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Agnes Grey

by Anne Brontë · English · Gutenberg #767 · 393,635 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Agnes Grey

Author: Anne Brontë


        
Release date: December 1, 1996 [eBook #767]
                Most recently updated: December 23, 2025

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/767

Credits: David Price


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




Agnes Grey
A NOVEL,

by ACTON BELL.

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

1847.

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


Contents

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




CHAPTER I.
THE PARSONAGE


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then let me help you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Indeed! pray tell us what it is.”

“I should like to be a governess.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

“Perhaps it will.”

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




CHAPTER II.
FIRST LESSONS IN THE ART OF INSTRUCTION


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And _mine_,” said Mary Ann.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Traps for birds.”

“Why do you catch them?”

“Papa says they do harm.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But what would your mamma say?”

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER III.
A FEW MORE LESSONS


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How so?”

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

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

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

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

“Turkey and grouse,” was the concise reply.

“And what besides?”

“Fish.”

“What kind of fish?”

“I don’t know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

“Mary Ann is a naughty girl, ma’am.”

“But what are these shocking screams?”

“She is screaming in a passion.”

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

“I cannot get her to finish her lessons.”

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

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

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

“No, I won’t.”

“Then I can’t kiss you.”

“Well, I don’t care.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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




CHAPTER IV.
THE GRANDMAMMA


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, when _you_ speak.”

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

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

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

I heard no more; but that sufficed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir.”

“You knew it?”

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER V.
THE UNCLE


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER VI.
THE PARSONAGE AGAIN


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Decidedly, I would.”

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

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

“Some are worse,” interrupted my mother.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER VII.
HORTON LODGE


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Deserts tossed in snow,
And heavy laden groves.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER VIII.
THE “COMING OUT”


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, but it is such a short time.”

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

“Is she—when?”

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

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

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

“To whom is she to be married?”

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

“Is he rich?”

“No; only comfortable.”

“Is he handsome?”

“No; only decent.”

“Young?”

“No; only middling.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER IX.
THE BALL


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Middling.”

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

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

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

“But what good will they do you?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Was Mr. Hatfield at the ball?”

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

“I thought be might consider it unclerical.”

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

“And what is the new one like?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER X.
THE CHURCH


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

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

“Well, but you saw him, didn’t you?”

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

“But isn’t he ugly?”

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

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

“How do you know?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No harm still,” replied I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, but he _does_ though.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XI.
THE COTTAGERS


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

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

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

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

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

“Well, Nancy, how are you to-day?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ay, he does so; and talks well too.”

“Does he?”

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

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

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

“Then he comes to see you, Nancy?”

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

“And what did he say, Nancy?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Nancy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ay, if we could!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XII.
THE SHOWER


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ay, sir: it’s a pity.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XIII.
THE PRIMROSES


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

Whether I walked with the young ladies or rode with their parents,
depended upon their own capricious will: if they chose to “take” me, I
went; if, for reasons best known to themselves, they chose to go alone,
I took my seat in the carriage. I liked walking better, but a sense of
reluctance to obtrude my presence on anyone who did not desire it,
always kept me passive on these and similar occasions; and I never
inquired into the causes of their varying whims. Indeed, this was the
best policy—for to

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