was so much admired; and I made so\n_many_ conquests in that one night--you'd be astonished to hear--'\n\n'But what good will they do you?'\n\n'What good! Think of any woman asking that!'\n\n'Well, I should think one conquest would be enough; and too much, unless\nthe subjugation were mutual.'\n\n'Oh, but you know I never agree with you on those points. Now, wait a\nbit, and I'll tell you my principal admirers--those who made themselves\nvery conspicuous that night and after: for I've been to two parties\nsince. Unfortunately the two noblemen, Lord G--- and Lord F---, were\nmarried, or I might have condescended to be particularly gracious to\n_them_; as it was, I did not: though Lord F---, who hates his wife, was\nevidently much struck with me. He asked me to dance with him twice--he\nis a charming dancer, by-the-by, and so am I: you can't think how well I\ndid--I was astonished at myself. My lord was very complimentary\ntoo--rather too much so in fact--and I thought proper to be a little\nhaughty and repellent; but I had the pleasure of seeing his nasty, cross\nwife ready to perish with spite and vexation--'\n\n'Oh, Miss Murray! you don't mean to say that such a thing could really\ngive you pleasure? However cross or--'\n\n'Well, I know it's very wrong;--but never mind! I mean to be good some\ntime--only don't preach now, there's a good creature. I haven't told you\nhalf yet. Let me see. Oh! I was going to tell you how many\nunmistakeable admirers I had:--Sir Thomas Ashby was one,--Sir Hugh\nMeltham and Sir Broadley Wilson are old codgers, only fit companions for\npapa and mamma. Sir Thomas is young, rich, and gay; but an ugly beast,\nnevertheless: however, mamma says I should not mind that after a few\nmonths' acquaintance. Then, there was Henry Meltham, Sir Hugh's younger\nson; rather good-looking, and a pleasant fellow to flirt with: but\n_being_ a younger son, that is all he is good for; then there was young\nMr. Green, rich enough, but of no family, and a great stupid fellow, a\nmere country booby! and then, our good rector, Mr. Hatfield: an _humble_\nadmirer he ought to consider himself; but I fear he has forgotten to\nnumber humility among his stock of Christian virtues.'\n\n'Was Mr. Hatfield at the ball?'\n\n'Yes, to be sure. Did you think he was too good to go?'\n\n'I thought be might consider it unclerical.'\n\n'By no means. He did not profane his cloth by dancing; but it was with\ndifficulty he could refrain, poor man: he looked as if he were dying to\nask my hand just for _one_ set; and--oh! by-the-by--he's got a new\ncurate: that seedy old fellow Mr. Bligh has got his long-wished-for\nliving at last, and is gone.'\n\n'And what is the new one like?'\n\n'Oh, _such_ a beast! Weston his name is. I can give you his description\nin three words--an insensate, ugly, stupid blockhead. That's four, but\nno matter--enough of _him_ now.'\n\nThen she returned to the ball, and gave me a further account of her\ndeportment there, and at the several parties she had since attended; and\nfurther particulars respecting Sir Thomas Ashby and Messrs. Meltham,\nGreen, and Hatfield, and the ineffaceable impression she had wrought upon\neach of them.\n\n'Well, which of the four do you like best?' said I, suppressing my third\nor fourth yawn.\n\n'I detest them all!' replied she, shaking her bright ringlets in\nvivacious scorn.\n\n'That means, I suppose, \"I like them all\"--but which most?'\n\n'No, I really detest them all; but Harry Meltham is the handsomest and\nmost amusing, and Mr. Hatfield the cleverest, Sir Thomas the wickedest,\nand Mr. Green the most stupid. But the one I'm to have, I suppose, if\nI'm doomed to have any of them, is Sir Thomas Ashby.'\n\n'Surely not, if he's so wicked, and if you dislike him?'\n\n'Oh, I don't mind his being wicked: he's all the better for that; and as\nfor disliking him--I shouldn't greatly object to being Lady Ashby of\nAshby Park, if I must marry. But if I could be always young, I would be\nalways single. I should like to enjoy myself thoroughly, and coquet with\nall the world, till I am on the verge of being called an old maid; and\nthen, to escape the infamy of that, after having made ten thousand\nconquests, to break all their hearts save one, by marrying some\nhigh-born, rich, indulgent husband, whom, on the other hand, fifty ladies\nwere dying to have.'\n\n'Well, as long as you entertain these views, keep single by all means,\nand never marry at all: not even to escape the infamy of old-maidenhood.'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X--THE CHURCH\n\n\n'Well, Miss Grey, what do you think of the new curate?' asked Miss\nMurray, on our return from church the Sunday after the recommencement of\nour duties.\n\n'I can scarcely tell,' was my reply: 'I have not even heard him preach.'\n\n'Well, but you saw him, didn't you?'\n\n'Yes, but I cannot pretend to judge of a man's character by a single\ncursory glance at his face.'\n\n'But isn't he ugly?'\n\n'He did not strike me as being particularly so; I don't dislike that cast\nof countenance: but the only thing I particularly noticed about him was\nhis style of reading; which appeared to me good--infinitely better, at\nleast, than Mr. Hatfield's. He read the Lessons as if he were bent on\ngiving full effect to every passage; it seemed as if the most careless\nperson could not have helped attending, nor the most ignorant have failed\nto understand; and the prayers he read as if he were not reading at all,\nbut praying earnestly and sincerely from his own heart.'\n\n'Oh, yes, that's all he is good for: he can plod through the service well\nenough; but he has not a single idea beyond it.'\n\n'How do you know?'\n\n'Oh! I know perfectly well; I am an excellent judge in such matters. Did\nyou see how he went out of church? stumping along--as if there were\nnobody there but himself--never looking to the right hand or the left,\nand evidently thinking of nothing but just getting out of the church,\nand, perhaps, home to his dinner: his great stupid head could contain no\nother idea.'\n\n'I suppose you would have had him cast a glance into the squire's pew,'\nsaid I, laughing at the vehemence of her hostility.\n\n'Indeed! I should have been highly indignant if he had dared to do such a\nthing!' replied she, haughtily tossing her head; then, after a moment's\nreflection, she added--'Well, well! I suppose he's good enough for his\nplace: but I'm glad I'm not dependent on _him_ for amusement--that's all.\nDid you see how Mr. Hatfield hurried out to get a bow from me, and be in\ntime to put us into the carriage?'\n\n'Yes,' answered I; internally adding, 'and I thought it somewhat\nderogatory to his dignity as a clergyman to come flying from the pulpit\nin such eager haste to shake hands with the squire, and hand his wife and\ndaughters into their carriage: and, moreover, I owe him a grudge for\nnearly shutting me out of it'; for, in fact, though I was standing before\nhis face, close beside the carriage steps, waiting to get in, he would\npersist in putting them up and closing the door, till one of the family\nstopped him by calling out that the governess was not in yet; then,\nwithout a word of apology, he departed, wishing them good-morning, and\nleaving the footman to finish the business.\n\n_Nota bene_.--Mr. Hatfield never spoke to me, neither did Sir Hugh or\nLady Meltham, nor Mr. Harry or Miss Meltham, nor Mr. Green or his\nsisters, nor any other lady or gentleman who frequented that church: nor,\nin fact, any one that visited at Horton Lodge.\n\nMiss Murray ordered the carriage again, in the afternoon, for herself and\nher sister: she said it was too cold for them to enjoy themselves in the\ngarden; and besides, she believed Harry Meltham would be at church.\n'For,' said she, smiling slyly at her own fair image in the glass, 'he\nhas been a most exemplary attendant at church these last few Sundays: you\nwould think he was quite a good Christian. And you may go with us, Miss\nGrey: I want you to see him; he is so greatly improved since he returned\nfrom abroad--you can't think! And besides, then you will have an\nopportunity of seeing the beautiful Mr. Weston again, and of hearing him\npreach.'\n\nI did hear him preach, and was decidedly pleased with the evangelical\ntruth of his doctrine, as well as the earnest simplicity of his manner,\nand the clearness and force of his style. It was truly refreshing to\nhear such a sermon, after being so long accustomed to the dry, prosy\ndiscourses of the former curate, and the still less edifying harangues of\nthe rector. Mr. Hatfield would come sailing up the aisle, or rather\nsweeping along like a whirlwind, with his rich silk gown flying behind\nhim and rustling against the pew doors, mount the pulpit like a conqueror\nascending his triumphal car; then, sinking on the velvet cushion in an\nattitude of studied grace, remain in silent prostration for a certain\ntime; then mutter over a Collect, and gabble through the Lord's Prayer,\nrise, draw off one bright lavender glove, to give the congregation the\nbenefit of his sparkling rings, lightly pass his fingers through his\nwell-curled hair, flourish a cambric handkerchief, recite a very short\npassage, or, perhaps, a mere phrase of Scripture, as a head-piece to his\ndiscourse, and, finally, deliver a composition which, as a composition,\nmight be considered good, though far too studied and too artificial to be\npleasing to me: the propositions were well laid down, the arguments\nlogically conducted; and yet, it was sometimes hard to listen quietly\nthroughout, without some slight demonstrations of disapproval or\nimpatience.\n\nHis favourite subjects were church discipline, rites and ceremonies,\napostolical succession, the duty of reverence and obedience to the\nclergy, the atrocious criminality of dissent, the absolute necessity of\nobserving all the forms of godliness, the reprehensible presumption of\nindividuals who attempted to think for themselves in matters connected\nwith religion, or to be guided by their own interpretations of Scripture,\nand, occasionally (to please his wealthy parishioners) the necessity of\ndeferential obedience from the poor to the rich--supporting his maxims\nand exhortations throughout with quotations from the Fathers: with whom\nhe appeared to be far better acquainted than with the Apostles and\nEvangelists, and whose importance he seemed to consider at least equal to\ntheirs. But now and then he gave us a sermon of a different order--what\nsome would call a very good one; but sunless and severe: representing the\nDeity as a terrible taskmaster rather than a benevolent father. Yet, as\nI listened, I felt inclined to think the man was sincere in all he said:\nhe must have changed his views, and become decidedly religious, gloomy\nand austere, yet still devout. But such illusions were usually\ndissipated, on coming out of church, by hearing his voice in jocund\ncolloquy with some of the Melthams or Greens, or, perhaps, the Murrays\nthemselves; probably laughing at his own sermon, and hoping that he had\ngiven the rascally people something to think about; perchance, exulting\nin the thought that old Betty Holmes would now lay aside the sinful\nindulgence of her pipe, which had been her daily solace for upwards of\nthirty years: that George Higgins would be frightened out of his Sabbath\nevening walks, and Thomas Jackson would be sorely troubled in his\nconscience, and shaken in his sure and certain hope of a joyful\nresurrection at the last day.\n\nThus, I could not but conclude that Mr. Hatfield was one of those who\n'bind heavy burdens, and grievous to be borne, and lay them upon men's\nshoulders, while they themselves will not move them with one of their\nfingers'; and who 'make the word of God of none effect by their\ntraditions, teaching for doctrines the commandments of men.' I was well\npleased to observe that the new curate resembled him, as far as I could\nsee, in none of these particulars.\n\n'Well, Miss Grey, what do you think of him now?' said Miss Murray, as we\ntook our places in the carriage after service.\n\n'No harm still,' replied I.\n\n'No harm!' repeated she in amazement. 'What do you mean?'\n\n'I mean, I think no worse of him than I did before.'\n\n'No worse! I should think not indeed--quite the contrary! Is he not\ngreatly improved?'\n\n'Oh, yes; very much indeed,' replied I; for I had now discovered that it\nwas Harry Meltham she meant, not Mr. Weston. That gentleman had eagerly\ncome forward to speak to the young ladies: a thing he would hardly have\nventured to do had their mother been present; he had likewise politely\nhanded them into the carriage. He had not attempted to shut me out, like\nMr. Hatfield; neither, of course, had he offered me his assistance (I\nshould not have accepted it, if he had), but as long as the door remained\nopen he had stood smirking and chatting with them, and then lifted his\nhat and departed to his own abode: but I had scarcely noticed him all the\ntime. My companions, however, had been more observant; and, as we rolled\nalong, they discussed between them not only his looks, words, and\nactions, but every feature of his face, and every article of his apparel.\n\n'You shan't have him all to yourself, Rosalie,' said Miss Matilda at the\nclose of this discussion; 'I like him: I know he'd make a nice, jolly\ncompanion for me.'\n\n'Well, you're quite welcome to him, Matilda,' replied her sister, in a\ntone of affected indifference.\n\n'And I'm sure,' continued the other, 'he admires me quite as much as he\ndoes you; doesn't he, Miss Grey?'\n\n'I don't know; I'm not acquainted with his sentiments.'\n\n'Well, but he _does_ though.'\n\n'My _dear_ Matilda! nobody will ever admire you till you get rid of your\nrough, awkward manners.'\n\n'Oh, stuff! Harry Meltham likes such manners; and so do papa's friends.'\n\n'Well, you _may_ captivate old men, and younger sons; but nobody else, I\nam sure, will ever take a fancy to you.'\n\n'I don't care: I'm not always grabbing after money, like you and mamma.\nIf my husband is able to keep a few good horses and dogs, I shall be\nquite satisfied; and all the rest may go to the devil!'\n\n'Well, if you use such shocking expressions, I'm sure no real gentleman\nwill ever venture to come near you. Really, Miss Grey, you should not\nlet her do so.'\n\n'I can't possibly prevent it, Miss Murray.'\n\n'And you're quite mistaken, Matilda, in supposing that Harry Meltham\nadmires you: I assure you he does nothing of the kind.'\n\nMatilda was beginning an angry reply; but, happily, our journey was now\nat an end; and the contention was cut short by the footman opening the\ncarriage-door, and letting down the steps for our descent.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI--THE COTTAGERS\n\n\nAs I had now only one regular pupil--though she contrived to give me as\nmuch trouble as three or four ordinary ones, and though her sister still\ntook lessons in German and drawing--I had considerably more time at my\nown disposal than I had ever been blessed with before, since I had taken\nupon me the governess's yoke; which time I devoted partly to\ncorrespondence with my friends, partly to reading, study, and the\npractice of music, singing, &c., partly to wandering in the grounds or\nadjacent fields, with my pupils if they wanted me, alone if they did not.\n\nOften, when they had no more agreeable occupation at hand, the Misses\nMurray would amuse themselves with visiting the poor cottagers on their\nfather's estate, to receive their flattering homage, or to hear the old\nstories or gossiping news of the garrulous old women; or, perhaps, to\nenjoy the purer pleasure of making the poor people happy with their\ncheering presence and their occasional gifts, so easily bestowed, so\nthankfully received. Sometimes, I was called upon to accompany one or\nboth of the sisters in these visits; and sometimes I was desired to go\nalone, to fulfil some promise which they had been more ready to make than\nto perform; to carry some small donation, or read to one who was sick or\nseriously disposed: and thus I made a few acquaintances among the\ncottagers; and, occasionally, I went to see them on my own account.\n\nI generally had more satisfaction in going alone than with either of the\nyoung ladies; for they, chiefly owing to their defective education,\ncomported themselves towards their inferiors in a manner that was highly\ndisagreeable for me to witness. They never, in thought, exchanged places\nwith them; and, consequently, had no consideration for their feelings,\nregarding them as an order of beings entirely different from themselves.\nThey would watch the poor creatures at their meals, making uncivil\nremarks about their food, and their manner of eating; they would laugh at\ntheir simple notions and provincial expressions, till some of them\nscarcely durst venture to speak; they would call the grave elderly men\nand women old fools and silly old blockheads to their faces: and all this\nwithout meaning to offend. I could see that the people were often hurt\nand annoyed by such conduct, though their fear of the 'grand ladies'\nprevented them from testifying any resentment; but _they_ never perceived\nit. They thought that, as these cottagers were poor and untaught, they\nmust be stupid and brutish; and as long as they, their superiors,\ncondescended to talk to them, and to give them shillings and half-crowns,\nor articles of clothing, they had a right to amuse themselves, even at\ntheir expense; and the people must adore them as angels of light,\ncondescending to minister to their necessities, and enlighten their\nhumble dwellings.\n\nI made many and various attempts to deliver my pupils from these delusive\nnotions without alarming their pride--which was easily offended, and not\nsoon appeased--but with little apparent result; and I know not which was\nthe more reprehensible of the two: Matilda was more rude and boisterous;\nbut from Rosalie's womanly age and lady-like exterior better things were\nexpected: yet she was as provokingly careless and inconsiderate as a\ngiddy child of twelve.\n\nOne bright day in the last week of February, I was walking in the park,\nenjoying the threefold luxury of solitude, a book, and pleasant weather;\nfor Miss Matilda had set out on her daily ride, and Miss Murray was gone\nin the carriage with her mamma to pay some morning calls. But it struck\nme that I ought to leave these selfish pleasures, and the park with its\nglorious canopy of bright blue sky, the west wind sounding through its\nyet leafless branches, the snow-wreaths still lingering in its hollows,\nbut melting fast beneath the sun, and the graceful deer browsing on its\nmoist herbage already assuming the freshness and verdure of spring--and\ngo to the cottage of one Nancy Brown, a widow, whose son was at work all\nday in the fields, and who was afflicted with an inflammation in the\neyes; which had for some time incapacitated her from reading: to her own\ngreat grief, for she was a woman of a serious, thoughtful turn of mind.\nI accordingly went, and found her alone, as usual, in her little, close,\ndark cottage, redolent of smoke and confined air, but as tidy and clean\nas she could make it. She was seated beside her little fire (consisting\nof a few red cinders and a bit of stick), busily knitting, with a small\nsackcloth cushion at her feet, placed for the accommodation of her gentle\nfriend the cat, who was seated thereon, with her long tail half\nencircling her velvet paws, and her half-closed eyes dreamily gazing on\nthe low, crooked fender.\n\n'Well, Nancy, how are you to-day?'\n\n'Why, middling, Miss, i' myseln--my eyes is no better, but I'm a deal\neasier i' my mind nor I have been,' replied she, rising to welcome me\nwith a contented smile; which I was glad to see, for Nancy had been\nsomewhat afflicted with religious melancholy. I congratulated her upon\nthe change. She agreed that it was a great blessing, and expressed\nherself 'right down thankful for it'; adding, 'If it please God to spare\nmy sight, and make me so as I can read my Bible again, I think I shall be\nas happy as a queen.'\n\n'I hope He will, Nancy,' replied I; 'and, meantime, I'll come and read to\nyou now and then, when I have a little time to spare.'\n\nWith expressions of grateful pleasure, the poor woman moved to get me a\nchair; but, as I saved her the trouble, she busied herself with stirring\nthe fire, and adding a few more sticks to the decaying embers; and then,\ntaking her well-used Bible from the shelf, dusted it carefully, and gave\nit me. On my asking if there was any particular part she should like me\nto read, she answered--\n\n'Well, Miss Grey, if it's all the same to you, I should like to hear that\nchapter in the First Epistle of St. John, that says, \"God is love, and he\nthat dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and God in him.\"'\n\nWith a little searching, I found these words in the fourth chapter. When\nI came to the seventh verse she interrupted me, and, with needless\napologies for such a liberty, desired me to read it very slowly, that she\nmight take it all in, and dwell on every word; hoping I would excuse her,\nas she was but a 'simple body.'\n\n'The wisest person,' I replied, 'might think over each of these verses\nfor an hour, and be all the better for it; and I would rather read them\nslowly than not.'\n\nAccordingly, I finished the chapter as slowly as need be, and at the same\ntime as impressively as I could; my auditor listened most attentively all\nthe while, and sincerely thanked me when I had done. I sat still about\nhalf a minute to give her time to reflect upon it; when, somewhat to my\nsurprise, she broke the pause by asking me how I liked Mr. Weston?\n\n'I don't know,' I replied, a little startled by the suddenness of the\nquestion; 'I think he preaches very well.'\n\n'Ay, he does so; and talks well too.'\n\n'Does he?'\n\n'He does. Maybe, you haven't seen him--not to talk to him much, yet?'\n\n'No, I never see any one to talk to--except the young ladies of the\nHall.'\n\n'Ah; they're nice, kind young ladies; but they can't talk as he does.'\n\n'Then he comes to see you, Nancy?'\n\n'He does, Miss; and I'se thankful for it. He comes to see all us poor\nbodies a deal ofter nor Maister Bligh, or th' Rector ever did; an' it's\nwell he does, for he's always welcome: we can't say as much for th'\nRector--there is 'at says they're fair feared on him. When he comes into\na house, they say he's sure to find summut wrong, and begin a-calling 'em\nas soon as he crosses th' doorstuns: but maybe he thinks it his duty like\nto tell 'em what's wrong. And very oft he comes o' purpose to reprove\nfolk for not coming to church, or not kneeling an' standing when other\nfolk does, or going to the Methody chapel, or summut o' that sort: but I\ncan't say 'at he ever fund much fault wi' me. He came to see me once or\ntwice, afore Maister Weston come, when I was so ill troubled in my mind;\nand as I had only very poor health besides, I made bold to send for\nhim--and he came right enough. I was sore distressed, Miss Grey--thank\nGod, it's owered now--but when I took my Bible, I could get no comfort of\nit at all. That very chapter 'at you've just been reading troubled me as\nmuch as aught--\"He that loveth not, knoweth not God.\" It seemed fearsome\nto me; for I felt that I loved neither God nor man as I should do, and\ncould not, if I tried ever so. And th' chapter afore, where it\nsays,--\"He that is born of God cannot commit sin.\" And another place\nwhere it says,--\"Love is the fulfilling of the Law.\" And many, many\nothers, Miss: I should fair weary you out, if I was to tell them all.\nBut all seemed to condemn me, and to show me 'at I was not in the right\nway; and as I knew not how to get into it, I sent our Bill to beg Maister\nHatfield to be as kind as look in on me some day and when he came, I\ntelled him all my troubles.'\n\n'And what did he say, Nancy?'\n\n'Why, Miss, he seemed to scorn me. I might be mista'en--but he like gave\na sort of a whistle, and I saw a bit of a smile on his face; and he said,\n\"Oh, it's all stuff! You've been among the Methodists, my good woman.\"\nBut I telled him I'd never been near the Methodies. And then he\nsaid,--\"Well,\" says he, \"you must come to church, where you'll hear the\nScriptures properly explained, instead of sitting poring over your Bible\nat home.\"\n\n'But I telled him I always used coming to church when I had my health;\nbut this very cold winter weather I hardly durst venture so far--and me\nso bad wi' th' rheumatic and all.\n\n'But he says, \"It'll do your rheumatiz good to hobble to church: there's\nnothing like exercise for the rheumatiz. You can walk about the house\nwell enough; why can't you walk to church? The fact is,\" says he,\n\"you're getting too fond of your ease. It's always easy to find excuses\nfor shirking one's duty.\"\n\n'But then, you know, Miss Grey, it wasn't so. However, I telled him I'd\ntry. \"But please, sir,\" says I, \"if I do go to church, what the better\nshall I be? I want to have my sins blotted out, and to feel that they\nare remembered no more against me, and that the love of God is shed\nabroad in my heart; and if I can get no good by reading my Bible an'\nsaying my prayers at home, what good shall I get by going to church?\"'\n\n'\"The church,\" says he, \"is the place appointed by God for His worship.\nIt's your duty to go there as often as you can. If you want comfort, you\nmust seek it in the path of duty,\"--an' a deal more he said, but I cannot\nremember all his fine words. However, it all came to this, that I was to\ncome to church as oft as ever I could, and bring my prayer-book with me,\nan' read up all the sponsers after the clerk, an' stand, an' kneel, an'\nsit, an' do all as I should, and take the Lord's Supper at every\nopportunity, an' hearken his sermons, and Maister Bligh's, an' it 'ud be\nall right: if I went on doing my duty, I should get a blessing at last.\n\n'\"But if you get no comfort that way,\" says he, \"it's all up.\"\n\n'\"Then, sir,\" says I, \"should you think I'm a reprobate?\"\n\n'\"Why,\" says he--he says, \"if you do your best to get to heaven and can't\nmanage it, you must be one of those that seek to enter in at the strait\ngate and shall not be able.\"\n\n'An' then he asked me if I'd seen any of the ladies o' th' Hall about\nthat mornin'; so I telled him where I had seen the young misses go on th'\nMoss Lane;--an' he kicked my poor cat right across th' floor, an' went\nafter 'em as gay as a lark: but I was very sad. That last word o' his\nfair sunk into my heart, an' lay there like a lump o' lead, till I was\nweary to bear it.\n\n'Howsever, I follered his advice: I thought he meant it all for th' best,\nthough he _had_ a queer way with him. But you know, Miss, he's rich an'\nyoung, and such like cannot right understand the thoughts of a poor old\nwoman such as me. But, howsever, I did my best to do all as he bade\nme--but maybe I'm plaguing you, Miss, wi' my chatter.'\n\n'Oh, no, Nancy! Go on, and tell me all.'\n\n'Well, my rheumatiz got better--I know not whether wi' going to church or\nnot, but one frosty Sunday I got this cold i' my eyes. Th' inflammation\ndidn't come on all at once like, but bit by bit--but I wasn't going to\ntell you about my eyes, I was talking about my trouble o' mind;--and to\ntell the truth, Miss Grey, I don't think it was anyways eased by coming\nto church--nought to speak on, at least: I like got my health better; but\nthat didn't mend my soul. I hearkened and hearkened the ministers, and\nread an' read at my prayer-book; but it was all like sounding brass and a\ntinkling cymbal: the sermons I couldn't understand, an' th' prayer-book\nonly served to show me how wicked I was, that I could read such good\nwords an' never be no better for it, and oftens feel it a sore labour an'\na heavy task beside, instead of a blessing and a privilege as all good\nChristians does. It seemed like as all were barren an' dark to me. And\nthen, them dreadful words, \"Many shall seek to enter in, and shall not be\nable.\" They like as they fair dried up my sperrit.\n\n'But one Sunday, when Maister Hatfield gave out about the sacrament, I\nnoticed where he said, \"If there be any of you that cannot quiet his own\nconscience, but requireth further comfort or counsel, let him come to me,\nor some other discreet and learned minister of God's word, and open his\ngrief!\" So next Sunday morning, afore service, I just looked into the\nvestry, an' began a-talking to th' Rector again. I hardly could fashion\nto take such a liberty, but I thought when my soul was at stake I\nshouldn't stick at a trifle. But he said he hadn't time to attend to me\nthen.\n\n'\"And, indeed,\" says he, \"I've nothing to say to you but what I've said\nbefore. Take the sacrament, of course, and go on doing your duty; and if\nthat won't serve you, nothing will. So don't bother me any more.\"\n\n'So then, I went away. But I heard Maister Weston--Maister Weston was\nthere, Miss--this was his first Sunday at Horton, you know, an' he was i'\nth' vestry in his surplice, helping th' Rector on with his gown--'\n\n'Yes, Nancy.'\n\n'And I heard him ask Maister Hatfield who I was, an' he says, \"Oh, she's\na canting old fool.\"\n\n'And I was very ill grieved, Miss Grey; but I went to my seat, and I\ntried to do my duty as aforetime: but I like got no peace. An' I even\ntook the sacrament; but I felt as though I were eating and drinking to my\nown damnation all th' time. So I went home, sorely troubled.\n\n'But next day, afore I'd gotten fettled up--for indeed, Miss, I'd no\nheart to sweeping an' fettling, an' washing pots; so I sat me down i' th'\nmuck--who should come in but Maister Weston! I started siding stuff\nthen, an' sweeping an' doing; and I expected he'd begin a-calling me for\nmy idle ways, as Maister Hatfield would a' done; but I was mista'en: he\nonly bid me good-mornin' like, in a quiet dacent way. So I dusted him a\nchair, an' fettled up th' fireplace a bit; but I hadn't forgotten th'\nRector's words, so says I, \"I wonder, sir, you should give yourself that\ntrouble, to come so far to see a 'canting old fool,' such as me.\"\n\n'He seemed taken aback at that; but he would fain persuade me 'at the\nRector was only in jest; and when that wouldn't do, he says, \"Well,\nNancy, you shouldn't think so much about it: Mr. Hatfield was a little\nout of humour just then: you know we're none of us perfect--even Moses\nspoke unadvisedly with his lips. But now sit down a minute, if you can\nspare the time, and tell me all your doubts and fears; and I'll try to\nremove them.\"\n\n'So I sat me down anent him. He was quite a stranger, you know, Miss\nGrey, and even _younger_ nor Maister Hatfield, I believe; and I had\nthought him not so pleasant-looking as him, and rather a bit crossish, at\nfirst, to look at; but he spake so civil like--and when th' cat, poor\nthing, jumped on to his knee, he only stroked her, and gave a bit of a\nsmile: so I thought that was a good sign; for once, when she did so to\nth' Rector, he knocked her off, like as it might be in scorn and anger,\npoor thing. But you can't expect a cat to know manners like a Christian,\nyou know, Miss Grey.'\n\n'No; of course not, Nancy. But what did Mr. Weston say then?'\n\n'He said nought; but he listened to me as steady an' patient as could be,\nan' never a bit o' scorn about him; so I went on, an' telled him all,\njust as I've telled you--an' more too.\n\n'\"Well,\" says he, \"Mr. Hatfield was quite right in telling you to\npersevere in doing your duty; but in advising you to go to church and\nattend to the service, and so on, he didn't mean that was the whole of a\nChristian's duty: he only thought you might there learn what more was to\nbe done, and be led to take delight in those exercises, instead of\nfinding them a task and a burden. And if you had asked him to explain\nthose words that trouble you so much, I think he would have told you,\nthat if many shall seek to enter in at the strait gate and shall not be\nable, it is their own sins that hinder them; just as a man with a large\nsack on his back might wish to pass through a narrow doorway, and find it\nimpossible to do so unless he would leave his sack behind him. But you,\nNancy, I dare say, have no sins that you would not gladly throw aside, if\nyou knew how?\"\n\n'\"Indeed, sir, you speak truth,\" said I.\n\n'\"Well,\" says he, \"you know the first and great commandment--and the\nsecond, which is like unto it--on which two commandments hang all the law\nand the prophets? You say you cannot love God; but it strikes me that if\nyou rightly consider who and what He is, you cannot help it. He is your\nfather, your best friend: every blessing, everything good, pleasant, or\nuseful, comes from Him; and everything evil, everything you have reason\nto hate, to shun, or to fear, comes from Satan--_His_ enemy as well as\nours. And for _this_ cause was God manifest in the flesh, that He might\ndestroy the works of the Devil: in one word, God is LOVE; and the more of\nlove we have within us, the nearer we are to Him and the more of His\nspirit we possess.\"\n\n'\"Well, sir,\" I said, \"if I can always think on these things, I think I\nmight well love God: but how can I love my neighbours, when they vex me,\nand be so contrary and sinful as some on 'em is?\"\n\n'\"It may seem a hard matter,\" says he, \"to love our neighbours, who have\nso much of what is evil about them, and whose faults so often awaken the\nevil that lingers within ourselves; but remember that _He_ made them, and\n_He_ loves them; and whosoever loveth him that begat, loveth him that is\nbegotten also. And if God so loveth us, that He gave His only begotten\nSon to die for us, we ought also to love one another. But if you cannot\nfeel positive affection for those who do not care for you, you can at\nleast try to do to them as you would they should do unto you: you can\nendeavour to pity their failings and excuse their offences, and to do all\nthe good you can to those about you. And if you accustom yourself to\nthis, Nancy, the very effort itself will make you love them in some\ndegree--to say nothing of the goodwill your kindness would beget in them,\nthough they might have little else that is good about them. If we love\nGod and wish to serve Him, let us try to be like Him, to do His work, to\nlabour for His glory--which is the good of man--to hasten the coming of\nHis kingdom, which is the peace and happiness of all the world: however\npowerless we may seem to be, in doing all the good we can through life,\nthe humblest of us may do much towards it: and let us dwell in love, that\nHe may dwell in us and we in Him. The more happiness we bestow, the more\nwe shall receive, even here; and the greater will be our reward in heaven\nwhen we rest from our labours.\" I believe, Miss, them is his very words,\nfor I've thought 'em ower many a time. An' then he took that Bible, an'\nread bits here and there, an' explained 'em as clear as the day: and it\nseemed like as a new light broke in on my soul; an' I felt fair aglow\nabout my heart, an' only wished poor Bill an' all the world could ha'\nbeen there, an' heard it all, and rejoiced wi' me.\n\n'After he was gone, Hannah Rogers, one o' th' neighbours, came in and\nwanted me to help her to wash. I telled her I couldn't just then, for I\nhadn't set on th' potaties for th' dinner, nor washed up th' breakfast\nstuff yet. So then she began a-calling me for my nasty idle ways. I was\na little bit vexed at first, but I never said nothing wrong to her: I\nonly telled her like all in a quiet way, 'at I'd had th' new parson to\nsee me; but I'd get done as quick as ever I could, an' then come an' help\nher. So then she softened down; and my heart like as it warmed towards\nher, an' in a bit we was very good friends. An' so it is, Miss Grey, \"a\nsoft answer turneth away wrath; but grievous words stir up anger.\" It\nisn't only in them you speak to, but in yourself.'\n\n'Very true, Nancy, if we could always remember it.'\n\n'Ay, if we could!'\n\n'And did Mr. Weston ever come to see you again?'\n\n'Yes, many a time; and since my eyes has been so bad, he's sat an' read\nto me by the half-hour together: but you know, Miss, he has other folks\nto see, and other things to do--God bless him! An' that next Sunday he\npreached _such_ a sermon! His text was, \"Come unto me all ye that labour\nand are heavy laden, and I will give you rest,\" and them two blessed\nverses that follows. You wasn't there, Miss, you was with your friends\nthen--but it made me _so_ happy! And I _am_ happy now, thank God! an' I\ntake a pleasure, now, in doing little bits o' jobs for my\nneighbours--such as a poor old body 'at's half blind can do; and they\ntake it kindly of me, just as he said. You see, Miss, I'm knitting a\npair o' stockings now;--they're for Thomas Jackson: he's a queerish old\nbody, an' we've had many a bout at threaping, one anent t'other; an' at\ntimes we've differed sorely. So I thought I couldn't do better nor knit\nhim a pair o' warm stockings; an' I've felt to like him a deal better,\npoor old man, sin' I began. It's turned out just as Maister Weston\nsaid.'\n\n'Well, I'm very glad to see you so happy, Nancy, and so wise: but I must\ngo now; I shall be wanted at the Hall,' said I; and bidding her good-bye,\nI departed, promising to come again when I had time, and feeling nearly\nas happy as herself.\n\nAt another time I went to read to a poor labourer who was in the last\nstage of consumption. The young ladies had been to see him, and somehow\na promise of reading had been extracted from them; but it was too much\ntrouble, so they begged me to do it instead. I went, willingly enough;\nand there too I was gratified with the praises of Mr. Weston, both from\nthe sick man and his wife. The former told me that he derived great\ncomfort and benefit from the visits of the new parson, who frequently\ncame to see him, and was 'another guess sort of man' to Mr. Hatfield;\nwho, before the other's arrival at Horton, had now and then paid him a\nvisit; on which occasions he would always insist upon having the\ncottage-door kept open, to admit the fresh air for his own convenience,\nwithout considering how it might injure the sufferer; and having opened\nhis prayer-book and hastily read over a part of the Service for the Sick,\nwould hurry away again: if he did not stay to administer some harsh\nrebuke to the afflicted wife, or to make some thoughtless, not to say\nheartless, observation, rather calculated to increase than diminish the\ntroubles of the suffering pair.\n\n'Whereas,' said the man, 'Maister Weston 'ull pray with me quite in a\ndifferent fashion, an' talk to me as kind as owt; an' oft read to me too,\nan' sit beside me just like a brother.'\n\n'Just for all the world!' exclaimed his wife; 'an' about a three wik\nsin', when he seed how poor Jem shivered wi' cold, an' what pitiful fires\nwe kept, he axed if wer stock of coals was nearly done. I telled him it\nwas, an' we was ill set to get more: but you know, mum, I didn't think o'\nhim helping us; but, howsever, he sent us a sack o' coals next day; an'\nwe've had good fires ever sin': and a great blessing it is, this winter\ntime. But that's his way, Miss Grey: when he comes into a poor body's\nhouse a-seein' sick folk, he like notices what they most stand i' need\non; an' if he thinks they can't readily get it therseln, he never says\nnowt about it, but just gets it for 'em. An' it isn't everybody 'at 'ud\ndo that, 'at has as little as he has: for you know, mum, he's nowt at all\nto live on but what he gets fra' th' Rector, an' that's little enough\nthey say.'\n\nI remembered then, with a species of exultation, that he had frequently\nbeen styled a vulgar brute by the amiable Miss Murray, because he wore a\nsilver watch, and clothes not quite so bright and fresh as Mr.\nHatfield's.\n\nIn returning to the Lodge I felt very happy, and thanked God that I had\nnow something to think about; something to dwell on as a relief from the\nweary monotony, the lonely drudgery, of my present life: for I _was_\nlonely. Never, from month to month, from year to year, except during my\nbrief intervals of rest at home, did I see one creature to whom I could\nopen my heart, or freely speak my thoughts with any hope of sympathy, or\neven comprehension: never one, unless it were poor Nancy Brown, with whom\nI could enjoy a single moment of real social intercourse, or whose\nconversation was calculated to render me better, wiser, or happier than\nbefore; or who, as far as I could see, could be greatly benefited by\nmine. My only companions had been unamiable children, and ignorant,\nwrong-headed girls; from whose fatiguing folly, unbroken solitude was\noften a relief most earnestly desired and dearly prized. But to be\nrestricted to such associates was a serious evil, both in its immediate\neffects and the consequences that were likely to ensue. Never a new idea\nor stirring thought came to me from without; and such as rose within me\nwere, for the most part, miserably crushed at once, or doomed to sicken\nor fade away, because they could not see the light.\n\nHabitual associates are known to exercise a great influence over each\nother's minds and manners. Those whose actions are for ever before our\neyes, whose words are ever in our ears, will naturally lead us, albeit\nagainst our will, slowly, gradually, imperceptibly, perhaps, to act and\nspeak as they do. I will not presume to say how far this irresistible\npower of assimilation extends; but if one civilised man were doomed to\npass a dozen years amid a race of intractable savages, unless he had\npower to improve them, I greatly question whether, at the close of that\nperiod, he would not have become, at least, a barbarian himself. And I,\nas I could not make my young companions better, feared exceedingly that\nthey would make me worse--would gradually bring my feelings, habits,\ncapacities, to the level of their own; without, however, imparting to me\ntheir lightheartedness and cheerful vivacity.\n\nAlready, I seemed to feel my intellect deteriorating, my heart\npetrifying, my soul contracting; and I trembled lest my very moral\nperceptions should become deadened, my distinctions of right and wrong\nconfounded, and all my better faculties be sunk, at last, beneath the\nbaneful influence of such a mode of life. The gross vapours of earth\nwere gathering around me, and closing in upon my inward heaven; and thus\nit was that Mr. Weston rose at length upon me, appearing like the morning\nstar in my horizon, to save me from the fear of utter darkness; and I\nrejoiced that I had now a subject for contemplation that was above me,\nnot beneath. I was glad to see that all the world was not made up of\nBloomfields, Murrays, Hatfields, Ashbys, &c.; and that human excellence\nwas not a mere dream of the imagination. When we hear a little good and\nno harm of a person, it is easy and pleasant to imagine more: in short,\nit is needless to analyse all my thoughts; but Sunday was now become a\nday of peculiar delight to me (I was now almost broken-in to the back\ncorner in the carriage), for I liked to hear him--and I liked to see him,\ntoo; though I knew he was not handsome, or even what is called agreeable,\nin outward aspect; but, certainly, he was not ugly.\n\nIn stature he was a little, a very little, above the middle size; the\noutline of his face would be pronounced too square for beauty, but to me\nit announced decision of character; his dark brown hair was not carefully\ncurled, like Mr. Hatfield's, but simply brushed aside over a broad white\nforehead; the eyebrows, I suppose, were too projecting, but from under\nthose dark brows there gleamed an eye of singular power, brown in colour,\nnot large, and somewhat deep-set, but strikingly brilliant, and full of\nexpression; there was character, too, in the mouth, something that\nbespoke a man of firm purpose and an habitual thinker; and when he\nsmiled--but I will not speak of that yet, for, at the time I mention, I\nhad never seen him smile: and, indeed, his general appearance did not\nimpress me with the idea of a man given to such a relaxation, nor of such\nan individual as the cottagers described him. I had early formed my\nopinion of him; and, in spite of Miss Murray's objurgations: was fully\nconvinced that he was a man of strong sense, firm faith, and ardent\npiety, but thoughtful and stern: and when I found that, to his other good\nqualities, was added that of true benevolence and gentle, considerate\nkindness, the discovery, perhaps, delighted me the more, as I had not\nbeen prepared to expect it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII--THE SHOWER\n\n\nThe next visit I paid to Nancy Brown was in the second week in March:\nfor, though I had many spare minutes during the day, I seldom could look\nupon an hour as entirely my own; since, where everything was left to the\ncaprices of Miss Matilda and her sister, there could be no order or\nregularity. Whatever occupation I chose, when not actually busied about\nthem or their concerns, I had, as it were, to keep my loins girded, my\nshoes on my feet, and my staff in my hand; for not to be immediately\nforthcoming when called for, was regarded as a grave and inexcusable\noffence: not only by my pupils and their mother, but by the very servant,\nwho came in breathless haste to call me, exclaiming, 'You're to go to the\nschoolroom _directly_, mum, the young ladies is WAITING!!' Climax of\nhorror! actually waiting for their governess!!!\n\nBut this time I was pretty sure of an hour or two to myself; for Matilda\nwas preparing for a long ride, and Rosalie was dressing for a\ndinner-party at Lady Ashby's: so I took the opportunity of repairing to\nthe widow's cottage, where I found her in some anxiety about her cat,\nwhich had been absent all day. I comforted her with as many anecdotes of\nthat animal's roving propensities as I could recollect. 'I'm feared o'\nth' gamekeepers,' said she: 'that's all 'at I think on. If th' young\ngentlemen had been at home, I should a' thought they'd been setting their\ndogs at her, an' worried her, poor thing, as they did _many_ a poor\nthing's cat; but I haven't that to be feared on now.' Nancy's eyes were\nbetter, but still far from well: she had been trying to make a Sunday\nshirt for her son, but told me she could only bear to do a little bit at\nit now and then, so that it progressed but slowly, though the poor lad\nwanted it sadly. So I proposed to help her a little, after I had read to\nher, for I had plenty of time that evening, and need not return till\ndusk. She thankfully accepted the offer. 'An' you'll be a bit o'\ncompany for me too, Miss,' said she; 'I like as I feel lonesome without\nmy cat.' But when I had finished reading, and done the half of a seam,\nwith Nancy's capacious brass thimble fitted on to my finger by means of a\nroll of paper, I was disturbed by the entrance of Mr. Weston, with the\nidentical cat in his arms. I now saw that he could smile, and very\npleasantly too.\n\n'I've done you a piece of good service, Nancy,' he began: then seeing me,\nhe acknowledged my presence by a slight bow. I should have been\ninvisible to Hatfield, or any other gentleman of those parts. 'I've\ndelivered your cat,' he continued, 'from the hands, or rather the gun, of\nMr. Murray's gamekeeper.'\n\n'God bless you, sir!' cried the grateful old woman, ready to weep for joy\nas she received her favourite from his arms.\n\n'Take care of it,' said he, 'and don't let it go near the rabbit-warren,\nfor the gamekeeper swears he'll shoot it if he sees it there again: he\nwould have done so to-day, if I had not been in time to stop him. I\nbelieve it is raining, Miss Grey,' added he, more quietly, observing that\nI had put aside my work, and was preparing to depart. 'Don't let me\ndisturb you--I shan't stay two minutes.'\n\n'You'll _both_ stay while this shower gets owered,' said Nancy, as she\nstirred the fire, and placed another chair beside it; 'what! there's room\nfor all.'\n\n'I can see better here, thank you, Nancy,' replied I, taking my work to\nthe window, where she had the goodness to suffer me to remain unmolested,\nwhile she got a brush to remove the cat's hairs from Mr. Weston's coat,\ncarefully wiped the rain from his hat, and gave the cat its supper,\nbusily talking all the time: now thanking her clerical friend for what he\nhad done; now wondering how the cat had found out the warren; and now\nlamenting the probable consequences of such a discovery. He listened\nwith a quiet, good-natured smile, and at length took a seat in compliance\nwith her pressing invitations, but repeated that he did not mean to stay.\n\n'I have another place to go to,' said he, 'and I see' (glancing at the\nbook on the table) 'someone else has been reading to you.'\n\n'Yes, sir; Miss Grey has been as kind as read me a chapter; an' now she's\nhelping me with a shirt for our Bill--but I'm feared she'll be cold\nthere. Won't you come to th' fire, Miss?'\n\n'No, thank you, Nancy, I'm quite warm. I must go as soon as this shower\nis over.'\n\n'Oh, Miss! You said you could stop while dusk!' cried the provoking old\nwoman, and Mr. Weston seized his hat.\n\n'Nay, sir,' exclaimed she, 'pray don't go now, while it rains so fast.'\n\n'But it strikes me I'm keeping your visitor away from the fire.'\n\n'No, you're not, Mr. Weston,' replied I, hoping there was no harm in a\nfalsehood of that description.\n\n'No, sure!' cried Nancy. 'What, there's lots o' room!'\n\n'Miss Grey,' said he, half-jestingly, as if he felt it necessary to\nchange the present subject, whether he had anything particular to say or\nnot, 'I wish you would make my peace with the squire, when you see him.\nHe was by when I rescued Nancy's cat, and did not quite approve of the\ndeed. I told him I thought he might better spare all his rabbits than\nshe her cat, for which audacious assertion he treated me to some rather\nungentlemanly language; and I fear I retorted a trifle too warmly.'\n\n'Oh, lawful sir! I hope you didn't fall out wi' th' maister for sake o'\nmy cat! he cannot bide answering again--can th' maister.'\n\n'Oh! it's no matter, Nancy: I don't care about it, really; I said nothing\n_very_ uncivil; and I suppose Mr. Murray is accustomed to use rather\nstrong language when he's heated.'\n\n'Ay, sir: it's a pity.'\n\n'And now, I really must go. I have to visit a place a mile beyond this;\nand you would not have me to return in the dark: besides, it has nearly\ndone raining now--so good-evening, Nancy. Good-evening, Miss Grey.'\n\n'Good-evening, Mr. Weston; but don't depend upon me for making your peace\nwith Mr. Murray, for I never see him--to speak to.'\n\n'Don't you; it can't be helped then,' replied he, in dolorous\nresignation: then, with a peculiar half-smile, he added, 'But never mind;\nI imagine the squire has more to apologise for than I;' and left the\ncottage.\n\nI went on with my sewing as long as I could see, and then bade Nancy\ngood-evening; checking her too lively gratitude by the undeniable\nassurance that I had only done for her what she would have done for me,\nif she had been in my place and I in hers. I hastened back to Horton\nLodge, where, having entered the schoolroom, I found the tea-table all in\nconfusion, the tray flooded with slops, and Miss Matilda in a most\nferocious humour.\n\n'Miss Grey, whatever have you been about? I've had tea half an hour ago,\nand had to make it myself, and drink it all alone! I wish you would come\nin sooner!'\n\n'I've been to see Nancy Brown. I thought you would not be back from your\nride.'\n\n'How could I ride in the rain, I should like to know. That damned\npelting shower was vexatious enough--coming on when I was just in full\nswing: and then to come and find nobody in to tea! and you know I can't\nmake the tea as I like it.'\n\n'I didn't think of the shower,' replied I (and, indeed, the thought of\nits driving her home had never entered my head).\n\n'No, of course; you were under shelter yourself, and you never thought of\nother people.'\n\nI bore her coarse reproaches with astonishing equanimity, even with\ncheerfulness; for I was sensible that I had done more good to Nancy Brown\nthan harm to her: and perhaps some other thoughts assisted to keep up my\nspirits, and impart a relish to the cup of cold, overdrawn tea, and a\ncharm to the otherwise unsightly table; and--I had almost said--to Miss\nMatilda's unamiable face. But she soon betook herself to the stables,\nand left me to the quiet enjoyment of my solitary meal.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII--THE PRIMROSES\n\n\nMiss Murray now always went twice to church, for she so loved admiration\nthat she could not bear to lose a single opportunity of obtaining it; and\nshe was so sure of it wherever she showed herself, that, whether Harry\nMeltham and Mr. Green were there or not, there was certain to be somebody\npresent who would not be insensible to her charms, besides the Rector,\nwhose official capacity generally obliged him to attend. Usually, also,\nif the weather permitted, both she and her sister would walk home;\nMatilda, because she hated the confinement of the carriage; she, because\nshe disliked the privacy of it, and enjoyed the company that generally\nenlivened the first mile of the journey in walking from the church to Mr.\nGreen's park-gates: near which commenced the private road to Horton\nLodge, which lay in the opposite direction, while the highway conducted\nin a straightforward course to the still more distant mansion of Sir Hugh\nMeltham. Thus there was always a chance of being accompanied, so far,\neither by Harry Meltham, with or without Miss Meltham, or Mr. Green, with\nperhaps one or both of his sisters, and any gentlemen visitors they might\nhave.\n\nWhether I walked with the young ladies or rode with their parents,\ndepended upon their own capricious will: if they chose to 'take' me, I\nwent; if, for reasons best known to themselves, they chose to go alone, I\ntook my seat in the carriage. I liked walking better, but a sense of\nreluctance to obtrude my presence on anyone who did not desire it, always\nkept me passive on these and similar occasions; and I never inquired into\nthe causes of their varying whims. Indeed, this was the best policy--for\nto submit and oblige was the governess's part, to consult their own\npleasure was that of the pupils. But when I did walk, the first half of\njourney was generally a great nuisance to me. As none of the\nbefore-mentioned ladies and gentlemen ever noticed me, it was\ndisagreeable to walk beside them, as if listening to what they said, or\nwishing to be thought one of them, while they talked over me, or across;\nand if their eyes, in speaking, chanced to fall on me, it seemed as if\nthey looked on vacancy--as if they either did not see me, or were very\ndesirous to make it appear so. It was disagreeable, too, to walk behind,\nand thus appear to acknowledge my own inferiority; for, in truth, I\nconsidered myself pretty nearly as good as the best of them, and wished\nthem to know that I did so, and not to imagine that I looked upon myself\nas a mere domestic, who knew her own place too well to walk beside such\nfine ladies and gentlemen as they were--though her young ladies might\nchoose to have her with them, and even condescend to converse with her\nwhen no better company were at hand. Thus--I am almost ashamed to\nconfess it--but indeed I gave myself no little trouble in my endeavours\n(if I did keep up with them) to appear perfectly unconscious or\nregardless of their presence, as if I were wholly absorbed in my own\nreflections, or the contemplation of surrounding objects; or, if I\nlingered behind, it was some bird or insect, some tree or flower, that\nattracted my attention, and having duly examined that, I would pursue my\nwalk alone, at a leisurely pace, until my pupils had bidden adieu to\ntheir companions and turned off into the quiet private road.\n\nOne such occasion I particularly well remember; it was a lovely afternoon\nabout the close of March; Mr. Green and his sisters had sent their\ncarriage back empty, in order to enjoy the bright sunshine and balmy air\nin a sociable walk home along with their visitors, Captain Somebody and\nLieutenant Somebody-else (a couple of military fops), and the Misses\nMurray, who, of course, contrived to join them. Such a party was highly\nagreeable to Rosalie; but not finding it equally suitable to my taste, I\npresently fell back, and began to botanise and entomologise along the\ngreen banks and budding hedges, till the company was considerably in\nadvance of me, and I could hear the sweet song of the happy lark; then my\nspirit of misanthropy began to melt away beneath the soft, pure air and\ngenial sunshine; but sad thoughts of early childhood, and yearnings for\ndeparted joys, or for a brighter future lot, arose instead. As my eyes\nwandered over the steep banks covered with young grass and green-leaved\nplants, and surmounted by budding hedges, I longed intensely for some\nfamiliar flower that might recall the woody dales or green hill-sides of\nhome: the brown moorlands, of course, were out of the question. Such a\ndiscovery would make my eyes gush out with water, no doubt; but that was\none of my greatest enjoyments now. At length I descried, high up between\nthe twisted roots of an oak, three lovely primroses, peeping so sweetly\nfrom their hiding-place that the tears already started at the sight; but\nthey grew so high above me, that I tried in vain to gather one or two, to\ndream over and to carry with me: I could not reach them unless I climbed\nthe bank, which I was deterred from doing by hearing a footstep at that\nmoment behind me, and was, therefore, about to turn away, when I was\nstartled by the words, 'Allow me to gather them for you, Miss Grey,'\nspoken in the grave, low tones of a well-known voice. Immediately the\nflowers were gathered, and in my hand. It was Mr. Weston, of course--who\nelse would trouble himself to do so much for _me_?\n\n'I thanked him; whether warmly or coldly, I cannot tell: but certain I am\nthat I did not express half the gratitude I felt. It was foolish,\nperhaps, to feel any gratitude at all; but it seemed to me, at that\nmoment, as if this were a remarkable instance of his good-nature: an act\nof kindness, which I could not repay, but never should forget: so utterly\nunaccustomed was I to receive such civilities, so little prepared to\nexpect them from anyone within fifty miles of Horton Lodge. Yet this did\nnot prevent me from feeling a little uncomfortable in his presence; and I\nproceeded to follow my pupils at a much quicker pace than before; though,\nperhaps, if Mr. Weston had taken the hint, and let me pass without\nanother word, I might have repeated it an hour after: but he did not. A\nsomewhat rapid walk for me was but an ordinary pace for him.\n\n'Your young ladies have left you alone,' said he.\n\n'Yes, they are occupied with more agreeable company.'\n\n'Then don't trouble yourself to overtake them.' I slackened my pace; but\nnext moment regretted having done so: my companion did not speak; and I\nhad nothing in the world to say, and feared he might be in the same\npredicament. At length, however, he broke the pause by asking, with a\ncertain quiet abruptness peculiar to himself, if I liked flowers.\n\n'Yes; very much,' I answered, 'wild-flowers especially.'\n\n'_I_ like wild-flowers,' said he; 'others I don't care about, because I\nhave no particular associations connected with them--except one or two.\nWhat are your favourite flowers?'\n\n'Primroses, bluebells, and heath-blossoms.'\n\n'Not violets?'\n\n'No; because, as you say, I have no particular associations connected\nwith them; for there are no sweet violets among the hills and valleys\nround my home.'\n\n'It must be a great consolation to you to have a home, Miss Grey,'\nobserved my companion after a short pause: 'however remote, or however\nseldom visited, still it is something to look to.'\n\n'It is so much that I think I could not live without it,' replied I, with\nan enthusiasm of which I immediately repented; for I thought it must have\nsounded essentially silly.\n\n'Oh, yes, you could,' said he, with a thoughtful smile. 'The ties that\nbind us to life are tougher than you imagine, or than anyone can who has\nnot felt how roughly they may be pulled without breaking. You might be\nmiserable without a home, but even _you_ could live; and not so miserably\nas you suppose. The human heart is like india-rubber; a little swells\nit, but a great deal will not burst it. If \"little more than nothing\nwill disturb it, little less than all things will suffice\" to break it.\nAs in the outer members of our frame, there is a vital power inherent in\nitself that strengthens it against external violence. Every blow that\nshakes it will serve to harden it against a future stroke; as constant\nlabour thickens the skin of the hand, and strengthens its muscles instead\nof wasting them away: so that a day of arduous toil, that might excoriate\na lady's palm, would make no sensible impression on that of a hardy\nploughman.\n\n'I speak from experience--partly my own. There was a time when I thought\nas you do--at least, I was fully persuaded that home and its affections\nwere the only things that made life tolerable: that, if deprived of\nthese, existence would become a burden hard to be endured; but now I have\nno home--unless you would dignify my two hired rooms at Horton by such a\nname;--and not twelve months ago I lost the last and dearest of my early\nfriends; and yet, not only I live, but I am not wholly destitute of hope\nand comfort, even for this life: though I must acknowledge that I can\nseldom enter even an humble cottage at the close of day, and see its\ninhabitants peaceably gathered around their cheerful hearth, without a\nfeeling _almost_ of envy at their domestic enjoyment.'\n\n'You don't know what happiness lies before you yet,' said I: 'you are now\nonly in the commencement of your journey.'\n\n'The best of happiness,' replied he, 'is mine already--the power and the\nwill to be useful.'\n\nWe now approached a stile communicating with a footpath that conducted to\na farm-house, where, I suppose, Mr. Weston purposed to make himself\n'useful;' for he presently took leave of me, crossed the stile, and\ntraversed the path with his usual firm, elastic tread, leaving me to\nponder his words as I continued my course alone. I had heard before that\nhe had lost his mother not many months before he came. She then was the\nlast and dearest of his early friends; and he had _no home_. I pitied\nhim from my heart: I almost wept for sympathy. And this, I thought,\naccounted for the shade of premature thoughtfulness that so frequently\nclouded his brow, and obtained for him the reputation of a morose and\nsullen disposition with the charitable Miss Murray and all her kin.\n'But,' thought I, 'he is not so miserable as I should be under such a\ndeprivation: he leads an active life; and a wide field for useful\nexertion lies before him. He can _make_ friends; and he can make a home\ntoo, if he pleases; and, doubtless, he will please some time. God grant\nthe partner of that home may be worthy of his choice, and make it a happy\none--such a home as he deserves to have! And how delightful it would be\nto--' But no matter what I thought.\n\nI began this book with the intention of concealing nothing; that those\nwho liked might have the benefit of perusing a fellow-creature's heart:\nbut we have some thoughts that all the angels in heaven are welcome to\nbehold, but not our brother-men--not even the best and kindest amongst\nthem.\n\nBy this time the Greens had taken themselves to their own abode, and the\nMurrays had turned down the private road, whither I hastened to follow\nthem. I found the two girls warm in an animated discussion on the\nrespective merits of the two young officers; but on seeing me Rosalie\nbroke off in the middle of a sentence to exclaim, with malicious glee--\n\n'Oh-ho, Miss Grey! you're come at last, are you? No _wonder_ you\nlingered so long behind; and no _wonder_ you always stand up so\nvigorously for Mr. Weston when I abuse him. Ah-ha! I see it all now!'\n\n'Now, come, Miss Murray, don't be foolish,' said I, attempting a\ngood-natured laugh; 'you know such nonsense can make no impression on\nme.'\n\nBut she still went on talking such intolerable stuff--her sister helping\nher with appropriate fiction coined for the occasion--that I thought it\nnecessary to say something in my own justification.\n\n'What folly all this is!' I exclaimed. 'If Mr. Weston's road happened to\nbe the same as mine for a few yards, and if he chose to exchange a word\nor two in passing, what is there so remarkable in that? I assure you, I\nnever spoke to him before: except once.'\n\n'Where? where? and when?' cried they eagerly.\n\n'In Nancy's cottage.'\n\n'Ah-ha! you've met him there, have you?' exclaimed Rosalie, with exultant\nlaughter. 'Ah! now, Matilda, I've found out why she's so fond of going\nto Nancy Brown's! She goes there to flirt with Mr. Weston.'\n\n'Really, that is not worth contradicting--I only saw him there once, I\ntell you--and how could I know he was coming?'\n\nIrritated as I was at their foolish mirth and vexatious imputations, the\nuneasiness did not continue long: when they had had their laugh out, they\nreturned again to the captain and lieutenant; and, while they disputed\nand commented upon them, my indignation rapidly cooled; the cause of it\nwas quickly forgotten, and I turned my thoughts into a pleasanter\nchannel. Thus we proceeded up the park, and entered the hall; and as I\nascended the stairs to my own chamber, I had but one thought within me:\nmy heart was filled to overflowing with one single earnest wish. Having\nentered the room, and shut the door, I fell upon my knees and offered up\na fervent but not impetuous prayer: 'Thy will be done,' I strove to say\nthroughout; but, 'Father, all things are possible with Thee, and may it\nbe Thy will,' was sure to follow. That wish--that prayer--both men and\nwomen would have scorned me for--'But, Father, _Thou_ wilt _not_\ndespise!' I said, and felt that it was true. It seemed to me that\nanother's welfare was at least as ardently implored for as my own; nay,\neven _that_ was the principal object of my heart's desire. I might have\nbeen deceiving myself; but that idea gave me confidence to ask, and power\nto hope I did not ask in vain. As for the primroses, I kept two of them\nin a glass in my room until they were completely withered, and the\nhousemaid threw them out; and the petals of the other I pressed between\nthe leaves of my Bible--I have them still, and mean to keep them always.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV--THE RECTOR\n\n\nThe following day was as fine as the preceding one. Soon after breakfast\nMiss Matilda, having galloped and blundered through a few unprofitable\nlessons, and vengeably thumped the piano for an hour, in a terrible\nhumour with both me and it, because her mamma would not give her a\nholiday, had betaken herself to her favourite places of resort, the\nyards, the stables, and the dog-kennels; and Miss Murray was gone forth\nto enjoy a quiet ramble with a new fashionable novel for her companion,\nleaving me in the schoolroom hard at work upon a water-colour drawing\nwhich I had promised to do for her, and which she insisted upon my\nfinishing that day.\n\nAt my feet lay a little rough terrier. It was the property of Miss\nMatilda; but she hated the animal, and intended to sell it, alleging that\nit was quite spoiled. It was really an excellent dog of its kind; but\nshe affirmed it was fit for nothing, and had not even the sense to know\nits own mistress.\n\nThe fact was she had purchased it when but a small puppy, insisting at\nfirst that no one should touch it but herself; but soon becoming tired of\nso helpless and troublesome a nursling, she had gladly yielded to my\nentreaties to be allowed to take charge of it; and I, by carefully\nnursing the little creature from infancy to adolescence, of course, had\nobtained its affections: a reward I should have greatly valued, and\nlooked upon as far outweighing all the trouble I had had with it, had not\npoor Snap's grateful feelings exposed him to many a harsh word and many a\nspiteful kick and pinch from his owner, and were he not now in danger of\nbeing 'put away' in consequence, or transferred to some rough,\nstony-hearted master. But how could I help it? I could not make the dog\nhate me by cruel treatment, and she would not propitiate him by kindness.\n\nHowever, while I thus sat, working away with my pencil, Mrs. Murray came,\nhalf-sailing, half-bustling, into the room.\n\n'Miss Grey,' she began,--'dear! how can you sit at your drawing such a\nday as this?' (She thought I was doing it for my own pleasure.) 'I\n_wonder_ you don't put on your bonnet and go out with the young ladies.'\n\n'I think, ma'am, Miss Murray is reading; and Miss Matilda is amusing\nherself with her dogs.'\n\n'If you would try to amuse Miss Matilda yourself a little more, I think\nshe would not be driven to seek amusement in the companionship of dogs\nand horses and grooms, so much as she is; and if you would be a little\nmore cheerful and conversable with Miss Murray, she would not so often go\nwandering in the fields with a book in her hand. However, I don't want\nto vex you,' added she, seeing, I suppose, that my cheeks burned and my\nhand trembled with some unamiable emotion. 'Do, pray, try not to be so\ntouchy--there's no speaking to you else. And tell me if you know where\nRosalie is gone: and why she likes to be so much alone?'\n\n'She says she likes to be alone when she has a new book to read.'\n\n'But why can't she read it in the park or the garden?--why should she go\ninto the fields and lanes? And how is it that that Mr. Hatfield so often\nfinds her out? She told me last week he'd walked his horse by her side\nall up Moss Lane; and now I'm sure it was he I saw, from my dressing-room\nwindow, walking so briskly past the park-gates, and on towards the field\nwhere she so frequently goes. I wish you would go and see if she is\nthere; and just gently remind her that it is not proper for a young lady\nof her rank and prospects to be wandering about by herself in that\nmanner, exposed to the attentions of anyone that presumes to address her;\nlike some poor neglected girl that has no park to walk in, and no friends\nto take care of her: and tell her that her papa would be extremely angry\nif he knew of her treating Mr. Hatfield in the familiar manner that I\nfear she does; and--oh! if you--if _any_ governess had but half a\nmother's watchfulness--half a mother's anxious care, I should be saved\nthis trouble; and you would see at once the necessity of keeping your eye\nupon her, and making your company agreeable to-- Well, go--go; there's\nno time to be lost,' cried she, seeing that I had put away my drawing\nmaterials, and was waiting in the doorway for the conclusion of her\naddress.\n\nAccording to her prognostications, I found Miss Murray in her favourite\nfield just without the park; and, unfortunately, not alone; for the tall,\nstately figure of Mr. Hatfield was slowly sauntering by her side.\n\nHere was a poser for me. It was my duty to interrupt the _tete-a-tete_:\nbut how was it to be done? Mr. Hatfield could not to be driven away by\nso insignificant person as I; and to go and place myself on the other\nside of Miss Murray, and intrude my unwelcome presence upon her without\nnoticing her companion, was a piece of rudeness I could not be guilty of:\nneither had I the courage to cry aloud from the top of the field that she\nwas wanted elsewhere. So I took the intermediate course of walking\nslowly but steadily towards them; resolving, if my approach failed to\nscare away the beau, to pass by and tell Miss Murray her mamma wanted\nher.\n\nShe certainly looked very charming as she strolled, lingering along under\nthe budding horse-chestnut trees that stretched their long arms over the\npark-palings; with her closed book in one hand, and in the other a\ngraceful sprig of myrtle, which served her as a very pretty plaything;\nher bright ringlets escaping profusely from her little bonnet, and gently\nstirred by the breeze, her fair cheek flushed with gratified vanity, her\nsmiling blue eyes, now slyly glancing towards her admirer, now gazing\ndownward at her myrtle sprig. But Snap, running before me, interrupted\nher in the midst of some half-pert, half-playful repartee, by catching\nhold of her dress and vehemently tugging thereat; till Mr. Hatfield, with\nhis cane, administered a resounding thwack upon the animal's skull, and\nsent it yelping back to me with a clamorous outcry that afforded the\nreverend gentleman great amusement: but seeing me so near, he thought, I\nsuppose, he might as well be taking his departure; and, as I stooped to\ncaress the dog, with ostentatious pity to show my disapproval of his\nseverity, I heard him say: 'When shall I see you again, Miss Murray?'\n\n'At church, I suppose,' replied she, 'unless your business chances to\nbring you here again at the precise moment when I happen to be walking\nby.'\n\n'I could always manage to have business here, if I knew precisely when\nand where to find you.'\n\n'But if I would, I could not inform you, for I am so immethodical, I\nnever can tell to-day what I shall do to-morrow.'\n\n'Then give me that, meantime, to comfort me,' said he, half jestingly and\nhalf in earnest, extending his hand for the sprig of myrtle.\n\n'No, indeed, I shan't.'\n\n'Do! _pray_ do! I shall be the most miserable of men if you don't. You\ncannot be so cruel as to deny me a favour so easily granted and yet so\nhighly prized!' pleaded he as ardently as if his life depended on it.\n\nBy this time I stood within a very few yards of them, impatiently waiting\nhis departure.\n\n'There then! take it and go,' said Rosalie.\n\nHe joyfully received the gift, murmured something that made her blush and\ntoss her head, but with a little laugh that showed her displeasure was\nentirely affected; and then with a courteous salutation withdrew.\n\n'Did you ever see such a man, Miss Grey?' said she, turning to me; 'I'm\nso _glad_ you came! I thought I never _should_, get rid of him; and I\nwas so terribly afraid of papa seeing him.'\n\n'Has he been with you long?'\n\n'No, not long, but he's so extremely impertinent: and he's always hanging\nabout, pretending his business or his clerical duties require his\nattendance in these parts, and really watching for poor me, and pouncing\nupon me wherever he sees me.'\n\n'Well, your mamma thinks you ought not to go beyond the park or garden\nwithout some discreet, matronly person like me to accompany you, and keep\noff all intruders. She descried Mr. Hatfield hurrying past the\npark-gates, and forthwith despatched me with instructions to seek you up\nand to take care of you, and likewise to warn--'\n\n'Oh, mamma's so tiresome! As if I couldn't take care of myself. She\nbothered me before about Mr. Hatfield; and I told her she might trust me:\nI never should forget my rank and station for the most delightful man\nthat ever breathed. I wish he would go down on his knees to-morrow, and\nimplore me to be his wife, that I might just show her how mistaken she is\nin supposing that I could ever--Oh, it provokes me so! To think that I\ncould be such a fool as to fall in _love_! It is quite beneath the\ndignity of a woman to do such a thing. Love! I detest the word! As\napplied to one of our sex, I think it a perfect insult. A preference I\n_might_ acknowledge; but never for one like poor Mr. Hatfield, who has\nnot seven hundred a year to bless himself with. I like to talk to him,\nbecause he's so clever and amusing--I wish Sir Thomas Ashby were half as\nnice; besides, I must have _somebody_ to flirt with, and no one else has\nthe sense to come here; and when we go out, mamma won't let me flirt with\nanybody but Sir Thomas--if he's there; and if he's _not_ there, I'm bound\nhand and foot, for fear somebody should go and make up some exaggerated\nstory, and put it into his head that I'm engaged, or likely to be\nengaged, to somebody else; or, what is more probable, for fear his nasty\nold mother should see or hear of my ongoings, and conclude that I'm not a\nfit wife for her excellent son: as if the said son were not the greatest\nscamp in Christendom; and as if any woman of common decency were not a\nworld too good for him.'\n\n'Is it really so, Miss Murray? and does your mamma know it, and yet wish\nyou to marry him?'\n\n'To be sure, she does! She knows more against him than I do, I believe:\nshe keeps it from me lest I should be discouraged; not knowing how little\nI care about such things. For it's no great matter, really: he'll be all\nright when he's married, as mamma says; and reformed rakes make the best\nhusbands, _everybody_ knows. I only wish he were not so ugly--_that's_\nall _I_ think about: but then there's no choice here in the country; and\npapa _will not_ let us go to London--'\n\n'But I should think Mr. Hatfield would be far better.'\n\n'And so he would, if he were lord of Ashby Park--there's not a doubt of\nit: but the fact is, I _must_ have Ashby Park, whoever shares it with\nme.'\n\n'But Mr. Hatfield thinks you like him all this time; you don't consider\nhow bitterly he will be disappointed when he finds himself mistaken.'\n\n'_No_, indeed! It will be a proper punishment for his presumption--for\never _daring_ to think I could like him. I should enjoy nothing so much\nas lifting the veil from his eyes.'\n\n'The sooner you do it the better then.'\n\n'No; I tell you, I like to amuse myself with him. Besides, he doesn't\nreally think I like him. I take good care of that: you don't know how\ncleverly I manage. He may presume to think he can induce me to like him;\nfor which I shall punish him as he deserves.'\n\n'Well, mind you don't give too much reason for such presumption--that's\nall,' replied I.\n\nBut all my exhortations were in vain: they only made her somewhat more\nsolicitous to disguise her wishes and her thoughts from me. She talked\nno more to me about the Rector; but I could see that her mind, if not her\nheart, was fixed upon him still, and that she was intent upon obtaining\nanother interview: for though, in compliance with her mother's request, I\nwas now constituted the companion of her rambles for a time, she still\npersisted in wandering in the fields and lanes that lay in the nearest\nproximity to the road; and, whether she talked to me or read the book she\ncarried in her hand, she kept continually pausing to look round her, or\ngaze up the road to see if anyone was coming; and if a horseman trotted\nby, I could tell by her unqualified abuse of the poor equestrian, whoever\nhe might be, that she hated him _because_ he was not Mr. Hatfield.\n\n'Surely,' thought I, 'she is not so indifferent to him as she believes\nherself to be, or would have others to believe her; and her mother's\nanxiety is not so wholly causeless as she affirms.'\n\nThree days passed away, and he did not make his appearance. On the\nafternoon of the fourth, as we were walking beside the park-palings in\nthe memorable field, each furnished with a book (for I always took care\nto provide myself with something to be doing when she did not require me\nto talk), she suddenly interrupted my studies by exclaiming--\n\n'Oh, Miss Grey! do be so kind as to go and see Mark Wood, and take his\nwife half-a-crown from me--I should have given or sent it a week ago, but\nquite forgot. There!' said she, throwing me her purse, and speaking very\nfast--'Never mind getting it out now, but take the purse and give them\nwhat you like; I would go with you, but I want to finish this volume.\nI'll come and meet you when I've done it. Be quick, will you--and--oh,\nwait; hadn't you better read to him a bit? Run to the house and get some\nsort of a good book. Anything will do.'\n\nI did as I was desired; but, suspecting something from her hurried manner\nand the suddenness of the request, I just glanced back before I quitted\nthe field, and there was Mr. Hatfield about to enter at the gate below.\nBy sending me to the house for a book, she had just prevented my meeting\nhim on the road.\n\n'Never mind!' thought I, 'there'll be no great harm done. Poor Mark will\nbe glad of the half-crown, and perhaps of the good book too; and if the\nRector does steal Miss Rosalie's heart, it will only humble her pride a\nlittle; and if they do get married at last, it will only save her from a\nworse fate; and she will be quite a good enough partner for him, and he\nfor her.'\n\nMark Wood was the consumptive labourer whom I mentioned before. He was\nnow rapidly wearing away. Miss Murray, by her liberality, obtained\nliterally the blessing of him that was ready to perish; for though the\nhalf-crown could be of very little service to him, he was glad of it for\nthe sake of his wife and children, so soon to be widowed and fatherless.\nAfter I had sat a few minutes, and read a little for the comfort and\nedification of himself and his afflicted wife, I left them; but I had not\nproceeded fifty yards before I encountered Mr. Weston, apparently on his\nway to the same abode. He greeted me in his usual quiet, unaffected way,\nstopped to inquire about the condition of the sick man and his family,\nand with a sort of unconscious, brotherly disregard to ceremony took from\nmy hand the book out of which I had been reading, turned over its pages,\nmade a few brief but very sensible remarks, and restored it; then told me\nabout some poor sufferer he had just been visiting, talked a little about\nNancy Brown, made a few observations upon my little rough friend the\nterrier, that was frisking at his feet, and finally upon the beauty of\nthe weather, and departed.\n\nI have omitted to give a detail of his words, from a notion that they\nwould not interest the reader as they did me, and not because I have\nforgotten them. No; I remember them well; for I thought them over and\nover again in the course of that day and many succeeding ones, I know not\nhow often; and recalled every intonation of his deep, clear voice, every\nflash of his quick, brown eye, and every gleam of his pleasant, but too\ntransient smile. Such a confession will look very absurd, I fear: but no\nmatter: I have written it: and they that read it will not know the\nwriter.\n\nWhile I was walking along, happy within, and pleased with all around,\nMiss Murray came hastening to meet me; her buoyant step, flushed cheek,\nand radiant smiles showing that she, too, was happy, in her own way.\nRunning up to me, she put her arm through mine, and without waiting to\nrecover breath, began--'Now, Miss Grey, think yourself highly honoured,\nfor I'm come to tell you my news before I've breathed a word of it to\nanyone else.'\n\n'Well, what is it?'\n\n'Oh, _such_ news! In the first place, you must know that Mr. Hatfield\ncame upon me just after you were gone. I was in such a way for fear papa\nor mamma should see him; but you know I couldn't call you back again, and\nso!--oh, dear! I can't tell you all about it now, for there's Matilda, I\nsee, in the park, and I must go and open my budget to her. But, however,\nHatfield was most uncommonly audacious, unspeakably complimentary, and\nunprecedentedly tender--tried to be so, at least--he didn't succeed very\nwell in _that_, because it's not his vein. I'll tell you all he said\nanother time.'\n\n'But what did _you_ say--I'm more interested in that?'\n\n'I'll tell you that, too, at some future period. I happened to be in a\nvery good humour just then; but, though I was complaisant and gracious\nenough, I took care not to compromise myself in any possible way. But,\nhowever, the conceited wretch chose to interpret my amiability of temper\nhis own way, and at length presumed upon my indulgence so far--what do\nyou think?--he actually made me an offer!'\n\n'And you--'\n\n'I proudly drew myself up, and with the greatest coolness expressed my\nastonishment at such an occurrence, and hoped he had seen nothing in my\nconduct to justify his expectations. You should have _seen_ how his\ncountenance fell! He went perfectly white in the face. I assured him\nthat I esteemed him and all that, but could not possibly accede to his\nproposals; and if I did, papa and mamma could never be brought to give\ntheir consent.'\n\n'\"But if they could,\" said he, \"would yours be wanting?\"\n\n'\"Certainly, Mr. Hatfield,\" I replied, with a cool decision which quelled\nall hope at once. Oh, if you had seen how dreadfully mortified he\nwas--how crushed to the earth by his disappointment! really, I almost\npitied him myself.\n\n'One more desperate attempt, however, he made. After a silence of\nconsiderable duration, during which he struggled to be calm, and I to be\ngrave--for I felt a strong propensity to laugh--which would have ruined\nall--he said, with the ghost of a smile--\"But tell me plainly, Miss\nMurray, if I had the wealth of Sir Hugh Meltham, or the prospects of his\neldest son, would you still refuse me? Answer me truly, upon your\nhonour.\"\n\n'\"Certainly,\" said I. \"That would make no difference whatever.\"\n\n'It was a great lie, but he looked so confident in his own attractions\nstill, that I determined not to leave him one stone upon another. He\nlooked me full in the face; but I kept my countenance so well that he\ncould not imagine I was saying anything more than the actual truth.\n\n'\"Then it's all over, I suppose,\" he said, looking as if he could have\ndied on the spot with vexation and the intensity of his despair. But he\nwas angry as well as disappointed. There was he, suffering so\nunspeakably, and there was I, the pitiless cause of it all, so utterly\nimpenetrable to all the artillery of his looks and words, so calmly cold\nand proud, he could not but feel some resentment; and with singular\nbitterness he began--\"I certainly did not expect this, Miss Murray. I\nmight say something about your past conduct, and the hopes you have led\nme to foster, but I forbear, on condition--\"\n\n'\"No conditions, Mr. Hatfield!\" said I, now truly indignant at his\ninsolence.\n\n'\"Then let me beg it as a favour,\" he replied, lowering his voice at\nonce, and taking a humbler tone: \"let me entreat that you will not\nmention this affair to anyone whatever. If you will keep silence about\nit, there need be no unpleasantness on either side--nothing, I mean,\nbeyond what is quite unavoidable: for my own feelings I will endeavour to\nkeep to myself, if I cannot annihilate them--I will try to forgive, if I\ncannot forget the cause of my sufferings. I will not suppose, Miss\nMurray, that you know how deeply you have injured me. I would not have\nyou aware of it; but if, in addition to the injury you have already done\nme--pardon me, but, whether innocently or not, you _have_ done it--and if\nyou add to it by giving publicity to this unfortunate affair, or naming\nit _at all_, you will find that I too can speak, and though you scorned\nmy love, you will hardly scorn my--\"\n\n'He stopped, but he bit his bloodless lip, and looked so terribly fierce\nthat I was quite frightened. However, my pride upheld me still, and I\nanswered disdainfully; \"I do not know what motive you suppose I could\nhave for naming it to anyone, Mr. Hatfield; but if I were disposed to do\nso, you would not deter me by threats; and it is scarcely the part of a\ngentleman to attempt it.\"\n\n'\"Pardon me, Miss Murray,\" said he, \"I have loved you so intensely--I do\nstill adore you so deeply, that I would not willingly offend you; but\nthough I never have loved, and never _can_ love any woman as I have loved\nyou, it is equally certain that I never was so ill-treated by any. On\nthe contrary, I have always found your sex the kindest and most tender\nand obliging of God's creation, till now.\" (Think of the conceited\nfellow saying that!) \"And the novelty and harshness of the lesson you\nhave taught me to-day, and the bitterness of being disappointed in the\nonly quarter on which the happiness of my life depended, must excuse any\nappearance of asperity. If my presence is disagreeable to you, Miss\nMurray,\" he said (for I was looking about me to show how little I cared\nfor him, so he thought I was tired of him, I suppose)--\"if my presence is\ndisagreeable to you, Miss Murray, you have only to promise me the favour\nI named, and I will relieve you at once. There are many ladies--some\neven in this parish--who would be delighted to accept what you have so\nscornfully trampled under your feet. They would be naturally inclined to\nhate one whose surpassing loveliness has so completely estranged my heart\nfrom them and blinded me to their attractions; and a single hint of the\ntruth from me to one of these would be sufficient to raise such a talk\nagainst you as would seriously injure your prospects, and diminish your\nchance of success with any other gentleman you or your mamma might design\nto entangle.\"\n\n'\"What do your mean, sir?\" said I, ready to stamp with passion.\n\n'\"I mean that this affair from beginning to end appears to me like a case\nof arrant flirtation, to say the least of it--such a case as you would\nfind it rather inconvenient to have blazoned through the world:\nespecially with the additions and exaggerations of your female rivals,\nwho would be too glad to publish the matter, if I only gave them a handle\nto it. But I promise you, on the faith of a gentleman, that no word or\nsyllable that could tend to your prejudice shall ever escape my lips,\nprovided you will--\"\n\n'\"Well, well, I won't mention it,\" said I. \"You may rely upon my\nsilence, if that can afford you any consolation.\"\n\n'\"You promise it?\"\n\n'\"Yes,\" I answered; for I wanted to get rid of him now.\n\n'\"Farewell, then!\" said he, in a most doleful, heart-sick tone; and with\na look where pride vainly struggled against despair, he turned and went\naway: longing, no doubt, to get home, that he might shut himself up in\nhis study and cry--if he doesn't burst into tears before he gets there.'\n\n'But you have broken your promise already,' said I, truly horrified at\nher perfidy.\n\n'Oh! it's only to you; I know you won't repeat it.'\n\n'Certainly, I shall not: but you say you are going to tell your sister;\nand she will tell your brothers when they come home, and Brown\nimmediately, if you do not tell her yourself; and Brown will blazon it,\nor be the means of blazoning it, throughout the country.'\n\n'No, indeed, she won't. We shall not tell her at all, unless it be under\nthe promise of the strictest secrecy.'\n\n'But how can you expect her to keep her promises better than her more\nenlightened mistress?'\n\n'Well, well, she shan't hear it then,' said Miss Murray, somewhat\nsnappishly.\n\n'But you will tell your mamma, of course,' pursued I; 'and she will tell\nyour papa.'\n\n'Of course I shall tell mamma--that is the very thing that pleases me so\nmuch. I shall now be able to convince her how mistaken she was in her\nfears about me.'\n\n'Oh, _that's_ it, is it? I was wondering what it was that delighted you\nso much.'\n\n'Yes; and another thing is, that I've humbled Mr. Hatfield so charmingly;\nand another--why, you must allow me some share of female vanity: I don't\npretend to be without that most essential attribute of our sex--and if\nyou had seen poor Hatfield's intense eagerness in making his ardent\ndeclaration and his flattering proposal, and his agony of mind, that no\neffort of pride could conceal, on being refused, you would have allowed I\nhad some cause to be gratified.'\n\n'The greater his agony, I should think, the less your cause for\ngratification.'\n\n'Oh, nonsense!' cried the young lady, shaking herself with vexation.\n'You either can't understand me, or you won't. If I had not confidence\nin your magnanimity, I should think you envied me. But you will,\nperhaps, comprehend this cause of pleasure--which is as great as\nany--namely, that I am delighted with myself for my prudence, my\nself-command, my heartlessness, if you please. I was not a bit taken by\nsurprise, not a bit confused, or awkward, or foolish; I just acted and\nspoke as I ought to have done, and was completely my own mistress\nthroughout. And here was a man, decidedly good-looking--Jane and Susan\nGreen call him bewitchingly handsome I suppose they're two of the ladies\nhe pretends would be so glad to have him; but, however, he was certainly\na very clever, witty, agreeable companion--not what you call clever, but\njust enough to make him entertaining; and a man one needn't be ashamed of\nanywhere, and would not soon grow tired of; and to confess the truth, I\nrather liked him--better even, of late, than Harry Meltham--and he\nevidently idolised me; and yet, though he came upon me all alone and\nunprepared, I had the wisdom, and the pride, and the strength to refuse\nhim--and so scornfully and coolly as I did: I have good reason to be\nproud of that.'\n\n'And are you equally proud of having told him that his having the wealth\nof Sir Hugh Meltham would make no difference to you, when that was not\nthe case; and of having promised to tell no one of his misadventure,\napparently without the slightest intention of keeping your promise?'\n\n'Of course! what else could I do? You would not have had me--but I see,\nMiss Grey, you're not in a good temper. Here's Matilda; I'll see what\nshe and mamma have to say about it.'\n\nShe left me, offended at my want of sympathy, and thinking, no doubt,\nthat I envied her. I did not--at least, I firmly believed I did not. I\nwas sorry for her; I was amazed, disgusted at her heartless vanity; I\nwondered why so much beauty should be given to those who made so bad a\nuse of it, and denied to some who would make it a benefit to both\nthemselves and others.\n\nBut, God knows best, I concluded. There are, I suppose, some men as\nvain, as selfish, and as heartless as she is, and, perhaps, such women\nmay be useful to punish them.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV--THE WALK\n\n\n'Oh, dear! I wish Hatfield had not been so precipitate!' said Rosalie\nnext day at four P.M., as, with a portentous yawn, she laid down her\nworsted-work and looked listlessly towards the window. 'There's no\ninducement to go out now; and nothing to look forward to. The days will\nbe so long and dull when there are no parties to enliven them; and there\nare none this week, or next either, that I know of.'\n\n'Pity you were so cross to him,' observed Matilda, to whom this\nlamentation was addressed. 'He'll never come again: and I suspect you\nliked him after all. I hoped you would have taken him for your beau, and\nleft dear Harry to me.'\n\n'Humph! my beau must be an Adonis indeed, Matilda, the admired of all\nbeholders, if I am to be contented with him alone. I'm sorry to lose\nHatfield, I confess; but the first decent man, or number of men, that\ncome to supply his place, will be more than welcome. It's Sunday\nto-morrow--I do wonder how he'll look, and whether he'll be able to go\nthrough the service. Most likely he'll pretend he's got a cold, and make\nMr. Weston do it all.'\n\n'Not he!' exclaimed Matilda, somewhat contemptuously. 'Fool as he is,\nhe's not so soft as that comes to.'\n\nHer sister was slightly offended; but the event proved Matilda was right:\nthe disappointed lover performed his pastoral duties as usual. Rosalie,\nindeed, affirmed he looked very pale and dejected: he might be a little\npaler; but the difference, if any, was scarcely perceptible. As for his\ndejection, I certainly did not hear his laugh ringing from the vestry as\nusual, nor his voice loud in hilarious discourse; though I did hear it\nuplifted in rating the sexton in a manner that made the congregation\nstare; and, in his transits to and from the pulpit and the\ncommunion-table, there was more of solemn pomp, and less of that\nirreverent, self-confident, or rather self-delighted imperiousness with\nwhich he usually swept along--that air that seemed to say, 'You all\nreverence and adore me, I know; but if anyone does not, I defy him to the\nteeth!' But the most remarkable change was, that he never once suffered\nhis eyes to wander in the direction of Mr. Murray's pew, and did not\nleave the church till we were gone.\n\nMr. Hatfield had doubtless received a very severe blow; but his pride\nimpelled him to use every effort to conceal the effects of it. He had\nbeen disappointed in his certain hope of obtaining not only a beautiful,\nand, to him, highly attractive wife, but one whose rank and fortune might\ngive brilliance to far inferior charms: he was likewise, no doubt,\nintensely mortified by his repulse, and deeply offended at the conduct of\nMiss Murray throughout. It would have given him no little consolation to\nhave known how disappointed she was to find him apparently so little\nmoved, and to see that he was able to refrain from casting a single\nglance at her throughout both services; though, she declared, it showed\nhe was thinking of her all the time, or his eyes would have fallen upon\nher, if it were only by chance: but if they had so chanced to fall, she\nwould have affirmed it was because they could not resist the attraction.\nIt might have pleased him, too, in some degree, to have seen how dull and\ndissatisfied she was throughout that week (the greater part of it, at\nleast), for lack of her usual source of excitement; and how often she\nregretted having 'used him up so soon,' like a child that, having\ndevoured its plumcake too hastily, sits sucking its fingers, and vainly\nlamenting its greediness.\n\nAt length I was called upon, one fine morning, to accompany her in a walk\nto the village. Ostensibly she went to get some shades of Berlin wool,\nat a tolerably respectable shop that was chiefly supported by the ladies\nof the vicinity: really--I trust there is no breach of charity in\nsupposing that she went with the idea of meeting either with the Rector\nhimself, or some other admirer by the way; for as we went along, she kept\nwondering 'what Hatfield would do or say, if we met him,' &c. &c.; as we\npassed Mr. Green's park-gates, she 'wondered whether he was at\nhome--great stupid blockhead'; as Lady Meltham's carriage passed us, she\n'wondered what Mr. Harry was doing this fine day'; and then began to\nabuse his elder brother for being 'such a fool as to get married and go\nand live in London.'\n\n'Why,' said I, 'I thought you wanted to live in London yourself.'\n\n'Yes, because it's so dull here: but then he makes it still duller by\ntaking himself off: and if he were not married I might have him instead\nof that odious Sir Thomas.'\n\nThen, observing the prints of a horse's feet on the somewhat miry road,\nshe 'wondered whether it was a gentleman's horse,' and finally concluded\nit was, for the impressions were too small to have been made by a 'great\nclumsy cart-horse'; and then she 'wondered who the rider could be,' and\nwhether we should meet him coming back, for she was sure he had only\npassed that morning; and lastly, when we entered the village and saw only\na few of its humble inhabitants moving about, she 'wondered why the\nstupid people couldn't keep in their houses; she was sure she didn't want\nto see their ugly faces, and dirty, vulgar clothes--it wasn't for that\nshe came to Horton!'\n\nAmid all this, I confess, I wondered, too, in secret, whether we should\nmeet, or catch a glimpse of somebody else; and as we passed his lodgings,\nI even went so far as to wonder whether he was at the window. On\nentering the shop, Miss Murray desired me to stand in the doorway while\nshe transacted her business, and tell her if anyone passed. But alas!\nthere was no one visible besides the villagers, except Jane and Susan\nGreen coming down the single street, apparently returning from a walk.\n\n'Stupid things!' muttered she, as she came out after having concluded her\nbargain. 'Why couldn't they have their dolt of a brother with them? even\nhe would be better than nothing.'\n\nShe greeted them, however, with a cheerful smile, and protestations of\npleasure at the happy meeting equal to their own. They placed themselves\none on each side of her, and all three walked away chatting and laughing\nas young ladies do when they get together, if they be but on tolerably\nintimate terms. But I, feeling myself to be one too many, left them to\ntheir merriment and lagged behind, as usual on such occasions: I had no\nrelish for walking beside Miss Green or Miss Susan like one deaf and\ndumb, who could neither speak nor be spoken to.\n\nBut this time I was not long alone. It struck me, first, as very odd,\nthat just as I was thinking about Mr. Weston he should come up and accost\nme; but afterwards, on due reflection, I thought there was nothing odd\nabout it, unless it were the fact of his speaking to me; for on such a\nmorning and so near his own abode, it was natural enough that he should\nbe about; and as for my thinking of him, I had been doing that, with\nlittle intermission, ever since we set out on our journey; so there was\nnothing remarkable in that.\n\n'You are alone again, Miss Grey,' said he.\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'What kind of people are those ladies--the Misses Green?'\n\n'I really don't know.'\n\n'That's strange--when you live so near and see them so often!'\n\n'Well, I suppose they are lively, good-tempered girls; but I imagine you\nmust know them better than I do, yourself, for I never exchanged a word\nwith either of them.'\n\n'Indeed? They don't strike me as being particularly reserved.'\n\n'Very likely they are not so to people of their own class; but they\nconsider themselves as moving in quite a different sphere from me!'\n\nHe made no reply to this: but after a short pause, he said,--'I suppose\nit's these things, Miss Grey, that make you think you could not live\nwithout a home?'\n\n'Not exactly. The fact is I am too socially disposed to be able to live\ncontentedly without a friend; and as the only friends I have, or am\nlikely to have, are at home, if it--or rather, if they were gone--I will\nnot say I could not live--but I would rather not live in such a desolate\nworld.'\n\n'But why do you say the only friends you are likely to have? Are you so\nunsociable that you cannot make friends?'\n\n'No, but I never made one yet; and in my present position there is no\npossibility of doing so, or even of forming a common acquaintance. The\nfault may be partly in myself, but I hope not altogether.'\n\n'The fault is partly in society, and partly, I should think, in your\nimmediate neighbours: and partly, too, in yourself; for many ladies, in\nyour position, would make themselves be noticed and accounted of. But\nyour pupils should be companions for you in some degree; they cannot be\nmany years younger than yourself.'\n\n'Oh, yes, they are good company sometimes; but I cannot call them\nfriends, nor would they think of bestowing such a name on me--they have\nother companions better suited to their tastes.'\n\n'Perhaps you are too wise for them. How do you amuse yourself when\nalone--do you read much?'\n\n'Reading is my favourite occupation, when I have leisure for it and books\nto read.'\n\nFrom speaking of books in general, he passed to different books in\nparticular, and proceeded by rapid transitions from topic to topic, till\nseveral matters, both of taste and opinion, had been discussed\nconsiderably within the space of half an hour, but without the\nembellishment of many observations from himself; he being evidently less\nbent upon communicating his own thoughts and predilections, than on\ndiscovering mine. He had not the tact, or the art, to effect such a\npurpose by skilfully drawing out my sentiments or ideas through the real\nor apparent statement of his own, or leading the conversation by\nimperceptible gradations to such topics as he wished to advert to: but\nsuch gentle abruptness, and such single-minded straightforwardness, could\nnot possibly offend me.\n\n'And why should he interest himself at all in my moral and intellectual\ncapacities: what is it to him what I think or feel?' I asked myself. And\nmy heart throbbed in answer to the question.\n\nBut Jane and Susan Green soon reached their home. As they stood\nparleying at the park-gates, attempting to persuade Miss Murray to come\nin, I wished Mr. Weston would go, that she might not see him with me when\nshe turned round; but, unfortunately, his business, which was to pay one\nmore visit to poor Mark Wood, led him to pursue the same path as we did,\ntill nearly the close of our journey. When, however, he saw that Rosalie\nhad taken leave of her friends and I was about to join her, he would have\nleft me and passed on at a quicker pace; but, as he civilly lifted his\nhat in passing her, to my surprise, instead of returning the salute with\na stiff, ungracious bow, she accosted him with one of her sweetest\nsmiles, and, walking by his side, began to talk to him with all\nimaginable cheerfulness and affability; and so we proceeded all three\ntogether.\n\nAfter a short pause in the conversation, Mr. Weston made some remark\naddressed particularly to me, as referring to something we had been\ntalking of before; but before I could answer, Miss Murray replied to the\nobservation and enlarged upon it: he rejoined; and, from thence to the\nclose of the interview, she engrossed him entirely to herself. It might\nbe partly owing to my own stupidity, my want of tact and assurance: but I\nfelt myself wronged: I trembled with apprehension; and I listened with\nenvy to her easy, rapid flow of utterance, and saw with anxiety the\nbright smile with which she looked into his face from time to time: for\nshe was walking a little in advance, for the purpose (as I judged) of\nbeing seen as well as heard. If her conversation was light and trivial,\nit was amusing, and she was never at a loss for something to say, or for\nsuitable words to express it in. There was nothing pert or flippant in\nher manner now, as when she walked with Mr. Hatfield, there was only a\ngentle, playful kind of vivacity, which I thought must be peculiarly\npleasing to a man of Mr. Weston's disposition and temperament.\n\nWhen he was gone she began to laugh, and muttered to herself, 'I thought\nI could do it!'\n\n'Do what?' I asked.\n\n'Fix that man.'\n\n'What in the world do you mean?'\n\n'I mean that he will go home and dream of me. I have shot him through\nthe heart!'\n\n'How do you know?'\n\n'By many infallible proofs: more especially the look he gave me when he\nwent away. It was not an impudent look--I exonerate him from that--it\nwas a look of reverential, tender adoration. Ha, ha! he's not quite such\na stupid blockhead as I thought him!'\n\nI made no answer, for my heart was in my throat, or something like it,\nand I could not trust myself to speak. 'O God, avert it!' I cried,\ninternally--'for his sake, not for mine!'\n\nMiss Murray made several trivial observations as we passed up the park,\nto which (in spite of my reluctance to let one glimpse of my feelings\nappear) I could only answer by monosyllables. Whether she intended to\ntorment me, or merely to amuse herself, I could not tell--and did not\nmuch care; but I thought of the poor man and his one lamb, and the rich\nman with his thousand flocks; and I dreaded I knew not what for Mr.\nWeston, independently of my own blighted hopes.\n\nRight glad was I to get into the house, and find myself alone once more\nin my own room. My first impulse was to sink into the chair beside the\nbed; and laying my head on the pillow, to seek relief in a passionate\nburst of tears: there was an imperative craving for such an indulgence;\nbut, alas! I must restrain and swallow back my feelings still: there was\nthe bell--the odious bell for the schoolroom dinner; and I must go down\nwith a calm face, and smile, and laugh, and talk nonsense--yes, and eat,\ntoo, if possible, as if all was right, and I was just returned from a\npleasant walk.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI--THE SUBSTITUTION\n\n\nNext Sunday was one of the gloomiest of April days--a day of thick, dark\nclouds, and heavy showers. None of the Murrays were disposed to attend\nchurch in the afternoon, excepting Rosalie: she was bent upon going as\nusual; so she ordered the carriage, and I went with her: nothing loth, of\ncourse, for at church I might look without fear of scorn or censure upon\na form and face more pleasing to me than the most beautiful of God's\ncreations; I might listen without disturbance to a voice more charming\nthan the sweetest music to my ears; I might seem to hold communion with\nthat soul in which I felt so deeply interested, and imbibe its purest\nthoughts and holiest aspirations, with no alloy to such felicity except\nthe secret reproaches of my conscience, which would too often whisper\nthat I was deceiving my own self, and mocking God with the service of a\nheart more bent upon the creature than the Creator.\n\nSometimes, such thoughts would give me trouble enough; but sometimes I\ncould quiet them with thinking--it is not the man, it is his goodness\nthat I love. 'Whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely,\nwhatsoever things are honest and of good report, think on these things.'\nWe do well to worship God in His works; and I know none of them in which\nso many of His attributes--so much of His own spirit shines, as in this\nHis faithful servant; whom to know and not to appreciate, were obtuse\ninsensibility in me, who have so little else to occupy my heart.\n\nAlmost immediately after the conclusion of the service, Miss Murray left\nthe church. We had to stand in the porch, for it was raining, and the\ncarriage was not yet come. I wondered at her coming forth so hastily,\nfor neither young Meltham nor Squire Green was there; but I soon found it\nwas to secure an interview with Mr. Weston as he came out, which he\npresently did. Having saluted us both, he would have passed on, but she\ndetained him; first with observations upon the disagreeable weather, and\nthen with asking if he would be so kind as to come some time to-morrow to\nsee the granddaughter of the old woman who kept the porter's lodge, for\nthe girl was ill of a fever, and wished to see him. He promised to do\nso.\n\n'And at what time will you be most likely to come, Mr. Weston? The old\nwoman will like to know when to expect you--you know such people think\nmore about having their cottages in order when decent people come to see\nthem than we are apt to suppose.'\n\nHere was a wonderful instance of consideration from the thoughtless Miss\nMurray. Mr. Weston named an hour in the morning at which he would\nendeavour, to be there. By this time the carriage was ready, and the\nfootman was waiting, with an open umbrella, to escort Miss Murray through\nthe churchyard. I was about to follow; but Mr. Weston had an umbrella\ntoo, and offered me the benefit of its shelter, for it was raining\nheavily.\n\n'No, thank you, I don't mind the rain,' I said. I always lacked common\nsense when taken by surprise.\n\n'But you don't _like_ it, I suppose?--an umbrella will do you no harm at\nany rate,' he replied, with a smile that showed he was not offended; as a\nman of worse temper or less penetration would have been at such a refusal\nof his aid. I could not deny the truth of his assertion, and so went\nwith him to the carriage; he even offered me his hand on getting in: an\nunnecessary piece of civility, but I accepted that too, for fear of\ngiving offence. One glance he gave, one little smile at parting--it was\nbut for a moment; but therein I read, or thought I read, a meaning that\nkindled in my heart a brighter flame of hope than had ever yet arisen.\n\n'I would have sent the footman back for you, Miss Grey, if you'd waited a\nmoment--you needn't have taken Mr. Weston's umbrella,' observed Rosalie,\nwith a very unamiable cloud upon her pretty face.\n\n'I would have come without an umbrella, but Mr. Weston offered me the\nbenefit of his, and I could not have refused it more than I did without\noffending him,' replied I, smiling placidly; for my inward happiness made\nthat amusing, which would have wounded me at another time.\n\nThe carriage was now in motion. Miss Murray bent forwards, and looked\nout of the window as we were passing Mr. Weston. He was pacing homewards\nalong the causeway, and did not turn his head.\n\n'Stupid ass!' cried she, throwing herself back again in the seat. 'You\ndon't know what you've lost by not looking this way!'\n\n'What has he lost?'\n\n'A bow from me, that would have raised him to the seventh heaven!'\n\nI made no answer. I saw she was out of humour, and I derived a secret\ngratification from the fact, not that she was vexed, but that she thought\nshe had reason to be so. It made me think my hopes were not entirely the\noffspring of my wishes and imagination.\n\n'I mean to take up Mr. Weston instead of Mr. Hatfield,' said my\ncompanion, after a short pause, resuming something of her usual\ncheerfulness. 'The ball at Ashby Park takes place on Tuesday, you know;\nand mamma thinks it very likely that Sir Thomas will propose to me then:\nsuch things are often done in the privacy of the ball-room, when\ngentlemen are most easily ensnared, and ladies most enchanting. But if I\nam to be married so soon, I must make the best of the present time: I am\ndetermined Hatfield shall not be the only man who shall lay his heart at\nmy feet, and implore me to accept the worthless gift in vain.'\n\n'If you mean Mr. Weston to be one of your victims,' said I, with affected\nindifference, 'you will have to make such overtures yourself that you\nwill find it difficult to draw back when he asks you to fulfil the\nexpectations you have raised.'\n\n'I don't suppose he will ask me to marry him, nor should I desire it:\nthat would be rather too much presumption! but I intend him to feel my\npower. He has felt it already, indeed: but he shall _acknowledge_ it\ntoo; and what visionary hopes he may have, he must keep to himself, and\nonly amuse me with the result of them--for a time.'\n\n'Oh! that some kind spirit would whisper those words in his ear,' I\ninwardly exclaimed. I was far too indignant to hazard a reply to her\nobservation aloud; and nothing more was said about Mr. Weston that day,\nby me or in my hearing. But next morning, soon after breakfast, Miss\nMurray came into the schoolroom, where her sister was employed at her\nstudies, or rather her lessons, for studies they were not, and said,\n'Matilda, I want you to take a walk with me about eleven o'clock.'\n\n'Oh, I can't, Rosalie! I have to give orders about my new bridle and\nsaddle-cloth, and speak to the rat-catcher about his dogs: Miss Grey must\ngo with you.'\n\n'No, I want you,' said Rosalie; and calling her sister to the window, she\nwhispered an explanation in her ear; upon which the latter consented to\ngo.\n\nI remembered that eleven was the hour at which Mr. Weston proposed to\ncome to the porter's lodge; and remembering that, I beheld the whole\ncontrivance. Accordingly, at dinner, I was entertained with a long\naccount of how Mr. Weston had overtaken them as they were walking along\nthe road; and how they had had a long walk and talk with him, and really\nfound him quite an agreeable companion; and how he must have been, and\nevidently was, delighted with them and their amazing condescension, &c.\n&c.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII--CONFESSIONS\n\n\nAs I am in the way of confessions I may as well acknowledge that, about\nthis time, I paid more attention to dress than ever I had done before.\nThis is not saying much--for hitherto I had been a little neglectful in\nthat particular; but now, also, it was no uncommon thing to spend as much\nas two minutes in the contemplation of my own image in the glass; though\nI never could derive any consolation from such a study. I could discover\nno beauty in those marked features, that pale hollow cheek, and ordinary\ndark brown hair; there might be intellect in the forehead, there might be\nexpression in the dark grey eyes, but what of that?--a low Grecian brow,\nand large black eyes devoid of sentiment would be esteemed far\npreferable. It is foolish to wish for beauty. Sensible people never\neither desire it for themselves or care about it in others. If the mind\nbe but well cultivated, and the heart well disposed, no one ever cares\nfor the exterior. So said the teachers of our childhood; and so say we\nto the children of the present day. All very judicious and proper, no\ndoubt; but are such assertions supported by actual experience?\n\nWe are naturally disposed to love what gives us pleasure, and what more\npleasing than a beautiful face--when we know no harm of the possessor at\nleast? A little girl loves her bird--Why? Because it lives and feels;\nbecause it is helpless and harmless? A toad, likewise, lives and feels,\nand is equally helpless and harmless; but though she would not hurt a\ntoad, she cannot love it like the bird, with its graceful form, soft\nfeathers, and bright, speaking eyes. If a woman is fair and amiable, she\nis praised for both qualities, but especially the former, by the bulk of\nmankind: if, on the other hand, she is disagreeable in person and\ncharacter, her plainness is commonly inveighed against as her greatest\ncrime, because, to common observers, it gives the greatest offence;\nwhile, if she is plain and good, provided she is a person of retired\nmanners and secluded life, no one ever knows of her goodness, except her\nimmediate connections. Others, on the contrary, are disposed to form\nunfavourable opinions of her mind, and disposition, if it be but to\nexcuse themselves for their instinctive dislike of one so unfavoured by\nnature; and _visa versa_ with her whose angel form conceals a vicious\nheart, or sheds a false, deceitful charm over defects and foibles that\nwould not be tolerated in another. They that have beauty, let them be\nthankful for it, and make a good use of it, like any other talent; they\nthat have it not, let them console themselves, and do the best they can\nwithout it: certainly, though liable to be over-estimated, it is a gift\nof God, and not to be despised. Many will feel this who have felt that\nthey could love, and whose hearts tell them that they are worthy to be\nloved again; while yet they are debarred, by the lack of this or some\nsuch seeming trifle, from giving and receiving that happiness they seem\nalmost made to feel and to impart. As well might the humble glowworm\ndespise that power of giving light without which the roving fly might\npass her and repass her a thousand times, and never rest beside her: she\nmight hear her winged darling buzzing over and around her; he vainly\nseeking her, she longing to be found, but with no power to make her\npresence known, no voice to call him, no wings to follow his flight;--the\nfly must seek another mate, the worm must live and die alone.\n\nSuch were some of my reflections about this period. I might go on\nprosing more and more, I might dive much deeper, and disclose other\nthoughts, propose questions the reader might be puzzled to answer, and\ndeduce arguments that might startle his prejudices, or, perhaps, provoke\nhis ridicule, because he could not comprehend them; but I forbear.\n\nNow, therefore, let us return to Miss Murray. She accompanied her mamma\nto the ball on Tuesday; of course splendidly attired, and delighted with\nher prospects and her charms. As Ashby Park was nearly ten miles distant\nfrom Horton Lodge, they had to set out pretty early, and I intended to\nhave spent the evening with Nancy Brown, whom I had not seen for a long\ntime; but my kind pupil took care I should spend it neither there nor\nanywhere else beyond the limits of the schoolroom, by giving me a piece\nof music to copy, which kept me closely occupied till bed-time. About\neleven next morning, as soon as she had left her room, she came to tell\nme her news. Sir Thomas had indeed proposed to her at the ball; an event\nwhich reflected great credit on her mamma's sagacity, if not upon her\nskill in contrivance. I rather incline to the belief that she had first\nlaid her plans, and then predicted their success. The offer had been\naccepted, of course, and the bridegroom elect was coming that day to\nsettle matters with Mr. Murray.\n\nRosalie was pleased with the thoughts of becoming mistress of Ashby Park;\nshe was elated with the prospect of the bridal ceremony and its attendant\nsplendour and eclat, the honeymoon spent abroad, and the subsequent\ngaieties she expected to enjoy in London and elsewhere; she appeared\npretty well pleased too, for the time being, with Sir Thomas himself,\nbecause she had so lately seen him, danced with him, and been flattered\nby him; but, after all, she seemed to shrink from the idea of being so\nsoon united: she wished the ceremony to be delayed some months, at least;\nand I wished it too. It seemed a horrible thing to hurry on the\ninauspicious match, and not to give the poor creature time to think and\nreason on the irrevocable step she was about to take. I made no\npretension to 'a mother's watchful, anxious care,' but I was amazed and\nhorrified at Mrs. Murray's heartlessness, or want of thought for the real\ngood of her child; and by my unheeded warnings and exhortations, I vainly\nstrove to remedy the evil. Miss Murray only laughed at what I said; and\nI soon found that her reluctance to an immediate union arose chiefly from\na desire to do what execution she could among the young gentlemen of her\nacquaintance, before she was incapacitated from further mischief of the\nkind. It was for this cause that, before confiding to me the secret of\nher engagement, she had extracted a promise that I would not mention a\nword on the subject to any one. And when I saw this, and when I beheld\nher plunge more recklessly than ever into the depths of heartless\ncoquetry, I had no more pity for her. 'Come what will,' I thought, 'she\ndeserves it. Sir Thomas cannot be too bad for her; and the sooner she is\nincapacitated from deceiving and injuring others the better.'\n\nThe wedding was fixed for the first of June. Between that and the\ncritical ball was little more than six weeks; but, with Rosalie's\naccomplished skill and resolute exertion, much might be done, even within\nthat period; especially as Sir Thomas spent most of the interim in\nLondon; whither he went up, it was said, to settle affairs with his\nlawyer, and make other preparations for the approaching nuptials. He\nendeavoured to supply the want of his presence by a pretty constant fire\nof billets-doux; but these did not attract the neighbours' attention, and\nopen their eyes, as personal visits would have done; and old Lady Ashby's\nhaughty, sour spirit of reserve withheld her from spreading the news,\nwhile her indifferent health prevented her coming to visit her future\ndaughter-in-law; so that, altogether, this affair was kept far closer\nthan such things usually are.\n\nRosalie would sometimes show her lover's epistles to me, to convince me\nwhat a kind, devoted husband he would make. She showed me the letters of\nanother individual, too, the unfortunate Mr. Green, who had not the\ncourage, or, as she expressed it, the 'spunk,' to plead his cause in\nperson, but whom one denial would not satisfy: he must write again and\nagain. He would not have done so if he could have seen the grimaces his\nfair idol made over his moving appeals to her feelings, and heard her\nscornful laughter, and the opprobrious epithets she heaped upon him for\nhis perseverance.\n\n'Why don't you tell him, at once, that you are engaged?' I asked.\n\n'Oh, I don't want him to know that,' replied she. 'If he knew it, his\nsisters and everybody would know it, and then there would be an end of\nmy--ahem! And, besides, if I told him that, he would think my engagement\nwas the only obstacle, and that I would have him if I were free; which I\ncould not bear that any man should think, and he, of all others, at\nleast. Besides, I don't care for his letters,' she added,\ncontemptuously; 'he may write as often as he pleases, and look as great a\ncalf as he likes when I meet him; it only amuses me.'\n\nMeantime, young Meltham was pretty frequent in his visits to the house or\ntransits past it; and, judging by Matilda's execrations and reproaches,\nher sister paid more attention to him than civility required; in other\nwords, she carried on as animated a flirtation as the presence of her\nparents would admit. She made some attempts to bring Mr. Hatfield once\nmore to her feet; but finding them unsuccessful, she repaid his haughty\nindifference with still loftier scorn, and spoke of him with as much\ndisdain and detestation as she had formerly done of his curate. But,\namid all this, she never for a moment lost sight of Mr. Weston. She\nembraced every opportunity of meeting him, tried every art to fascinate\nhim, and pursued him with as much perseverance as if she really loved him\nand no other, and the happiness of her life depended upon eliciting a\nreturn of affection. Such conduct was completely beyond my\ncomprehension. Had I seen it depicted in a novel, I should have thought\nit unnatural; had I heard it described by others, I should have deemed it\na mistake or an exaggeration; but when I saw it with my own eyes, and\nsuffered from it too, I could only conclude that excessive vanity, like\ndrunkenness, hardens the heart, enslaves the faculties, and perverts the\nfeelings; and that dogs are not the only creatures which, when gorged to\nthe throat, will yet gloat over what they cannot devour, and grudge the\nsmallest morsel to a starving brother.\n\nShe now became extremely beneficent to the poor cottagers. Her\nacquaintance among them was more widely extended, her visits to their\nhumble dwellings were more frequent and excursive than they had ever been\nbefore. Hereby, she earned among them the reputation of a condescending\nand very charitable young lady; and their encomiums were sure to be\nrepeated to Mr. Weston: whom also she had thus a daily chance of meeting\nin one or other of their abodes, or in her transits to and fro; and\noften, likewise, she could gather, through their gossip, to what places\nhe was likely to go at such and such a time, whether to baptize a child,\nor to visit the aged, the sick, the sad, or the dying; and most skilfully\nshe laid her plans accordingly. In these excursions she would sometimes\ngo with her sister--whom, by some means, she had persuaded or bribed to\nenter into her schemes--sometimes alone, never, now, with me; so that I\nwas debarred the pleasure of seeing Mr. Weston, or hearing his voice even\nin conversation with another: which would certainly have been a very\ngreat pleasure, however hurtful or however fraught with pain. I could\nnot even see him at church: for Miss Murray, under some trivial pretext,\nchose to take possession of that corner in the family pew which had been\nmine ever since I came; and, unless I had the presumption to station\nmyself between Mr. and Mrs. Murray, I must sit with my back to the\npulpit, which I accordingly did.\n\nNow, also, I never walked home with my pupils: they said their mamma\nthought it did not look well to see three people out of the family\nwalking, and only two going in the carriage; and, as they greatly\npreferred walking in fine weather, I should be honoured by going with the\nseniors. 'And besides,' said they, 'you can't walk as fast as we do; you\nknow you're always lagging behind.' I knew these were false excuses, but\nI made no objections, and never contradicted such assertions, well\nknowing the motives which dictated them. And in the afternoons, during\nthose six memorable weeks, I never went to church at all. If I had a\ncold, or any slight indisposition, they took advantage of that to make me\nstay at home; and often they would tell me they were not going again that\nday, themselves, and then pretend to change their minds, and set off\nwithout telling me: so managing their departure that I never discovered\nthe change of purpose till too late. Upon their return home, on one of\nthese occasions, they entertained me with an animated account of a\nconversation they had had with Mr. Weston as they came along. 'And he\nasked if you were ill, Miss Grey,' said Matilda; 'but we told him you\nwere quite well, only you didn't want to come to church--so he'll think\nyou're turned wicked.'\n\nAll chance meetings on week-days were likewise carefully prevented; for,\nlest I should go to see poor Nancy Brown or any other person, Miss Murray\ntook good care to provide sufficient employment for all my leisure hours.\nThere was always some drawing to finish, some music to copy, or some work\nto do, sufficient to incapacitate me from indulging in anything beyond a\nshort walk about the grounds, however she or her sister might be\noccupied.\n\nOne morning, having sought and waylaid Mr. Weston, they returned in high\nglee to give me an account of their interview. 'And he asked after you\nagain,' said Matilda, in spite of her sister's silent but imperative\nintimation that she should hold her tongue. 'He wondered why you were\nnever with us, and thought you must have delicate health, as you came out\nso seldom.'\n\n'He didn't Matilda--what nonsense you're talking!'\n\n'Oh, Rosalie, what a lie! He did, you know; and you said--Don't,\nRosalie--hang it!--I won't be pinched so! And, Miss Grey, Rosalie told\nhim you were quite well, but you were always so buried in your books that\nyou had no pleasure in anything else.'\n\n'What an idea he must have of me!' I thought.\n\n'And,' I asked, 'does old Nancy ever inquire about me?'\n\n'Yes; and we tell her you are so fond of reading and drawing that you can\ndo nothing else.'\n\n'That is not the case though; if you had told her I was so busy I could\nnot come to see her, it would have been nearer the truth.'\n\n'I don't think it would,' replied Miss Murray, suddenly kindling up; 'I'm\nsure you have plenty of time to yourself now, when you have so little\nteaching to do.'\n\nIt was no use beginning to dispute with such indulged, unreasoning\ncreatures: so I held my peace. I was accustomed, now, to keeping silence\nwhen things distasteful to my ear were uttered; and now, too, I was used\nto wearing a placid smiling countenance when my heart was bitter within\nme. Only those who have felt the like can imagine my feelings, as I sat\nwith an assumption of smiling indifference, listening to the accounts of\nthose meetings and interviews with Mr. Weston, which they seemed to find\nsuch pleasure in describing to me; and hearing things asserted of him\nwhich, from the character of the man, I knew to be exaggerations and\nperversions of the truth, if not entirely false--things derogatory to\nhim, and flattering to them--especially to Miss Murray--which I burned to\ncontradict, or, at least, to show my doubts about, but dared not; lest,\nin expressing my disbelief, I should display my interest too. Other\nthings I heard, which I felt or feared were indeed too true: but I must\nstill conceal my anxiety respecting him, my indignation against them,\nbeneath a careless aspect; others, again, mere hints of something said or\ndone, which I longed to hear more of, but could not venture to inquire.\nSo passed the weary time. I could not even comfort myself with saying,\n'She will soon be married; and then there may be hope.'\n\nSoon after her marriage the holidays would come; and when I returned from\nhome, most likely, Mr. Weston would be gone, for I was told that he and\nthe Rector could not agree (the Rector's fault, of course), and he was\nabout to remove to another place.\n\nNo--besides my hope in God, my only consolation was in thinking that,\nthough he know it not, I was more worthy of his love than Rosalie Murray,\ncharming and engaging as she was; for I could appreciate his excellence,\nwhich she could not: I would devote my life to the promotion of his\nhappiness; she would destroy his happiness for the momentary\ngratification of her own vanity. 'Oh, if he could but know the\ndifference!' I would earnestly exclaim. 'But no! I would not have him\nsee my heart: yet, if he could but know her hollowness, her worthless,\nheartless frivolity, he would then be safe, and I should be--_almost_\nhappy, though I might never see him more!'\n\nI fear, by this time, the reader is well nigh disgusted with the folly\nand weakness I have so freely laid before him. I never disclosed it\nthen, and would not have done so had my own sister or my mother been with\nme in the house. I was a close and resolute dissembler--in this one case\nat least. My prayers, my tears, my wishes, fears, and lamentations, were\nwitnessed by myself and heaven alone.\n\nWhen we are harassed by sorrows or anxieties, or long oppressed by any\npowerful feelings which we must keep to ourselves, for which we can\nobtain and seek no sympathy from any living creature, and which yet we\ncannot, or will not wholly crush, we often naturally seek relief in\npoetry--and often find it, too--whether in the effusions of others, which\nseem to harmonize with our existing case, or in our own attempts to give\nutterance to those thoughts and feelings in strains less musical,\nperchance, but more appropriate, and therefore more penetrating and\nsympathetic, and, for the time, more soothing, or more powerful to rouse\nand to unburden the oppressed and swollen heart. Before this time, at\nWellwood House and here, when suffering from home-sick melancholy, I had\nsought relief twice or thrice at this secret source of consolation; and\nnow I flew to it again, with greater avidity than ever, because I seemed\nto need it more. I still preserve those relics of past sufferings and\nexperience, like pillars of witness set up in travelling through the vale\nof life, to mark particular occurrences. The footsteps are obliterated\nnow; the face of the country may be changed; but the pillar is still\nthere, to remind me how all things were when it was reared. Lest the\nreader should be curious to see any of these effusions, I will favour him\nwith one short specimen: cold and languid as the lines may seem, it was\nalmost a passion of grief to which they owed their being:--\n\n Oh, they have robbed me of the hope\n My spirit held so dear;\n They will not let me hear that voice\n My soul delights to hear.\n\n They will not let me see that face\n I so delight to see;\n And they have taken all thy smiles,\n And all thy love from me.\n\n Well, let them seize on all they can;--\n One treasure still is mine,--\n A heart that loves to think on thee,\n And feels the worth of thine.\n\nYes, at least, they could not deprive me of that: I could think of him\nday and night; and I could feel that he was worthy to be thought of.\nNobody knew him as I did; nobody could appreciate him as I did; nobody\ncould love him as I--could, if I might: but there was the evil. What\nbusiness had I to think so much of one that never thought of me? Was it\nnot foolish? was it not wrong? Yet, if I found such deep delight in\nthinking of him, and if I kept those thoughts to myself, and troubled no\none else with them, where was the harm of it? I would ask myself. And\nsuch reasoning prevented me from making any sufficient effort to shake\noff my fetters.\n\nBut, if those thoughts brought delight, it was a painful, troubled\npleasure, too near akin to anguish; and one that did me more injury than\nI was aware of. It was an indulgence that a person of more wisdom or\nmore experience would doubtless have denied herself. And yet, how dreary\nto turn my eyes from the contemplation of that bright object and force\nthem to dwell on the dull, grey, desolate prospect around: the joyless,\nhopeless, solitary path that lay before me. It was wrong to be so\njoyless, so desponding; I should have made God my friend, and to do His\nwill the pleasure and the business of my life; but faith was weak, and\npassion was too strong.\n\nIn this time of trouble I had two other causes of affliction. The first\nmay seem a trifle, but it cost me many a tear: Snap, my little dumb,\nrough-visaged, but bright-eyed, warm-hearted companion, the only thing I\nhad to love me, was taken away, and delivered over to the tender mercies\nof the village rat-catcher, a man notorious for his brutal treatment of\nhis canine slaves. The other was serious enough; my letters from home\ngave intimation that my father's health was worse. No boding fears were\nexpressed, but I was grown timid and despondent, and could not help\nfearing that some dreadful calamity awaited us there. I seemed to see\nthe black clouds gathering round my native hills, and to hear the angry\nmuttering of a storm that was about to burst, and desolate our hearth.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII--MIRTH AND MOURNING\n\n\nThe 1st of June arrived at last: and Rosalie Murray was transmuted into\nLady Ashby. Most splendidly beautiful she looked in her bridal costume.\nUpon her return from church, after the ceremony, she came flying into the\nschoolroom, flushed with excitement, and laughing, half in mirth, and\nhalf in reckless desperation, as it seemed to me.\n\n'Now, Miss Grey, I'm Lady Ashby!' she exclaimed. 'It's done, my fate is\nsealed: there's no drawing back now. I'm come to receive your\ncongratulations and bid you good-by; and then I'm off for Paris, Rome,\nNaples, Switzerland, London--oh, dear! what a deal I shall see and hear\nbefore I come back again. But don't forget me: I shan't forget you,\nthough I've been a naughty girl. Come, why don't you congratulate me?'\n\n'I cannot congratulate you,' I replied, 'till I know whether this change\nis really for the better: but I sincerely hope it is; and I wish you true\nhappiness and the best of blessings.'\n\n'Well, good-by, the carriage is waiting, and they're calling me.'\n\nShe gave me a hasty kiss, and was hurrying away; but, suddenly returning,\nembraced me with more affection than I thought her capable of evincing,\nand departed with tears in her eyes. Poor girl! I really loved her\nthen; and forgave her from my heart all the injury she had done me--and\nothers also: she had not half known it, I was sure; and I prayed God to\npardon her too.\n\nDuring the remainder of that day of festal sadness, I was left to my own\ndevices. Being too much unhinged for any steady occupation, I wandered\nabout with a book in my hand for several hours, more thinking than\nreading, for I had many things to think about. In the evening, I made\nuse of my liberty to go and see my old friend Nancy once again; to\napologize for my long absence (which must have seemed so neglectful and\nunkind) by telling her how busy I had been; and to talk, or read, or work\nfor her, whichever might be most acceptable, and also, of course, to tell\nher the news of this important day: and perhaps to obtain a little\ninformation from her in return, respecting Mr. Weston's expected\ndeparture. But of this she seemed to know nothing, and I hoped, as she\ndid, that it was all a false report. She was very glad to see me; but,\nhappily, her eyes were now so nearly well that she was almost independent\nof my services. She was deeply interested in the wedding; but while I\namused her with the details of the festive day, the splendours of the\nbridal party and of the bride herself, she often sighed and shook her\nhead, and wished good might come of it; she seemed, like me, to regard it\nrather as a theme for sorrow than rejoicing. I sat a long time talking\nto her about that and other things--but no one came.\n\nShall I confess that I sometimes looked towards the door with a\nhalf-expectant wish to see it open and give entrance to Mr. Weston, as\nhad happened once before? and that, returning through the lanes and\nfields, I often paused to look round me, and walked more slowly than was\nat all necessary--for, though a fine evening, it was not a hot one--and,\nfinally, felt a sense of emptiness and disappointment at having reached\nthe house without meeting or even catching a distant glimpse of any one,\nexcept a few labourers returning from their work?\n\nSunday, however, was approaching: I should see him then: for now that\nMiss Murray was gone, I could have my old corner again. I should see\nhim, and by look, speech, and manner, I might judge whether the\ncircumstance of her marriage had very much afflicted him. Happily I\ncould perceive no shadow of a difference: he wore the same aspect as he\nhad worn two months ago--voice, look, manner, all alike unchanged: there\nwas the same keen-sighted, unclouded truthfulness in his discourse, the\nsame forcible clearness in his style, the same earnest simplicity in all\nhe said and did, that made itself, not marked by the eye and ear, but\nfelt upon the hearts of his audience.\n\nI walked home with Miss Matilda; but _he did not join us_. Matilda was\nnow sadly at a loss for amusement, and wofully in want of a companion:\nher brothers at school, her sister married and gone, she too young to be\nadmitted into society; for which, from Rosalie's example, she was in some\ndegree beginning to acquire a taste--a taste at least for the company of\ncertain classes of gentlemen; at this dull time of year--no hunting going\non, no shooting even--for, though she might not join in that, it was\n_something_ to see her father or the gamekeeper go out with the dogs, and\nto talk with them on their return, about the different birds they had\nbagged. Now, also, she was denied the solace which the companionship of\nthe coachman, grooms, horses, greyhounds, and pointers might have\nafforded; for her mother having, notwithstanding the disadvantages of a\ncountry life, so satisfactorily disposed of her elder daughter, the pride\nof her heart had begun seriously to turn her attention to the younger;\nand, being truly alarmed at the roughness of her manners, and thinking it\nhigh time to work a reform, had been roused at length to exert her\nauthority, and prohibited entirely the yards, stables, kennels, and\ncoach-house. Of course, she was not implicitly obeyed; but, indulgent as\nshe had hitherto been, when once her spirit was roused, her temper was\nnot so gentle as she required that of her governesses to be, and her will\nwas not to be thwarted with impunity. After many a scene of contention\nbetween mother and daughter, many a violent outbreak which I was ashamed\nto witness, in which the father's authority was often called in to\nconfirm with oaths and threats the mother's slighted prohibitions--for\neven _he_ could see that 'Tilly, though she would have made a fine lad,\nwas not quite what a young lady ought to be'--Matilda at length found\nthat her easiest plan was to keep clear of the forbidden regions; unless\nshe could now and then steal a visit without her watchful mother's\nknowledge.\n\nAmid all this, let it not be imagined that I escaped without many a\nreprimand, and many an implied reproach, that lost none of its sting from\nnot being openly worded; but rather wounded the more deeply, because,\nfrom that very reason, it seemed to preclude self-defence. Frequently, I\nwas told to amuse Miss Matilda with other things, and to remind her of\nher mother's precepts and prohibitions. I did so to the best of my\npower: but she would not be amused against her will, and could not\nagainst her taste; and though I went beyond mere reminding, such gentle\nremonstrances as I could use were utterly ineffectual.\n\n'_Dear_ Miss Grey! it is the _strangest_ thing. I suppose you can't help\nit, if it's not in your nature--but I _wonder_ you can't win the\nconfidence of that girl, and make your society at _least_ as agreeable to\nher as that of Robert or Joseph!'\n\n'They can talk the best about the things in which she is most\ninterested,' I replied.\n\n'Well! that is a strange confession, _however_, to come from her\n_governess_! Who is to form a young lady's tastes, I wonder, if the\ngoverness doesn't do it? I have known governesses who have so completely\nidentified themselves with the reputation of their young ladies for\nelegance and propriety in mind and manners, that they would blush to\nspeak a word against them; and to hear the slightest blame imputed to\ntheir pupils was worse than to be censured in their own persons--and I\nreally think it very natural, for my part.'\n\n'Do you, ma'am?'\n\n'Yes, of course: the young lady's proficiency and elegance is of more\nconsequence to the governess than her own, as well as to the world. If\nshe wishes to prosper in her vocation she must devote all her energies to\nher business: all her ideas and all her ambition will tend to the\naccomplishment of that one object. When we wish to decide upon the\nmerits of a governess, we naturally look at the young ladies she\nprofesses to have educated, and judge accordingly. The _judicious_\ngoverness knows this: she knows that, while she lives in obscurity\nherself, her pupils' virtues and defects will be open to every eye; and\nthat, unless she loses sight of herself in their cultivation, she need\nnot hope for success. You see, Miss Grey, it is just the same as any\nother trade or profession: they that wish to prosper must devote\nthemselves body and soul to their calling; and if they begin to yield to\nindolence or self-indulgence they are speedily distanced by wiser\ncompetitors: there is little to choose between a person that ruins her\npupils by neglect, and one that corrupts them by her example. You will\nexcuse my dropping these little hints: you know it is all for your own\ngood. Many ladies would speak to you much more strongly; and many would\nnot trouble themselves to speak at all, but quietly look out for a\nsubstitute. That, of course, would be the _easiest_ plan: but I know the\nadvantages of a place like this to a person in your situation; and I have\nno desire to part with you, as I am sure you would do very well if you\nwill only think of these things and try to exert yourself a _little_\nmore: then, I am convinced, you would _soon_ acquire that delicate tact\nwhich alone is wanting to give you a proper influence over the mind of\nyour pupil.'\n\nI was about to give the lady some idea of the fallacy of her\nexpectations; but she sailed away as soon as she had concluded her\nspeech. Having said what she wished, it was no part of her plan to await\nmy answer: it was my business to hear, and not to speak.\n\nHowever, as I have said, Matilda at length yielded in some degree to her\nmother's authority (pity it had not been exerted before); and being thus\ndeprived of almost every source of amusement, there was nothing for it\nbut to take long rides with the groom and long walks with the governess,\nand to visit the cottages and farmhouses on her father's estate, to kill\ntime in chatting with the old men and women that inhabited them. In one\nof these walks, it was our chance to meet Mr. Weston. This was what I\nhad long desired; but now, for a moment, I wished either he or I were\naway: I felt my heart throb so violently that I dreaded lest some outward\nsigns of emotion should appear; but I think he hardly glanced at me, and\nI was soon calm enough. After a brief salutation to both, he asked\nMatilda if she had lately heard from her sister.\n\n'Yes,' replied she. 'She was at Paris when she wrote, and very well, and\nvery happy.'\n\nShe spoke the last word emphatically, and with a glance impertinently\nsly. He did not seem to notice it, but replied, with equal emphasis, and\nvery seriously--\n\n'I hope she will continue to be so.'\n\n'Do you think it likely?' I ventured to inquire: for Matilda had started\noff in pursuit of her dog, that was chasing a leveret.\n\n'I cannot tell,' replied he. 'Sir Thomas may be a better man than I\nsuppose; but, from all I have heard and seen, it seems a pity that one so\nyoung and gay, and--and interesting, to express many things by one\nword--whose greatest, if not her only fault, appears to be\nthoughtlessness--no trifling fault to be sure, since it renders the\npossessor liable to almost every other, and exposes him to so many\ntemptations--but it seems a pity that she should be thrown away on such a\nman. It was her mother's wish, I suppose?'\n\n'Yes; and her own too, I think, for she always laughed at my attempts to\ndissuade her from the step.'\n\n'You did attempt it? Then, at least, you will have the satisfaction of\nknowing that it is no fault of yours, if any harm should come of it. As\nfor Mrs. Murray, I don't know how she can justify her conduct: if I had\nsufficient acquaintance with her, I'd ask her.'\n\n'It seems unnatural: but some people think rank and wealth the chief\ngood; and, if they can secure that for their children, they think they\nhave done their duty.'\n\n'True: but is it not strange that persons of experience, who have been\nmarried themselves, should judge so falsely?' Matilda now came panting\nback, with the lacerated body of the young hare in her hand.\n\n'Was it your intention to kill that hare, or to save it, Miss Murray?'\nasked Mr. Weston, apparently puzzled at her gleeful countenance.\n\n'I pretended to want to save it,' she answered, honestly enough, 'as it\nwas so glaringly out of season; but I was better pleased to see it\nlolled. However, you can both witness that I couldn't help it: Prince\nwas determined to have her; and he clutched her by the back, and killed\nher in a minute! Wasn't it a noble chase?'\n\n'Very! for a young lady after a leveret.'\n\nThere was a quiet sarcasm in the tone of his reply which was not lost\nupon her; she shrugged her shoulders, and, turning away with a\nsignificant 'Humph!' asked me how I had enjoyed the fun. I replied that\nI saw no fun in the matter; but admitted that I had not observed the\ntransaction very narrowly.\n\n'Didn't you see how it doubled--just like an old hare? and didn't you\nhear it scream?'\n\n'I'm happy to say I did not.'\n\n'It cried out just like a child.'\n\n'Poor little thing! What will you do with it?'\n\n'Come along--I shall leave it in the first house we come to. I don't\nwant to take it home, for fear papa should scold me for letting the dog\nkill it.'\n\nMr. Weston was now gone, and we too went on our way; but as we returned,\nafter having deposited the hare in a farm-house, and demolished some\nspice-cake and currant-wine in exchange, we met him returning also from\nthe execution of his mission, whatever it might be. He carried in his\nhand a cluster of beautiful bluebells, which he offered to me; observing,\nwith a smile, that though he had seen so little of me for the last two\nmonths, he had not forgotten that bluebells were numbered among my\nfavourite flowers. It was done as a simple act of goodwill, without\ncompliment or remarkable courtesy, or any look that could be construed\ninto 'reverential, tender adoration' (_vide_ Rosalie Murray); but still,\nit was something to find my unimportant saying so well remembered: it was\nsomething that he had noticed so accurately the time I had ceased to be\nvisible.\n\n'I was told,' said he, 'that you were a perfect bookworm, Miss Grey: so\ncompletely absorbed in your studies that you were lost to every other\npleasure.'\n\n'Yes, and it's quite true!' cried Matilda.\n\n'No, Mr. Weston: don't believe it: it's a scandalous libel. These young\nladies are too fond of making random assertions at the expense of their\nfriends; and you ought to be careful how you listen to them.'\n\n'I hope _this_ assertion is groundless, at any rate.'\n\n'Why? Do you particularly object to ladies studying?'\n\n'No; but I object to anyone so devoting himself or herself to study, as\nto lose sight of everything else. Except under peculiar circumstances, I\nconsider very close and constant study as a waste of time, and an injury\nto the mind as well as the body.'\n\n'Well, I have neither the time nor the inclination for such\ntransgressions.'\n\nWe parted again.\n\nWell! what is there remarkable in all this? Why have I recorded it?\nBecause, reader, it was important enough to give me a cheerful evening, a\nnight of pleasing dreams, and a morning of felicitous hopes.\nShallow-brained cheerfulness, foolish dreams, unfounded hopes, you would\nsay; and I will not venture to deny it: suspicions to that effect arose\ntoo frequently in my own mind. But our wishes are like tinder: the flint\nand steel of circumstances are continually striking out sparks, which\nvanish immediately, unless they chance to fall upon the tinder of our\nwishes; then, they instantly ignite, and the flame of hope is kindled in\na moment.\n\nBut alas! that very morning, my flickering flame of hope was dismally\nquenched by a letter from my mother, which spoke so seriously of my\nfather's increasing illness, that I feared there was little or no chance\nof his recovery; and, close at hand as the holidays were, I almost\ntrembled lest they should come too late for me to meet him in this world.\nTwo days after, a letter from Mary told me his life was despaired of, and\nhis end seemed fast approaching. Then, immediately, I sought permission\nto anticipate the vacation, and go without delay. Mrs. Murray stared,\nand wondered at the unwonted energy and boldness with which I urged the\nrequest, and thought there was no occasion to hurry; but finally gave me\nleave: stating, however, that there was 'no need to be in such agitation\nabout the matter--it might prove a false alarm after all; and if\nnot--why, it was only in the common course of nature: we must all die\nsome time; and I was not to suppose myself the only afflicted person in\nthe world;' and concluding with saying I might have the phaeton to take\nme to O---. 'And instead of _repining_, Miss Grey, be thankful for the\n_privileges_ you enjoy. There's many a poor clergyman whose family would\nbe plunged into ruin by the event of his death; but you, you see, have\ninfluential friends ready to continue their patronage, and to show you\nevery consideration.'\n\nI thanked her for her 'consideration,' and flew to my room to make some\nhurried preparations for my departure. My bonnet and shawl being on, and\na few things hastily crammed into my largest trunk, I descended. But I\nmight have done the work more leisurely, for no one else was in a hurry;\nand I had still a considerable time to wait for the phaeton. At length\nit came to the door, and I was off: but, oh, what a dreary journey was\nthat! how utterly different from my former passages homewards! Being too\nlate for the last coach to ---, I had to hire a cab for ten miles, and\nthen a car to take me over the rugged hills.\n\nIt was half-past ten before I reached home. They were not in bed.\n\nMy mother and sister both met me in the passage--sad--silent--pale! I\nwas so much shocked and terror-stricken that I could not speak, to ask\nthe information I so much longed yet dreaded to obtain.\n\n'Agnes!' said my mother, struggling to repress some strong emotion.\n\n'Oh, Agnes!' cried Mary, and burst into tears.\n\n'How is he?' I asked, gasping for the answer.\n\n'Dead!'\n\nIt was the reply I had anticipated: but the shock seemed none the less\ntremendous.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX--THE LETTER\n\n\nMy father's mortal remains had been consigned to the tomb; and we, with\nsad faces and sombre garments, sat lingering over the frugal\nbreakfast-table, revolving plans for our future life. My mother's strong\nmind had not given way beneath even this affliction: her spirit, though\ncrushed, was not broken. Mary's wish was that I should go back to Horton\nLodge, and that our mother should come and live with her and Mr.\nRichardson at the vicarage: she affirmed that he wished it no less than\nherself, and that such an arrangement could not fail to benefit all\nparties; for my mother's society and experience would be of inestimable\nvalue to them, and they would do all they could to make her happy. But\nno arguments or entreaties could prevail: my mother was determined not to\ngo. Not that she questioned, for a moment, the kind wishes and\nintentions of her daughter; but she affirmed that so long as God spared\nher health and strength, she would make use of them to earn her own\nlivelihood, and be chargeable to no one; whether her dependence would be\nfelt as a burden or not. If she could afford to reside as a lodger\nin--vicarage, she would choose that house before all others as the place\nof her abode; but not being so circumstanced, she would never come under\nits roof, except as an occasional visitor: unless sickness or calamity\nshould render her assistance really needful, or until age or infirmity\nmade her incapable of maintaining herself.\n\n'No, Mary,' said she, 'if Richardson and you have anything to spare, you\nmust lay it aside for your family; and Agnes and I must gather honey for\nourselves. Thanks to my having had daughters to educate, I have not\nforgotten my accomplishments. God willing, I will check this vain\nrepining,' she said, while the tears coursed one another down her cheeks\nin spite of her efforts; but she wiped them away, and resolutely shaking\nback her head, continued, 'I will exert myself, and look out for a small\nhouse, commodiously situated in some populous but healthy district, where\nwe will take a few young ladies to board and educate--if we can get\nthem--and as many day pupils as will come, or as we can manage to\ninstruct. Your father's relations and old friends will be able to send\nus some pupils, or to assist us with their recommendations, no doubt: I\nshall not apply to my own. What say you to it, Agnes? will you be\nwilling to leave your present situation and try?'\n\n'Quite willing, mamma; and the money I have saved will do to furnish the\nhouse. It shall be taken from the bank directly.'\n\n'When it is wanted: we must get the house, and settle on preliminaries\nfirst.'\n\nMary offered to lend the little she possessed; but my mother declined it,\nsaying that we must begin on an economical plan; and she hoped that the\nwhole or part of mine, added to what we could get by the sale of the\nfurniture, and what little our dear papa had contrived to lay aside for\nher since the debts were paid, would be sufficient to last us till\nChristmas; when, it was hoped, something would accrue from our united\nlabours. It was finally settled that this should be our plan; and that\ninquiries and preparations should immediately be set on foot; and while\nmy mother busied herself with these, I should return to Horton Lodge at\nthe close of my four weeks' vacation, and give notice for my final\ndeparture when things were in train for the speedy commencement of our\nschool.\n\nWe were discussing these affairs on the morning I have mentioned, about a\nfortnight after my father's death, when a letter was brought in for my\nmother, on beholding which the colour mounted to her face--lately pale\nenough with anxious watchings and excessive sorrow. 'From my father!'\nmurmured she, as she hastily tore off the cover. It was many years since\nshe had heard from any of her own relations before. Naturally wondering\nwhat the letter might contain, I watched her countenance while she read\nit, and was somewhat surprised to see her bite her lip and knit her brows\nas if in anger. When she had done, she somewhat irreverently cast it on\nthe table, saying with a scornful smile,--'Your grandpapa has been so\nkind as to write to me. He says he has no doubt I have long repented of\nmy \"unfortunate marriage,\" and if I will only acknowledge this, and\nconfess I was wrong in neglecting his advice, and that I have justly\nsuffered for it, he will make a lady of me once again--if that be\npossible after my long degradation--and remember my girls in his will.\nGet my desk, Agnes, and send these things away: I will answer the letter\ndirectly. But first, as I may be depriving you both of a legacy, it is\njust that I should tell you what I mean to say. I shall say that he is\nmistaken in supposing that I can regret the birth of my daughters (who\nhave been the pride of my life, and are likely to be the comfort of my\nold age), or the thirty years I have passed in the company of my best and\ndearest friend;--that, had our misfortunes been three times as great as\nthey were (unless they had been of my bringing on), I should still the\nmore rejoice to have shared them with your father, and administered what\nconsolation I was able; and, had his sufferings in illness been ten times\nwhat they wore, I could not regret having watched over and laboured to\nrelieve them;--that, if he had married a richer wife, misfortunes and\ntrials would no doubt have come upon him still; while I am egotist enough\nto imagine that no other woman could have cheered him through them so\nwell: not that I am superior to the rest, but I was made for him, and he\nfor me; and I can no more repent the hours, days, years of happiness we\nhave spent together, and which neither could have had without the other,\nthan I can the privilege of having been his nurse in sickness, and his\ncomfort in affliction.\n\n'Will this do, children?--or shall I say we are all very sorry for what\nhas happened during the last thirty years, and my daughters wish they had\nnever been born; but since they have had that misfortune, they will be\nthankful for any trifle their grandpapa will be kind enough to bestow?'\n\nOf course, we both applauded our mother's resolution; Mary cleared away\nthe breakfast things; I brought the desk; the letter was quickly written\nand despatched; and, from that day, we heard no more of our grandfather,\ntill we saw his death announced in the newspaper a considerable time\nafter--all his worldly possessions, of course, being left to our wealthy\nunknown cousins.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX--THE FAREWELL\n\n\nA house in A---, the fashionable watering-place, was hired for our\nseminary; and a promise of two or three pupils was obtained to commence\nwith. I returned to Horton Lodge about the middle of July, leaving my\nmother to conclude the bargain for the house, to obtain more pupils, to\nsell off the furniture of our old abode, and to fit out the new one.\n\nWe often pity the poor, because they have no leisure to mourn their\ndeparted relatives, and necessity obliges them to labour through their\nseverest afflictions: but is not active employment the best remedy for\noverwhelming sorrow--the surest antidote for despair? It may be a rough\ncomforter: it may seem hard to be harassed with the cares of life when we\nhave no relish for its enjoyments; to be goaded to labour when the heart\nis ready to break, and the vexed spirit implores for rest only to weep in\nsilence: but is not labour better than the rest we covet? and are not\nthose petty, tormenting cares less hurtful than a continual brooding over\nthe great affliction that oppresses us? Besides, we cannot have cares,\nand anxieties, and toil, without hope--if it be but the hope of\nfulfilling our joyless task, accomplishing some needful project, or\nescaping some further annoyance. At any rate, I was glad my mother had\nso much employment for every faculty of her action-loving frame. Our\nkind neighbours lamented that she, once so exalted in wealth and station,\nshould be reduced to such extremity in her time of sorrow; but I am\npersuaded that she would have suffered thrice as much had she been left\nin affluence, with liberty to remain in that house, the scene of her\nearly happiness and late affliction, and no stern necessity to prevent\nher from incessantly brooding over and lamenting her bereavement.\n\nI will not dilate upon the feelings with which I left the old house, the\nwell-known garden, the little village church--then doubly dear to me,\nbecause my father, who, for thirty years, had taught and prayed within\nits walls, lay slumbering now beneath its flags--and the old bare hills,\ndelightful in their very desolation, with the narrow vales between,\nsmiling in green wood and sparkling water--the house where I was born,\nthe scene of all my early associations, the place where throughout life\nmy earthly affections had been centred;--and left them to return no more!\nTrue, I was going back to Horton Lodge, where, amid many evils, one\nsource of pleasure yet remained: but it was pleasure mingled with\nexcessive pain; and my stay, alas! was limited to six weeks. And even of\nthat precious time, day after day slipped by and I did not see him:\nexcept at church, I never saw him for a fortnight after my return. It\nseemed a long time to me: and, as I was often out with my rambling pupil,\nof course hopes would keep rising, and disappointments would ensue; and\nthen, I would say to my own heart, 'Here is a convincing proof--if you\nwould but have the sense to see it, or the candour to acknowledge\nit--that he does not care for you. If he only thought _half_ as much\nabout you as you do about him, he would have contrived to meet you many\ntimes ere this: you must know that, by consulting your own feelings.\nTherefore, have done with this nonsense: you have no ground for hope:\ndismiss, at once, these hurtful thoughts and foolish wishes from your\nmind, and turn to your own duty, and the dull blank life that lies before\nyou. You might have known such happiness was not for you.'\n\nBut I saw him at last. He came suddenly upon me as I was crossing a\nfield in returning from a visit to Nancy Brown, which I had taken the\nopportunity of paying while Matilda Murray was riding her matchless mare.\nHe must have heard of the heavy loss I had sustained: he expressed no\nsympathy, offered no condolence: but almost the first words he uttered\nwere,--'How is your mother?' And this was no matter-of-course question,\nfor I never told him that I had a mother: he must have learned the fact\nfrom others, if he knew it at all; and, besides, there was sincere\ngoodwill, and even deep, touching, unobtrusive sympathy in the tone and\nmanner of the inquiry. I thanked him with due civility, and told him she\nwas as well as could be expected. 'What will she do?' was the next\nquestion. Many would have deemed it an impertinent one, and given an\nevasive reply; but such an idea never entered my head, and I gave a brief\nbut plain statement of my mother's plans and prospects.\n\n'Then you will leave this place shortly?' said he.\n\n'Yes, in a month.'\n\nHe paused a minute, as if in thought. When he spoke again, I hoped it\nwould be to express his concern at my departure; but it was only to\nsay,--'I should think you will be willing enough to go?'\n\n'Yes--for some things,' I replied.\n\n'For _some_ things only--I wonder what should make you regret it?'\n\nI was annoyed at this in some degree; because it embarrassed me: I had\nonly one reason for regretting it; and that was a profound secret, which\nhe had no business to trouble me about.\n\n'Why,' said I--'why should you suppose that I dislike the place?'\n\n'You told me so yourself,' was the decisive reply. 'You said, at least,\nthat you could not live contentedly, without a friend; and that you had\nno friend here, and no possibility of making one--and, besides, I know\nyou _must_ dislike it.'\n\n'But if you remember rightly, I said, or meant to say, I could not live\ncontentedly without a friend in the world: I was not so unreasonable as\nto require one always near me. I think I could be happy in a house full\nof enemies, if--' but no; that sentence must not be continued--I paused,\nand hastily added,--'And, besides, we cannot well leave a place where we\nhave lived for two or three years, without some feeling of regret.'\n\n'Will you regret to part with Miss Murray, your sole remaining pupil and\ncompanion?'\n\n'I dare say I shall in some degree: it was not without sorrow I parted\nwith her sister.'\n\n'I can imagine that.'\n\n'Well, Miss Matilda is quite as good--better in one respect.'\n\n'What is that?'\n\n'She's honest.'\n\n'And the other is not?'\n\n'I should not call her _dis_honest; but it must be confessed she's a\nlittle artful.'\n\n'_Artful_ is she?--I saw she was giddy and vain--and now,' he added,\nafter a pause, 'I can well believe she was artful too; but so excessively\nso as to assume an aspect of extreme simplicity and unguarded openness.\nYes,' continued he, musingly, 'that accounts for some little things that\npuzzled me a trifle before.'\n\nAfter that, he turned the conversation to more general subjects. He did\nnot leave me till we had nearly reached the park-gates: he had certainly\nstepped a little out of his way to accompany me so far, for he now went\nback and disappeared down Moss Lane, the entrance of which we had passed\nsome time before. Assuredly I did not regret this circumstance: if\nsorrow had any place in my heart, it was that he was gone at last--that\nhe was no longer walking by my side, and that that short interval of\ndelightful intercourse was at an end. He had not breathed a word of\nlove, or dropped one hint of tenderness or affection, and yet I had been\nsupremely happy. To be near him, to hear him talk as he did talk, and to\nfeel that he thought me worthy to be so spoken to--capable of\nunderstanding and duly appreciating such discourse--was enough.\n\n'Yes, Edward Weston, I could indeed be happy in a house full of enemies,\nif I had but one friend, who truly, deeply, and faithfully loved me; and\nif that friend were you--though we might be far apart--seldom to hear\nfrom each other, still more seldom to meet--though toil, and trouble, and\nvexation might surround me, still--it would be too much happiness for me\nto dream of! Yet who can tell,' said I within myself, as I proceeded up\nthe park,--'who can tell what this one month may bring forth? I have\nlived nearly three-and-twenty years, and I have suffered much, and tasted\nlittle pleasure yet; is it likely my life all through will be so clouded?\nIs it not possible that God may hear my prayers, disperse these gloomy\nshadows, and grant me some beams of heaven's sunshine yet? Will He\nentirely deny to me those blessings which are so freely given to others,\nwho neither ask them nor acknowledge them when received? May I not still\nhope and trust? I did hope and trust for a while: but, alas, alas! the\ntime ebbed away: one week followed another, and, excepting one distant\nglimpse and two transient meetings--during which scarcely anything was\nsaid--while I was walking with Miss Matilda, I saw nothing of him:\nexcept, of course, at church.\n\nAnd now, the last Sunday was come, and the last service. I was often on\nthe point of melting into tears during the sermon--the last I was to hear\nfrom him: the best I should hear from anyone, I was well assured. It was\nover--the congregation were departing; and I must follow. I had then\nseen him, and heard his voice, too, probably for the last time. In the\nchurchyard, Matilda was pounced upon by the two Misses Green. They had\nmany inquiries to make about her sister, and I know not what besides. I\nonly wished they would have done, that we might hasten back to Horton\nLodge: I longed to seek the retirement of my own room, or some\nsequestered nook in the grounds, that I might deliver myself up to my\nfeelings--to weep my last farewell, and lament my false hopes and vain\ndelusions. Only this once, and then adieu to fruitless\ndreaming--thenceforth, only sober, solid, sad reality should occupy my\nmind. But while I thus resolved, a low voice close beside me said--'I\nsuppose you are going this week, Miss Grey?' 'Yes,' I replied. I was\nvery much startled; and had I been at all hysterically inclined, I\ncertainly should have committed myself in some way then. Thank God, I\nwas not.\n\n'Well,' said Mr. Weston, 'I want to bid you good-bye--it is not likely I\nshall see you again before you go.'\n\n'Good-bye, Mr. Weston,' I said. Oh, how I struggled to say it calmly! I\ngave him my hand. He retained it a few seconds in his.\n\n'It is possible we may meet again,' said he; 'will it be of any\nconsequence to you whether we do or not?'\n\n'Yes, I should be very glad to see you again.'\n\nI _could_ say no less. He kindly pressed my hand, and went. Now, I was\nhappy again--though more inclined to burst into tears than ever. If I\nhad been forced to speak at that moment, a succession of sobs would have\ninevitably ensued; and as it was, I could not keep the water out of my\neyes. I walked along with Miss Murray, turning aside my face, and\nneglecting to notice several successive remarks, till she bawled out that\nI was either deaf or stupid; and then (having recovered my\nself-possession), as one awakened from a fit of abstraction, I suddenly\nlooked up and asked what she had been saying.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI--THE SCHOOL\n\n\nI left Horton Lodge, and went to join my mother in our new abode at A---.\nI found her well in health, resigned in spirit, and even cheerful, though\nsubdued and sober, in her general demeanour. We had only three boarders\nand half a dozen day-pupils to commence with; but by due care and\ndiligence we hoped ere long to increase the number of both.\n\nI set myself with befitting energy to discharge the duties of this new\nmode of life. I call it _new_, for there was, indeed, a considerable\ndifference between working with my mother in a school of our own, and\nworking as a hireling among strangers, despised and trampled upon by old\nand young; and for the first few weeks I was by no means unhappy. 'It is\npossible we may meet again,' and 'will it be of any consequence to you\nwhether we do or not?'--Those words still rang in my ear and rested on my\nheart: they were my secret solace and support. 'I shall see him\nagain.--He will come; or he will write.' No promise, in fact, was too\nbright or too extravagant for Hope to whisper in my ear. I did not\nbelieve half of what she told me: I pretended to laugh at it all; but I\nwas far more credulous than I myself supposed; otherwise, why did my\nheart leap up when a knock was heard at the front door, and the maid, who\nopened it, came to tell my mother a gentleman wished to see her? and why\nwas I out of humour for the rest of the day, because it proved to be a\nmusic-master come to offer his services to our school? and what stopped\nmy breath for a moment, when the postman having brought a couple of\nletters, my mother said, 'Here, Agnes, this is for you,' and threw one of\nthem to me? and what made the hot blood rush into my face when I saw it\nwas directed in a gentleman's hand? and why--oh! why did that cold,\nsickening sense of disappointment fall upon me, when I had torn open the\ncover and found it was _only_ a letter from Mary, which, for some reason\nor other, her husband had directed for her?\n\nWas it then come to this--that I should be _disappointed_ to receive a\nletter from my only sister: and because it was not written by a\ncomparative stranger? Dear Mary! and she had written it so kindly--and\nthinking I should be so pleased to have it!--I was not worthy to read it!\nAnd I believe, in my indignation against myself, I should have put it\naside till I had schooled myself into a better frame of mind, and was\nbecome more deserving of the honour and privilege of its perusal: but\nthere was my mother looking on, and wishful to know what news it\ncontained; so I read it and delivered it to her, and then went into the\nschoolroom to attend to the pupils: but amidst the cares of copies and\nsums--in the intervals of correcting errors here, and reproving\nderelictions of duty there, I was inwardly taking myself to task with far\nsterner severity. 'What a fool you must be,' said my head to my heart,\nor my sterner to my softer self;--'how could you ever dream that he would\nwrite to you? What grounds have you for such a hope--or that he will see\nyou, or give himself any trouble about you--or even think of you again?'\n'What grounds?'--and then Hope set before me that last, short interview,\nand repeated the words I had so faithfully treasured in my memory.\n'Well, and what was there in that?--Who ever hung his hopes upon so frail\na twig? What was there in those words that any common acquaintance might\nnot say to another? Of course, it was possible you might meet again: he\nmight have said so if you had been going to New Zealand; but that did not\nimply any _intention_ of seeing you--and then, as to the question that\nfollowed, anyone might ask that: and how did you answer?--Merely with a\nstupid, commonplace reply, such as you would have given to Master Murray,\nor anyone else you had been on tolerably civil terms with.' 'But, then,'\npersisted Hope, 'the tone and manner in which he spoke.' 'Oh, that is\nnonsense! he always speaks impressively; and at that moment there were\nthe Greens and Miss Matilda Murray just before, and other people passing\nby, and he was obliged to stand close beside you, and to speak very low,\nunless he wished everybody to hear what he said, which--though it was\nnothing at all particular--of course, he would rather not.' But then,\nabove all, that emphatic, yet gentle pressure of the hand, which seemed\nto say, '_Trust_ me;' and many other things besides--too delightful,\nalmost too flattering, to be repeated even to one's self. 'Egregious\nfolly--too absurd to require contradiction--mere inventions of the\nimagination, which you ought to be ashamed of. If you would but consider\nyour own unattractive exterior, your unamiable reserve, your foolish\ndiffidence--which must make you appear cold, dull, awkward, and perhaps\nill-tempered too;--if you had but rightly considered these from the\nbeginning, you would never have harboured such presumptuous thoughts: and\nnow that you have been so foolish, pray repent and amend, and let us have\nno more of it!'\n\nI cannot say that I implicitly obeyed my own injunctions: but such\nreasoning as this became more and more effective as time wore on, and\nnothing was seen or heard of Mr. Weston; until, at last, I gave up\nhoping, for even my heart acknowledged it was all in vain. But still, I\nwould think of him: I would cherish his image in my mind; and treasure\nevery word, look, and gesture that my memory could retain; and brood over\nhis excellences and his peculiarities, and, in fact, all I had seen,\nheard, or imagined respecting him.\n\n'Agnes, this sea air and change of scene do you no good, I think: I never\nsaw you look so wretched. It must be that you sit too much, and allow\nthe cares of the schoolroom to worry you. You must learn to take things\neasy, and to be more active and cheerful; you must take exercise whenever\nyou can get it, and leave the most tiresome duties to me: they will only\nserve to exercise my patience, and, perhaps, try my temper a little.'\n\nSo said my mother, as we sat at work one morning during the Easter\nholidays. I assured her that my employments were not at all oppressive;\nthat I was well; or, if there was anything amiss, it would be gone as\nsoon as the trying months of spring were over: when summer came I should\nbe as strong and hearty as she could wish to see me: but inwardly her\nobservation startled me. I knew my strength was declining, my appetite\nhad failed, and I was grown listless and desponding;--and if, indeed, he\ncould never care for me, and I could never see him more--if I was\nforbidden to minister to his happiness--forbidden, for ever, to taste the\njoys of love, to bless, and to be blessed--then, life must be a burden,\nand if my heavenly Father would call me away, I should be glad to rest.\nBut it would not do to die and leave my mother. Selfish, unworthy\ndaughter, to forget her for a moment! Was not her happiness committed in\na great measure to my charge?--and the welfare of our young pupils too?\nShould I shrink from the work that God had set before me, because it was\nnot fitted to my taste? Did not He know best what I should do, and where\nI ought to labour?--and should I long to quit His service before I had\nfinished my task, and expect to enter into His rest without having\nlaboured to earn it? 'No; by His help I will arise and address myself\ndiligently to my appointed duty. If happiness in this world is not for\nme, I will endeavour to promote the welfare of those around me, and my\nreward shall be hereafter.' So said I in my heart; and from that hour I\nonly permitted my thoughts to wander to Edward Weston--or at least to\ndwell upon him now and then--as a treat for rare occasions: and, whether\nit was really the approach of summer or the effect of these good\nresolutions, or the lapse of time, or all together, tranquillity of mind\nwas soon restored; and bodily health and vigour began likewise, slowly,\nbut surely, to return.\n\nEarly in June, I received a letter from Lady Ashby, late Miss Murray.\nShe had written to me twice or thrice before, from the different stages\nof her bridal tour, always in good spirits, and professing to be very\nhappy. I wondered every time that she had not forgotten me, in the midst\nof so much gaiety and variety of scene. At length, however, there was a\npause; and it seemed she had forgotten me, for upwards of seven months\npassed away and no letter. Of course, I did not break my heart about\n_that_, though I often wondered how she was getting on; and when this\nlast epistle so unexpectedly arrived, I was glad enough to receive it.\nIt was dated from Ashby Park, where she was come to settle down at last,\nhaving previously divided her time between the continent and the\nmetropolis. She made many apologies for having neglected me so long,\nassured me she had not forgotten me, and had often intended to write, &c.\n&c., but had always been prevented by something. She acknowledged that\nshe had been leading a very dissipated life, and I should think her very\nwicked and very thoughtless; but, notwithstanding that, she thought a\ngreat deal, and, among other things, that she should vastly like to see\nme. 'We have been several days here already,' wrote she. 'We have not a\nsingle friend with us, and are likely to be very dull. You know I never\nhad a fancy for living with my husband like two turtles in a nest, were\nhe the most delightful creature that ever wore a coat; so do take pity\nupon me and come. I suppose your Midsummer holidays commence in June,\nthe same as other people's; therefore you cannot plead want of time; and\nyou must and shall come--in fact, I shall die if you don't. I want you\nto visit me as a friend, and stay a long time. There is nobody with me,\nas I told you before, but Sir Thomas and old Lady Ashby: but you needn't\nmind them--they'll trouble us but little with their company. And you\nshall have a room to yourself, whenever you like to retire to it, and\nplenty of books to read when my company is not sufficiently amusing. I\nforget whether you like babies; if you do, you may have the pleasure of\nseeing mine--the most charming child in the world, no doubt; and all the\nmore so, that I am not troubled with nursing it--I was determined I\nwouldn't be bothered with that. Unfortunately, it is a girl, and Sir\nThomas has never forgiven me: but, however, if you will only come, I\npromise you shall be its governess as soon as it can speak; and you shall\nbring it up in the way it should go, and make a better woman of it than\nits mamma. And you shall see my poodle, too: a splendid little charmer\nimported from Paris: and two fine Italian paintings of great value--I\nforget the artist. Doubtless you will be able to discover prodigious\nbeauties in them, which you must point out to me, as I only admire by\nhearsay; and many elegant curiosities besides, which I purchased at Rome\nand elsewhere; and, finally, you shall see my new home--the splendid\nhouse and grounds I used to covet so greatly. Alas! how far the promise\nof anticipation exceeds the pleasure of possession! There's a fine\nsentiment! I assure you I am become quite a grave old matron: pray come,\nif it be only to witness the wonderful change. Write by return of post,\nand tell me when your vacation commences, and say that you will come the\nday after, and stay till the day before it closes--in mercy to\n\n 'Yours affectionately,\n 'ROSALIE ASHBY.'\n\n\n\nI showed this strange epistle to my mother, and consulted her on what I\nought to do. She advised me to go; and I went--willing enough to see\nLady Ashby, and her baby, too, and to do anything I could to benefit her,\nby consolation or advice; for I imagined she must be unhappy, or she\nwould not have applied to me thus--but feeling, as may readily be\nconceived, that, in accepting the invitation, I made a great sacrifice\nfor her, and did violence to my feelings in many ways, instead of being\ndelighted with the honourable distinction of being entreated by the\nbaronet's lady to visit her as a friend. However, I determined my visit\nshould be only for a few days at most; and I will not deny that I derived\nsome consolation from the idea that, as Ashby Park was not very far from\nHorton, I might possibly see Mr. Weston, or, at least, hear something\nabout him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII--THE VISIT\n\n\nAshby Park was certainly a very delightful residence. The mansion was\nstately without, commodious and elegant within; the park was spacious and\nbeautiful, chiefly on account of its magnificent old trees, its stately\nherds of deer, its broad sheet of water, and the ancient woods that\nstretched beyond it: for there was no broken ground to give variety to\nthe landscape, and but very little of that undulating swell which adds so\ngreatly to the charm of park scenery. And so, this was the place Rosalie\nMurray had so longed to call her own, that she must have a share of it,\non whatever terms it might be offered--whatever price was to be paid for\nthe title of mistress, and whoever was to be her partner in the honour\nand bliss of such a possession! Well I am not disposed to censure her\nnow.\n\nShe received me very kindly; and, though I was a poor clergyman's\ndaughter, a governess, and a schoolmistress, she welcomed me with\nunaffected pleasure to her home; and--what surprised me rather--took some\npains to make my visit agreeable. I could see, it is true, that she\nexpected me to be greatly struck with the magnificence that surrounded\nher; and, I confess, I was rather annoyed at her evident efforts to\nreassure me, and prevent me from being overwhelmed by so much\ngrandeur--too much awed at the idea of encountering her husband and\nmother-in-law, or too much ashamed of my own humble appearance. I was\nnot ashamed of it at all; for, though plain, I had taken good care not to\nshabby or mean, and should have been pretty considerably at my ease, if\nmy condescending hostess had not taken such manifest pains to make me so;\nand, as for the magnificence that surrounded her, nothing that met my\neyes struck me or affected me half so much as her own altered appearance.\nWhether from the influence of fashionable dissipation, or some other\nevil, a space of little more than twelve months had had the effect that\nmight be expected from as many years, in reducing the plumpness of her\nform, the freshness of her complexion, the vivacity of her movements, and\nthe exuberance of her spirits.\n\nI wished to know if she was unhappy; but I felt it was not my province to\ninquire: I might endeavour to win her confidence; but, if she chose to\nconceal her matrimonial cares from me, I would trouble her with no\nobtrusive questions. I, therefore, at first, confined myself to a few\ngeneral inquiries about her health and welfare, and a few commendations\non the beauty of the park, and of the little girl that should have been a\nboy: a small delicate infant of seven or eight weeks old, whom its mother\nseemed to regard with no remarkable degree of interest or affection,\nthough full as much as I expected her to show.\n\nShortly after my arrival, she commissioned her maid to conduct me to my\nroom and see that I had everything I wanted; it was a small,\nunpretending, but sufficiently comfortable apartment. When I descended\nthence--having divested myself of all travelling encumbrances, and\narranged my toilet with due consideration for the feelings of my lady\nhostess, she conducted me herself to the room I was to occupy when I\nchose to be alone, or when she was engaged with visitors, or obliged to\nbe with her mother-in-law, or otherwise prevented, as she said, from\nenjoying the pleasure of my society. It was a quiet, tidy little\nsitting-room; and I was not sorry to be provided with such a harbour of\nrefuge.\n\n'And some time,' said she, 'I will show you the library: I never examined\nits shelves, but, I daresay, it is full of wise books; and you may go and\nburrow among them whenever you please. And now you shall have some\ntea--it will soon be dinner-time, but I thought, as you were accustomed\nto dine at one, you would perhaps like better to have a cup of tea about\nthis time, and to dine when we lunch: and then, you know, you can have\nyour tea in this room, and that will save you from having to dine with\nLady Ashby and Sir Thomas: which would be rather awkward--at least, not\nawkward, but rather--a--you know what I mean. I thought you mightn't\nlike it so well--especially as we may have other ladies and gentlemen to\ndine with us occasionally.'\n\n'Certainly,' said I, 'I would much rather have it as you say, and, if you\nhave no objection, I should prefer having all my meals in this room.'\n\n'Why so?'\n\n'Because, I imagine, it would be more agreeable to Lady Ashby and Sir\nThomas.'\n\n'Nothing of the kind.'\n\n'At any rate it would be more agreeable to me.'\n\nShe made some faint objections, but soon conceded; and I could see that\nthe proposal was a considerable relief to her.\n\n'Now, come into the drawing-room,' said she. 'There's the dressing bell;\nbut I won't go yet: it's no use dressing when there's no one to see you;\nand I want to have a little discourse.'\n\nThe drawing-room was certainly an imposing apartment, and very elegantly\nfurnished; but I saw its young mistress glance towards me as we entered,\nas if to notice how I was impressed by the spectacle, and accordingly I\ndetermined to preserve an aspect of stony indifference, as if I saw\nnothing at all remarkable. But this was only for a moment: immediately\nconscience whispered, 'Why should I disappoint her to save my pride?\nNo--rather let me sacrifice my pride to give her a little innocent\ngratification.' And I honestly looked round, and told her it was a noble\nroom, and very tastefully furnished. She said little, but I saw she was\npleased.\n\nShe showed me her fat French poodle, that lay curled up on a silk\ncushion, and the two fine Italian paintings: which, however, she would\nnot give me time to examine, but, saying I must look at them some other\nday, insisted upon my admiring the little jewelled watch she had\npurchased in Geneva; and then she took me round the room to point out\nsundry articles of _vertu_ she had brought from Italy: an elegant little\ntimepiece, and several busts, small graceful figures, and vases, all\nbeautifully carved in white marble. She spoke of these with animation,\nand heard my admiring comments with a smile of pleasure: that soon,\nhowever, vanished, and was followed by a melancholy sigh; as if in\nconsideration of the insufficiency of all such baubles to the happiness\nof the human heart, and their woeful inability to supply its insatiate\ndemands.\n\nThen, stretching herself upon a couch, she motioned me to a capacious\neasy-chair that stood opposite--not before the fire, but before a wide\nopen window; for it was summer, be it remembered; a sweet, warm evening\nin the latter half of June. I sat for a moment in silence, enjoying the\nstill, pure air, and the delightful prospect of the park that lay before\nme, rich in verdure and foliage, and basking in yellow sunshine, relieved\nby the long shadows of declining day. But I must take advantage of this\npause: I had inquiries to make, and, like the substance of a lady's\npostscript, the most important must come last. So I began with asking\nafter Mr. and Mrs. Murray, and Miss Matilda and the young gentlemen.\n\nI was told that papa had the gout, which made him very ferocious; and\nthat he would not give up his choice wines, and his substantial dinners\nand suppers, and had quarrelled with his physician, because the latter\nhad dared to say that no medicine could cure him while he lived so\nfreely; that mamma and the rest were well. Matilda was still wild and\nreckless, but she had got a fashionable governess, and was considerably\nimproved in her manners, and soon to be introduced to the world; and John\nand Charles (now at home for the holidays) were, by all accounts, 'fine,\nbold, unruly, mischievous boys.'\n\n'And how are the other people getting on?' said I--'the Greens, for\ninstance?'\n\n'Ah! Mr. Green is heart-broken, you know,' replied she, with a languid\nsmile: 'he hasn't got over his disappointment yet, and never will, I\nsuppose. He's doomed to be an old bachelor; and his sisters are doing\ntheir best to get married.'\n\n'And the Melthams?'\n\n'Oh, they're jogging on as usual, I suppose: but I know very little about\nany of them--except Harry,' said she, blushing slightly, and smiling\nagain. 'I saw a great deal of him while we were in London; for, as soon\nas he heard we were there, he came up under pretence of visiting his\nbrother, and either followed me, like a shadow, wherever I went, or met\nme, like a reflection, at every turn. You needn't look so shocked, Miss\nGrey; I was very discreet, I assure you, but, you know, one can't help\nbeing admired. Poor fellow! He was not my only worshipper; though he\nwas certainly the most conspicuous, and, I think, the most devoted among\nthem all. And that detestable--ahem--and Sir Thomas chose to take\noffence at him--or my profuse expenditure, or something--I don't exactly\nknow what--and hurried me down to the country at a moment's notice; where\nI'm to play the hermit, I suppose, for life.'\n\nAnd she bit her lip, and frowned vindictively upon the fair domain she\nhad once so coveted to call her own.\n\n'And Mr. Hatfield,' said I, 'what is become of him?'\n\nAgain she brightened up, and answered gaily--'Oh! he made up to an\nelderly spinster, and married her, not long since; weighing her heavy\npurse against her faded charms, and expecting to find that solace in gold\nwhich was denied him in love--ha, ha!'\n\n'Well, and I think that's all--except Mr. Weston: what is he doing?'\n\n'I don't know, I'm sure. He's gone from Horton.'\n\n'How long since? and where is he gone to?'\n\n'I know nothing about him,' replied she, yawning--'except that he went\nabout a month ago--I never asked where' (I would have asked whether it\nwas to a living or merely another curacy, but thought it better not);\n'and the people made a great rout about his leaving,' continued she,\n'much to Mr. Hatfield's displeasure; for Hatfield didn't like him,\nbecause he had too much influence with the common people, and because he\nwas not sufficiently tractable and submissive to him--and for some other\nunpardonable sins, I don't know what. But now I positively must go and\ndress: the second bell will ring directly, and if I come to dinner in\nthis guise, I shall never hear the end of it from Lady Ashby. It's a\nstrange thing one can't be mistress in one's own house! Just ring the\nbell, and I'll send for my maid, and tell them to get you some tea. Only\nthink of that intolerable woman--'\n\n'Who--your maid?'\n\n'No;--my mother-in-law--and my unfortunate mistake! Instead of letting\nher take herself off to some other house, as she offered to do when I\nmarried, I was fool enough to ask her to live here still, and direct the\naffairs of the house for me; because, in the first place, I hoped we\nshould spend the greater part of the year, in town, and in the second\nplace, being so young and inexperienced, I was frightened at the idea of\nhaving a houseful of servants to manage, and dinners to order, and\nparties to entertain, and all the rest of it, and I thought she might\nassist me with her experience; never dreaming she would prove a usurper,\na tyrant, an incubus, a spy, and everything else that's detestable. I\nwish she was dead!'\n\nShe then turned to give her orders to the footman, who had been standing\nbolt upright within the door for the last half minute, and had heard the\nlatter part of her animadversions; and, of course, made his own\nreflections upon them, notwithstanding the inflexible, wooden countenance\nhe thought proper to preserve in the drawing-room. On my remarking\nafterwards that he must have heard her, she replied--'Oh, no matter! I\nnever care about the footmen; they're mere automatons: it's nothing to\nthem what their superiors say or do; they won't dare to repeat it; and as\nto what they think--if they presume to think at all--of course, nobody\ncares for that. It would be a pretty thing indeed, it we were to be\ntongue-tied by our servants!'\n\nSo saying, she ran off to make her hasty toilet, leaving me to pilot my\nway back to my sitting-room, where, in due time, I was served with a cup\nof tea. After that, I sat musing on Lady Ashby's past and present\ncondition; and on what little information I had obtained respecting Mr.\nWeston, and the small chance there was of ever seeing or hearing anything\nmore of him throughout my quiet, drab-colour life: which, henceforth,\nseemed to offer no alternative between positive rainy days, and days of\ndull grey clouds without downfall. At length, however, I began to weary\nof my thoughts, and to wish I knew where to find the library my hostess\nhad spoken of; and to wonder whether I was to remain there doing nothing\ntill bed-time.\n\nAs I was not rich enough to possess a watch, I could not tell how time\nwas passing, except by observing the slowly lengthening shadows from the\nwindow; which presented a side view, including a corner of the park, a\nclump of trees whose topmost branches had been colonized by an\ninnumerable company of noisy rooks, and a high wall with a massive wooden\ngate: no doubt communicating with the stable-yard, as a broad\ncarriage-road swept up to it from the park. The shadow of this wall soon\ntook possession of the whole of the ground as far as I could see, forcing\nthe golden sunlight to retreat inch by inch, and at last take refuge in\nthe very tops of the trees. Ere long, even they were left in shadow--the\nshadow of the distant hills, or of the earth itself; and, in sympathy for\nthe busy citizens of the rookery, I regretted to see their habitation, so\nlately bathed in glorious light, reduced to the sombre, work-a-day hue of\nthe lower world, or of my own world within. For a moment, such birds as\nsoared above the rest might still receive the lustre on their wings,\nwhich imparted to their sable plumage the hue and brilliance of deep red\ngold; at last, that too departed. Twilight came stealing on; the rooks\nbecame more quiet; I became more weary, and wished I were going home\nto-morrow. At length it grew dark; and I was thinking of ringing for a\ncandle, and betaking myself to bed, when my hostess appeared, with many\napologies for having neglected me so long, and laying all the blame upon\nthat 'nasty old woman,' as she called her mother-in-law.\n\n'If I didn't sit with her in the drawing-room while Sir Thomas is taking\nhis wine,' said she, 'she would never forgive me; and then, if I leave\nthe room the instant he comes--as I have done once or twice--it is an\nunpardonable offence against her dear Thomas. _She_ never showed such\ndisrespect to _her_ husband: and as for affection, wives never think of\nthat now-a-days, she supposes: but things were different in _her_\ntime--as if there was any good to be done by staying in the room, when he\ndoes nothing but grumble and scold when he's in a bad humour, talk\ndisgusting nonsense when he's in a good one, and go to sleep on the sofa\nwhen he's too stupid for either; which is most frequently the case now,\nwhen he has nothing to do but to sot over his wine.'\n\n'But could you not try to occupy his mind with something better; and\nengage him to give up such habits? I'm sure you have powers of\npersuasion, and qualifications for amusing a gentleman, which many ladies\nwould be glad to possess.'\n\n'And so you think I would lay myself out for his amusement! No: that's\nnot _my_ idea of a wife. It's the husband's part to please the wife, not\nhers to please him; and if he isn't satisfied with her as she is--and\nthankful to possess her too--he isn't worthy of her, that's all. And as\nfor persuasion, I assure you I shan't trouble myself with that: I've\nenough to do to bear with him as he is, without attempting to work a\nreform. But I'm sorry I left you so long alone, Miss Grey. How have you\npassed the time?'\n\n'Chiefly in watching the rooks.'\n\n'Mercy, how dull you must have been! I really must show you the library;\nand you must ring for everything you want, just as you would in an inn,\nand make yourself comfortable. I have selfish reasons for wishing to\nmake you happy, because I want you to stay with me, and not fulfil your\nhorrid threat of running away in a day or two.'\n\n'Well, don't let me keep you out of the drawing-room any longer to-night,\nfor at present I am tired and wish to go to bed.'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII--THE PARK\n\n\nI came down a little before eight, next morning, as I knew by the\nstriking of a distant clock. There was no appearance of breakfast. I\nwaited above an hour before it came, still vainly longing for access to\nthe library; and, after that lonely repast was concluded, I waited again\nabout an hour and a half in great suspense and discomfort, uncertain what\nto do. At length Lady Ashby came to bid me good-morning. She informed\nme she had only just breakfasted, and now wanted me to take an early walk\nwith her in the park. She asked how long I had been up, and on receiving\nmy answer, expressed the deepest regret, and again promised to show me\nthe library. I suggested she had better do so at once, and then there\nwould be no further trouble either with remembering or forgetting. She\ncomplied, on condition that I would not think of reading, or bothering\nwith the books now; for she wanted to show me the gardens, and take a\nwalk in the park with me, before it became too hot for enjoyment; which,\nindeed, was nearly the case already. Of course I readily assented; and\nwe took our walk accordingly.\n\nAs we were strolling in the park, talking of what my companion had seen\nand heard during her travelling experience, a gentleman on horseback rode\nup and passed us. As he turned, in passing, and stared me full in the\nface, I had a good opportunity of seeing what he was like. He was tall,\nthin, and wasted, with a slight stoop in the shoulders, a pale face, but\nsomewhat blotchy, and disagreeably red about the eyelids, plain features,\nand a general appearance of languor and flatness, relieved by a sinister\nexpression in the mouth and the dull, soulless eyes.\n\n'I detest that man!' whispered Lady Ashby, with bitter emphasis, as he\nslowly trotted by.\n\n'Who is it?' I asked, unwilling to suppose that she should so speak of\nher husband.\n\n'Sir Thomas Ashby,' she replied, with dreary composure.\n\n'And do you _detest_ him, Miss Murray?' said I, for I was too much\nshocked to remember her name at the moment.\n\n'Yes, I do, Miss Grey, and despise him too; and if you knew him you would\nnot blame me.'\n\n'But you knew what he was before you married him.'\n\n'No; I only thought so: I did not half know him really. I know you\nwarned me against it, and I wish I had listened to you: but it's too late\nto regret that now. And besides, mamma ought to have known better than\neither of us, and she never said anything against it--quite the contrary.\nAnd then I thought he adored me, and would let me have my own way: he did\npretend to do so at first, but now he does not care a bit about me. Yet\nI should not care for that: he might do as he pleased, if I might only be\nfree to amuse myself and to stay in London, or have a few friends down\nhere: but _he will_ do as he pleases, and I must be a prisoner and a\nslave. The moment he saw I could enjoy myself without him, and that\nothers knew my value better than himself, the selfish wretch began to\naccuse me of coquetry and extravagance; and to abuse Harry Meltham, whose\nshoes he was not worthy to clean. And then he must needs have me down in\nthe country, to lead the life of a nun, lest I should dishonour him or\nbring him to ruin; as if he had not been ten times worse every way, with\nhis betting-book, and his gaming-table, and his opera-girls, and his Lady\nThis and Mrs. That--yes, and his bottles of wine, and glasses of\nbrandy-and-water too! Oh, I would give ten thousand worlds to be Mss\nMurray again! It is _too_ bad to feel life, health, and beauty wasting\naway, unfelt and unenjoyed, for such a brute as that!' exclaimed she,\nfairly bursting into tears in the bitterness of her vexation.\n\nOf course, I pitied her exceedingly; as well for her false idea of\nhappiness and disregard of duty, as for the wretched partner with whom\nher fate was linked. I said what I could to comfort her, and offered\nsuch counsels as I thought she most required: advising her, first, by\ngentle reasoning, by kindness, example, and persuasion, to try to\nameliorate her husband; and then, when she had done all she could, if she\nstill found him incorrigible, to endeavour to abstract herself from\nhim--to wrap herself up in her own integrity, and trouble herself as\nlittle about him as possible. I exhorted her to seek consolation in\ndoing her duty to God and man, to put her trust in Heaven, and solace\nherself with the care and nurture of her little daughter; assuring her\nshe would be amply rewarded by witnessing its progress in strength and\nwisdom, and receiving its genuine affection.\n\n'But I can't devote myself entirely to a child,' said she; 'it may\ndie--which is not at all improbable.'\n\n'But, with care, many a delicate infant has become a strong man or\nwoman.'\n\n'But it may grow so intolerably like its father that I shall hate it.'\n\n'That is not likely; it is a little girl, and strongly resembles its\nmother.'\n\n'No matter; I should like it better if it were a boy--only that its\nfather will leave it no inheritance that he can possibly squander away.\nWhat pleasure can I have in seeing a girl grow up to eclipse me, and\nenjoy those pleasures that I am for ever debarred from? But supposing I\ncould be so generous as to take delight in this, still it is _only_ a\nchild; and I can't centre all my hopes in a child: that is only one\ndegree better than devoting oneself to a dog. And as for all the wisdom\nand goodness you have been trying to instil into me--that is all very\nright and proper, I daresay, and if I were some twenty years older, I\nmight fructify by it: but people must enjoy themselves when they are\nyoung; and if others won't let them--why, they must hate them for it!'\n\n'The best way to enjoy yourself is to do what is right and hate nobody.\nThe end of Religion is not to teach us how to die, but how to live; and\nthe earlier you become wise and good, the more of happiness you secure.\nAnd now, Lady Ashby, I have one more piece of advice to offer you, which\nis, that you will not make an enemy of your mother-in-law. Don't get\ninto the way of holding her at arms' length, and regarding her with\njealous distrust. I never saw her, but I have heard good as well as evil\nrespecting her; and I imagine that, though cold and haughty in her\ngeneral demeanour, and even exacting in her requirements, she has strong\naffections for those who can reach them; and, though so blindly attached\nto her son, she is not without good principles, or incapable of hearing\nreason. If you would but conciliate her a little, and adopt a friendly,\nopen manner--and even confide your grievances to her--real grievances,\nsuch as you have a right to complain of--it is my firm belief that she\nwould, in time, become your faithful friend, and a comfort and support to\nyou, instead of the incubus you describe her.' But I fear my advice had\nlittle effect upon the unfortunate young lady; and, finding I could\nrender myself so little serviceable, my residence at Ashby Park became\ndoubly painful. But still, I must stay out that day and the following\none, as I had promised to do so: though, resisting all entreaties and\ninducements to prolong my visit further, I insisted upon departing the\nnext morning; affirming that my mother would be lonely without me, and\nthat she impatiently expected my return. Nevertheless, it was with a\nheavy heart that I bade adieu to poor Lady Ashby, and left her in her\nprincely home. It was no slight additional proof of her unhappiness,\nthat she should so cling to the consolation of my presence, and earnestly\ndesire the company of one whose general tastes and ideas were so little\ncongenial to her own--whom she had completely forgotten in her hour of\nprosperity, and whose presence would be rather a nuisance than a\npleasure, if she could but have half her heart's desire.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV--THE SANDS\n\n\nOur school was not situated in the heart of the town: on entering A---\nfrom the north-west there is a row of respectable-looking houses, on each\nside of the broad, white road, with narrow slips of garden-ground before\nthem, Venetian blinds to the windows, and a flight of steps leading to\neach trim, brass-handled door. In one of the largest of these\nhabitations dwelt my mother and I, with such young ladies as our friends\nand the public chose to commit to our charge. Consequently, we were a\nconsiderable distance from the sea, and divided from it by a labyrinth of\nstreets and houses. But the sea was my delight; and I would often gladly\npierce the town to obtain the pleasure of a walk beside it, whether with\nthe pupils, or alone with my mother during the vacations. It was\ndelightful to me at all times and seasons, but especially in the wild\ncommotion of a rough sea-breeze, and in the brilliant freshness of a\nsummer morning.\n\nI awoke early on the third morning after my return from Ashby Park--the\nsun was shining through the blind, and I thought how pleasant it would be\nto pass through the quiet town and take a solitary ramble on the sands\nwhile half the world was in bed. I was not long in forming the\nresolution, nor slow to act upon it. Of course I would not disturb my\nmother, so I stole noiselessly downstairs, and quietly unfastened the\ndoor. I was dressed and out, when the church clock struck a quarter to\nsix. There was a feeling of freshness and vigour in the very streets;\nand when I got free of the town, when my foot was on the sands and my\nface towards the broad, bright bay, no language can describe the effect\nof the deep, clear azure of the sky and ocean, the bright morning\nsunshine on the semicircular barrier of craggy cliffs surmounted by green\nswelling hills, and on the smooth, wide sands, and the low rocks out at\nsea--looking, with their clothing of weeds and moss, like little\ngrass-grown islands--and above all, on the brilliant, sparkling waves.\nAnd then, the unspeakable purity--and freshness of the air! There was\njust enough heat to enhance the value of the breeze, and just enough wind\nto keep the whole sea in motion, to make the waves come bounding to the\nshore, foaming and sparkling, as if wild with glee. Nothing else was\nstirring--no living creature was visible besides myself. My footsteps\nwere the first to press the firm, unbroken sands;--nothing before had\ntrampled them since last night's flowing tide had obliterated the deepest\nmarks of yesterday, and left them fair and even, except where the\nsubsiding water had left behind it the traces of dimpled pools and little\nrunning streams.\n\nRefreshed, delighted, invigorated, I walked along, forgetting all my\ncares, feeling as if I had wings to my feet, and could go at least forty\nmiles without fatigue, and experiencing a sense of exhilaration to which\nI had been an entire stranger since the days of early youth. About\nhalf-past six, however, the grooms began to come down to air their\nmasters' horses--first one, and then another, till there were some dozen\nhorses and five or six riders: but that need not trouble me, for they\nwould not come as far as the low rocks which I was now approaching. When\nI had reached these, and walked over the moist, slippery sea-weed (at the\nrisk of floundering into one of the numerous pools of clear, salt water\nthat lay between them), to a little mossy promontory with the sea\nsplashing round it, I looked back again to see who next was stirring.\nStill, there were only the early grooms with their horses, and one\ngentleman with a little dark speck of a dog running before him, and one\nwater-cart coming out of the town to get water for the baths. In another\nminute or two, the distant bathing machines would begin to move, and then\nthe elderly gentlemen of regular habits and sober quaker ladies would be\ncoming to take their salutary morning walks. But however interesting\nsuch a scene might be, I could not wait to witness it, for the sun and\nthe sea so dazzled my eyes in that direction, that I could but afford one\nglance; and then I turned again to delight myself with the sight and the\nsound of the sea, dashing against my promontory--with no prodigious\nforce, for the swell was broken by the tangled sea-weed and the unseen\nrocks beneath; otherwise I should soon have been deluged with spray. But\nthe tide was coming in; the water was rising; the gulfs and lakes were\nfilling; the straits were widening: it was time to seek some safer\nfooting; so I walked, skipped, and stumbled back to the smooth, wide\nsands, and resolved to proceed to a certain bold projection in the\ncliffs, and then return.\n\nPresently, I heard a snuffling sound behind me and then a dog came\nfrisking and wriggling to my feet. It was my own Snap--the little dark,\nwire-haired terrier! When I spoke his name, he leapt up in my face and\nyelled for joy. Almost as much delighted as himself, I caught the little\ncreature in my arms, and kissed him repeatedly. But how came he to be\nthere? He could not have dropped from the sky, or come all that way\nalone: it must be either his master, the rat-catcher, or somebody else\nthat had brought him; so, repressing my extravagant caresses, and\nendeavouring to repress his likewise, I looked round, and beheld--Mr.\nWeston!\n\n'Your dog remembers you well, Miss Grey,' said he, warmly grasping the\nhand I offered him without clearly knowing what I was about. 'You rise\nearly.'\n\n'Not often so early as this,' I replied, with amazing composure,\nconsidering all the circumstances of the case.\n\n'How far do you purpose to extend your walk?'\n\n'I was thinking of returning--it must be almost time, I think.'\n\nHe consulted his watch--a gold one now--and told me it was only five\nminutes past seven.\n\n'But, doubtless, you have had a long enough walk,' said he, turning\ntowards the town, to which I now proceeded leisurely to retrace my steps;\nand he walked beside me.\n\n'In what part of the town do you live?' asked he. 'I never could\ndiscover.'\n\nNever could discover? Had he endeavoured to do so then? I told him the\nplace of our abode. He asked how we prospered in our affairs. I told\nhim we were doing very well--that we had had a considerable addition to\nour pupils after the Christmas vacation, and expected a still further\nincrease at the close of this.\n\n'You must be an accomplished instructor,' he observed.\n\n'No, it is my mother,' I replied; 'she manages things so well, and is so\nactive, and clever, and kind.'\n\n'I should like to know your mother. Will you introduce me to her some\ntime, if I call?'\n\n'Yes, willingly.'\n\n'And will you allow me the privilege of an old friend, of looking in upon\nyou now and then?'\n\n'Yes, if--I suppose so.'\n\nThis was a very foolish answer, but the truth was, I considered that I\nhad no right to invite anyone to my mother's house without her knowledge;\nand if I had said, 'Yes, if my mother does not object,' it would appear\nas if by his question I understood more than was expected; so,\n_supposing_ she would not, I added, 'I suppose so:' but of course I\nshould have said something more sensible and more polite, if I had had my\nwits about me. We continued our walk for a minute in silence; which,\nhowever, was shortly relieved (no small relief to me) by Mr. Weston\ncommenting upon the brightness of the morning and the beauty of the bay,\nand then upon the advantages A--- possessed over many other fashionable\nplaces of resort.\n\n'You don't ask what brings me to A--- ' said he. 'You can't suppose I'm\nrich enough to come for my own pleasure.'\n\n'I heard you had left Horton.'\n\n'You didn't hear, then, that I had got the living of F---?'\n\nF--- was a village about two miles distant from A---.\n\n'No,' said I; 'we live so completely out of the world, even here, that\nnews seldom reaches me through any quarter; except through the medium of\nthe--_Gazette_. But I hope you like your new parish; and that I may\ncongratulate you on the acquisition?'\n\n'I expect to like my parish better a year or two hence, when I have\nworked certain reforms I have set my heart upon--or, at least, progressed\nsome steps towards such an achievement. But you may congratulate me now;\nfor I find it very agreeable to _have_ a parish all to myself, with\nnobody to interfere with me--to thwart my plans or cripple my exertions:\nand besides, I have a respectable house in a rather pleasant\nneighbourhood, and three hundred pounds a year; and, in fact, I have\nnothing but solitude to complain of, and nothing but a companion to wish\nfor.'\n\nHe looked at me as he concluded: and the flash of his dark eyes seemed to\nset my face on fire; greatly to my own discomfiture, for to evince\nconfusion at such a juncture was intolerable. I made an effort,\ntherefore, to remedy the evil, and disclaim all personal application of\nthe remark by a hasty, ill-expressed reply, to the effect that, if he\nwaited till he was well known in the neighbourhood, he might have\nnumerous opportunities for supplying his want among the residents of F---\nand its vicinity, or the visitors of A---, if he required so ample a\nchoice: not considering the compliment implied by such an assertion, till\nhis answer made me aware of it.\n\n'I am not so presumptuous as to believe that,' said he, 'though you tell\nit me; but if it were so, I am rather particular in my notions of a\ncompanion for life, and perhaps I might not find one to suit me among the\nladies you mention.'\n\n'If you require perfection, you never will.'\n\n'I do not--I have no right to require it, as being so far from perfect\nmyself.'\n\nHere the conversation was interrupted by a water-cart lumbering past us,\nfor we were now come to the busy part of the sands; and, for the next\neight or ten minutes, between carts and horses, and asses, and men, there\nwas little room for social intercourse, till we had turned our backs upon\nthe sea, and begun to ascend the precipitous road leading into the town.\nHere my companion offered me his arm, which I accepted, though not with\nthe intention of using it as a support.\n\n'You don't often come on to the sands, I think,' said he, 'for I have\nwalked there many times, both morning and evening, since I came, and\nnever seen you till now; and several times, in passing through the town,\ntoo, I have looked about for your school--but I did not think of\nthe--Road; and once or twice I made inquiries, but without obtaining the\nrequisite information.'\n\nWhen we had surmounted the acclivity, I was about to withdraw my arm from\nhis, but by a slight tightening of the elbow was tacitly informed that\nsuch was not his will, and accordingly desisted. Discoursing on\ndifferent subjects, we entered the town, and passed through several\nstreets. I saw that he was going out of his way to accompany me,\nnotwithstanding the long walk that was yet before him; and, fearing that\nhe might be inconveniencing himself from motives of politeness, I\nobserved--'I fear I am taking you out of your way, Mr. Weston--I believe\nthe road to F--- lies quite in another direction.'\n\n'I'll leave you at the end of the next street,' said he.\n\n'And when will you come to see mamma?'\n\n'To-morrow--God willing.'\n\nThe end of the next street was nearly the conclusion of my journey. He\nstopped there, however, bid me good-morning, and called Snap, who seemed\na little doubtful whether to follow his old mistress or his new master,\nbut trotted away upon being summoned by the latter.\n\n'I won't offer to restore him to you, Miss Grey,' said Mr. Weston,\nsmiling, 'because I like him.'\n\n'Oh, I don't want him,' replied I, 'now that he has a good master; I'm\nquite satisfied.'\n\n'You take it for granted that I am a good one, then?'\n\nThe man and the dog departed, and I returned home, full of gratitude to\nheaven for so much bliss, and praying that my hopes might not again be\ncrushed.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV--CONCLUSION\n\n\n'Well, Agnes, you must not take such long walks again before breakfast,'\nsaid my mother, observing that I drank an extra cup of coffee and ate\nnothing--pleading the heat of the weather, and the fatigue of my long\nwalk as an excuse. I certainly did feel feverish and tired too.\n\n'You always do things by extremes: now, if you had taken a _short_ walk\nevery morning, and would continue to do so, it would do you good.'\n\n'Well, mamma, I will.'\n\n'But this is worse than lying in bed or bending over your books: you have\nquite put yourself into a fever.'\n\n'I won't do it again,' said I.\n\nI was racking my brains with thinking how to tell her about Mr. Weston,\nfor she must know he was coming to-morrow. However, I waited till the\nbreakfast things were removed, and I was more calm and cool; and then,\nhaving sat down to my drawing, I began--'I met an old friend on the sands\nto-day, mamma.'\n\n'An old friend! Who could it be?'\n\n'Two old friends, indeed. One was a dog;' and then I reminded her of\nSnap, whose history I had recounted before, and related the incident of\nhis sudden appearance and remarkable recognition; 'and the other,'\ncontinued I, 'was Mr. Weston, the curate of Horton.'\n\n'Mr. Weston! I never heard of him before.'\n\n'Yes, you have: I've mentioned him several times, I believe: but you\ndon't remember.'\n\n'I've heard you speak of Mr. Hatfield.'\n\n'Mr. Hatfield was the rector, and Mr. Weston the curate: I used to\nmention him sometimes in contradistinction to Mr. Hatfield, as being a\nmore efficient clergyman. However, he was on the sands this morning with\nthe dog--he had bought it, I suppose, from the rat-catcher; and he knew\nme as well as it did--probably through its means: and I had a little\nconversation with him, in the course of which, as he asked about our\nschool, I was led to say something about you, and your good management;\nand he said he should like to know you, and asked if I would introduce\nhim to you, if he should take the liberty of calling to-morrow; so I said\nI would. Was I right?'\n\n'Of course. What kind of a man is he?'\n\n'A very _respectable_ man, I think: but you will see him to-morrow. He\nis the new vicar of F---, and as he has only been there a few weeks, I\nsuppose he has made no friends yet, and wants a little society.'\n\nThe morrow came. What a fever of anxiety and expectation I was in from\nbreakfast till noon--at which time he made his appearance! Having\nintroduced him to my mother, I took my work to the window, and sat down\nto await the result of the interview. They got on extremely well\ntogether--greatly to my satisfaction, for I had felt very anxious about\nwhat my mother would think of him. He did not stay long that time: but\nwhen he rose to take leave, she said she should be happy to see him,\nwhenever he might find it convenient to call again; and when he was gone,\nI was gratified by hearing her say,--'Well! I think he's a very sensible\nman. But why did you sit back there, Agnes,' she added, 'and talk so\nlittle?'\n\n'Because you talked so well, mamma, I thought you required no assistance\nfrom me: and, besides, he was your visitor, not mine.'\n\nAfter that, he often called upon us--several times in the course of a\nweek. He generally addressed most of his conversation to my mother: and\nno wonder, for she could converse. I almost envied the unfettered,\nvigorous fluency of her discourse, and the strong sense evinced by\neverything she said--and yet, I did not; for, though I occasionally\nregretted my own deficiencies for his sake, it gave me very great\npleasure to sit and hear the two beings I loved and honoured above every\none else in the world, discoursing together so amicably, so wisely, and\nso well. I was not always silent, however; nor was I at all neglected.\nI was quite as much noticed as I would wish to be: there was no lack of\nkind words and kinder looks, no end of delicate attentions, too fine and\nsubtle to be grasped by words, and therefore indescribable--but deeply\nfelt at heart.\n\nCeremony was quickly dropped between us: Mr. Weston came as an expected\nguest, welcome at all times, and never deranging the economy of our\nhousehold affairs. He even called me 'Agnes:' the name had been timidly\nspoken at first, but, finding it gave no offence in any quarter, he\nseemed greatly to prefer that appellation to 'Miss Grey;' and so did I.\nHow tedious and gloomy were those days in which he did not come! And yet\nnot miserable; for I had still the remembrance of the last visit and the\nhope of the next to cheer me. But when two or three days passed without\nmy seeing him, I certainly felt very anxious--absurdly, unreasonably so;\nfor, of course, he had his own business and the affairs of his parish to\nattend to. And I dreaded the close of the holidays, when _my_ business\nalso would begin, and I should be sometimes unable to see him, and\nsometimes--when my mother was in the schoolroom--obliged to be with him\nalone: a position I did not at all desire, in the house; though to meet\nhim out of doors, and walk beside him, had proved by no means\ndisagreeable.\n\nOne evening, however, in the last week of the vacation, he\narrived--unexpectedly: for a heavy and protracted thunder-shower during\nthe afternoon had almost destroyed my hopes of seeing him that day; but\nnow the storm was over, and the sun was shining brightly.\n\n'A beautiful evening, Mrs. Grey!' said he, as he entered. 'Agnes, I want\nyou to take a walk with me to ---' (he named a certain part of the\ncoast--a bold hill on the land side, and towards the sea a steep\nprecipice, from the summit of which a glorious view is to be had). 'The\nrain has laid the dust, and cooled and cleared the air, and the prospect\nwill be magnificent. Will you come?'\n\n'Can I go, mamma?'\n\n'Yes; to be sure.'\n\nI went to get ready, and was down again in a few minutes; though, of\ncourse, I took a little more pains with my attire than if I had merely\nbeen going out on some shopping expedition alone. The thunder-shower had\ncertainly had a most beneficial effect upon the weather, and the evening\nwas most delightful. Mr. Weston would have me to take his arm; he said\nlittle during our passage through the crowded streets, but walked very\nfast, and appeared grave and abstracted. I wondered what was the matter,\nand felt an indefinite dread that something unpleasant was on his mind;\nand vague surmises, concerning what it might be, troubled me not a\nlittle, and made me grave and silent enough. But these fantasies\nvanished upon reaching the quiet outskirts of the town; for as soon as we\ncame within sight of the venerable old church, and the--hill, with the\ndeep blue beyond it, I found my companion was cheerful enough.\n\n'I'm afraid I've been walking too fast for you, Agnes,' said he: 'in my\nimpatience to be rid of the town, I forgot to consult your convenience;\nbut now we'll walk as slowly as you please. I see, by those light clouds\nin the west, there will be a brilliant sunset, and we shall be in time to\nwitness its effect upon the sea, at the most moderate rate of\nprogression.'\n\nWhen we had got about half-way up the hill, we fell into silence again;\nwhich, as usual, he was the first to break.\n\n'My house is desolate yet, Miss Grey,' he smilingly observed, 'and I am\nacquainted now with all the ladies in my parish, and several in this town\ntoo; and many others I know by sight and by report; but not one of them\nwill suit me for a companion; in fact, there is only one person in the\nworld that will: and that is yourself; and I want to know your decision?'\n\n'Are you in earnest, Mr. Weston?'\n\n'In earnest! How could you think I should jest on such a subject?'\n\nHe laid his hand on mine, that rested on his arm: he must have felt it\ntremble--but it was no great matter now.\n\n'I hope I have not been too precipitate,' he said, in a serious tone.\n'You must have known that it was not my way to flatter and talk soft\nnonsense, or even to speak the admiration that I felt; and that a single\nword or glance of mine meant more than the honied phrases and fervent\nprotestations of most other men.'\n\nI said something about not liking to leave my mother, and doing nothing\nwithout her consent.\n\n'I settled everything with Mrs. Grey, while you were putting on your\nbonnet,' replied he. 'She said I might have her consent, if I could\nobtain yours; and I asked her, in case I should be so happy, to come and\nlive with us--for I was sure you would like it better. But she refused,\nsaying she could now afford to employ an assistant, and would continue\nthe school till she could purchase an annuity sufficient to maintain her\nin comfortable lodgings; and, meantime, she would spend her vacations\nalternately with us and your sister, and should be quite contented if you\nwere happy. And so now I have overruled your objections on her account.\nHave you any other?'\n\n'No--none.'\n\n'You love me then?' said be, fervently pressing my hand.\n\n'Yes.'\n\n * * * * *\n\nHere I pause. My Diary, from which I have compiled these pages, goes but\nlittle further. I could go on for years, but I will content myself with\nadding, that I shall never forget that glorious summer evening, and\nalways remember with delight that steep hill, and the edge of the\nprecipice where we stood together, watching the splendid sunset mirrored\nin the restless world of waters at our feet--with hearts filled with\ngratitude to heaven, and happiness, and love--almost too full for speech.\n\nA few weeks after that, when my mother had supplied herself with an\nassistant, I became the wife of Edward Weston; and never have found cause\nto repent it, and am certain that I never shall. We have had trials, and\nwe know that we must have them again; but we bear them well together, and\nendeavour to fortify ourselves and each other against the final\nseparation--that greatest of all afflictions to the survivor. But, if we\nkeep in mind the glorious heaven beyond, where both may meet again, and\nsin and sorrow are unknown, surely that too may be borne; and, meantime,\nwe endeavour to live to the glory of Him who has scattered so many\nblessings in our path.\n\nEdward, by his strenuous exertions, has worked surprising reforms in his\nparish, and is esteemed and loved by its inhabitants--as he deserves; for\nwhatever his faults may be as a man (and no one is entirely without), I\ndefy anybody to blame him as a pastor, a husband, or a father.\n\nOur children, Edward, Agnes, and little Mary, promise well; their\neducation, for the time being, is chiefly committed to me; and they shall\nwant no good thing that a mother's care can give. Our modest income is\namply sufficient for our requirements: and by practising the economy we\nlearnt in harder times, and never attempting to imitate our richer\nneighbours, we manage not only to enjoy comfort and contentment\nourselves, but to have every year something to lay by for our children,\nand something to give to those who need it.\n\nAnd now I think I have said sufficient."