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AGNES GREY
By Anne Bronte

CHAPTER I - THE PARSONAGE

ALL true histories contain instruction; thoughin somethe
treasure may be hard to findand when foundso trivial in
quantitythat the dryshrivelled kernel scarcely compensates for
the trouble of cracking the nut. Whether this be the case with my
history or notI am hardly competent to judge. I sometimes think
it might prove useful to someand entertaining to others; but the
world may judge for itself. Shielded by my own obscurityand by
the lapse of yearsand a few fictitious namesI 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 Englandwho was
deservedly respected by all who knew him; andin his younger days
lived pretty comfortably on the joint income of a small incumbency
and a snug little property of his own. My motherwho married him
against the wishes of her friendswas a squire's daughterand a
woman of spirit. In vain it was represented to herthat if she
became the poor parson's wifeshe must relinquish her carriage and
her lady's-maidand 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; butthank
heavenshe had feet to carry herand 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 availher fatherat lengthtold the
lovers they might marry if they pleased; butin so doinghis
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 sheon her partwould rather labour with
her own hands than be divided from the man she lovedwhose
happiness it would be her joy to makeand who was already one with
her in heart and soul. So her fortune went to swell the purse of a
wiser sisterwho had married a rich nabob; and sheto the wonder
and compassionate regret of all who knew herwent to bury herself
in the homely village parsonage among the hills of -. And yetin
spite of all thisand in spite of my mother's high spirit and my
father's whimsI believe you might search all England throughand
fail to find a happier couple.

Of six childrenmy sister Mary and myself were the only two that
survived the perils of infancy and early childhood. Ibeing the
younger by five or six yearswas always regarded as THE childand
the pet of the family: fathermotherand sisterall combined to
spoil me - not by foolish indulgenceto render me fractious and
ungovernablebut by ceaseless kindnessto 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 accomplishedwell informedand fond of
employmenttook the whole charge of our education on herselfwith
the exception of Latin - which my father undertook to teach us - so
that we never even went to school; andas there was no society in
the neighbourhoodour only intercourse with the world consisted in
a stately tea-partynow and thenwith 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 himselfour kind grandmammaa
maiden auntand two or three elderly ladies and gentlemenwere
the only persons we ever saw. Sometimes our mother would amuse us
with stories and anecdotes of her younger dayswhichwhile they
entertained us amazinglyfrequently awoke - in MEat 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 fatherhoweverwhose temper was neither
tranquil nor cheerful by natureoften 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 fortunefor 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 childrenwe should all have plentyboth
for time present and to come: but saving was not my father's
forte. He would not run in debt (at leastmy mother took good
care he should not)but while he had money he must spend it: he
liked to see his house comfortableand his wife and daughters well
clothedand well attended; and besideshe was charitably
disposedand liked to give to the pooraccording to his means:
oras some might thinkbeyond them.

At lengthhowevera kind friend suggested to him a means of
doubling his private property at one stroke; and further increasing
ithereafterto an untold amount. This friend was a merchanta
man of enterprising spirit and undoubted talentwho 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 handsit should bring him in cent. per cent. The
small patrimony was speedily soldand the whole of its price was
deposited in the hands of the friendly merchant; who as promptly
proceeded to ship his cargoand prepare for his voyage.

My father was delightedso were we allwith our brightening
prospects. For the presentit is truewe 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; sowith a standing bill at Mr. Jackson'sanother at
Smith'sand a third at Hobson'swe got along even more
comfortably than before: though my mother affirmed we had better
keep within boundsfor our prospects of wealth were but
precariousafter all; and if my father would only trust everything
to her managementhe should never feel himself stinted: but he
for oncewas incorrigible.

What happy hours Mary and I have passed while sitting at our work
by the fireor wandering on the heath-clad hillsor idling under
the weeping birch (the only considerable tree in the garden)
talking of future happiness to ourselves and our parentsof what


we would doand seeand 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 salliesthat
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 bitterlytoo. It came like a thunderclap
on us allthat the vessel which contained our fortune had
been wreckedand gone to the bottom with all its storestogether
with several of the crewand the unfortunate merchant himself. I
was grieved for him; I was grieved for the overthrow of all our
air-built castles: butwith the elasticity of youthI soon
recovered the shook.

Though riches had charmspoverty had no terrors for an
inexperienced girl like me. Indeedto say the truththere was
something exhilarating in the idea of being driven to straitsand
thrown upon our own resources. I only wished papamammaand Mary
were all of the same mind as myself; and theninstead of lamenting
past calamities we might all cheerfully set to work to remedy them;
and the greater the difficultiesthe harder our present
privationsthe greater should be our cheerfulness to endure the
latterand our vigour to contend against the former.

Mary did not lamentbut she brooded continually over the
misfortuneand 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 frivolityor stupid
insensibilitythat 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 fatherand paying our debts
and retrenching our expenditure by every available means; but my
father was completely overwhelmed by the calamity: health
strengthand spirits sank beneath the blowand he never wholly
recovered them. In vain my mother strove to cheer himby
appealing to his pietyto his courageto 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 dignitythe easethe 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 splendidhighly-accomplished
womanonce so courted and admiredtransformed into an active
managing housewifewith hands and head continually occupied with
household labours and household economy. The very willingness with
which she performed these dutiesthe cheerfulness with which she
bore her reversesand the kindness which withheld her from
imputing the smallest blame to himwere all perverted by this
ingenious self-tormentor into further aggravations of his
sufferings. And thus the mind preyed upon the bodyand disordered
the system of the nervesand they in turn increased the troubles

of the mindtill 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 gloomyso utterly hopelessas his
morbid imagination represented it to be.

The useful pony phaeton was soldtogether with the stoutwell-fed
pony - the old favourite that we had fully determined should end
its days in peaceand never pass from our hands; the little coachhouse
and stable were let; the servant boyand the more efficient
(being the more expensive) of the two maid-servantswere
dismissed. Our clothes were mendedturnedand darned to the
utmost verge of decency; our foodalways plainwas 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 oneand that most sparingly used; the coals
carefully husbanded in the half-empty grate: especially when my
father was out on his parish dutiesor confined to bed through
illness - then we sat with our feet on the fenderscraping the
perishing embers together from time to timeand occasionally
adding a slight scattering of the dust and fragments of coaljust
to keep them alive. As for our carpetsthey in time were worn
threadbareand patched and darned even to a greater extent than
our garments. To save the expense of a gardenerMary and I
undertook to keep the garden in order; and all the cooking and
household work that could not easily be managed by one servantgirl
was done by my mother and sisterwith a little occasional
help from me: only a littlebecausethough a woman in my own
estimationI was still a child in theirs; and my motherlike most
activemanaging womenwas not gifted with very active daughters:
for this reason - that being so clever and diligent herselfshe
was never tempted to trust her affairs to a deputybuton the
contrarywas willing to act and think for others as well as for
number one; and whatever was the business in handshe was apt to
think that no one could do it so well as herself: so that whenever
I offered to assist herI received such an answer as - 'Nolove
you cannot indeed - there's nothing here you can do. Go and help
your sisteror get her to take a walk with you - tell her she must
not sit so muchand stay so constantly in the house as she does she
may well look thin and dejected.'

'Marymamma says I'm to help you; or get you to take a walk with
me; she says you may well look thin and dejectedif you sit so
constantly in the house.'

'Help me you cannotAgnes; and I cannot go out with YOU - I have
far too much to do.'

'Then let me help you.'

'You cannotindeeddear child. Go and practise your musicor
play with the kitten.'

There was always plenty of sewing on hand; but I had not been
taught to cut out a single garmentand except plain hemming and
seamingthere was little I could doeven in that line; for they
both asserted that it was far easier to do the work themselves than
to prepare it for me: and besidesthey liked better to see me
prosecuting my studiesor amusing myself - it was time enough for
me to sit bending over my worklike a grave matronwhen my
favourite little pussy was become a steady old cat. Under such
circumstancesalthough I was not many degrees more useful than the
kittenmy idleness was not entirely without excuse.

Through all our troublesI 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
thenyou seethere's no money' she addedwith a sigh. We both
wished exceedingly that the thing might be doneand lamented
greatly that it could not. 'Wellwell!' said she'it's no use
complaining. Possibly something might be done to further the
project after all. Maryyou are a beautiful drawer. What do you
say to doing a few more pictures in your best styleand getting
them framedwith the water-coloured drawings you have already
doneand trying to dispose of them to some liberal picture-dealer
who has the sense to discern their merits?'

'MammaI should be delighted if you think they COULD be sold; and
for anything worth while.'

'It's worth while tryinghowevermy dear: do you procure the
drawingsand I'll endeavour to find a purchaser.'

'I wish I could do something' said I.

'YouAgnes! wellwho knows? You draw pretty welltoo: if you
choose some simple piece for your subjectI daresay you will be
able to produce something we shall all be proud to exhibit.'

'But I have another scheme in my headmammaand 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 surpriseand laughed. My
sister dropped her work in astonishmentexclaiming'YOU a
governessAgnes! 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 memamma!'

'Butmy loveyou have not learned to take care of YOURSELF yet:
and young children require more judgment and experience to manage
than elder ones.'

'ButmammaI am above eighteenand quite able to take care of
myselfand others too. You do not know half the wisdom and
prudence I possessbecause I have never been tried.'

'Only think' said Mary'what would you do in a house full of
strangerswithout me or mamma to speak and act for you - with a
parcel of childrenbesides yourselfto attend to; and no one to
look to for advice? You would not even know what clothes to put
on.'

'You thinkbecause I always do as you bid meI 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.

'Whatmy little Agnes a governess!' cried heandin spite of his


dejectionhe laughed at the idea.

'Yespapadon't YOU say anything against it: I should like it so
much; and I am sure I could manage delightfully.'

'Butmy darlingwe could not spare you.' And a tear glistened in
his eye as he added - 'Nono! afflicted as we aresurely we are
not brought to that pass yet.'

'Ohno!' 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
tongueyou naughty girl; forthough you are so ready to leave us
you know very well we cannot part with YOU.'

I was silenced for that dayand for many succeeding ones; but
still I did not wholly relinquish my darling scheme. Mary got her
drawing materialsand steadily set to work. I got mine too; but
while I drewI 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 maintenanceand something to
comfort and help my fathermotherand sisterbesides 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 helplessthoughtless being they supposed. And then
how charming to be entrusted with the care and education of
children! Whatever others saidI 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 ageand I should knowat oncehow 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 practicableInstruction desirableand Religion lovely
and comprehensible.

-Delightful task!
To teach the young idea how to shoot!
To train the tender plantsand watch their buds unfolding day by
day!

Influenced by so many inducementsI determined still to persevere;
though the fear of displeasing my motheror distressing my
father's feelingsprevented me from resuming the subject for
several days. At lengthagainI mentioned it to my mother in
private; andwith some difficultygot her to promise to assist me
with her endeavours. My father's reluctant consent was next
obtainedand thenthough Mary still sighed her disapprovalmy
dearkind mother began to look out for a situation for me. She
wrote to my father's relationsand 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 marriageand 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 worldthat
many weeks elapsed before a suitable situation could be procured.
At lastto my great joyit 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 youthand asserted to be a very
nice woman. Her husband was a retired tradesmanwho 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. Ihoweverwas glad to accept thisrather 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
longhow 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
clothesandsubsequentlythe 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 morrowand the last night at home approached - a sudden
anguish seemed to swell my heart. My dear friends looked so sad
and spoke so very kindlythat 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 moorsmy last walk in the gardenand
round the house; I had fedwith herour 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 favouritesthe pair of snow-white fantails; I had played
my last tune on the old familiar pianoand sung my last song to
papa: not the lastI hopedbut the last for what appeared to me
a very long time. Andperhapswhen 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 friendthe kittenwould certainly be changed: she was
already growing a fine cat; and when I returnedeven for a hasty
visit at Christmaswouldmost likelyhave forgotten both her
playmate and her merry pranks. I had romped with her for the last
time; and when I stroked her soft bright furwhile she lay purring
herself to sleep in my lapit was with a feeling of sadness I
could not easily disguise. Then at bed-timewhen I retired with
Mary to our quiet little chamberwhere already my drawers were
cleared out and my share of the bookcase was empty - and where
hereaftershe would have to sleep alonein dreary solitudeas
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 bedI prayed for a blessing on
her and on my parents more fervently than ever I had done before.
To conceal my emotionI buried my face in my handsand they were
presently bathed in tears. I perceivedon risingthat she had
been crying too: but neither of us spoke; and in silence we betook
ourselves to our reposecreeping 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 gighired from
Mr. Smiththe drapergrocerand tea-dealer of the village) might
return the same day. I rosewasheddressedswallowed a hasty
breakfastreceived the fond embraces of my fathermotherand
sisterkissed the cat - to the great scandal of Sallythe maid shook
hands with hermounted the gigdrew my veil over my face
and thenbut not till thenburst into a flood of tears. The gig
rolled on; I looked back; my dear mother and sister were still
standing at the doorlooking after meand waving their adieux. I
returned their saluteand prayed God to bless them from my heart:
we descended the hilland I could see them no more.

'It's a coldish mornin' for youMiss Agnes' observed Smith; 'and
a darksome 'un too; but we's happen get to yon spot afore there
come much rain to signify.'


'YesI hope so' replied Ias 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 valleyand began to
ascend the opposite hill. As we were toiling upI looked back
again; there was the village spireand the old grey parsonage
beyond itbasking in a slanting beam of sunshine - it was but a
sickly raybut the village and surrounding hills were all in
sombre shadeand I hailed the wandering beam as a propitious omen
to my home. With clasped hands I fervently implored a blessing on
its inhabitantsand hastily turned away; for I saw the sunshine
was departing; and I carefully avoided another glancelest I
should see it in gloomy shadowlike the rest of the landscape.

CHAPTER II - FIRST LESSONS IN THE ART OF INSTRUCTION

AS we drove alongmy spirits revived againand I turnedwith
pleasureto 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 oneforas Smith observedthe roads were 'very heavy'; and
certainlyhis horse was very heavy too: it crawled up the hills
and crept down themand 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.
Yetafter allwhen we entered the lofty iron gatewaywhen we
drove softly up the smoothwell-rolled carriage-roadwith the
green lawn on each sidestudded with young treesand approached
the new but stately mansion of Wellwoodrising above its mushroom
poplar-grovesmy heart failed meand 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 houseand
introduce myself among its strange inhabitants. But how was it to
be done? TrueI was near nineteen; butthanks to my retired life
and the protecting care of my mother and sisterI well knew that
many a girl of fifteenor underwas gifted with a more womanly
addressand greater ease and self-possessionthan I was. Yetif
Mrs. Bloomfield were a kindmotherly womanI might do very well
after all; and the childrenof courseI should soon be at ease
with them - and Mr. BloomfieldI hopedI should have but little
to do with.

'Be calmbe calmwhatever happens' I said within myself; and
truly I kept this resolution so welland was so fully occupied in
steadying my nerves and stifling the rebellious flutter of my
heartthat when I was admitted into the hall and ushered into the
presence of Mrs. BloomfieldI almost forgot to answer her polite
salutation; and it afterwards struck methat the little I did say
was spoken in the tone of one half-dead or half-asleep. The lady
toowas somewhat chilly in her manneras I discovered when I had
time to reflect. She was a tallsparestately womanwith thick


black haircold grey eyesand extremely sallow complexion.

With due politenesshowevershe showed me my bedroomand 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 handsuncurled and entangled my hairand dyed my face
of a pale purple; add to this my collar was horridly crumpledmy
frock splashed with mudmy feet clad in stout new bootsand as
the trunks were not brought upthere was no remedy; so having
smoothed my hair as well as I couldand repeatedly twitched my
obdurate collarI proceeded to clomp down the two flights of
stairsphilosophizing as I went; and with some difficulty found my
way into the room where Mrs. Bloomfield awaited me.

She led me into the dining-roomwhere the family luncheon had been
laid out. Some beefsteaks and half-cold potatoes were set before
me; and while I dined upon theseshe sat oppositewatching me (as
I thought) and endeavouring to sustain something like a
conversation - consisting chiefly of a succession of commonplace
remarksexpressed with frigid formality: but this might be more
my fault than hersfor I really could NOT converse. In factmy
attention was almost wholly absorbed in my dinner: not from
ravenous appetitebut from distress at the toughness of the
beefsteaksand the numbness of my handsalmost palsied by their
five-hours' exposure to the bitter wind. I would gladly have eaten
the potatoes and let the meat alonebut having got a large piece
of the latter on to my plateI could not be so impolite as to
leave it; soafter many awkward and unsuccessful attempts to cut
it with the knifeor tear it with the forkor pull it asunder
between themsensible that the awful lady was a spectator to the
whole transactionI at last desperately grasped the knife and fork
in my fistslike a child of two years oldand fell to work with
all the little strength I possessed. But this needed some apology

-with a feeble attempt at a laughI 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 re-assure me.

When the ceremony was concludedshe led me into the sitting-room
againwhere 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 myselfand we have thought them too young for a
governess till now; but I think they are clever childrenand very
apt to learnespecially the little boy; he isI thinkthe flower
of the flock - a generousnoble-spirited boyone to be ledbut
not drivenand 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 possibleas she is now almost six years oldand might
acquire bad habits from the nurses. I have ordered her crib to be
placed in your roomand if you will be so kind as to overlook her
washing and dressingand take charge of her clothesshe 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 apartmentwith their two younger sisters.
Master Tom Bloomfield was a well-grown boy of sevenwith a
somewhat wiry frameflaxen hairblue eyessmall turned-up nose
and fair complexion. Mary Ann was a tall girl toosomewhat dark


like her motherbut with a round full face and a high colour in
her cheeks. The second sister was Fannya 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 daysshe would be four years oldand then she might take
her first lesson in the alphabetand be promoted to the
schoolroom. The remaining one was Harrieta little broadfat
merryplayful thing of scarcely twothat 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 couldand tried to
render myself agreeable; but with little success I fearfor their
mother's presence kept me under an unpleasant restraint. They
howeverwere remarkably free from shyness. They seemed bold
lively childrenand I hoped I should soon be on friendly terms
with them - the little boy especiallyof whom I had heard such a
favourable character from his mamma. In Mary Ann there was a
certain affected simperand a craving for noticethat I was sorry
to observe. But her brother claimed all my attention to himself;
he stood bolt upright between me and the firewith his hands
behind his backtalking away like an oratoroccasionally
interrupting his discourse with a sharp reproof to his sisters when
they made too much noise.

'OhTomwhat 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 YOUmamma; but I WILL show Miss Grey my schoolroom
and my new books.'

'And MY schoolroomand MY new booksTom' said Mary Ann.
'They're mine too.'

'They're MINE' replied he decisively. 'Come alongMiss Grey I'll
escort you.'

When the room and books had been shownwith some bickerings
between the brother and sister that I did my utmost to appease or
mitigateMary Ann brought me her dolland began to be very
loquacious on the subject of its fine clothesits bedits chest
of drawersand other appurtenances; but Tom told her to hold her
clamourthat Miss Grey might see his rocking-horsewhichwith a
most important bustlehe dragged forth from its corner into the
middle of the roomloudly calling on me to attend to it. Then
ordering his sister to hold the reinshe mountedand made me
stand for ten minuteswatching how manfully he used his whip and
spurs. MeantimehoweverI admired Mary Ann's pretty dolland
all its possessions; and then told Master Tom he was a capital
riderbut I hoped he would not use his whip and spurs so much when
he rode a real pony.

'OhyesI will!' said helaying 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 screamran to the other side of meand made a face at him.

'SurelyTomyou 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 orderyou know - that
is for - '

'Wellnow go and put on your bonnet.'

'I don't know - it is so very cloudy and coldit 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. Andas it was the first day
of our acquaintanceI thought I might as well indulge him. It was
too cold for Mary Ann to ventureso she stayed with her mammato
the great relief of her brotherwho liked to have me all to
himself.

The garden was a large oneand tastefully laid out; besides
several splendid dahliasthere were some other fine flowers still
in bloom: but my companion would not give me time to examine them:
I must go with himacross the wet grassto a remote sequestered
cornerthe most important place in the groundsbecause it
contained HIS garden. There were two round bedsstocked with a
variety of plants. In one there was a pretty little rose-tree. I
paused to admire its lovely blossoms.

'Ohnever mind that!' said hecontemptuously. 'That's only MARY
ANN'S garden; lookTHIS is mine.'

After I had observed every flowerand listened to a disquisition
on every plantI was permitted to depart; but firstwith great
pomphe plucked a polyanthus and presented it to meas one
conferring a prodigious favour. I observedon the grass about his
gardencertain apparatus of sticks and cornand 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 nextI mean to roast
alive.'

'And why do you mean to do such a horrible thing?'

'For two reasons: firstto 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?
Rememberthe birds can feel as well as you; and thinkhow would
you like it yourself?'

'Ohthat's nothing! I'm not a birdand I can't feel what I do to


them.'

'But you will have to feel it some timeTom: you have heard where
wicked people go to when they die; and if you don't leave off
torturing innocent birdsrememberyou will have to go thereand
suffer just what you have made them suffer.'

'Ohpooh! I shan't. Papa knows how I treat themand he never
blames me for it: he says it is just what HE used to do when HE
was a boy. Last summerhe gave me a nest full of young sparrows
and he saw me pulling off their legs and wingsand headsand
never said anything; except that they were nasty thingsand I must
not let them soil my trousers: end Uncle Robson was there tooand
he laughedand said I was a fine boy.'

'But what would your mamma say?'

'Ohshe doesn't care! she says it's a pity to kill the pretty
singing birdsbut the naughty sparrowsand miceand ratsI may
do what I like with. So nowMiss Greyyou see it is NOT wicked.'

'I still think it isTom; and perhaps your papa and mamma would
think so tooif they thought much about it. However' I
internally added'they may say what they pleasebut I am
determined you shall do nothing of the kindas long as I have
power to prevent it.'

He next took me across the lawn to see his mole-trapsand then
into the stack-yard to see his weasel-traps: one of whichto his
great joycontained a dead weasel; and then into the stable to
seenot the fine carriage-horsesbut a little rough coltwhich
he informed me had been bred on purpose for himand he was to ride
it as soon as it was properly trained. I tried to amuse the little
fellowand listened to all his chatter as complacently as I could;
for I thought if he had any affections at allI would endeavour to
win them; and thenin timeI might be able to show him the error
of his ways: but I looked in vain for that generousnoble spirit
his mother talked of; though I could see he was not without a
certain degree of quickness and penetrationwhen he chose to exert
it.

When we re-entered the house it was nearly tea-time. Master Tom
told me thatas papa was from homehe and I and Mary Ann were to
have tea with mammafor a treat; foron such occasionsshe
always dined at luncheon-time with theminstead of at six o'clock.
Soon after teaMary Ann went to bedbut Tom favoured us with his
company and conversation till eight. After he was goneMrs.
Bloomfield further enlightened me on the subject of her children's
dispositions and acquirementsand on what they were to learnand
how they were to be managedand 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 HERfor people did not like
to be told of their children's faultsand so I concluded I was to
keep silence on them altogether. About half-past nineMrs.
Bloomfield invited me to partake of a frugal supper of cold meat
and bread. I was glad when that was overand she took her bedroom
candlestick and retired to rest; for though I wished to be pleased
with herher company was extremely irksome to me; and I could not
help feeling that she was coldgraveand forbidding - the very
opposite of the kindwarm-hearted matron my hopes had depicted her
to be.


CHAPTER III - A FEW MORE LESSONS

I ROSE next morning with a feeling of hopeful exhilarationin
spite of the disappointments already experienced; but I found the
dressing of Mary Ann was no light matteras her abundant hair was
to be smeared with pomadeplaited in three long tailsand 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 timeandby keeping up a constant fidget of impatience
contrived to render me still longer. When all was donewe went
into the schoolroomwhere I met my other pupiland chatted with
the two till it was time to go down to breakfast. That meal being
concludedand a few civil words having been exchanged with Mrs.
Bloomfieldwe repaired to the schoolroom againand commenced the
business of the day. I found my pupils very backwardindeed; but
Tomthough averse to every species of mental exertionwas not
without abilities. Mary Ann could scarcely read a wordand was so
careless and inattentive that I could hardly get on with her at
all. Howeverby dint of great labour and patienceI managed to
get something done in the course of the morningand then
accompanied my young charge out into the garden and adjacent
groundsfor a little recreation before dinner. There we got along
tolerably togetherexcept that I found they had no notion of going
with me: I must go with themwherever they chose to lead me. I
must runwalkor standexactly as it suited their fancy. This
I thoughtwas reversing the order of things; and I found it doubly
disagreeableas on this as well as subsequent occasionsthey
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 themand thus appear neglectful of my
charge. To-daythey manifested a particular attachment to a well
at the bottom of the lawnwhere 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 windowand blame me for
allowing them thus to draggle their clothes and wet their feet and
handsinstead of taking exercise; but no argumentscommandsor
entreaties could draw them away. If SHE did not see themsome 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
pausedand 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? Deardear! Let
me REQUEST that in future you will keep them DECENT at least!' so
sayinghe turned awayand 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 sothat he
should speak so uncivilly to metheir governessand a perfect
stranger to himself. Presently the bell rang to summon us in. I
dined with the children at onewhile 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 stoutapparently
between thirty and forty years of age: he had a large mouthpale
dingy complexionmilky blue eyesand hair the colour of a hempen
cord. There was a roast leg of mutton before him: he helped Mrs.
Bloomfieldthe childrenand medesiring me to cut up the
children's meat; thenafter twisting about the mutton in various
directionsand eyeing it from different pointshe pronounced it
not fit to be eatenand called for the cold beef.


'What is the matter with the muttonmy dear?' asked his mate.

'It is quite overdone. Don't you tasteMrs. Bloomfieldthat all
the goodness is roasted out of it? And can't you see that all that
nicered gravy is completely dried away?'

'WellI think the BEEF will suit you.'

The beef was set before himand he began to carvebut with the
most rueful expressions of discontent.

'What is the matter with the BEEFMr. 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 hedolefully.

'How so?'

'How so! Whydon't you see how it is cut? Dear - dear! it is
quite shocking!'

'They must have cut it wrong in the kitchenthenfor I'm sure I
carved it quite properly hereyesterday.'

'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 thatin futurewhen a decent dish leaves
this tablethey shall not TOUCH it in the kitchen. Remember THAT
Mrs. Bloomfield!'

Notwithstanding the ruinous state of the beefthe gentleman
managed to out himself some delicate slicespart of which he ate
in silence. When he next spokeit wasin 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 helooking solemnly up from his plateand
suspending his knife and fork in astonishment.

'No. I told the cook to get some fish - I did not particularize
what.'

'Wellthat beats everything! A lady professes to keep houseand
doesn't even know what fish is for dinner! professes to order fish
and doesn't specify what!'

'PerhapsMr. Bloomfieldyou 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 diningroom
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 eightwhen hetoowent; and I finished my letter
and unpacked my clotheswhich I had hitherto found no opportunity
for doingandfinallywent to bed myself.

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

My task of instruction and surveillanceinstead of becoming easier
as my charges and I got better accustomed to each otherbecame
more arduous as their characters unfolded. The name of governess
I soon foundwas a mere mockery as applied to me: my pupils had
no more notion of obedience than a wildunbroken colt. The
habitual fear of their father's peevish temperand the dread of
the punishments he was wont to inflict when irritatedkept them
generally within bounds in his immediate presence. The girlstoo
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 punishmentsI was given
to understandthe 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 Tomnot content with refusing to be ruledmust needs set
up as a rulerand manifested a determination to keepnot only his
sistersbut his governess in orderby violent manual and pedal
applications; andas he was a tallstrong boy of his yearsthis
occasioned no trifling inconvenience. A few sound boxes on the
earon such occasionsmight have settled the matter easily
enough: but asin that casehe might make up some story to his
mother which she would be sure to believeas 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; andin his most violent moodsmy 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 notwas added that of
forcing him to do what he ought. Often he would positively refuse
to learnor to repeat his lessonsor even to look at his book.
Hereagaina good birch rod might have been serviceable; butas
my powers were so limitedI must make the best use of what I had.

As there were no settled hours for study and playI resolved to
give my pupils a certain taskwhichwith moderate attentionthey
could perform in a short time; and till this was donehowever
weary I wasor however perverse they might benothing short of
parental interference should induce me to suffer them to leave the
schoolroomeven if I should sit with my chair against the door to
keep them in. PatienceFirmnessand 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; andto
that endI must be cautious to threaten and promise nothing that I
could not perform. ThenI would carefully refrain from all
useless irritability and indulgence of my own ill-temper: when
they behaved tolerablyI would be as kind and obliging as it was
in my power to bein order to make the widest possible distinction
between good and bad conduct; I would reason with themtooin the
simplest and most effective manner. When I reproved themor


refused to gratify their wishesafter a glaring faultit 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 offencesI would
remind them of the sins of the past daysolemnlybut in perfect
kindnessto avoid raising a spirit of opposition; penitential
hymns should be said by the naughtycheerful ones by the
comparatively good; and every kind of instruction I would convey to
themas much as possibleby 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
incorrigiblethe parents so unreasonableor myself so mistaken in
my viewsor so unable to carry them outthat my best intentions
and most strenuous efforts seemed productive of no better result
than sport to the childrendissatisfaction to their parentsand
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 themto carry or drag them to
the tableand often forcibly to hold them there till the lesson
was done. Tom I frequently put into a cornerseating myself
before him in a chairwith a book which contained the little task
that must be said or readbefore he was releasedin my hand. He
was not strong enough to push both me and the chair awayso he
would stand twisting his body and face into the most grotesque and
singular contortions - laughableno doubtto an unconcerned
spectatorbut not to me - and uttering loud yells and doleful
outcriesintended to represent weeping but wholly without the
accompaniment of tears. I knew this was done solely for the
purpose of annoying me; andthereforehowever I might inwardly
tremble with impatience and irritationI manfully strove to
suppress all visible signs of molestationand affected to sit with
calm indifferencewaiting till it should please him to cease this
pastimeand prepare for a run in the gardenby 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 thatif he did not
do betterhe should have another line: then he would stubbornly
refuse to write this line; and Ito save my wordhad finally to
resort to the expedient of holding his fingers upon the penand
forcibly drawing his hand up and downtillin spite of his
resistancethe line was in some sort completed.

Yet Tom was by no means the most unmanageable of my pupils:
sometimesto my great joyhe would have the sense to see that his
wisest policy was to finish his tasksand go out and amuse himself
till I and his sisters came to join him; which frequently was not
at allfor 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 Iwith great difficultyhad succeeded in rooting her thence
I had still to hold her up with one armwhile 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 bearI transferred it to the other; orif both were weary of
the burdenI carried her into a cornerand told her she might


come out when she should find the use of her feetand stand up:
but she generally preferred lying there like a log till dinner or
teatimewhenas I could not deprive her of her mealsshe must be
liberatedand would come crawling out with a grin of triumph on
her roundred 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 consequenceit would have
been better for both partiesthan 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 wasif I could have done it; and
had my powers been less limitedI might have enforced obedience;
butas it wasit was a trial of strength between her and mein
which she generally came off victorious; and every victory served
to encourage and strengthen her for a future contest. In vain I
arguedcoaxedentreatedthreatenedscolded; in vain I kept her
in from playorif obliged to take her outrefused to play with
heror 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 bidand
being lovedand kindly treated in consequenceand the
disadvantages of persisting in her absurd perversity. Sometimes
when she would ask me to do something for herI would answer'
YesI willMary Annif you will only say that word. Come!
you'd better say it at onceand have no more trouble about it.'

'No.'

'Thenof courseI can do nothing for you.'

With meat her ageor underneglect and disgrace were the most
dreadful of punishments; but on her they made no impression.
Sometimesexasperated to the utmost pitchI would shake her
violently by the shoulderor pull her long hairor put her in the
corner; for which she punished me with loudshrillpiercing
screamsthat went through my head like a knife. She knew I hated
thisand when she had shrieked her utmostwould look into my face
with an air of vindictive satisfactionexclaiming- 'NOWthen!
THAT'S for you!' and then shriek again and againtill 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 girlma'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 girland finish her lessons.' This
was blandly spoken to the child. 'And I hope I shall NEVER hear
such terrible cries again!'

And fixing her coldstony eyes upon me with a look that could not
be mistakenshe would shut the doorand walk away. Sometimes I
would try to take the little obstinate creature by surpriseand
casually ask her the word while she was thinking of something else;
frequently she would begin to say itand then suddenly cheek
herselfwith a provoking look that seemed to say'Ah! I'm too
sharp for you; you shan't trick it out of meeither.'


On another occasionI pretended to forget the whole affair; and
talked and played with her as usualtill nightwhen I put her to
bed; then bending over herwhile she lay all smiles and good
humourjust before departingI saidas cheerfully and kindly as
before - 'NowMary Annjust tell me that word before I kiss you
good-night. You are a good girl nowandof courseyou will say
it.'

'NoI won't.'

'Then I can't kiss you.'

'WellI 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 aloneand
in darknesswondering 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
feltforhappilyI never committed a fault that was deemed
worthy of such penalty; but once I rememberfor some transgression
of my sister'sour mother thought proper to inflict it upon her:
what SHE feltI 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 nurseryto play with her
little sisters and the nurse. This was natural enoughbutas it
was against her mother's express desireIof courseforbade her
to do soand did my utmost to keep her with me; but that only
increased her relish for the nurseryand the more I strove to keep
her out of itthe oftener she wentand the longer she stayedto
the great dissatisfaction of Mrs. BloomfieldwhoI 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 dressedunless she might
wear some particular frockthat 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 thatfrequentlywhenafter much
trouble and toilI hadat lengthsucceeded in bringing her down
the breakfast was nearly half over; and black looks from 'mamma'
and testy observations from 'papa' spoken at meif not to me
were sure to be my meed: for few things irritated the latter so
much as want of punctuality at meal times. Thenamong the minor
annoyanceswas my inability to satisfy Mrs. Bloomfield with her
daughter's dress; and the child's hair 'was never fit to be seen.'
Sometimesas a powerful reproach to meshe would perform the
office of tire woman herselfand then complain bitterly of the
trouble it gave her.

When little Fanny came into the schoolroomI hoped she would be
mild and inoffensiveat least; but a few daysif not a few hours
sufficed to destroy the illusion: I found her a mischievous
intractable little creaturegiven up to falsehood and deception
young as she wasand alarmingly fond of exercising her two
favourite weapons of offence and defence: that of spitting in the
faces of those who incurred her displeasureand bellowing like a
bull when her unreasonable desires were not gratified. As she
generallywas pretty quiet in her parents' presenceand they were
impressed with the notion of her being a remarkably gentle child
her falsehoods were readily believedand her loud uproars led them
to suspect harsh and injudicious treatment on my part; and whenat
lengthher bad disposition became manifest even to their


prejudiced eyesI 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 observemy dearhow she is altered
since she entered the schoolroom? She will soon be as bad as the
other two; andI am sorry to saythey 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;
butinstead of thatthey get worse and worse: I don't know how
it is with their learningbut their habitsI knowmake no sort
of improvement; they get rougherand dirtierand more unseemly
every day.'

I knew this was all pointed at me; and theseand all similar
innuendoesaffected 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 impulsesuppress every sensitive shrinking
and go on perseveringlydoing my best; forirksome as my
situation wasI earnestly wished to retain it. I thoughtif I
could struggle on with unremitting firmness and integritythe
children would in time become more humanized: every month would
contribute to make them some little wiserandconsequentlymore
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 wasI still was earning
somethingand with strict economy I could easily manage to have
something to spare for themif 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 myselfand I was determined to bear it;
naymore than thatI did not even regret the step I had taken. I
longed to show my friends thateven nowI was competent to
undertake the chargeand able to acquit myself honourably to the
end; and if ever I felt it degrading to submit so quietlyor
intolerable to toil so constantlyI would turn towards my home
and say within myself -

They may crushbut they shall not subdue me!
'Tis of thee that I thinknot 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
thoughtas you had seen your friends so latelyyou would not care
for a longer stay.' I left her to think so still: but she little
knew how longhow wearisome those fourteen weeks of absence had
been to me; how intensely I had longed for my holidayshow greatly
I was disappointed at their curtailment. Yet she was not to blame
in this. I had never told her my feelingsand she could not be
expected to divine them; I had not been with her a full termand
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 homemy


happiness while there - enjoying a brief space of rest and liberty
in that dearfamiliar placeamong the loving and the loved - and
my sorrow on being obliged to bid themonce morea long adieu.

I returnedhoweverwith unabated vigour to my work - a more
arduous task than anyone can imaginewho has not felt something
like the misery of being charged with the care and direction of a
set of mischievousturbulent rebelswhom his utmost exertions
cannot bind to their duty; whileat the same timehe is
responsible for their conduct to a higher powerwho exacts from
him what cannot be achieved without the aid of the superior's more
potent authority; whicheither from indolenceor the fear of
becoming unpopular with the said rebellious gangthe latter
refuses to give. I can conceive few situations more harassing than
that whereinhowever you may long for successhowever you may
labour to fulfil your dutyyour efforts are baffled and set at
nought by those beneath youand 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 responsibilitiesfor
fear of trespassing too much upon the reader's patience; as
perhapsI have already done; but my design in writing the few last
pages was not to amusebut to benefit those whom it might concern;
he that has no interest in such matters will doubtless have skipped
them over with a cursory glanceandperhapsa malediction
against the prolixity of the writer; but if a parent has
therefromgathered any useful hintor an unfortunate governess
received thereby the slightest benefitI am well rewarded for my
pains.

To avoid trouble and confusionI 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 caseall were determined to 'be naughtyand to
tease Miss Greyand put her in a passion.'

Sometimeson such occasionsthe thought has suddenly occurred to
me - 'If they could see me now!' meaningof coursemy 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 themtill my little
tormentors were gone to dessertor cleared off to bed (my only
prospects of deliverance)and thenin 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 numerousmy leisure moments too preciousto
admit of much time being given to fruitless lamentations.

I particularly remember one wildsnowy afternoonsoon 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 resolutionthough I had talked myself hoarseand
wearied every muscle in my throatin the vain attempt to reason
them out of it. I had got Tom pinned up in a cornerwhenceI
told himhe should not escape till he had done his appointed task.
MeantimeFanny had possessed herself of my work-bagand was
rifling its contents - and spitting into it besides. I told her to
let it alonebut to no purposeof course. 'Burn itFanny!'
cried Tom: and THIS command she hastened to obey. I sprang to
snatch it from the fireand Tom darted to the door. 'Mary Ann
throw her desk out of the window!' cried he: and my precious desk
containing my letters and papersmy small amount of cashand all
my valuableswas about to be precipitated from the three-storey


window. I flew to rescue it. Meanwhile Tom had left the roomand
was rushing down the stairsfollowed by Fanny. Having secured my
deskI ran to catch themand Mary Ann came scampering after. All
three escaped meand ran out of the house into the gardenwhere
they plunged about in the snowshouting and screaming in exultant
glee.

What must I do? If I followed themI should probably be unable to
capture oneand only drive them farther away; if I did nothow
was I to get them in? And what would their parents think of meif
they saw or heard the children riotinghatlessbonnetless
glovelessand bootlessin the deep soft snow? While I stood in
this perplexityjust without the doortryingby grim looks and
angry wordsto awe them into subjectionI heard a voice behind
mein harshly piercing tonesexclaiming


'Miss Grey! Is it possible? Whatin the devil's namecan you be
thinking about?'

'I can't get them insir' said Iturning roundand beholding
Mr. Bloomfieldwith his hair on endand his pale blue eyes
bolting from their sockets.

'But I INSIST upon their being got in!' cried heapproaching
nearerand looking perfectly ferocious.

'Thensiryou must call them yourselfif you pleasefor they
won't listen to me' I repliedstepping back.

'Come in with youyou filthy brats; or I'll horsewhip you every
one!' roared he; and the children instantly obeyed. 'Thereyou
see! - they come at the first word!'

'Yeswhen YOU speak.'

'And it's very strangethat when you've the care of 'em you've no
better control over 'em than that! - Nowthere they are - gone upstairs
with their nasty snowy feet! Do go after 'em and see them
made decentfor heaven's sake!'

That gentleman's mother was then staying in the house; andas I
ascended the stairs and passed the drawing-room doorI 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 thinkmy dearshe'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 nicekind-heartedchatty old
body. She would often come to me and talk in a confidential
strain; nodding and shaking her headand gesticulating with hands
and eyesas a certain class of old ladies are won't 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 childrenand express at timesby half sentences
interspersed with nods and knowing winksher sense of the
injudicious conduct of their mamma in so restricting my powerand
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 inor understand anything more than was openly
spoken; at leastI never went farther than an implied
acknowledgment thatif matters were otherwise ordered my task
would be a less difficult oneand I should be better able to guide
and instruct my charge; but now I must be doubly cautious.
Hithertothough 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 themand to give her credit for all the virtues
she professedand even imagine others yet untold. Kindnesswhich
had been the food of my life through so many yearshad lately been
so entirely denied methat I welcomed with grateful joy the
slightest semblance of it. No wonderthenthat my heart warmed
to the old ladyand always gladdened at her approach and regretted
her departure.

But nowthe few words luckily or unluckily heard in passing had
wholly revolutionized my ideas respecting her: now I looked upon
her as hypocritical and insincerea flattererand 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 notif I would: my manner
altered with my feelingsand became so cold and shy that she could
not fail to notice it. She soon did notice itand HER manner
altered too: the familiar nod was changed to a stiff bowthe
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 displeasureand even made some efforts to
recover the ground I had lost - and with better apparent success
than I could have anticipated. At one timeImerely in common
civilityasked after her cough; immediately her long visage
relaxed into a smileand she favoured me with a particular history
of that and her other infirmitiesfollowed by an account of her
pious resignationdelivered in the usual emphaticdeclamatory
stylewhich no writing can portray.

'But there's one remedy for allmy dearand 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 trialsand always will do' (a succession of nods).
'But thenit isn't everybody that can say that' (a shake of the
head); 'but I'm one of the pious onesMiss Grey!' (a very
significant nod and toss). 'Andthank heavenI 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
Scripturemisquoted or misappliedand religious exclamations so
redolent of the ludicrous in the style of delivery and manner of
bringing inif not in the expressions themselvesthat I decline
repeating themshe withdrew; tossing her large head in high goodhumour
- with herself at least - and left me hoping thatafter
allshe was rather weak than wicked.

At her next visit to Wellwood HouseI went so far as to say I was
glad to see her looking so well. The effect of this was magical:
the wordsintended as a mark of civilitywere received as a
flattering compliment; her countenance brightened upand from that
moment she became as gracious and benign as heart could wish - in
outward semblance at least. From what I now saw of herand what I
heard from the childrenI know thatin order to gain her cordial
friendshipI had but to utter a word of flattery at each
convenient opportunity: but this was against my principles; and


for lack of thisthe capricious old dame soon deprived me of her
favour againand I believe did me much secret injury.

She could not greatly influence her daughter-in-law against me
becausebetween that lady and herself there was a mutual dislike chiefly
shown by her in secret detractions and calumniations; by
the otherin 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 sonthe
old lady had better success: he would listen to all she had to
sayprovided she could soothe his fretful temperand 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 childrenand even
his wife did not attend to them as she ought; and that he must look
after them himselfor they would all go to ruin.

Thus urgedhe would frequently give himself the trouble of
watching them from the windows during their play; at timeshe
would follow them through the groundsand too often came suddenly
upon them while they were dabbling in the forbidden welltalking
to the coachman in the stablesor revelling in the filth of the
farm-yard - and Imeanwhilewearily standingbyhaving
previously exhausted my energy in vain attempts to get them away.
Oftentoohe would unexpectedly pop his head into the schoolroom
while the young people were at mealsand find them spilling their
milk over the table and themselvesplunging their fingers into
their own or each other's mugsor quarrelling over their victuals
like a set of tiger's cubs. If I were quiet at the momentI was
conniving at their disorderly conduct; if (as was frequently the
case) I happened to be exalting my voice to enforce orderI was
using undue violenceand setting the girls a bad example by such
ungentleness of tone and language.

I remember one afternoon in springwhenowing to the rainthey
could not go out; butby some amazing good fortunethey had all
finished their lessonsand yet abstained from running down to
tease their parents - a trick that annoyed me greatlybut which
on rainy daysI seldom could prevent their doing; becausebelow
they found novelty and amusement - especially when visitors were in
the house; and their motherthough she bid me keep them in the
schoolroomwould never chide them for leaving itor trouble
herself to send them back. But this day they appeared satisfied
withtheir present abodeand what is more wonderful stillseemed
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 windowover a heap of broken toys and a quantity of
birds' eggs - or rather egg-shellsfor the contents had luckily
been abstracted. These shells they had broken up and were pounding
into small fragmentsto what end I could not imagine; but so long
as they were quiet and not in positive mischiefI did not care;
andwith a feeling of unusual reposeI sat by the fireputting
the finishing stitches to a frock for Mary Ann's doll; intending
when that was doneto begin a letter to my mother. Suddenly the
door openedand the dingy head of Mr. Bloomfield looked in.

'All very quiet here! What are you doing?' said he. 'No harm TODAY
at least' thought I. But he was of a different opinion.
Advancing to the windowand seeing the children's occupationshe
testily exclaimed - 'What in the world are you about?'

'We're grinding egg-shellspapa!' cried Tom.


'How DARE you make such a messyou little devils? Don't you see
what confounded work you're making of the carpet?' (the carpet was
a plain brown drugget). 'Miss Greydid you know what they were
doing?'

'Yessir.'

'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! Whylook there! Just look at that carpetand 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 declareit
puts me quite past my patience' and he departedshutting the door
after him with a bang that made the children laugh.

'It puts me quite past my patience too!' muttered Igetting up;
andseizing the pokerI dashed it repeatedly into the cinders
and stirred them up with unwonted energy; thus easing my irritation
under pretence of mending the fire.

After thisMr. Bloomfield was continually looking in to see if the
schoolroom was in order; andas the children were continually
littering the floor with fragments of toyssticksstones
stubbleleavesand other rubbishwhich I could not prevent their
bringingor oblige them to gather upand which the servants
refused to 'clean after them' I had to spend a considerable
portion of my valuable leisure moments on my knees upon the floor
in painsfully reducing things to order. Once I told them that they
should not taste their supper till they had picked up everything
from the carpet; Fanny might have hers when she had taken up a
certain quantityMary Ann when she had gathered twice as manyand
Tom was to clear away the rest. Wonderful to statethe girls did
their part; but Tom was in such a fury that he flew upon the table
scattered the bread and milk about the floorstruck his sisters
kicked the coals out of the coal-panattempted to overthrow the
table and chairsand seemed inclined to make a Douglas-larder of
the whole contents of the room: but I seized upon himand
sending Mary Ann to call her mammaheld himin spite of kicks
blowsyellsand execrationstill Mrs. Bloomfield made her
appearance.

'What is the matter with my boy?' said she.

And when the matter was explained to herall she did was to send
for the nursery-maid to put the room in orderand bring Master
Bloomfield his supper.

'There now' cried Tomtriumphantlylooking up from his viands
with his mouth almost too full for speech. 'There nowMiss 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 afflictionsthough in a
smaller degree; as she had not the task of teachingnor was she so
responsible for the conduct of her charge.


'OhMiss Grey!' she would say'you have some trouble with them
childer!'

'I haveindeedBetty; and I daresay you know what it is.'

'AyI do so! But I don't vex myself o'er 'em as you do. And
thenyou seeI 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 'emas what they say. HowsoeverI've lost my place
for it.'

'Have youBetty? I heard you were going to leave.'

'Ehbless youyes! Missis gave me warning a three wik sin'. She
told me afore Christmas how it mud beif 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 ladythere was another relative of the family
whose visits were a great annoyance to me - this was 'Uncle
Robson' Mrs. Bloomfield's brother; a tallself-sufficient fellow
with dark hair and sallow complexion like his sistera nose that
seemed to disdain the earthand little grey eyesfrequently halfclosed
with a mixture of real stupidity and affected contempt of
all surrounding objects. He was a thick-setstrongly-built man
but he had found some means of compressing his waist into a
remarkably small compass; and thattogether with the unnatural
stillness of his formshowed that the lofty-mindedmanly Mr.
Robsonthe scorner of the female sexwas not above the foppery of
stays. He seldom deigned to notice me; andwhen he didit 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 comingso
much as for the harm he did the children - encouraging all their
evil propensitiesand 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 faceand 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 wrongin
either her or her brotherhe would encourage by laughing atif
not by actually praising: people little know the injury they do to
children by laughing at their faultsand making a pleasant jest of
what their true friends have endeavoured to teach them to hold in
grave abhorrence.

Though not a positive drunkardMr. Robson habitually swallowed
great quantities of wineand took with relish an occasional glass
of brandy and water. He taught his nephew to imitate him in this
to the utmost of his abilityand to believe that the more wine and
spirits he could takeand the better he liked themthe more he
manifested his boldand manly spiritand rose superior to his


sisters. Mr. Bloomfield had not much to say against itfor his
favourite beverage was gin and water; of which he took a
considerable portion every dayby 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 creationboth by precept and example. As he frequently came
to course or shoot over his brother-in-law's groundshe would
bring his favourite dogs with him; and he treated them so brutally
thatpoor as I wasI would have given a sovereign any day to see
one of them bite himprovided the animal could have done it with
impunity. Sometimeswhen in a very complacent moodhe would go
a-birds'-nesting with the childrena thing that irritated and
annoyed me exceedingly; asby frequent and persevering attemptsI
flattered myself I had partly shown them the evil of this pastime
and hopedin timeto bring them to some general sense of justice
and humanity; but ten minutes' birds'-nesting with uncle Robsonor
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. Happilyhoweverduring that
springthey neverbut oncegot anything but empty nestsor eggs

-being too impatient to leave them till the birds were hatched;
that onceTomwho had been with his uncle into the neighbouring
plantationcame running in high glee into the gardenwith a brood
of little callow nestlings in his hands. Mary Ann and Fannywhom
I was just bringing outran to admire his spoilsand to beg each
a bird for themselves. 'Nonot one!' cried Tom. 'They're all
mine; uncle Robson gave them to me - onetwothreefourfive you
shan't touch one of them! nonot onefor your lives!'
continued heexultingly; laying the nest on the groundand
standing over it with his legs wide aparthis hands thrust into
his breeches-pocketshis body bent forwardand his face twisted
into all manner of contortions in the ecstasy of his delight.
'But you shall see me fettle 'em off. My wordbut I WILL wallop
'em? See if I don't now. By gum! but there's rare sport for me in
that nest.'

'ButTom' 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 fromthat the old birds may continue to feed them.'

'But you don't know where that isMadam: it's only me and uncle
Robson that knows that.'

'But if you don't tell meI 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 mammaand uncle Robsonwould be angry. Haha!
I've caught you thereMiss!'

'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 itI shall be sorry to offend them; but your uncle Robson's
opinionsof courseare 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 stonethat had been reared up for a mouse-trap by the
gardener; thenhaving once more vainly endeavoured to persuade the
little tyrant to let the birds be carried backI asked what he
intended to do with them. With fiendish glee he commenced a list


of torments; and while he was busied in the relationI dropped the
stone upon his intended victims and crushed them flat beneath it.
Loud were the outcriesterrible the execrationsconsequent upon
this daring outrage; uncle Robson had been coming up the walk with
his gunand was just then pausing to kick his dog. Tom flew
towards himvowing he would make him kick me instead of Juno. Mr.
Robson leant upon his gunand laughed excessively at the violence
of his nephew's passionand the bitter maledictions and
opprobrious epithets he heaped upon me. 'Wellyou ARE a good
'un!' exclaimed heat lengthtaking up his weapon and proceeding
towards the house. 'Dammebut the lad has some spunk in himtoo.
Curse meif ever I saw a nobler little scoundrel than that. He's
beyond petticoat government already: by God! he defies mother
grannygovernessand all! Hahaha! Never mindTomI'll get
you another brood to-morrow.'

'If you doMr. RobsonI shall kill them too' said I.

'Humph!' replied heand having honoured me with a broad stare which
contrary to his expectationsI sustained without flinching

-he turned away with an air of supreme contemptand stalked into
the house. Tom next went to tell his mamma. It was not her way to
say much on any subject; butwhen she next saw meher aspect and
demeanour were doubly dark and chilled. After some casual remark
about the weathershe observed - 'I am sorryMiss Greyyou
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 shecalmly'that the
creatures were all created for our convenience.'

I thought that doctrine admitted some doubtbut merely replied '
If they werewe 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.'

'Butfor the child's own sakeit ought not to be encouraged to
have such amusements' answered Ias meekly as I couldto make up
for such unusual pertinacity. '"Blessed are the mercifulfor 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 thorough-bred gentry my mother spoke of, who would
treat his governess with due consideration as a respectable welleducated
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 gentleman 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 highspirited,'
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 allabsorbing
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 debut
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 allimportant
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.'

'WellI 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.'

'Nobut you will see the rooms decked out before it beginsand
hear the musicandabove allsee me in my splendid new dress. I
shall be so charmingyou'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 charmingon the occasion of
some of the numberless balls and parties that are to beand I
cannot disappoint my friends by postponing my return so long.'

'Ohnever mind your friends! Tell them we won't let you go.'

'Butto say the truthit would be a disappointment to myself:
long to see them as much as they to see me - perhaps more.'

'Wellbut it is such a short time.'

'Nearly a fortnight by my computation; andbesidesI cannot bear
the thoughts of a Christmas spent from home: andmoreovermy
sister is going to be married.'

'Is she - when?'

'Not till next month; but I want to be there to assist her in
making preparationsand 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 letterwhich you stigmatize as
dull and stupidand won't let me read.'

'To whom is she to be married?'

'To Mr. Richardsonthe vicar of a neighbouring parish.'

'Is he rich?'

'No; only comfortable.'

'Is he handsome?'

'No; only decent.'

'Young?'

'No; only middling.'

'Ohmercy! what a wretch! What sort of a house is it?'

'A quiet little vicaragewith an ivy-clad porchan old-fashioned
gardenand - '

'Ohstop! - you'll make me sick. How CAN she bear it?'

'I expect she'll not only be able to bear itbut to be very happy.
You did not ask me if Mr. Richardson were a goodwiseor amiable
man; I could have answered Yesto all these questions - at least
so Mary thinksand I hope she will not find herself mistaken.'

'But - miserable creature! how can she think of spending her life
therecooped 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-eightand 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 doI believe he merits the epithet.'

'Mercyhow shocking! and will she wear a white apron and make pies
and puddings?'

'I don't know about the white apronbut 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 shawland 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 mindin accordance with our
mother's example.'

CHAPTER IX - THE BALL

'NOWMiss Grey' exclaimed Miss Murrayimmediately I entered the
schoolroomafter having taken off my outdoor garmentsupon
returning from my four weeks' recreation'Now - shut the doorand
sit downand I'll tell you all about the ball.'

'No - damn itno!' shouted Miss Matilda. 'Hold your tonguecan't
ye? and let me tell her about my new mare - SUCH a splendourMiss
Grey! a fine blood mare - '

'Do be quietMatilda; and let me tell my news first.'

'NonoRosalie; 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 hearMiss Matildathat you've not got rid of that
shocking habit yet.'

'WellI can't help it: but I'll never say a wicked word againif
you'll only listen to meand tell Rosalie to hold her confounded
tongue.'

Rosalie remonstratedand I thought I should have been torn in
pieces between them; but Miss Matilda having the loudest voiceher
sister at length gave inand suffered her to tell her story first:
so I was doomed to hear a long account of her splendid mareits
breeding and pedigreeits pacesits actionits 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
metand mamma had ordered a bright scarlet hunting-habit for her.

'OhMatilda! what stories you are telling!' exclaimed her sister.

'Well' answered sheno whit abashed'I know I COULD clear a
five-barred gateif I triedand papa WILL say I may huntand
mamma WILL order the habit when I ask it.'

'Wellnow get along' replied Miss Murray; 'and dodear Matilda
try to be a little more lady-like. Miss GreyI 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 papayou ass! and his jolly friends' said the
young ladyvigorously cracking a hunting-whipwhich she
habitually carried in her hand. 'I'm as good judge of horseflesh
as the best of 'm.'

'Wellnow get alongyou shocking girl! I really shall take a fit
if you go on in such a way. And nowMiss Greyattend to me; I'm
going to tell you about the ball. You must be dying to hear about
itI know. OhSUCH a ball! You never saw or heardor reador
dreamt of anything like it in all your life. The decorationsthe
entertainmentthe supperthe music were indescribable! and then
the guests! There were two noblementhree baronetsand five
titled ladiesand other ladies and gentlemen innumerable. The
ladiesof coursewere of no consequence to meexcept to put me
in a good humour with myselfby showing how ugly and awkward most
of them were; and the bestmamma told me- the most transcendent
beauties among themwere nothing to me. As for meMiss Grey I'm
so SORRY you didn't see me! I was CHARMING - wasn't I
Matilda?'

'Middling.'

'Nobut 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 shockingconceited
frivolous girl; but thenyou knowI don't attribute it ALL to my
personal attractions: I give some praise to the hairdresserand
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 beautifullarge pearls!'

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

'Ohno! - not that alone: butthenI 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!'

'WellI should think one conquest would be enough; and too much
unless the subjugation were mutual.'

'Ohbut you know I never agree with you on those points. Now
wait a bitand 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 noblemenLord Gand
Lord F-were marriedor I might have condescended to be
particularly gracious to THEM; as it wasI did not: though Lord
F-who hates his wifewas evidently much struck with me. He
asked me to dance with him twice - he is a charming dancerby-theby
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 nastycross wife
ready to perish with spite and vexation - '


'OhMiss Murray! you don't mean to say that such a thing could
really give you pleasure? However cross or - '

'WellI know it's very wrong; - but never mind! I mean to be good
some time - only don't preach nowthere'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 youngrich
and gay; but an ugly beastnevertheless: howevermamma says I
should not mind that after a few months' acquaintance. Thenthere
was Henry MelthamSir Hugh's younger son; rather good-lookingand
a pleasant fellow to flirt with: but BEING a younger sonthat is
all he is good for; then there was young Mr. Greenrich enough
but of no familyand a great stupid fellowa mere country booby!
and thenour good rectorMr. 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?'

'Yesto he 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 refrainpoor 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 lastand is gone.'

'And what is the new one like?'

'OhSUCH a beast! Weston his name is. I can give you his
description in three words - an insensateuglystupid blockhead.
That's fourbut no matter - enough of HIM now.'

Then she returned to the balland gave me a further account of her
deportment thereand at the several parties she had since
attended; and further particulars respecting Sir Thomas Ashby and
Messrs. MelthamGreenand Hatfieldand the ineffaceable
impression she had wrought upon each of them.

'Wellwhich of the four do you like best?' said Isuppressing my
third or fourth yawn.

'I detest them all!' replied sheshaking her bright ringlets in
vivacious scorn.

'That meansI supposeI like them all- but which most?'

'NoI really detest them all; but Harry Meltham is the handsomest
and most amusingand Mr. Hatfield the cleverestSir Thomas the
wickedestand Mr. Green the most stupid. But the one I'm to have
I supposeif I'm doomed to have any of themis Sir Thomas Ashby.'

'Surely notif he's so wickedand if you dislike him?'

'OhI 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 Parkif I must marry. But if I could be always
youngI would be always single. I should like to enjoy myself
thoroughlyand coquet with all the worldtill I am on the verge
of being called an old maid; and thento escape the infamy of


thatafter having made ten thousand conqueststo break all their
hearts save oneby marrying some high-bornrichindulgent
husbandwhomon the other handfifty ladies were dying to have.'

'Wellas long as you entertain these viewskeep single by all
meansand never marry at all: not even to escape the infamy of
old-maidenhood.'

CHAPTER X - THE CHURCH

'WELLMiss Greywhat do you think of the new curate?' asked Miss
Murrayon 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.'

'Wellbut you saw himdidn't you?'

'Yesbut 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 betterat leastthan 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 attendingnor the most ignorant have failed to understand;
and the prayers he read as if he were not reading at allbut
praying earnestly and sincerely from his own heart.'

'Ohyesthat'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 leftand evidently thinking of nothing but just
getting out of the churchandperhapshome 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 Ilaughing at the vehemence of her hostility.

'Indeed! I should have been highly indignant if he had dared to do
such a thing!' replied shehaughtily tossing her head; thenafter
a moment's reflectionshe added - 'Wellwell! 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 meand 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 squireand hand


his wife and daughters into their carriage: andmoreoverI owe
him a grudge for nearly shutting me out of it'; forin fact
though I was standing before his faceclose beside the carriage
stepswaiting to get inhe would persist in putting them up and
closing the doortill one of the family stopped him by calling out
that the governess was not in yet; thenwithout a word of apology
he departedwishing them good-morningand leaving the footman to
finish the business.

NOTA BENE. - Mr. Hatfield never spoke to meneither did Sir Hugh
or Lady Melthamnor Mr. Harry or Miss Melthamnor Mr. Green or
his sistersnor any other lady or gentleman who frequented that
church: norin factany one that visited at Horton Lodge.

Miss Murray ordered the carriage againin the afternoonfor
herself and her sister: she said it was too cold for them to enjoy
themselves in the garden; and besidesshe believed Harry Meltham
would be at church. 'For' said shesmiling 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 usMiss Grey: I want you to see
him; he is so greatly improved since he returned from abroad - you
can't think! And besidesthen you will have an opportunity of
seeing the beautiful Mr. Weston againand of hearing him preach.'

I did hear him preachand was decidedly pleased with the
evangelical truth of his doctrineas well as the earnest
simplicity of his mannerand the clearness and force of his style.
It was truly refreshing to hear such a sermonafter being so long
accustomed to the dryprosy discourses of the former curateand
the still less edifying harangues of the rector. Mr. Hatfield
would come sailing up the aisleor rather sweeping along like a
whirlwindwith his rich silk gown flying behind him and rustling
against the pew doorsmount the pulpit like a conqueror ascending
his triumphal car; thensinking on the velvet cushion in an
attitude of studied graceremain in silent prostration for a
certain time; then mutter over a Collectand gabble through the
Lord's Prayerrisedraw off one bright lavender gloveto give
the congregation the benefit of his sparkling ringslightly pass
his fingers through his well-curled hairflourish a cambric
handkerchiefrecite a very short passageorperhapsa mere
phrase of Scriptureas a head-piece to his discourseand
finallydeliver a composition whichas a compositionmight be
considered goodthough far too studied and too artificial to be
pleasing to me: the propositions were well laid downthe
arguments logically conducted; and yetit was sometimes hard to
listen quietly throughoutwithout some slight demonstrations of
disapproval or impatience.

His favourite subjects were church disciplinerites and
ceremoniesapostolical successionthe duty of reverence and
obedience to the clergythe atrocious criminality of dissentthe
absolute necessity of observing all the forms of godlinessthe
reprehensible presumption of individuals who attempted to think for
themselves in matters connected with religionor to be guided by
their own interpretations of Scriptureandoccasionally (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 Evangelistsand 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. Yetas I listenedI felt inclined to
think the man was sincere in all he said: he must have changed his
viewsand become decidedly religiousgloomy and austereyet
still devout. But such illusions were usually dissipatedon
coming out of churchby hearing his voice in jocund colloquy with
some of the Melthams or Greensorperhapsthe Murrays
themselves; probably laughing at his own sermonand 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 pipewhich had been her daily solace
for upwards of thirty years: that George Higgins would be
frightened out of his Sabbath evening walksand Thomas Jackson
would be sorely troubled in his conscienceand shaken in his sure
and certain hope of a joyful resurrection at the last day.

ThusI could not but conclude that Mr. Hatfield was one of those
who 'bind heavy burdensand grievous to be borneand lay them
upon men's shoulderswhile they themselves will not move them with
one of their fingers'; and who 'make the word of God of none effect
by their traditionsteaching for doctrines the commandments of
men.' I was well pleased to observe that the new curate resembled
himas far as I could seein none of these particulars.

'WellMiss Greywhat 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 meanI think no worse of him than I did before.'

'No worse! I should think not indeed - quite the contrary! Is he
not greatly improved?'

'Ohyes; very much indeed' replied I; for I had now discovered
that it was Harry Meltham she meantnot 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 outlike Mr. Hatfield; neitherof
coursehad he offered me his assistance (I should not have
accepted itif he had)but as long as the door remained open he
had stood smirking and chatting with themand then lifted his hat
and departed to his own abode: but I had scarcely noticed him all
the time. My companionshoweverhad been more observant; andas
we rolled alongthey discussed between them not only his looks
wordsand actionsbut every feature of his faceand every
article of his apparel.

'You shan't have him all to yourselfRosalie' said Miss Matilda
at the close of this discussion; 'I like him: I know he'd make a
nicejolly companion for me.'

'Wellyou're quite welcome to himMatilda' 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 heMiss Grey?'

'I don't know; I'm not acquainted with his sentiments.'

'Wellbut he DOES though.'


'My DEAR Matilda! nobody will ever admire you till you get rid of
your roughawkward manners.'

'Ohstuff! Harry Meltham likes such manners; and so do papa's
friends.'

'Wellyou MAY captivate old menand younger sons; but nobody
elseI am surewill ever take a fancy to you.'

'I don't care: I'm not always grabbing after moneylike you and
mamma. If my husband is able to keep a few good horses and dogsI
shall be quite satisfied; and all the rest may go to the devil!'

'Wellif you use such shocking expressionsI'm sure no real
gentleman will ever venture to come near you. ReallyMiss Grey
you should not let her do so.'

'I can't possibly prevent itMiss Murray.'

'And you're quite mistakenMatildain supposing that Harry
Meltham admires you: I assure you he does nothing of the kind.'

Matilda was beginning an angry reply; buthappilyour journey was
now at an end; and the contention was cut short by the footman
opening the carriage-doorand 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 onesand 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 beforesince I had taken upon me the governess's
yoke; which time I devoted partly to correspondence with my
friendspartly to readingstudyand the practice of music
singing&c.partly to wandering in the grounds or adjacent
fieldswith my pupils if they wanted mealone if they did not.

Oftenwhen they had no more agreeable occupation at handthe
Misses Murray would amuse themselves with visiting the poor
cottagers on their father's estateto receive their flattering
homageor to hear the old stories or gossiping news of the
garrulous old women; orperhapsto enjoy the purer pleasure of
making the poor people happy with their cheering presence and their
occasional giftsso easily bestowedso thankfully received.
SometimesI 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 donationor read to one who was
sick or seriously disposed: and thus I made a few acquaintances
among the cottagers; andoccasionallyI went to see them on my
own account.

I generally had more satisfaction in going alone than with either
of the young ladies; for theychiefly owing to their defective
educationcomported themselves towards their inferiors in a manner
that was highly disagreeable for me to witness. They neverin
thoughtexchanged places with them; andconsequentlyhad no
consideration for their feelingsregarding them as an order of


beings entirely different from themselves. They would watch the
poor creatures at their mealsmaking uncivil remarks about their
foodand their manner of eating; they would laugh at their simple
notions and provincial expressionstill 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 conductthough their fear of the
'grand ladies' prevented them from testifying any resentment; but
THEY never perceived it. They thought thatas these cottagers
were poor and untaughtthey must be stupid and brutish; and as
long as theytheir superiorscondescended to talk to themand to
give them shillings and half-crownsor articles of clothingthey
had a right to amuse themselveseven at their expense; and the
people must adore them as angels of lightcondescending to
minister to their necessitiesand 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
offendedand 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 FebruaryI was walking in the
parkenjoying the threefold luxury of solitudea bookand
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 pleasuresand the park with its glorious canopy of bright
blue skythe west wind sounding through its yet leafless branches
the snow-wreaths still lingering in its hollowsbut melting fast
beneath the sunand the graceful deer browsing on its moist
herbage already assuming the freshness and verdure of spring - and
go to the cottage of one Nancy Browna widowwhose son was at
work all day in the fieldsand who was afflicted with an
inflammation in the eyes; which had for some time incapacitated her
from reading: to her own great grieffor she was a woman of a
seriousthoughtful turn of mind. I accordingly wentand found
her aloneas usualin her littleclosedark cottageredolent
of smoke and confined airbut 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 knittingwith a small
sackcloth cushion at her feetplaced for the accommodation of her
gentle friend the catwho was seated thereonwith her long tail
half encircling her velvet pawsand her half-closed eyes dreamily
gazing on the lowcrooked fender.

'WellNancyhow are you to-day?'

'WhymiddlingMissi' myseln - my eyes is no betterbut I'm a
deal easier i' my mind nor I have been' replied sherising to
welcome me with a contented smile; which I was glad to seefor
Nancy had been somewhat afflicted with religious melancholy. I
congratulated her upon the change. She agreed that it was a great
blessingand expressed herself 'right down thankful for it';
adding'If it please God to spare my sightand make me so as I
can read my Bible againI think I shall be as happy as a queen.'

'I hope He willNancy' replied I; 'andmeantimeI'll come and
read to you now and thenwhen I have a little time to spare.'


With expressions of grateful pleasurethe poor woman moved to get
me a chair; butas I saved her the troubleshe busied herself
with stirring the fireand adding a few more sticks to the
decaying embers; and thentaking her well-used Bible from the
shelfdusted it carefullyand gave it me. On my asking if there
was any particular part she should like me to readshe answered


'WellMiss Greyif it's all the same to youI should like to
hear that chapter in the First Epistle of St. Johnthat saysGod
is love, and he that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and God in
him.'

With a little searchingI found these words in the fourth chapter.
When I came to the seventh verse she interrupted meandwith
needless apologies for such a libertydesired me to read it very
slowlythat she might take it all inand dwell on every word;
hoping I would excuse heras she was but a 'simple body.'

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

AccordinglyI finished the chapter as slowly as need beand at
the same time as impressively as I could; my auditor listened most
attentively all the whileand sincerely thanked me when I had
done. I sat still about half a minute to give her time to reflect
upon it; whensomewhat to my surpriseshe broke the pause by
asking me how I liked Mr. Weston?

'I don't know' I replieda little startled by the suddenness of
the question; 'I think he preaches very well.'

'Ayhe does so; and talks well too.'

'Does he?'

'He does. Maybeyou haven't seen him - not to talk to him much
yet?'

'NoI never see any one to talk to - except the young ladies of
the Hall.'

'Ah; they're nicekind young ladies; but they can't talk as he
does.'

'Then he comes to see youNancy?'

'He doesMiss; and I'se thankful for it. He comes to see all us
poor bodies a deal ofter nor Maister Blighor th' Rector ever did;
an' it's well he doesfor 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 housethey say he's sure to find summut
wrongand 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
churchor not kneeling an' standing when other folk doesor going
to the Methody chapelor 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 comewhen I was so ill troubled in my mind;
and as I had only very poor health besidesI made bold to send for
him - and he came right enough. I was sore distressedMiss Grey thank
Godit's owered now - but when I took my BibleI 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 notknoweth
not God." It seemed fearsome to me; for I felt that I loved
neither God nor man as I should doand could notif I tried ever
so. And th' chapter aforewhere 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 manymany othersMiss: I
should fair weary you outif I was to tell them all. But all
seemed to condemn meand to show me 'at I was not in the right
way; and as I knew not how to get into itI sent our Bill to beg
Maister Hatfield to be as kind as look in on me some day and when
he cameI telled him all my troubles.'

'And what did he sayNancy?'

'WhyMisshe seemed to scorn me. I might be mista'en - but he
like gave a sort of a whistleand I saw a bit of a smile on his
face; and he saidOh, 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 churchwhere 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 saysIt'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 heyou're getting too fond of your ease. It's
always easy to find excuses for shirking one's duty.

'But thenyou knowMiss Greyit wasn't so. HoweverI telled
him I'd try. "But pleasesir 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 meand 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 homewhat 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 comfortyou 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."

'"Thensir 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 ityou 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' flooran' went after 'em as gay as a lark: but I was
very sad. That last word o' his fair sunk into my heartan' lay


there like a lump o' leadtill I was weary to bear it.

'HowseverI follered his advice: I thought he meant it all for
th' bestthough he HAD a queer way with him. But you knowMiss
he's rich an' youngand such like cannot right understand the
thoughts of a poor old woman such as me. ButhowseverI did my
best to do all as he bade me - but maybe I'm plaguing youMiss
wi' my chatter.'

'OhnoNancy! Go onand tell me all.'

'Wellmy rheumatiz got better - I know not whether wi' going to
church or notbut one frosty Sunday I got this cold i' my eyes.
Th' inflammation didn't come on all at once likebut bit by bit but
I wasn't going to tell you about my eyesI was talking about
my trouble o' mind; - and to tell the truthMiss GreyI don't
think it was anyways eased by coming to church - nought to speak
onat least: I like got my health better; but that didn't mend my
soul. I hearkened and hearkened the ministersand read an' read
at my prayer-book; but it was all like sounding brass and a
tinkling cymbal: the sermons I couldn't understandan' th'
prayer-book only served to show me how wicked I wasthat I could
read such good words an' never be no better for itand oftens feel
it a sore labour an' a heavy task besideinstead of a blessing and
a privilege as all good Christians does. It seemed like as all
were barren an' dark to me. And thenthem dreadful wordsMany
shall seek to enter in, and shall not be able.They like as they
fair dried up my sperrit.

'But one Sundaywhen Maister Hatfield gave out about the
sacramentI noticed where he saidIf 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
morningafore serviceI just looked into the vestryan' began atalking
to th' Rector again. I hardly could fashion to take such a
libertybut 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.

'"Andindeed says he, I've nothing to say to you but what I've
said before. Take the sacramentof courseand go on doing your
duty; and if that won't serve younothing will. So don't bother
me any more."

'So thenI went away. But I heard Maister Weston - Maister Weston
was thereMiss - this was his first Sunday at Hortonyou know
an' he was i' th' vestry in his surplicehelping th' Rector on
with his gown - '

'YesNancy.'

'And I heard him ask Maister Hatfield who I wasan' he saysOh,
she's a canting old fool.

'And I was very ill grievedMiss Grey; but I went to my seatand
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 homesorely
troubled.

'But next dayafore I'd gotten fettled up - for indeedMissI'd
no heart to sweeping an' fettlingan' washing pots; so I sat me
down i' th' muck - who should come in but Maister Weston! I
started siding stuff thenan' sweeping an' doing; and I expected


he'd begin a-calling me for my idle waysas Maister Hatfield would
a' done; but I was mista'en: he only bid me good-mornin' likein
a quiet dacent way. So I dusted him a chairan' fettled up th'
fireplace a bit; but I hadn't forgotten th' Rector's wordsso says
II 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 dohe 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 strangeryou know
Miss Greyand even YOUNGER nor Maister HatfieldI believe; and I
had thought him not so pleasant-looking as himand rather a bit
crossishat firstto look at; but he spake so civil like - and
when th' catpoor thingjumped on to his kneehe only stroked
herand gave a bit of a smile: so I thought that was a good sign;
for oncewhen she did so to th' Rectorhe knocked her offlike
as it might be in scorn and angerpoor thing. But you can't
expect a cat to know manners like a Christianyou knowMiss
Grey.'

'No; of course notNancy. But what did Mr. Weston say then?'

'He said nought; but he listened to me as steady an' patient as
could bean' never a bit o' scorn about him; so I went onan'
telled him alljust 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 serviceand so onhe didn't mean that was the
whole of a Christian's duty: he only thought you might there learn
what more was to be doneand be led to take delight in those
exercisesinstead of finding them a task and a burden. And if you
had asked him to explain those words that trouble you so muchI
think he would have told youthat if many shall seek to enter in
at the strait gate and shall not be ableit 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 doorwayand find it impossible to do so
unless he would leave his sack behind him. But youNancyI dare
sayhave no sins that you would not gladly throw asideif you
knew how?"

'"Indeedsiryou speak truth said I.

'Well says he, you know the first and great commandment - and
the secondwhich 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 isyou
cannot help it. He is your fatheryour best friend: every
blessingeverything goodpleasantor usefulcomes from Him; and
everything evileverything you have reason to hateto shunor to
fearcomes from Satan - HIS enemy as well as ours. And for THIS
cause was God manifest in the fleshthat He might destroy the
works of the Devil: in one wordGod is LOVE; and the more of love
we have within usthe nearer we are to Him and the more of His
spirit we possess."

'"Wellsir I said, if I can always think on these thingsI
think I might well love God: but how can I love my neighbours


when they vex meand be so contrary and sinful as some on 'em is?"

'"It may seem a hard matter says he, to love our neighbourswho
have so much of what is evil about themand whose faults so often
awaken the evil that lingers within ourselves; but remember that HE
made themand HE loves them; and whosoever loveth him that begat
loveth him that is begotten also. And if God so loveth usthat He
gave His only begotten Son to die for uswe ought also to love one
another. But if you cannot feel positive affection for those who
do not care for youyou 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 offencesand to do all the good you can
to those about you. And if you accustom yourself to thisNancy
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 Himlet us try to be like Himto do
His workto labour for His glory - which is the good of man - to
hasten the coming of His kingdomwhich is the peace and happiness
of all the world: however powerless we may seem to bein doing
all the good we can through lifethe humblest of us may do much
towards it: and let us dwell in lovethat He may dwell in us and
we in Him. The more happiness we bestowthe more we shall
receiveeven here; and the greater will be our reward in heaven
when we rest from our labours." I believeMissthem is his very
wordsfor I've thought 'em ower many a time. An' then he took
that Biblean' read bits here and therean' 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 heartan' only wished poor
Bill an' all the world could ha' been therean' heard it alland
rejoiced wi' me.

'After he was goneHannah Rogersone o' th' neighbourscame in
and wanted me to help her to wash. I telled her I couldn't just
thenfor I hadn't set on th' potaties for th' dinnernor 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 firstbut 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 couldan' then come an' help her. So then she
softened down; and my heart like as it warmed towards heran' in a
bit we was very good friends. An' so it isMiss Greya soft
answer turneth away wrath; but grievous words stir up anger.It
isn't only in them you speak tobut in yourself.'

'Very trueNancyif we could always remember it.'

'Ayif we could!'

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

'Yesmany a time; and since my eyes has been so badhe's sat an'
read to me by the half-hour together: but you knowMisshe has
other folks to seeand other things to do - God bless him! An'
that next Sunday he preached SUCH a sermon! His text wasCome
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
Missyou was with your friends then - but it made me SO happy!
And I AM happy nowthank God! an' I take a pleasurenowin 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 mejust as he
said. You seeMissI'm knitting a pair o' stockings now; they're
for Thomas Jackson: he's a queerish old bodyan' we've
had many a bout at threapingone 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 mansin' I began. It's turned out just as Maister Weston
said.'

'WellI'm very glad to see you so happyNancyand so wise: but
I must go now; I shall be wanted at the Hall' said I; and bidding
her good-byeI departedpromising 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 troubleso they begged me to do it instead. I
wentwillingly enough; and there too I was gratified with the
praises of Mr. Westonboth from the sick man and his wife. The
former told me that he derived great comfort and benefit from the
visits of the new parsonwho frequently came to see himand was
'another guess sort of man' to Mr. Hatfield; whobefore the
other's arrival at Hortonhad now and then paid him a visit; on
which occasions he would always insist upon having the cottage-door
kept opento admit the fresh air for his own conveniencewithout
considering how it might injure the sufferer; and having opened his
prayer-book and hastily read over a part of the Service for the
Sickwould hurry away again: if he did not stay to administer
some harsh rebuke to the afflicted wifeor to make some
thoughtlessnot to say heartlessobservationrather 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 fashionan' talk to me as kind as owt; an' oft read to
me tooan' 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' coldan' what
pitiful fires we kepthe axed if wer stock of coals was nearly
done. I telled him it wasan' we was ill set to get more: but
you knowmumI didn't think o' him helping us; buthowseverhe
sent us a sack o' coals next day; an' we've had good fires ever
sin': and a great blessing it isthis winter time. But that's
his wayMiss Grey: when he comes into a poor body's house aseein'
sick folkhe like notices what they most stand i' need on;
an' if he thinks they can't readily get it therselnhe never says
nowt about itbut just gets it for 'em. An' it isn't everybody
'at 'ud do that'at has as little as he has: for you knowmum
he's nowt at all to live on but what he gets fra' th' Rectoran'
that's little enough they say.'

I remembered thenwith a species of exultationthat he had
frequently been styled a vulgar brute by the amiable Miss Murray
because he wore a silver watchand clothes not quite so bright and
fresh as Mr. Hatfield's.

In returning to the Lodge I felt very happyand thanked God that I
had now something to think about; something to dwell on as a relief
from the weary monotonythe lonely drudgeryof my present life:
for I WAS lonely. Neverfrom month to monthfrom year to year
except during my brief intervals of rest at homedid I see one
creature to whom I could open my heartor freely speak my thoughts
with any hope of sympathyor even comprehension: never one
unless it were poor Nancy Brownwith whom I could enjoy a single
moment of real social intercourseor whose conversation was
calculated to render me betterwiseror happier than before; or
whoas far as I could seecould be greatly benefited by mine. My


only companions had been unamiable childrenand ignorantwrongheaded
girls; from whose fatiguing follyunbroken solitude was
often a relief most earnestly desired and dearly prized. But to be
restricted to such associates was a serious evilboth 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 werefor the most partmiserably crushed
at onceor doomed to sicken or fade awaybecause 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 eyeswhose words are ever in our earswill naturally
lead usalbeit against our willslowlygraduallyimperceptibly
perhapsto 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 savagesunless he had power to improve themI greatly
question whetherat the close of that periodhe would not have
becomeat leasta barbarian himself. And Ias I could not make
my young companions betterfeared exceedingly that they would make
me worse - would gradually bring my feelingshabitscapacities
to the level of their own; withouthoweverimparting to me their
lightheartedness and cheerful vivacity.

AlreadyI seemed to feel my intellect deterioratingmy heart
petrifyingmy soul contracting; and I trembled lest my very moral
perceptions should become deadenedmy distinctions of right and
wrong confoundedand all my better faculties be sunkat last
beneath the baneful influence of such a mode of life. The gross
vapours of earth were gathering around meand closing in upon my
inward heaven; and thus it was that Mr. Weston rose at length upon
meappearing like the morning star in my horizonto save me from
the fear of utter darkness; and I rejoiced that I had now a subject
for contemplation that was above menot beneath. I was glad to
see that all the world was not made up of BloomfieldsMurrays
HatfieldsAshbys&c.; and that human excellence was not a mere
dream of the imagination. When we hear a little good and no harm
of a personit is easy and pleasant to imagine more: in shortit
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 himtoo; though I knew he was not handsomeor even what is
called agreeablein outward aspect; butcertainlyhe was not
ugly.

In stature he was a littlea very littleabove 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 curledlike Mr. Hatfield'sbut simply brushed
aside over a broad white forehead; the eyebrowsI supposewere
too projectingbut from under those dark brows there gleamed an
eye of singular powerbrown in colournot largeand somewhat
deep-setbut strikingly brilliantand full of expression; there
was charactertooin the mouthsomething that bespoke a man of
firm purpose and an habitual thinker; and when he smiled - but I
will not speak of that yetforat the time I mentionI had never
seen him smile: andindeedhis general appearance did not
impress me with the idea of a man given to such a relaxationnor
of such an individual as the cottagers described him. I had early
formed my opinion of him; andin spite of Miss Murray's
objurgations: was fully convinced that he was a man of strong
sensefirm faithand ardent pietybut thoughtful and stern: and
when I found thatto his other good qualitieswas added that of


true benevolence and gentleconsiderate kindnessthe discovery
perhapsdelighted me the moreas 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: forthough I had many spare minutes during the dayI
seldom could look upon an hour as entirely my own; sincewhere
everything was left to the caprices of Miss Matilda and her sister
there could be no order or regularity. Whatever occupation I
chosewhen not actually busied about them or their concernsI
hadas it wereto keep my loins girdedmy shoes on my feetand
my staff in my hand; for not to be immediately forthcoming when
called forwas regarded as a grave and inexcusable offence: not
only by my pupils and their motherbut by the very servantwho
came in breathless haste to call meexclaiming'You're to go to
the schoolroom DIRECTLYmumthe 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 rideand Rosalie was dressing for
a dinner-party at Lady Ashby's: so I took the opportunity of
repairing to the widow's cottagewhere I found her in some anxiety
about her catwhich 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 homeI should
a' thought they'd been setting their dogs at heran' worried her
poor thingas they did MANY a poor thing's cat; but I haven't that
to be feared on now.' Nancy's eyes were betterbut still far from
well: she had been trying to make a Sunday shirt for her sonbut
told me she could only bear to do a little bit at it now and then
so that it progressed but slowlythough the poor lad wanted it
sadly. So I proposed to help her a littleafter I had read to
herfor I had plenty of time that eveningand need not return
till dusk. She thankfully accepted the offer. 'An' you'll be a
bit o' company for me tooMiss' said she; 'I like as I feel
lonesome without my cat.' But when I had finished readingand
done the half of a seamwith Nancy's capacious brass thimble
fitted on to my finger by means of a roll of paperI was disturbed
by the entrance of Mr. Westonwith the identical cat in his arms.
I now saw that he could smileand very pleasantly too.

'I've done you a piece of good serviceNancy' he began: then
seeing mehe acknowledged my presence by a slight bow. I should
have been invisible to Hatfieldor any other gentleman of those
parts. 'I've delivered your cat' he continued'from the hands
or rather the gunof Mr. Murray's gamekeeper.'

'God bless yousir!' cried the grateful old womanready 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 rabbitwarren
for the gamekeeper swears he'll shoot it if he sees it
there again: he would have done so to-dayif I had not been in
time to stop him. I believe it is rainingMiss Grey' added he
more quietlyobserving that I had put aside my workand 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 Nancyas
she stirred the fireand placed another chair beside it; 'what!
there's room for all.'

'I can see better herethank youNancy' replied Itaking my
work to the windowwhere she had the goodness to suffer me to
remain unmolestedwhile she got a brush to remove the cat's hairs
from Mr. Weston's coatcarefully wiped the rain from his hatand
gave the cat its supperbusily 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 quietgoodnatured
smileand at length took a seat in compliance with her
pressing invitationsbut 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.'

'Yessir; 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' fireMiss?'

'Nothank youNancyI'm quite warm. I must go as soon as this
shower is over.'

'OhMiss! You said you could stop while dusk!' cried the
provoking old womanand Mr. Weston seized his hat.

'Naysir' exclaimed she'pray don't go nowwhile it rains so
fast.'

'But it strikes me I'm keeping your visitor away from the fire.'

'Noyou're notMr. Weston' replied Ihoping there was no harm
in a falsehood of that description.

'Nosure!' cried Nancy. 'Whatthere's lots o' room!'

'Miss Grey' said hehalf-jestinglyas if he felt it necessary to
change the present subjectwhether he had anything particular to
say or not'I wish you would make my peace with the squirewhen
you see him. He was by when I rescued Nancy's catand did not
quite approve of the deed. I told him I thought he might better
spare all his rabbits than she her catfor which audacious
assertion he treated me to some rather ungentlemanly language; and
I fear I retorted a trifle too warmly.'

'Ohlawful 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 matterNancy: I don't care about itreally; I said
nothing VERY uncivil; and I suppose Mr. Murray is accustomed to use
rather strong language when he's heated.'

'Aysir: it's a pity.'

'And nowI really must go. I have to visit a place a mile beyond
this; and you would not have me to return in the dark: besidesit
has nearly done raining now - so good-eveningNancy. Goodevening
Miss Grey.'

'Good-eveningMr. Weston; but don't depend upon me for making your
peace with Mr. Murrayfor I never see him - to speak to.'


'Don't you; it can't be helped then' replied hein dolorous
resignation: thenwith a peculiar half-smilehe 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 seeand 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 meif she had been in my place and I in hers. I
hastened back to Horton Lodgewherehaving entered the
schoolroomI found the tea-table all in confusionthe tray
flooded with slopsand Miss Matilda in a most ferocious humour.

'Miss Greywhatever have you been about? I've had tea half an
hour agoand had to make it myselfand 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 rainI 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 (andindeedthe thought
of its driving her home had never entered my head).

'Noof course; you were under shelter yourselfand you never
thought of other people.'

I bore her coarse reproaches with astonishing equanimityeven 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 spiritsand impart a relish to the cup of cold
overdrawn teaand 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 stablesand left me to the quiet enjoyment
of my solitary meal.

CHAPTER XIII - THE PRIMROSES

MISS MURRAY now always went twice to churchfor 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
herselfthatwhether Harry Meltham and Mr. Green were there or
notthere was certain to be somebody present who would not be
insensible to her charmsbesides the Rectorwhose official
capacity generally obliged him to attend. Usuallyalsoif the
weather permittedboth she and her sister would walk home;
Matildabecause she hated the confinement of the carriage; she
because she disliked the privacy of itand 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 Lodgewhich lay in the opposite
directionwhile 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 accompaniedso fareither by Harry
Melthamwith or without Miss Melthamor Mr. Greenwith perhaps


one or both of his sistersand 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'
meI went; iffor reasons best known to themselvesthey chose to
go aloneI 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 italways kept me passive on these and similar
occasions; and I never inquired into the causes of their varying
whims. Indeedthis was the best policy - for to submit and oblige
was the governess's partto consult their own pleasure was that of
the pupils. But when I did walkthe first half of journey was
generally a great nuisance to me. As none of the before-mentioned
ladies and gentlemen ever noticed meit was disagreeable to walk
beside themas if listening to what they saidor wishing to be
thought one of themwhile they talked over meor across; and if
their eyesin speakingchanced to fall on meit seemed as if
they looked on vacancy - as if they either did not see meor were
very desirous to make it appear so. It was disagreeabletooto
walk behindand thus appear to acknowledge my own inferiority;
forin truthI considered myself pretty nearly as good as the
best of themand wished them to know that I did soand not to
imagine that I looked upon myself as a mere domesticwho knew her
own place too well to walk beside such fine ladies and gentlemen as
they were - though her young ladies might choose to have her with
themand even condescend to converse with her when no better
company were at hand. Thus - I am almost ashamed to confess it but
indeed I gave myself no little trouble in my endeavours (if I
did keep up with them) to appear perfectly unconscious or
regardless of their presenceas if I were wholly absorbed in my
own reflectionsor the contemplation of surrounding objects; or
if I lingered behindit was some bird or insectsome tree or
flowerthat attracted my attentionand having duly examined that
I would pursue my walk aloneat a leisurely paceuntil my pupils
had bidden adieu to their companions and turned off into the quiet
private road.

One such occasion I particularly well remember; it was a lovely
afternoon about the close of March; Mr. Green and his sisters had
sent their carriage back emptyin order to enjoy the bright
sunshine and balmy air in a sociable walk home along with their
visitorsCaptain Somebody and Lieutenant Somebody-else (a couple
of military fops)and the Misses Murraywhoof coursecontrived
to join them. Such a party was highly agreeable to Rosalie; but
not finding it equally suitable to my tasteI presently fell back
and began to botanise and entomologise along the green banks and
budding hedgestill the company was considerably in advance of me
and I could hear the sweet song of the happy lark; then my spirit
of misanthropy began to melt away beneath the softpure air and
genial sunshine; but sad thoughts of early childhoodand yearnings
for departed joysor for a brighter future lotarose instead. As
my eyes wandered over the steep banks covered with young grass and
green-leaved plantsand surmounted by budding hedgesI longed
intensely for some familiar flower that might recall the woody
dales or green hill-sides of home: the brown moorlandsof course
were out of the question. Such a discovery would make my eyes gush
out with waterno doubt; but that was one of my greatest
enjoyments now. At length I descriedhigh up between the twisted
roots of an oakthree lovely primrosespeeping so sweetly from
their hiding-place that the tears already started at the sight; but
they grew so high above methat I tried in vain to gather one or
twoto dream over and to carry with me: I could not reach them
unless I climbed the bankwhich I was deterred from doing by


hearing a footstep at that moment behind meand wastherefore
about to turn awaywhen I was startled by the words'Allow me to
gather them for youMiss Grey' spoken in the gravelow tones of
a well-known voice. Immediately the flowers were gatheredand in
my hand. It was Mr. Westonof course - who else would trouble
himself to do so much for ME?

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

'Your young ladies have left you alone' said he.

'Yesthey are occupied with more agreeable company.'

'Then don't trouble yourself to overtake them.' I slackened my
pace; but next moment regretted having done so: my companion did
not speak; and I had nothing in the world to sayand feared he
might be in the same predicament. At lengthhoweverhe broke the
pause by askingwith a certain quiet abruptness peculiar to
himselfif I liked flowers.

'Yes; very much' I answered'wild-flowers especially.'

'I like wild-flowers' said he; 'others I don't care aboutbecause
I have no particular associations connected with them - except one
or two. What are your favourite flowers?'

'Primrosesblue-bellsand heath-blossoms.'

'Not violets?'

'No; becauseas you sayI have no particular associations
connected with them; for there are no sweet violets among the hills
and valleys round my home.'

'It must be a great consolation to you to have a homeMiss Grey'
observed my companion after a short pause: 'however remoteor
however seldom visitedstill it is something to look to.'

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

'Ohyesyou could' said hewith a thoughtful smile. 'The ties
that bind us to life are tougher than you imagineor than anyone
can who has not felt how roughly they may be pulled without
breaking. You might be miserable without a homebut even YOU
could live; and not so miserably as you suppose. The human heart
is like india-rubber; a little swells itbut a great deal will not
burst it. If "little more than nothing will disturb itlittle
less than all things will suffice" to break it. As in the outer
members of our framethere is a vital power inherent in itself


that strengthens it against external violence. Every blow that
shakes it will serve to harden it against a future stroke; as
constant labour thickens the skin of the handand strengthens its
muscles instead of wasting them away: so that a day of arduous
toilthat might excoriate a lady's palmwould make no sensible
impression on that of a hardy ploughman.

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

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

'The best of happiness' replied he'is mine already - the power
and the will to be useful.'

We now approached a stile communicating with a footpath that
conducted to a farm-housewhereI supposeMr. Weston purposed to
make himself 'useful;' for he presently took leave of mecrossed
the stileand traversed the path with his usual firmelastic
treadleaving me to ponder his words as I continued my course
alone. I had heard before that he had lost his mother not many
months before he came. She then was the last and dearest of his
early friends; and he had NO HOME. I pitied him from my heart: I
almost wept for sympathy. And thisI thoughtaccounted for the
shade of premature thoughtfulness that so frequently clouded his
browand obtained for him the reputation of a morose and sullen
disposition with the charitable Miss Murray and all her kin.
'But' thought I'he is not so miserable as I should be under such
a deprivation: he leads an active life; and a wide field for
useful exertion lies before him. He can MAKE friends; and he can
make a home tooif he pleases; anddoubtlesshe will please some
time. God grant the partner of that home may be worthy of his
choiceand make it a happy one - such a home as he deserves to
have! And how delightful it would be to - ' But no matter what I
thought.

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

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


'Oh-hoMiss Grey! you're come at lastare you? No WONDER you
lingered so long behind; and no WONDER you always stand up so
vigorously for Mr. Weston when I abuse him. Ah-ha! I see it all
now!'


'NowcomeMiss Murraydon't be foolish' said Iattempting a
good-natured laugh; 'you know such nonsense can make no impression
on me.'

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

'What folly all this is!' I exclaimed. 'If Mr. Weston's road
happened to be the same as mine for a few yardsand if he chose to
exchange a word or two in passingwhat is there so remarkable in
that? I assure youI never spoke to him before: except once.'

'Where? where? and when?' cried they eagerly.

'In Nancy's cottage.'

'Ah-ha! you've met him therehave you?' exclaimed Rosaliewith
exultant laughter. 'Ah! nowMatildaI've found out why she's so
fond of going to Nancy Brown's! She goes there to flirt with Mr.
Weston.'

'Reallythat is not worth contradicting - I only saw him there
onceI tell you - and how could I know he was coming?'

Irritated as I was at their foolish mirth and vexatious
imputationsthe uneasiness did not continue long: when they had
had their laugh outthey returned again to the captain and
lieutenant; andwhile they disputed and commented upon themmy
indignation rapidly cooled; the cause of it was quickly forgotten
and I turned my thoughts into a pleasanter channel. Thus we
proceeded up the parkand entered the hall; and as I ascended the
stairs to my own chamberI had but one thought within me: my
heart was filled to overflowing with one single earnest wish.
Having entered the roomand shut the doorI fell upon my knees
and offered up a fervent but not impetuous prayer: 'Thy will be
done' I strove to say throughout; but'Fatherall things are
possible with Theeand may it be Thy will' was sure to follow.
That wish - that prayer - both men and women would have scorned me
for - 'ButFatherTHOU wilt NOT despise!' I saidand felt that
it was true. It seemed to me that another's welfare was at least
as ardently implored for as my own; nayeven THAT was the
principal object of my heart's desire. I might have been deceiving
myself; but that idea gave me confidence to askand power to hope
I did not ask in vain. As for the primrosesI kept two of them in
a glass in my room until they were completely witheredand the
housemaid threw them out; and the petals of the other I pressed
between the leaves of my Bible - I have them stilland mean to
keep them always.

CHAPTER XIV - THE RECTOR

THE following day was as fine as the preceding one. Soon after
breakfast Miss Matildahaving galloped and blundered through a few
unprofitable lessonsand vengeably thumped the piano for an hour
in a terrible humour with both me and itbecause her mamma would
not give her a holidayhad betaken herself to her favourite places
of resortthe yardsthe stablesand the dog-kennels; and Miss
Murray was gone forth to enjoy a quiet ramble with a new


fashionable novel for her companionleaving me in the schoolroom
hard at work upon a water-colour drawing which I had promised to do
for herand which she insisted upon my finishing that day.

At my feet lay a little rough terrier. It was the property of Miss
Matilda; but she hated the animaland intended to sell it
alleging that it was quite spoiled. It was really an excellent dog
of its kind; but she affirmed it was fit for nothingand had not
even the sense to know its own mistress.

The fact was she had purchased it when but a small puppyinsisting
at first that no one should touch it but herself; but soon becoming
tired of so helpless and troublesome a nurslingshe had gladly
yielded to my entreaties to be allowed to take charge of it; and I
by carefully nursing the little creature from infancy to
adolescenceof coursehad obtained its affections: a reward I
should have greatly valuedand looked upon as far outweighing all
the trouble I had had with ithad not poor Snap's grateful
feelings exposed him to many a harsh word and many a spiteful kick
and pinch from his ownerand were he not now in danger of being
'put away' in consequenceor transferred to some roughstonyhearted
master. But how could I help it? I could not make the dog
hate me by cruel treatmentand she would not propitiate him by
kindness.

Howeverwhile I thus satworking away with my pencilMrs. Murray
camehalf-sailinghalf-bustlinginto the room.

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

'I thinkma'amMiss Murray is reading; and Miss Matilda is
amusing herself with her dogs.'

'If you would try to amuse Miss Matilda yourself a little moreI
think she would not be driven to seek amusement in the
companionship of dogs and horses and groomsso much as she is; and
if you would be a little more cheerful and conversable with Miss
Murrayshe would not so often go wandering in the fields with a
book in her hand. HoweverI don't want to vex you' added she
seeingI supposethat my cheeks burned and my hand trembled with
some unamiable emotion. 'Dopraytry not to be so touchy there's
no speaking to you else. And tell me if you know where
Rosalie is gone: and why she likes to be so much alone?'

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

'But why can't she read it in the park or the garden? - why should
she go into the fields and lanes? And how is it that that Mr.
Hatfield so often finds her out? She told me last week he'd walked
his horse by her side all up Moss Lane; and now I'm sure it was he
I sawfrom my dressing-room windowwalking so briskly past the
park-gatesand on towards the field where she so frequently goes.
I wish you would go and see if she is there; and just gently remind
her that it is not proper for a young lady of her rank and
prospects to be wandering about by herself in that mannerexposed
to the attentions of anyone that presumes to address her; like some
poor neglected girl that has no park to walk inand no friends to
take care of her: and tell her that her papa would be extremely
angry if he knew of her treating Mr. Hatfield in the familiar
manner that I fear she does; and - oh! if you - if ANY governess
had but half a mother's watchfulness - half a mother's anxious


careI should be saved this trouble; and you would see at once the
necessity of keeping your eye upon herand making your company
agreeable to -Wellgo - go; there's no time to be lost' cried
sheseeing that I had put away my drawing materialsand was
waiting in the doorway for the conclusion of her address.

According to her prognosticationsI found Miss Murray in her
favourite field just without the park; andunfortunatelynot
alone; for the tallstately figure of Mr. Hatfield was slowly
sauntering by her side.

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

She certainly looked very charming as she strolledlingering along
under the budding horse-chestnut trees that stretched their long
arms over the park-palings; with her closed book in one handand
in the other a graceful sprig of myrtlewhich served her as a very
pretty plaything; her bright ringlets escaping profusely from her
little bonnetand gently stirred by the breezeher fair cheek
flushed with gratified vanityher smiling blue eyesnow slyly
glancing towards her admirernow gazing downward at her myrtle
sprig. But Snaprunning before meinterrupted her in the midst
of some half-perthalf-playful reparteeby catching hold of her
dress and vehemently tugging thereat; till Mr. Hatfieldwith his
caneadministered a resounding thwack upon the animal's skulland
sent it yelping back to me with a clamorous outcry that afforded
the reverend gentleman great amusement: but seeing me so nearhe
thoughtI supposehe might as well be taking his departure; and
as I stooped to caress the dogwith ostentatious pity to show my
disapproval of his severityI heard him say: 'When shall I see
you againMiss Murray?'

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

'I could always manage to have business hereif I knew precisely
when and where to find you.'

'But if I wouldI could not inform youfor I am so immethodical
I never can tell to-day what I shall do tomorrow.'

'Then give me thatmeantimeto comfort me' said hehalf
jestingly and half in earnestextending his hand for the sprig of
myrtle.

'NoindeedI shan't.'

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

By this time I stood within a very few yards of themimpatiently
waiting his departure.


'There then! take it and go' said Rosalie.

He joyfully received the giftmurmured something that made her
blush and toss her headbut with a little laugh that showed her
displeasure was entirely affected; and then with a courteous
salutation withdrew.

'Did you ever see such a manMiss Grey?' said sheturning to me;
'I'm so GLAD you came! I thought I never SHOULDget rid of him;
and I was so terribly afraid of papa seeing him.'

'Has he been with you long?'

'Nonot longbut he's so extremely impertinent: and he's always
hanging aboutpretending his business or his clerical duties
require his attendance in these partsand really watching for poor
meand pouncing upon me wherever he sees me.'

'Wellyour mamma thinks you ought not to go beyond the park or
garden without some discreetmatronly person like me to accompany
youand keep off all intruders. She descried Mr. Hatfield
hurrying past the park-gatesand forthwith despatched me with
instructions to seek you up and to take care of youand likewise
to warn - '

'Ohmamma's so tiresome! As if I couldn't take care of myself.
She bothered me before about Mr. Hatfield; and I told her she might
trust me: I never should forget my rank and station for the most
delightful man that ever breathed. I wish he would go down on his
knees to-morrowand implore me to be his wifethat I might just
show her how mistaken she is in supposing that I could ever - Oh
it provokes me so! To think that I could be such a fool as to fall
in LOVE! It is quite beneath the dignity of a woman to do such a
thing. Love! I detest the word! As applied to one of our sexI
think it a perfect insult. A preference I MIGHT acknowledge; but
never for one like poor Mr. Hatfieldwho has not seven hundred a
year to bless himself with. I like to talk to himbecause he's so
clever and amusing - I wish Sir Thomas Ashby were half as nice;
besidesI must have SOMEBODY to flirt withand no one else has
the sense to come here; and when we go outmamma won't let me
flirt with anybody but Sir Thomas - if he's there; and if he's NOT
thereI'm bound hand and footfor fear somebody should go and
make up some exaggerated storyand put it into his head that I'm
engagedor likely to be engagedto somebody else; orwhat is
more probablefor fear his nasty old mother should see or hear of
my ongoingsand conclude that I'm not a fit wife for her excellent
son: as if the said son were not the greatest scamp in
Christendom; and as if any woman of common decency were not a world
too good for him.'

'Is it really soMiss Murray? and does your mamma know itand yet
wish you to marry him?'

'To be sureshe does! She knows more against him than I doI
believe: she keeps it from me lest I should be discouraged; not
knowing how little I care about such things. For it's no great
matterreally: he'll be all right when he's marriedas mamma
says; and reformed rakes make the best husbandsEVERYBODY knows.
I only wish he were not so ugly - THAT'S all I think about: but
then there's no choice here in the country; and papa WILL NOT let
us go to London - '

'But I should think Mr. Hatfield would be far better.'


'And so he wouldif he were lord of Ashby Park - there's not a
doubt of it: but the fact isI MUST have Ashby Parkwhoever
shares it with me.'

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

'NOindeed! It will be a proper punishment for his presumption for
ever DARING to think I could like him. I should enjoy nothing
so much as lifting the veil from his eyes.'

'The sooner you do it the better then.'

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

'Wellmind you don't give too much reason for such presumption that's
all' replied I.

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

'Surely' thought I'she is not so indifferent to him as she
believes herself to beor would have others to believe her; and
her mother's anxiety is not so wholly causeless as she affirms.'

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


'OhMiss Grey! do be so kind as to go and see Mark Woodand take
his wife half-a-crown from me - I should have given or sent it a
week agobut quite forgot. There!' said shethrowing me her
purseand speaking very fast - 'Never mind getting it out nowbut
take the purse and give them what you like; I would go with you
but I want to finish this volume. I'll come and meet you when I've
done it. Be quickwill you - and - ohwait; hadn't you better
read to him a bit? Run to the house and get some sort of a good
book. Anything will do.'

I did as I was desired; butsuspecting something from her hurried
manner and the suddenness of the requestI just glanced back
before I quitted the fieldand there was Mr. Hatfield about to
enter at the gate below. By sending me to the house for a book


she had just prevented my meeting him on the road.

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

Mark Wood was the consumptive labourer whom I mentioned before. He
was now rapidly wearing away. Miss Murrayby her liberality
obtained literally the blessing of him that was ready to perish;
for though the half-crown could be of very little service to him
he was glad of it for the sake of his wife and childrenso soon to
be widowed and fatherless. After I had sat a few minutesand read
a little for the comfort and edification of himself and his
afflicted wifeI left them; but I had not proceeded fifty yards
before I encountered Mr. Westonapparently on his way to the same
abode. He greeted me in his usual quietunaffected waystopped
to inquire about the condition of the sick man and his familyand
with a sort of unconsciousbrotherly disregard to ceremony took
from my hand the book out of which I had been readingturned over
its pagesmade a few brief but very sensible remarksand restored
it; then told me about some poor sufferer he had just been
visitingtalked a little about Nancy Brownmade a few
observations upon my little rough friend the terrierthat was
frisking at his feetand finally upon the beauty of the weather
and departed.

I have omitted to give a detail of his wordsfrom a notion that
they would not interest the reader as they did meand not because
I have forgotten them. No; I remember them well; for I thought
them over and over again in the course of that day and many
succeeding onesI know not how often; and recalled every
intonation of his deepclear voiceevery flash of his quick
brown eyeand every gleam of his pleasantbut too transient
smile. Such a confession will look very absurdI fear: but no
matter: I have written it: and they that read it will not know
the writer.

While I was walking alonghappy withinand pleased with all
aroundMiss Murray came hastening to meet me; her buoyant step
flushed cheekand radiant smiles showing that shetoowas happy
in her own way. Running up to meshe put her arm through mine
and without waiting to recover breathbegan - 'NowMiss Grey
think yourself highly honouredfor I'm come to tell you my news
before I've breathed a word of it to anyone else.'

'Wellwhat is it?'

'OhSUCH news! In the first placeyou must know that Mr.
Hatfield came upon me just after you were gone. I was in such a
way for fear papa or mamma should see him; but you know I couldn't
call you back againand so! - ohdear! I can't tell you all
about it nowfor there's MatildaI seein the parkand I must
go and open my budget to her. ButhoweverHatfield was most
uncommonly audaciousunspeakably complimentaryand
unprecedentedly tender - tried to be soat least - he didn't
succeed very well in THATbecause it's not his vein. I'll tell
you all he said another time.'

'But what did YOU say - I'm more interested in that?'

'I'll tell you thattooat some future period. I happened to be


in a very good humour just then; butthough I was complaisant and
gracious enoughI took care not to compromise myself in any
possible way. Buthoweverthe conceited wretch chose to
interpret my amiability of temper his own wayand at length
presumed upon my indulgence so far - what do you think? - he
actually made me an offer!'

'And you - '

'I proudly drew myself upand with the greatest coolness expressed
my astonishment at such an occurrenceand hoped he had seen
nothing in my conduct to justify his expectations. You should have
SEEN how his countenance fell! He went perfectly white in the
face. I assured him that I esteemed him and all thatbut could
not possibly accede to his proposals; and if I didpapa and mamma
could never be brought to give their consent.'

'"But if they could said he, would yours be wanting?"

'"CertainlyMr. Hatfield I replied, with a cool decision which
quelled all hope at once. Oh, if you had seen how dreadfully
mortified he was - how crushed to the earth by his disappointment!
really, I almost pitied him myself.

'One more desperate attempt, however, he made. After a silence of
considerable duration, during which he struggled to be calm, and I
to be grave - for I felt a strong propensity to laugh - which would
have ruined all - he said, with the ghost of a smile - But tell me
plainlyMiss Murrayif I had the wealth of Sir Hugh Melthamor
the prospects of his eldest sonwould you still refuse me? Answer
me trulyupon your honour."

'"Certainly said I. That would make no difference whatever."

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

'"Then it's all overI suppose he said, looking as if he could
have died on the spot with vexation and the intensity of his
despair. But he was angry as well as disappointed. There was he,
suffering so unspeakably, and there was I, the pitiless cause of it
all, so utterly impenetrable to all the artillery of his looks and
words, so calmly cold and proud, he could not but feel some
resentment; and with singular bitterness he began - I certainly
did not expect thisMiss Murray. I might say something about your
past conductand the hopes you have led me to fosterbut I
forbearon condition - "

'"No conditionsMr. Hatfield!" said Inow truly indignant at his
insolence.

'"Then let me beg it as a favour he replied, lowering his voice
at once, and taking a humbler tone: let me entreat that you will
not mention this affair to anyone whatever. If you will keep
silence about itthere need be no unpleasantness on either side nothing
I meanbeyond what is quite unavoidable: for my own
feelings I will endeavour to keep to myselfif I cannot annihilate
them - I will try to forgiveif I cannot forget the cause of my
sufferings. I will not supposeMiss Murraythat you know how
deeply you have injured me. I would not have you aware of it; but
ifin addition to the injury you have already done me - pardon me


butwhether innocently or notyou HAVE done it - and if you add
to it by giving publicity to this unfortunate affairor naming it
AT ALLyou will find that I too can speakand though you scorned
my loveyou will hardly scorn my - "

'He stoppedbut he bit his bloodless lipand looked so terribly
fierce that I was quite frightened. Howevermy pride upheld me
stilland I answered disdainfully; "I do not know what motive you
suppose I could have for naming it to anyoneMr. Hatfield; but if
I were disposed to do soyou would not deter me by threats; and it
is scarcely the part of a gentleman to attempt it."

'"Pardon meMiss Murray said he, I have loved you so intensely

-I do still adore you so deeplythat I would not willingly offend
you; but though I never have lovedand never CAN love any woman as
I have loved youit is equally certain that I never was so illtreated
by any. On the contraryI have always found your sex the
kindest and most tender and obliging of God's creationtill now."
(Think of the conceited fellow saying that!) "And the novelty and
harshness of the lesson you have taught me to-dayand the
bitterness of being disappointed in the only quarter on which the
happiness of my life dependedmust excuse any appearance of
asperity. If my presence is disagreeable to youMiss Murray he
said (for I was looking about me to show how little I cared for
him, so he thought I was tired of him, I suppose) - if my presence
is disagreeable to youMiss Murrayyou have only to promise me
the favour I namedand I will relieve you at once. There are many
ladies - some even in this parish - who would be delighted to
accept what you have so scornfully trampled under your feet. They
would be naturally inclined to hate one whose surpassing loveliness
has so completely estranged my heart from them and blinded me to
their attractions; and a single hint of the truth from me to one of
these would be sufficient to raise such a talk against you as would
seriously injure your prospectsand diminish your chance of
success with any other gentleman you or your mamma might design to
entangle."
'"What do your meansir?" said Iready to stamp with passion.

'"I mean that this affair from beginning to end appears to me like
a case of arrant flirtationto say the least of it - such a case
as you would find it rather inconvenient to have blazoned through
the world: especially with the additions and exaggerations of your
female rivalswho would be too glad to publish the matterif I
only gave them a handle to it. But I promise youon the faith of
a gentlemanthat no word or syllable that could tend to your
prejudice shall ever escape my lipsprovided you will - "

'"WellwellI won't mention it said I. You may rely upon my
silenceif that can afford you any consolation."

'"You promise it?"

'"Yes I answered; for I wanted to get rid of him now.

'Farewellthen!" said hein a most dolefulheart-sick tone; and
with a look where pride vainly struggled against despairhe turned
and went away: longingno doubtto get homethat he might shut
himself up in his study and cry - if he doesn't burst into tears
before he gets there.'

'But you have broken your promise already' said Itruly horrified
at her perfidy.


'Oh! it's only to you; I know you won't repeat it.'

'CertainlyI shall not: but you say you are going to tell your
sister; and she will tell your brothers when they come homeand
Brown immediatelyif you do not tell her yourself; and Brown will
blazon itor be the means of blazoning itthroughout the
country.'

'Noindeedshe won't. We shall not tell her at allunless it be
under the promise of the strictest secrecy.'

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

'Wellwellshe shan't hear it then' said Miss Murraysomewhat
snappishly.

'But you will tell your mammaof course' pursued I; 'and she will
tell your papa.'

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

'OhTHAT'S itis it? I was wondering what it was that delighted
you so much.'

'Yes; and another thing isthat I've humbled Mr. Hatfield so
charmingly; and another - whyyou must allow me some share of
female vanity: I don't pretend to be without that most essential
attribute of our sex - and if you had seen poor Hatfield's intense
eagerness in making his ardent declaration and his flattering
proposaland his agony of mindthat no effort of pride could
concealon being refusedyou would have allowed I had some cause
to be gratified.'

'The greater his agonyI should thinkthe less your cause for
gratification.'

'Ohnonsense!' cried the young ladyshaking herself with
vexation. 'You either can't understand meor you won't. If I had
not confidence in your magnanimityI should think you envied me.
But you willperhapscomprehend this cause of pleasure - which is
as great as any - namelythat I am delighted with myself for my
prudencemy self-commandmy heartlessnessif you please. I was
not a bit taken by surprisenot a bit confusedor awkwardor
foolish; I just acted and spoke as I ought to have doneand was
completely my own mistress throughout. And here was a man
decidedly good-looking - Jane and Susan Green call him bewitchingly
handsome I suppose they're two of the ladies he pretends would be
so glad to have him; buthoweverhe was certainly a very clever
wittyagreeable companion - not what you call cleverbut just
enough to make him entertaining; and a man one needn't be ashamed
of anywhereand would not soon grow tired of; and to confess the
truthI rather liked him - better evenof latethan Harry
Meltham - and he evidently idolised me; and yetthough he came
upon me all alone and unpreparedI had the wisdomand the pride
and the strength to refuse him - and so scornfully and coolly as I
did: I have good reason to be proud of that.'

'And are you equally proud of having told him that his having the
wealth of Sir Hugh Meltham would make no difference to youwhen
that was not the case; and of having promised to tell no one of his
misadventureapparently without the slightest intention of keeping


your promise?'

'Of course! what else could I do? You would not have had me - but
I seeMiss Greyyou're not in a good temper. Here's Matilda;
I'll see what she and mamma have to say about it.'

She left meoffended at my want of sympathyand thinkingno
doubtthat I envied her. I did not - at leastI firmly believed
I did not. I was sorry for her; I was amazeddisgusted at her
heartless vanity; I wondered why so much beauty should be given to
those who made so bad a use of itand denied to some who would
make it a benefit to both themselves and others.

ButGod knows bestI concluded. There areI supposesome men
as vainas selfishand as heartless as she isandperhapssuch
women may be useful to punish them.

CHAPTER XV - THE WALK

'OHdear! I wish Hatfield had not been so precipitate!' said
Rosalie next day at four P.M.aswith a portentous yawnshe laid
down her worsted-work and looked listlessly towards the window.
'There's no inducement to go out now; and nothing to look forward
to. The days will be so long and dull when there are no parties to
enliven them; and there are none this weekor next eitherthat I
know of.'

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

'Humph! my beau must be an Adonis indeedMatildathe admired of
all beholdersif I am to be contented with him alone. I'm sorry
to lose HatfieldI confess; but the first decent manor number of
menthat come to supply his placewill be more than welcome.
It's Sunday to-morrow - I do wonder how he'll lookand whether
he'll be able to go through the service. Most likely he'll pretend
he's got a coldand make Mr. Weston do it all.'

'Not he!' exclaimed Matildasomewhat contemptuously. 'Fool as he
ishe's not so soft as that comes to.'

Her sister was slightly offended; but the event proved Matilda was
right: the disappointed lover performed his pastoral duties as
usual. Rosalieindeedaffirmed he looked very pale and dejected:
he might be a little paler; but the differenceif anywas
scarcely perceptible. As for his dejectionI certainly did not
hear his laugh ringing from the vestry as usualnor his voice loud
in hilarious discourse; though I did hear it uplifted in rating the
sexton in a manner that made the congregation stare; andin his
transits to and from the pulpit and the communion-tablethere was
more of solemn pompand less of that irreverentself-confident
or rather self-delighted imperiousness with which he usually swept
along - that air that seemed to say'You all reverence and adore
meI know; but if anyone does notI defy him to the teeth!' But
the most remarkable change wasthat he never once suffered his
eyes to wander in the direction of Mr. Murray's pewand did not
leave the church till we were gone.


Mr. Hatfield had doubtless received a very severe blow; but his
pride impelled him to use every effort to conceal the effects of
it. He had been disappointed in his certain hope of obtaining not
only a beautifulandto himhighly attractive wifebut one
whose rank and fortune might give brilliance to far inferior
charms: he was likewiseno doubtintensely mortified by his
repulseand deeply offended at the conduct of Miss Murray
throughout. It would have given him no little consolation to have
known how disappointed she was to find him apparently so little
movedand to see that he was able to refrain from casting a single
glance at her throughout both services; thoughshe declaredit
showed he was thinking of her all the timeor his eyes would have
fallen upon herif it were only by chance: but if they had so
chanced to fallshe would have affirmed it was because they could
not resist the attraction. It might have pleased himtooin some
degreeto have seen how dull and dissatisfied she was throughout
that week (the greater part of itat least)for lack of her usual
source of excitement; and how often she regretted having 'used him
up so soon' like a child thathaving devoured its plumcake too
hastilysits sucking its fingersand vainly lamenting its
greediness.

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

'Why' said I'I thought you wanted to live in London yourself.'

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

Thenobserving the prints of a horse's feet on the somewhat miry
roadshe 'wondered whether it was a gentleman's horse' and
finally concluded it wasfor the impressions were too small to
have been made by a 'great clumsy cart-horse'; and then she
'wondered who the rider could be' and whether we should meet him
coming backfor she was sure he had only passed that morning; and
lastlywhen we entered the village and saw only a few of its
humble inhabitants moving aboutshe 'wondered why the stupid
people couldn't keep in their houses; she was sure she didn't want
to see their ugly facesand dirtyvulgar clothes - it wasn't for
that she came to Horton!'

Amid all thisI confessI wonderedtooin secretwhether we
should meetor catch a glimpse of somebody else; and as we passed
his lodgingsI even went so far as to wonder whether he was at the
window. On entering the shopMiss Murray desired me to stand in
the doorway while she transacted her businessand tell her if
anyone passed. But alas! there was no one visible besides the
villagersexcept Jane and Susan Green coming down the single
streetapparently returning from a walk.

'Stupid things!' muttered sheas she came out after having


concluded her bargain. 'Why couldn't they have their dolt of a
brother with them? even he would be better than nothing.'

She greeted themhoweverwith a cheerful smileand protestations
of pleasure at the happy meeting equal to their own. They placed
themselves one on each side of herand all three walked away
chatting and laughing as young ladies do when they get togetherif
they be but on tolerably intimate terms. But Ifeeling myself to
be one too manyleft them to their merriment and lagged behindas
usual on such occasions: I had no relish for walking beside Miss
Green or Miss Susan like one deaf and dumbwho could neither speak
nor be spoken to.

But this time I was not long alone. It struck mefirstas very
oddthat just as I was thinking about Mr. Weston he should come up
and accost me; but afterwardson due reflectionI thought there
was nothing odd about itunless it were the fact of his speaking
to me; for on such a morning and so near his own abodeit was
natural enough that he should be about; and as for my thinking of
himI had been doing thatwith little intermissionever since we
set out on our journey; so there was nothing remarkable in that.

'You are alone againMiss Grey' said he.

'Yes.'

'What kind of people are those ladies - the Misses Green?'

'I really don't know.'

'That's strange - when you live so near and see them so often!'

'WellI suppose they are livelygood-tempered girls; but I
imagine you must know them better than I doyourselffor I never
exchanged a word with either of them.'

'Indeed? They don't strike me as being particularly reserved.'

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

He made no reply to this: but after a short pausehe said- 'I
suppose it's these thingsMiss Greythat make you think you could
not live without a home?'

'Not exactly. The fact is I am too socially disposed to be able to
live contentedly without a friend; and as the only friends I have
or am likely to haveare at homeif it - or ratherif they were
gone - I will not say I could not live - but I would rather not
live in such a desolate world.'

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

'Nobut I never made one yet; and in my present position there is
no possibility of doing soor even of forming a common
acquaintance. The fault may be partly in myselfbut I hope not
altogether.'

'The fault is partly in societyand partlyI should thinkin
your immediate neighbours: and partlytooin yourself; for many
ladiesin your positionwould make themselves be noticed and
accounted of. But your pupils should be companions for you in some
degree; they cannot be many years younger than yourself.'


'Ohyesthey are good company sometimes; but I cannot call them
friendsnor would they think of bestowing such a name on me - they
have other companions better suited to their tastes.'

'Perhaps you are too wise for them. How do you amuse yourself when
alone - do you read much?'

'Reading is my favourite occupationwhen I have leisure for it and
books to read.'

From speaking of books in generalhe passed to different books in
particularand proceeded by rapid transitions from topic to topic
till several mattersboth of taste and opinionhad been discussed
considerably within the space of half an hourbut without the
embellishment of many observations from himself; he being evidently
less bent upon communicating his own thoughts and predilections
than on discovering mine. He had not the tactor the artto
effect such a purpose by skilfully drawing out my sentiments or
ideas through the real or apparent statement of his ownor leading
the conversation by imperceptible gradations to such topics as he
wished to advert to: but such gentle abruptnessand such singleminded
straightforwardnesscould not possibly offend me.

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

But Jane and Susan Green soon reached their home. As they stood
parleying at the park-gatesattempting to persuade Miss Murray to
come inI wished Mr. Weston would gothat she might not see him
with me when she turned round; butunfortunatelyhis business
which was to pay one more visit to poor Mark Woodled him to
pursue the same path as we didtill nearly the close of our
journey. Whenhoweverhe saw that Rosalie had taken leave of her
friends and I was about to join herhe would have left me and
passed on at a quicker pace; butas he civilly lifted his hat in
passing herto my surpriseinstead of returning the salute with a
stiffungracious bowshe accosted him with one of her sweetest
smilesandwalking by his sidebegan to talk to him with all
imaginable cheerfulness and affability; and so we proceeded all
three together.

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

When he was gone she began to laughand muttered to herself'I
thought I could do it!'


'Do what?' I asked.

'Fix that man.'

'What in the world do you mean?'

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

'How do you know?'

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

I made no answerfor my heart was in my throator something like
itand I could not trust myself to speak. 'O Godavert it!' I
criedinternally - 'for his sakenot for mine!'

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

Right glad was I to get into the houseand find myself alone once
more in my own room. My first impulse was to sink into the chair
beside the bed; and laying my head on the pillowto seek relief in
a passionate burst of tears: there was an imperative craving for
such an indulgence; butalas! I must restrain and swallow back my
feelings still: there was the bell - the odious bell for the
schoolroom dinner; and I must go down with a calm faceand smile
and laughand talk nonsense - yesand eattooif possibleas
if all was rightand I was just returned from a pleasant walk.

CHAPTER XVI - THE SUBSTITUTION

NEXT Sunday was one of the gloomiest of April days - a day of
thickdark cloudsand heavy showers. None of the Murrays were
disposed to attend church in the afternoonexcepting Rosalie: she
was bent upon going as usual; so she ordered the carriageand I
went with her: nothing lothof coursefor at church I might look
without fear of scorn or censure upon a form and face more pleasing
to me than the most beautiful of God's creations; I might listen
without disturbance to a voice more charming than the sweetest
music to my ears; I might seem to hold communion with that soul in
which I felt so deeply interestedand imbibe its purest thoughts
and holiest aspirationswith no alloy to such felicity except the
secret reproaches of my consciencewhich would too often whisper
that I was deceiving my own selfand mocking God with the service
of a heart more bent upon the creature than the Creator.

Sometimessuch thoughts would give me trouble enough; but
sometimes I could quiet them with thinking - it is not the manit
is his goodness that I love. 'Whatsoever things are pure


whatsoever things are lovelywhatsoever things are honest and of
good reportthink on these things.' We do well to worship God in
His works; and I know none of them in which so many of His
attributes - so much of His own spirit shinesas in this His
faithful servant; whom to know and not to appreciatewere obtuse
insensibility in mewho have so little else to occupy my heart.

Almost immediately after the conclusion of the serviceMiss Murray
left the church. We had to stand in the porchfor it was raining
and the carriage was not yet come. I wondered at her coming forth
so hastilyfor neither young Meltham nor Squire Green was there;
but I soon found it was to secure an interview with Mr. Weston as
he came outwhich he presently did. Having saluted us bothhe
would have passed onbut she detained him; first with observations
upon the disagreeable weatherand then with asking if he would be
so kind as to come some time to-morrow to see the granddaughter of
the old woman who kept the porter's lodgefor the girl was ill of
a feverand wished to see him. He promised to do so.

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

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

'Nothank youI don't mind the rain' I said. I always lacked
common sense when taken by surprise.

'But you don't LIKE itI suppose? - an umbrella will do you no
harm at any rate' he repliedwith a smile that showed he was not
offended; as a man of worse temper or less penetration would have
been at such a refusal of his aid. I could not deny the truth of
his assertionand so went with him to the carriage; he even
offered me his hand on getting in: an unnecessary piece of
civilitybut I accepted that toofor fear of giving offence. One
glance he gaveone little smile at parting - it was but for a
moment; but therein I reador thought I reada meaning that
kindled in my heart a brighter flame of hope than had ever yet
arisen.

'I would have sent the footman back for youMiss Greyif you'd
waited a moment - you needn't have taken Mr. Weston's umbrella'
observed Rosaliewith a very unamiable cloud upon her pretty face.

'I would have come without an umbrellabut Mr. Weston offered me
the benefit of hisand I could not have refused it more than I did
without offending him' replied Ismiling placidly; for my inward
happiness made that amusingwhich would have wounded me at another
time.

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

'Stupid ass!' cried shethrowing herself back again in the seat.
'You don't know what you've lost by not looking this way!'


'What has he lost?'

'A bow from methat would have raised him to the seventh heaven!'

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

'I mean to take up Mr. Weston instead of Mr. Hatfield' said my
companionafter a short pauseresuming something of her usual
cheerfulness. 'The ball at Ashby Park takes place on Tuesdayyou
know; and mamma thinks it very likely that Sir Thomas will propose
to me then: such things are often done in the privacy of the ballroom
when gentlemen are most easily ensnaredand ladies most
enchanting. But if I am to be married so soonI must make the
best of the present time: I am determined Hatfield shall not be
the only man who shall lay his heart at my feetand implore me to
accept the worthless gift in vain.'

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

'I don't suppose he will ask me to marry himnor should I desire
it: that would be rather too much presumption! but I intend him to
feel my power. He has felt it alreadyindeed: but he shall
ACKNOWLEDGE it too; and what visionary hopes he may havehe must
keep to himselfand only amuse me with the result of them - for a
time.'

'Oh! that some kind spirit would whisper those words in his ear' I
inwardly exclaimed. I was far too indignant to hazard a reply to
her observation aloud; and nothing more was said about Mr. Weston
that dayby me or in my hearing. But next morningsoon after
breakfastMiss Murray came into the schoolroomwhere her sister
was employed at her studiesor rather her lessonsfor studies
they were notand said'MatildaI want you to take a walk with
me about eleven o'clock.'

'OhI can'tRosalie! I have to give orders about my new bridle
and saddle-clothand speak to the rat-catcher about his dogs:
Miss Grey must go with you.'

'NoI want you' said Rosalie; and calling her sister to the
windowshe whispered an explanation in her ear; upon which the
latter consented to go.

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

CHAPTER XVII - CONFESSIONS


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

We are naturally disposed to love what gives us pleasureand what
more pleasing than a beautiful face - when we know no harm of the
possessor at least? A little girl loves her bird - Why? Because
it lives and feels; because it is helpless and harmless? A toad
likewiselives and feelsand is equally helpless and harmless;
but though she would not hurt a toadshe cannot love it like the
birdwith its graceful formsoft feathersand brightspeaking
eyes. If a woman is fair and amiableshe is praised for both
qualitiesbut especially the formerby the bulk of mankind: if
on the other handshe is disagreeable in person and characterher
plainness is commonly inveighed against as her greatest crime
becauseto common observersit gives the greatest offence; while
if she is plain and goodprovided she is a person of retired
manners and secluded lifeno one ever knows of her goodness
except her immediate connections. Otherson the contraryare
disposed to form unfavourable opinions of her mindand
dispositionif it be but to excuse themselves for their
instinctive dislike of one so unfavoured by nature; and VISA VERSA
with her whose angel form conceals a vicious heartor sheds a
falsedeceitful charm over defects and foibles that would not be
tolerated in another. They that have beautylet them be thankful
for itand make a good use of itlike any other talent; they that
have it notlet them console themselvesand do the best they can
without it: certainlythough liable to be over-estimatedit is a
gift of Godand not to be despised. Many will feel this who have
felt that they could loveand whose hearts tell them that they are
worthy to be loved again; while yet they are debarredby the lack
of this or some such seeming triflefrom giving and receiving that
happiness they seem almost made to feel and to impart. As well
might the humble glowworm despise that power of giving light
without which the roving fly might pass her and repass her a
thousand timesand never rest beside her: she might hear her
winged darling buzzing over and around her; he vainly seeking her
she longing to be foundbut with no power to make her presence
knownno voice to call himno wings to follow his flight; - the
fly must seek another matethe worm must live and die alone.

Such were some of my reflections about this period. I might go on
prosing more and moreI might dive much deeperand disclose other
thoughtspropose questions the reader might be puzzled to answer
and deduce arguments that might startle his prejudicesor
perhapsprovoke his ridiculebecause he could not comprehend
them; but I forbear.

Nowthereforelet us return to Miss Murray. She accompanied her


mamma to the ball on Tuesday; of course splendidly attiredand
delighted with her prospects and her charms. As Ashby Park was
nearly ten miles distant from Horton Lodgethey had to set out
pretty earlyand I intended to have spent the evening with Nancy
Brownwhom I had not seen for a long time; but my kind pupil took
care I should spend it neither there nor anywhere else beyond the
limits of the schoolroomby giving me a piece of music to copy
which kept me closely occupied till bed-time. About eleven next
morningas soon as she had left her roomshe came to tell me her
news. Sir Thomas had indeed proposed to her at the ball; an event
which reflected great credit on her mamma's sagacityif not upon
her skill in contrivance. I rather incline to the belief that she
had first laid her plansand then predicted their success. The
offer had been acceptedof courseand the bridegroom elect was
coming that day to settle matters with Mr. Murray.

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

The wedding was fixed for the first of June. Between that and the
critical ball was little more than six weeks; butwith Rosalie's
accomplished skill and resolute exertionmuch might be doneeven
within that period; especially as Sir Thomas spent most of the
interim in London; whither he went upit was saidto settle
affairs with his lawyerand make other preparations for the
approaching nuptials. He endeavoured to supply the want of his
presence by a pretty constant fire of billets-doux; but these did
not attract the neighbours' attentionand open their eyesas
personal visits would have done; and old Lady Ashby's haughtysour
spirit of reserve withheld her from spreading the newswhile her
indifferent health prevented her coming to visit her future
daughter-in-law; so thataltogetherthis affair was kept far
closer than such things usually are.

Rosalie would sometimes show her lover's epistles to meto
convince me what a kinddevoted husband he would make. She showed
me the letters of another individualtoothe unfortunate Mr.
Greenwho had not the courageoras she expressed itthe


'spunk' to plead his cause in personbut whom one denial would
not satisfy: he must write again and again. He would not have
done so if he could have seen the grimaces his fair idol made over
his moving appeals to her feelingsand heard her scornful
laughterand the opprobrious epithets she heaped upon him for his
perseverance.

'Why don't you tell himat oncethat you are engaged?' I asked.

'OhI don't want him to know that' replied she. 'If he knew it
his sisters and everybody would know itand then there would be an
end of my - ahem! Andbesidesif I told him thathe would think
my engagement was the only obstacleand that I would have him if I
were free; which I could not bear that any man should thinkand
heof all othersat least. BesidesI don't care for his
letters' she addedcontemptuously; 'he may write as often as he
pleasesand look as great a calf as he likes when I meet him; it
only amuses me.'

Meantimeyoung Meltham was pretty frequent in his visits to the
house or transits past it; andjudging by Matilda's execrations
and reproachesher sister paid more attention to him than civility
required; in other wordsshe carried on as animated a flirtation
as the presence of her parents would admit. She made some attempts
to bring Mr. Hatfield once more to her feet; but finding them
unsuccessfulshe repaid his haughty indifference with still
loftier scornand spoke of him with as much disdain and
detestation as she had formerly done of his curate. Butamid all
thisshe never for a moment lost sight of Mr. Weston. She
embraced every opportunity of meeting himtried every art to
fascinate himand pursued him with as much perseverance as if she
really loved him and no otherand the happiness of her life
depended upon eliciting a return of affection. Such conduct was
completely beyond my comprehension. Had I seen it depicted in a
novelI should have thought it unnatural; had I heard it described
by othersI should have deemed it a mistake or an exaggeration;
but when I saw it with my own eyesand suffered from it tooI
could only conclude that excessive vanitylike drunkenness
hardens the heartenslaves the facultiesand perverts the
feelings; and that dogs are not the only creatures whichwhen
gorged to the throatwill yet gloat over what they cannot devour
and grudge the smallest morsel to a starving brother.

She now became extremely beneficent to the poor cottagers. Her
acquaintance among them was more widely extendedher visits to
their humble dwellings were more frequent and excursive than they
had ever been before. Herebyshe earned among them the reputation
of a condescending and very charitable young lady; and their
encomiums were sure to be repeated to Mr. Weston: whom also she
had thus a daily chance of meeting in one or other of their abodes
or in her transits to and fro; and oftenlikewiseshe could
gatherthrough their gossipto what places he was likely to go at
such and such a timewhether to baptize a childor to visit the
agedthe sickthe sador the dying; and most skilfully she laid
her plans accordingly. In these excursions she would sometimes go
with her sister - whomby some meansshe had persuaded or bribed
to enter into her schemes - sometimes alonenevernowwith me;
so that I was debarred the pleasure of seeing Mr. Westonor
hearing his voice even in conversation with another: which would
certainly have been a very great pleasurehowever hurtful or
however fraught with pain. I could not even see him at church:
for Miss Murrayunder some trivial pretextchose to take
possession of that corner in the family pew which had been mine
ever since I came; andunless I had the presumption to station


myself between Mr. and Mrs. MurrayI must sit with my back to the
pulpitwhich I accordingly did.

NowalsoI never walked home with my pupils: they said their
mamma thought it did not look well to see three people out of the
family walkingand only two going in the carriage; andas they
greatly preferred walking in fine weatherI should be honoured by
going with the seniors. 'And besides' said they'you can't walk
as fast as we do; you know you're always lagging behind.' I knew
these were false excusesbut I made no objectionsand never
contradicted such assertionswell knowing the motives which
dictated them. And in the afternoonsduring those six memorable
weeksI never went to church at all. If I had a coldor any
slight indispositionthey took advantage of that to make me stay
at home; and often they would tell me they were not going again
that daythemselvesand then pretend to change their mindsand
set off without telling me: so managing their departure that I
never discovered the change of purpose till too late. Upon their
return homeon one of these occasionsthey entertained me with an
animated account of a conversation they had had with Mr. Weston as
they came along. 'And he asked if you were illMiss Grey' said
Matilda; 'but we told him you were quite wellonly you didn't want
to come to church - so he'll think you're turned wicked.'

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

One morninghaving sought and waylaid Mr. Westonthey returned in
high glee to give me an account of their interview. 'And he asked
after you again' said Matildain spite of her sister's silent but
imperative intimation that she should hold her tongue. 'He
wondered why you were never with usand thought you must have
delicate healthas you came out so seldom.'

'He didn't Matilda - what nonsense you're talking!'

'OhRosaliewhat a lie! He didyou know; and you said - Don't
Rosalie - hang it! - I won't be pinched so! AndMiss Grey
Rosalie told him you were quite wellbut you were always so buried
in your books that you had no pleasure in anything else.'

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

'And' I asked'does old Nancy ever inquire about me?'

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

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

'I don't think it would' replied Miss Murraysuddenly kindling
up; 'I'm sure you have plenty of time to yourself nowwhen you
have so little teaching to do.'

It was no use beginning to dispute with such indulgedunreasoning
creatures: so I held my peace. I was accustomednowto keeping
silence when things distasteful to my ear were uttered; and now
tooI was used to wearing a placid smiling countenance when my


heart was bitter within me. Only those who have felt the like can
imagine my feelingsas I sat with an assumption of smiling
indifferencelistening to the accounts of those meetings and
interviews with Mr. Westonwhich they seemed to find such pleasure
in describing to me; and hearing things asserted of him whichfrom
the character of the manI knew to be exaggerations and
perversions of the truthif not entirely false - things derogatory
to himand flattering to them - especially to Miss Murray - which
I burned to contradictorat leastto show my doubts aboutbut
dared not; lestin expressing my disbeliefI should display my
interest too. Other things I heardwhich I felt or feared were
indeed too true: but I must still conceal my anxiety respecting
himmy indignation against thembeneath a careless aspect;
othersagainmere hints of something said or donewhich I longed
to hear more ofbut could not venture to inquire. So passed the
weary time. I could not even comfort myself with saying'She will
soon be married; and then there may be hope.'

Soon after her marriage the holidays would come; and when I
returned from homemost likelyMr. Weston would be gonefor I
was told that he and the Rector could not agree (the Rector's
faultof course)and he was about to remove to another place.

No - besides my hope in Godmy only consolation was in thinking
thatthough he know it notI was more worthy of his love than
Rosalie Murraycharming and engaging as she was; for I could
appreciate his excellencewhich she could not: I would devote my
life to the promotion of his happiness; she would destroy his
happiness for the momentary gratification of her own vanity. 'Oh
if he could but know the difference!' I would earnestly exclaim.
'But no! I would not have him see my heart: yetif he could but
know her hollownessher worthlessheartless frivolityhe would
then be safeand I should be - ALMOST happythough I might never
see him more!'

I fearby this timethe reader is well nigh disgusted with the
folly and weakness I have so freely laid before him. I never
disclosed it thenand would not have done so had my own sister or
my mother been with me in the house. I was a close and resolute
dissembler - in this one case at least. My prayersmy tearsmy
wishesfearsand lamentationswere witnessed by myself and
heaven alone.

When we are harassed by sorrows or anxietiesor long oppressed by
any powerful feelings which we must keep to ourselvesfor which we
can obtain and seek no sympathy from any living creatureand which
yet we cannotor will not wholly crushwe often naturally seek
relief in poetry - and often find ittoo - whether in the
effusions of otherswhich seem to harmonize with our existing
caseor in our own attempts to give utterance to those thoughts
and feelings in strains less musicalperchancebut more
appropriateand therefore more penetrating and sympatheticand
for the timemore soothingor more powerful to rouse and to
unburden the oppressed and swollen heart. Before this timeat
Wellwood House and herewhen suffering from home-sick melancholy
I had sought relief twice or thrice at this secret source of
consolation; and now I flew to it againwith greater avidity than
everbecause I seemed to need it more. I still preserve those
relics of past sufferings and experiencelike pillars of witness
set up in travelling through the vale of lifeto mark particular
occurrences. The footsteps are obliterated now; the face of the
country may be changed; but the pillar is still thereto remind me
how all things were when it was reared. Lest the reader should be
curious to see any of these effusionsI will favour him with one


short specimen: cold and languid as the lines may seemit was
almost a passion of grief to which they owed their being:-


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


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


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


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


Butif those thoughts brought delightit was a painfultroubled
pleasuretoo near akin to anguish; and one that did me more injury
than I was aware of. It was an indulgence that a person of more
wisdom or more experience would doubtless have denied herself. And
yethow dreary to turn my eyes from the contemplation of that
bright object and force them to dwell on the dullgreydesolate
prospect around: the joylesshopelesssolitary path that lay
before me. It was wrong to be so joylessso desponding; I should
have made God my friendand to do His will the pleasure and the
business of my life; but faith was weakand passion was too
strong.


In this time of trouble I had two other causes of affliction. The
first may seem a triflebut it cost me many a tear: Snapmy
little dumbrough-visagedbut bright-eyedwarm-hearted
companionthe only thing I had to love mewas taken awayand
delivered over to the tender mercies of the village rat-catchera
man notorious for his brutal treatment of his canine slaves. The
other was serious enough; my letters from home gave intimation that
my father's health was worse. No boding fears were expressedbut
I was grown timid and despondentand could not help fearing that
some dreadful calamity awaited us there. I seemed to see the black
clouds gathering round my native hillsand to hear the angry
muttering of a storm that was about to burstand desolate our
hearth.


CHAPTER XVIII - MIRTH AND MOURNING



THE 1st of June arrived at last: and Rosalie Murray was transmuted
into Lady Ashby. Most splendidly beautiful she looked in her
bridal costume. Upon her return from churchafter the ceremony
she came flying into the schoolroomflushed with excitementand
laughinghalf in mirthand half in reckless desperationas it
seemed to me.

'NowMiss GreyI'm Lady Ashby!' she exclaimed. 'It's donemy
fate is sealed: there's no drawing back now. I'm come to receive
your congratulations and bid you good-by; and then I'm off for
ParisRomeNaplesSwitzerlandLondon - ohdear! what a deal I
shall see and hear before I come back again. But don't forget me:
I shan't forget youthough I've been a naughty girl. Comewhy
don't you congratulate me?'

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

'Wellgood-bythe carriage is waitingand they're calling me.'

She gave me a hasty kissand was hurrying away; butsuddenly
returningembraced me with more affection than I thought her
capable of evincingand departed with tears in her eyes. Poor
girl! I really loved her then; and forgave her from my heart all
the injury she had done me - and others also: she had not half
known itI was sure; and I prayed God to pardon her too.

During the remainder of that day of festal sadnessI was left to
my own devices. Being too much unhinged for any steady occupation
I wandered about with a book in my hand for several hoursmore
thinking than readingfor I had many things to think about. In
the eveningI made use of my liberty to go and see my old friend
Nancy once again; to apologize for my long absence (which must have
seemed so neglectful and unkind) by telling her how busy I had
been; and to talkor reador work for herwhichever might be
most acceptableand alsoof courseto tell her the news of this
important day: and perhaps to obtain a little information from her
in returnrespecting Mr. Weston's expected departure. But of this
she seemed to know nothingand I hopedas she didthat it was
all a false report. She was very glad to see me; buthappilyher
eyes were now so nearly well that she was almost independent of my
services. She was deeply interested in the wedding; but while I
amused her with the details of the festive daythe splendours of
the bridal party and of the bride herselfshe often sighed and
shook her headand wished good might come of it; she seemedlike
meto regard it rather as a theme for sorrow than rejoicing. I
sat a long time talking to her about that and other things - but no
one came.

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

Sundayhoweverwas approaching: I should see him then: for now
that Miss Murray was goneI could have my old corner again. I
should see himand by lookspeechand mannerI might judge
whether the circumstance of her marriage had very much afflicted


him. Happily I could perceive no shadow of a difference: he wore
the same aspect as he had worn two months ago - voicelook
mannerall alike unchanged: there was the same keen-sighted
unclouded truthfulness in his discoursethe same forcible
clearness in his stylethe same earnest simplicity in all he said
and didthat made itselfnot marked by the eye and earbut felt
upon the hearts of his audience.

I walked home with Miss Matilda; but HE DID NOT JOIN US. Matilda
was now sadly at a loss for amusementand wofully in want of a
companion: her brothers at schoolher sister married and gone
she too young to be admitted into society; for whichfrom
Rosalie's exampleshe was in some degree beginning to acquire a
taste - a taste at least for the company of certain classes of
gentlemen; at this dull time of year - no hunting going onno
shooting even - forthough she might not join in thatit was
SOMETHING to see her father or the gamekeeper go out with the dogs
and to talk with them on their returnabout the different birds
they had bagged. Nowalsoshe was denied the solace which the
companionship of the coachmangroomshorsesgreyhoundsand
pointers might have afforded; for her mother having
notwithstanding the disadvantages of a country lifeso
satisfactorily disposed of her elder daughterthe pride of her
heart had begun seriously to turn her attention to the younger;
andbeing truly alarmed at the roughness of her mannersand
thinking it high time to work a reformhad been roused at length
to exert her authorityand prohibited entirely the yardsstables
kennelsand coachhouse. Of courseshe was not implicitly obeyed;
butindulgent as she had hitherto beenwhen once her spirit was
rousedher temper was not so gentle as she required that of her
governesses to beand her will was not to be thwarted with
impunity. After many a scene of contention between mother and
daughtermany a violent outbreak which I was ashamed to witness
in which the father's authority was often called in to confirm with
oaths and threats the mother's slighted prohibitions - for even HE
could see that 'Tillythough she would have made a fine ladwas
not quite what a young lady ought to be' - Matilda at length found
that her easiest plan was to keep clear of the forbidden regions;
unless she could now and then steal a visit without her watchful
mother's knowledge.

Amid all thislet it not be imagined that I escaped without many a
reprimandand many an implied reproachthat lost none of its
sting from not being openly worded; but rather wounded the more
deeplybecausefrom that very reasonit seemed to preclude selfdefence.
FrequentlyI was told to amuse Miss Matilda with other
thingsand to remind her of her mother's precepts and
prohibitions. I did so to the best of my power: but she would not
be amused against her willand could not against her taste; and
though I went beyond mere remindingsuch gentle remonstrances as I
could use were utterly ineffectual.

'DEAR Miss Grey! it is the STRANGEST thing. I suppose you can't
help itif it's not in your nature - but I WONDER you can't win
the confidence of that girland make your society at LEAST as
agreeable to her as that of Robert or Joseph!'

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

'Well! that is a strange confessionHOWEVERto come from her
GOVERNESS! Who is to form a young lady's tastesI wonderif the
governess doesn't do it? I have known governesses who have so
completely identified themselves with the reputation of their young


ladies for elegance and propriety in mind and mannersthat they
would blush to speak a word against them; and to hear the slightest
blame imputed to their pupils was worse than to be censured in
their own persons - and I really think it very naturalfor my
part.'

'Do youma'am?'

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

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

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

'Yes' replied she. 'She was at Paris when she wroteand very
welland very happy.'

She spoke the last word emphaticallyand with a glance
impertinently sly. He did not seem to notice itbut repliedwith
equal emphasisand very seriously


'I hope she will continue to be so.'


'Do you think it likely?' I ventured to inquire: for Matilda had
started off in pursuit of her dogthat was chasing a leveret.

'I cannot tell' replied he. 'Sir Thomas may be a better man than
I suppose; butfrom all I have heard and seenit seems a pity
that one so young and gayand - and interestingto express many
things by one word - whose greatestif not her only faultappears
to be thoughtlessness - no trifling fault to be suresince it
renders the possessor liable to almost every otherand exposes him
to so many temptations - but it seems a pity that she should be
thrown away on such a man. It was her mother's wishI suppose?'

'Yes; and her own tooI thinkfor she always laughed at my
attempts to dissuade her from the step.'

'You did attempt it? Thenat leastyou will have the
satisfaction of knowing that it is no fault of yoursif any harm
should come of it. As for Mrs. MurrayI don't know how she can
justify her conduct: if I had sufficient acquaintance with her
I'd ask her.'

'It seems unnatural: but some people think rank and wealth the
chief good; andif they can secure that for their childrenthey
think they have done their duty.'

'True: but is it not strange that persons of experiencewho have
been married themselvesshould judge so falsely?' Matilda now
came panting backwith the lacerated body of the young hare in her
hand.

'Was it your intention to kill that hareor to save itMiss
Murray?' asked Mr. Westonapparently puzzled at her gleeful
countenance.

'I pretended to want to save it' she answeredhonestly enough
'as it was so glaringly out of season; but I was better pleased to
see it lolled. Howeveryou can both witness that I couldn't help
it: Prince was determined to have her; and he clutched her by the
backand killed her in a minute! Wasn't it a noble chase?'

'Very! for a young lady after a leveret.'

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

'Didn't you see how it doubled - just like an old hare? and didn't
you hear it scream?'

'I'm happy to say I did not.'

'It cried out just like a child.'

'Poor little thing! What will you do with it?'

'Come along - I shall leave it in the first house we come to. I
don't want to take it homefor fear papa should scold me for
letting the dog kill it.'

Mr. Weston was now goneand we too went on our way; but as we
returnedafter having deposited the hare in a farm-houseand


demolished some spice-cake and currant-wine in exchangewe met him
returning also from the execution of his missionwhatever it might
be. He carried in his hand a cluster of beautiful bluebellswhich
he offered to me; observingwith a smilethat though he had seen
so little of me for the last two monthshe had not forgotten that
blue-bells were numbered among my favourite flowers. It was done
as a simple act of goodwillwithout compliment or remarkable
courtesyor any look that could be construed into 'reverential
tender adoration' (VIDE Rosalie Murray); but stillit was
something to find my unimportant saying so well remembered: it was
something that he had noticed so accurately the time I had ceased
to be visible.

'I was told' said he'that you were a perfect bookwormMiss
Grey: so completely absorbed in your studies that you were lost to
every other pleasure.'

'Yesand it's quite true!' cried Matilda.

'NoMr. Weston: don't believe it: it's a scandalous libel.
These young ladies are too fond of making random assertions at the
expense of their friends; and you ought to be careful how you
listen to them.'

'I hope THIS assertion is groundlessat any rate.'

'Why? Do you particularly object to ladies studying?'

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

'WellI have neither the time nor the inclination for such
transgressions.'

We parted again.

Well! what is there remarkable in all this? Why have I recorded
it? Becausereaderit was important enough to give me a cheerful
eveninga night of pleasing dreamsand a morning of felicitous
hopes. Shallow-brained cheerfulnessfoolish dreamsunfounded
hopesyou would say; and I will not venture to deny it:
suspicions to that effect arose too frequently in my own mind. But
our wishes are like tinder: the flint and steel of circumstances
are continually striking out sparkswhich vanish immediately
unless they chance to fall upon the tinder of our wishes; then
they instantly igniteand the flame of hope is kindled in a
moment.

But alas! that very morningmy flickering flame of hope was
dismally quenched by a letter from my motherwhich spoke so
seriously of my father's increasing illnessthat I feared there
was little or no chance of his recovery; andclose at hand as the
holidays wereI almost trembled lest they should come too late for
me to meet him in this world. Two days aftera letter from Mary
told me his life was despaired ofand his end seemed fast
approaching. ThenimmediatelyI sought permission to anticipate
the vacationand go without delay. Mrs. Murray staredand
wondered at the unwonted energy and boldness with which I urged the
requestand thought there was no occasion to hurry; but finally
gave me leave: statinghoweverthat there was 'no need to be in
such agitation about the matter - it might prove a false alarm
after all; and if not - whyit was only in the common course of


nature: we must all die some time; and I was not to suppose myself
the only afflicted person in the world;' and concluding with saying
I might have the phaeton to take me to O-. 'And instead of
REPININGMiss Greybe thankful for the PRIVILEGES you enjoy.
There's many a poor clergyman whose family would be plunged into
ruin by the event of his death; but youyou seehave influential
friends ready to continue their patronageand to show you every
consideration.'

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

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

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

'Agnes!' said my motherstruggling to repress some strong emotion.

'OhAgnes!' cried Maryand burst into tears.

'How is he?' I askedgasping for the answer.

'Dead!'

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

CHAPTER XIX - THE LETTER

MY father's mortal remains had been consigned to the tomb; and we
with sad faces and sombre garmentssat lingering over the frugal
breakfast-tablerevolving plans for our future life. My mother's
strong mind had not given way beneath even this affliction: her
spiritthough crushedwas not broken. Mary's wish was that I
should go back to Horton Lodgeand that our mother should come and
live with her and Mr. Richardson at the vicarage: she affirmed
that he wished it no less than herselfand that such an
arrangement could not fail to benefit all parties; for my mother's
society and experience would be of inestimable value to themand
they would do all they could to make her happy. But no arguments
or entreaties could prevail: my mother was determined not to go.
Not that she questionedfor a momentthe kind wishes and
intentions of her daughter; but she affirmed that so long as God
spared her health and strengthshe would make use of them to earn
her own livelihoodand be chargeable to no one; whether her
dependence would be felt as a burden or not. If she could afford
to reside as a lodger in - vicarageshe would choose that house
before all others as the place of her abode; but not being so
circumstancedshe would never come under its roofexcept as an


occasional visitor: unless sickness or calamity should render her
assistance really needfulor until age or infirmity made her
incapable of maintaining herself.

'NoMary' said she'if Richardson and you have anything to
spareyou must lay it aside for your family; and Agnes and I must
gather honey for ourselves. Thanks to my having had daughters to
educateI have not forgotten my accomplishments. God willingI
will check this vain repining' she saidwhile the tears coursed
one another down her cheeks in spite of her efforts; but she wiped
them awayand resolutely shaking back her headcontinued'I will
exert myselfand look out for a small housecommodiously situated
in some populous but healthy districtwhere we will take a few
young ladies to board and educate - if we can get them - and as
many day pupils as will comeor as we can manage to instruct.
Your father's relations and old friends will be able to send us
some pupilsor to assist us with their recommendationsno doubt:
I shall not apply to my own. What say you to itAgnes? will you
be willing to leave your present situation and try?'

'Quite willingmamma; and the money I have saved will do to
furnish the house. It shall be taken from the bank directly.'

'When it is wanted: we must get the houseand settle on
preliminaries first.'

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

We were discussing these affairs on the morning I have mentioned
about a fortnight after my father's deathwhen a letter was
brought in for my motheron beholding which the colour mounted to
her face - lately pale enough with anxious watchings and excessive
sorrow. 'From my father!' murmured sheas she hastily tore off
the cover. It was many years since she had heard from any of her
own relations before. Naturally wondering what the letter might
containI watched her countenance while she read itand was
somewhat surprised to see her bite her lip and knit her brows as if
in anger. When she had doneshe somewhat irreverently cast it on
the tablesaying with a scornful smile- 'Your grandpapa has been
so kind as to write to me. He says he has no doubt I have long
repented of my "unfortunate marriage and if I will only
acknowledge this, and confess I was wrong in neglecting his advice,
and that I have justly suffered for it, he will make a lady of me
once again - if that be possible after my long degradation - and
remember my girls in his will. Get my desk, Agnes, and send these
things away: I will answer the letter directly. But first, as I
may be depriving you both of a legacy, it is just that I should
tell you what I mean to say. I shall say that he is mistaken in
supposing that I can regret the birth of my daughters (who have
been the pride of my life, and are likely to be the comfort of my
old age), or the thirty years I have passed in the company of my
best and dearest friend; - that, had our misfortunes been three
times as great as they were (unless they had been of my bringing


on), I should still the more rejoice to have shared them with your
father, and administered what consolation I was able; and, had his
sufferings in illness been ten times what they wore, I could not
regret having watched over and laboured to relieve them; - that, if
he had married a richer wife, misfortunes and trials would no doubt
have come upon him still; while I am egotist enough to imagine that
no other woman could have cheered him through them so well: not
that I am superior to the rest, but I was made for him, and he for
me; and I can no more repent the hours, days, years of happiness we
have spent together, and which neither could have had without the
other, than I can the privilege of having been his nurse in
sickness, and his comfort in affliction.

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

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

CHAPTER XX - THE FAREWELL

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

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

I will not dilate upon the feelings with which I left the old
house, the well-known garden, the little village church - then


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

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

'Then you will leave this place shortly?' said he.

'Yes, in a month.'

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

'Yes - for some things,' I replied.

'For SOME things only - I wonder what should make you regret it?'

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

'Why,' said I - 'why should you suppose that I dislike the place?'

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


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

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

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

'I can imagine that.'

'Well, Miss Matilda is quite as good - better in one respect.'

'What is that?'

'She's honest.'

'And the other is not?'

'I should not call her DIShonest; but it must be confessed she's a
little artful.'

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

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

'Yes, Edward Weston, I could indeed be happy in a house full of
enemies, if I had but one friend, who truly, deeply, and faithfully
loved me; and if that friend were you - though we might be far
apart - seldom to hear from each other, still more seldom to meet though
toil, and trouble, and vexation might surround me, still it
would be too much happiness for me to dream of! Yet who can
tell,' said I within myself, as I proceeded up the park, - 'who can
tell what this one month may bring forth? I have lived nearly
three-and-twenty years, and I have suffered much, and tasted little
pleasure yet; is it likely my life all through will be so clouded?
Is it not possible that God may hear my prayers, disperse these
gloomy shadows, and grant me some beams of heaven's sunshine yet?
Will He entirely deny to me those blessings which are so freely
given to others, who neither ask them nor acknowledge them when
received? May I not still hope and trust? I did hope and trust
for a while: but, alas, alas! the time ebbed away: one week


followed another, and, excepting one distant glimpse and two
transient meetings - during which scarcely anything was said while
I was walking with Miss Matilda, I saw nothing of him:
except, of course, at church.

And now, the last Sunday was come, and the last service. I was
often on the point of melting into tears during the sermon - the
last I was to hear from him: the best I should hear from anyone, I
was well assured. It was over - the congregation were departing;
and I must follow. I had then seen him, and heard his voice, too,
probably for the last time. In the churchyard, Matilda was pounced
upon by the two Misses Green. They had many inquiries to make
about her sister, and I know not what besides. I only wished they
would have done, that we might hasten back to Horton Lodge: I
longed to seek the retirement of my own room, or some sequestered
nook in the grounds, that I might deliver myself up to my feelings

-to weep my last farewell, and lament my false hopes and vain
delusions. Only this once, and then adieu to fruitless dreaming thenceforth,
only sober, solid, sad reality should occupy my mind.
But while I thus resolved, a low voice close beside me said - 'I
suppose you are going this week, Miss Grey?' 'Yes,' I replied. I
was very much startled; and had I been at all hysterically
inclined, I certainly should have committed myself in some way
then. Thank God, I was not.
'Well,' said Mr. Weston, 'I want to bid you good-bye - it is not
likely I shall see you again before you go.'

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XXI - THE SCHOOL

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

I set myself with befitting energy to discharge the duties of this
new mode of life. I call it NEW, for there was, indeed, a
considerable difference between working with my mother in a school
of our own, and working as a hireling among strangers, despised and


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

Was it then come to this - that I should be DISAPPOINTED to receive
a letter from my only sister: and because it was not written by a
comparative stranger? Dear Mary! and she had written it so kindly

-and thinking I should be so pleased to have it! - I was not
worthy to read it! And I believe, in my indignation against
myself, I should have put it aside till I had schooled myself into
a better frame of mind, and was become more deserving of the honour
and privilege of its perusal: but there was my mother looking on,
and wishful to know what news it contained; so I read it and
delivered it to her, and then went into the schoolroom to attend to
the pupils: but amidst the cares of copies and sums - in the
intervals of correcting errors here, and reproving derelictions of
duty there, I was inwardly taking myself to task with far sterner
severity. 'What a fool you must be,' said my head to my heart, or
my sterner to my softer self; - 'how could you ever dream that he
would write to you? What grounds have you for such a hope - or
that he will see you, or give himself any trouble about you - or
even think of you again?' 'What grounds?' - and then Hope set
before me that last, short interview, and repeated the words I had
so faithfully treasured in my memory. 'Well, and what was there in
that? - Who ever hung his hopes upon so frail a twig? What was
there in those words that any common acquaintance might not say to
another? Of course, it was possible you might meet again: he
might have said so if you had been going to New Zealand; but that
did not imply any INTENTION of seeing you - and then, as to the
question that followed, anyone might ask that: and how did you
answer? - Merely with a stupid, commonplace reply, such as you
would have given to Master Murray, or anyone else you had been on
tolerably civil terms with.' 'But, then,' persisted Hope, 'the
tone and manner in which he spoke.' 'Oh, that is nonsense! he
always speaks impressively; and at that moment there were the
Greens and Miss Matilda Murray just before, and other people
passing by, and he was obliged to stand close beside you, and to
speak very low, unless he wished everybody to hear what he said,
which - though it was nothing at all particular - of course, he
would rather not.' But then, above all, that emphatic, yet gentle
pressure of the hand, which seemed to say, 'TRUST me;' and many
other things besides - too delightful, almost too flattering, to be
repeated even to one's self. 'Egregious folly - too absurd to
require contradiction - mere inventions of the imagination, which
you ought to be ashamed of. If you would but consider your own
unattractive exterior, your unamiable reserve, your foolish

diffidence - which must make you appear cold, dull, awkward, and
perhaps ill-tempered too; - if you had but rightly considered these
from the beginning, you would never have harboured such
presumptuous thoughts: and now that you have been so foolish, pray
repent and amend, and let us have no more of it!'

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

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

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

Early in June, I received a letter from Lady Ashby, late Miss
Murray. She had written to me twice or thrice before, from the
different stages of her bridal tour, always in good spirits, and
professing to be very happy. I wondered every time that she had
not forgotten me, in the midst of so much gaiety and variety of
scene. At length, however, there was a pause; and it seemed she
had forgotten me, for upwards of seven months passed away and no
letter. Of course, I did not break my heart about THAT, though I
often wondered how she was getting on; and when this last epistle
so unexpectedly arrived, I was glad enough to receive it. It was


dated from Ashby Park, where she was come to settle down at last,
having previously divided her time between the continent and the
metropolis. She made many apologies for having neglected me so
long, assured me she had not forgotten me, and had often intended
to write, &c. &c., but had always been prevented by something. She
acknowledged that she had been leading a very dissipated life, and
I should think her very wicked and very thoughtless; but,
notwithstanding that, she thought a great deal, and, among other
things, that she should vastly like to see me. 'We have been
several days here already,' wrote she. 'We have not a single
friend with us, and are likely to be very dull. You know I never
had a fancy for living with my husband like two turtles in a nest,
were he the most delightful creature that ever wore a coat; so do
take pity upon me and come. I suppose your Midsummer holidays
commence in June, the same as other people's; therefore you cannot
plead want of time; and you must and shall come - in fact, I shall
die if you don't. I want you to visit me as a friend, and stay a
long time. There is nobody with me, as I told you before, but Sir
Thomas and old Lady Ashby: but you needn't mind them - they'll
trouble us but little with their company. And you shall have a
room to yourself, whenever you like to retire to it, and plenty of
books to read when my company is not sufficiently amusing. I
forget whether you like babies; if you do, you may have the
pleasure of seeing mine - the most charming child in the world, no
doubt; and all the more so, that I am not troubled with nursing it

-I was determined I wouldn't be bothered with that.
Unfortunately, it is a girl, and Sir Thomas has never forgiven me:
but, however, if you will only come, I promise you shall be its
governess as soon as it can speak; and you shall bring it up in the
way it should go, and make a better woman of it than its mamma.
And you shall see my poodle, too: a splendid little charmer
imported from Paris: and two fine Italian paintings of great value
-I forget the artist. Doubtless you will be able to discover
prodigious beauties in them, which you must point out to me, as I
only admire by hearsay; and many elegant curiosities besides, which
I purchased at Rome and elsewhere; and, finally, you shall see my
new home - the splendid house and grounds I used to covet so
greatly. Alas! how far the promise of anticipation exceeds the
pleasure of possession! There's a fine sentiment! I assure you I
am become quite a grave old matron: pray come, if it be only to
witness the wonderful change. Write by return of post, and tell me
when your vacation commences, and say that you will come the day
after, and stay till the day before it closes - in mercy to
'Yours affectionately,

'ROSALIE ASHBY.'

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


CHAPTER XXII - THE VISIT

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

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

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

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


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

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

'Why so?'

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

'Nothing of the kind.'

'At any rate it would be more agreeable to me.'

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

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

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

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

Then, stretching herself upon a couch, she motioned me to a
capacious easy-chair that stood opposite - not before the fire, but
before a wide open window; for it was summer, be it remembered; a
sweet, warm evening in the latter half of June. I sat for a moment


in silence, enjoying the still, pure air, and the delightful
prospect of the park that lay before me, rich in verdure and
foliage, and basking in yellow sunshine, relieved by the long
shadows of declining day. But I must take advantage of this pause:
I had inquiries to make, and, like the substance of a lady's
postscript, the most important must come last. So I began with
asking after Mr. and Mrs. Murray, and Miss Matilda and the young
gentlemen.

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

'And how are the other people getting on?' said I - 'the Greens,
for instance?'

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

'And the Melthams?'

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

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

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

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

'Well, and I think that's all - except Mr. Weston: what is he
doing?'

'I don't know, I'm sure. He's gone from Horton.'

'How long since? and where is he gone to?'

'I know nothing about him,' replied she, yawning - 'except that he


went about a month ago - I never asked where' (I would have asked
whether it was to a living or merely another curacy, but thought it
better not); 'and the people made a great rout about his leaving,'
continued she, 'much to Mr. Hatfield's displeasure; for Hatfield
didn't like him, because he had too much influence with the common
people, and because he was not sufficiently tractable and
submissive to him - and for some other unpardonable sins, I don't
know what. But now I positively must go and dress: the second
bell will ring directly, and if I come to dinner in this guise, I
shall never hear the end of it from Lady Ashby. It's a strange
thing one can't be mistress in one's own house! Just ring the
bell, and I'll send for my maid, and tell them to get you some tea.
Only think of that intolerable woman - '

'Who - your maid?'

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

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

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

As I was not rich enough to possess a watch, I could not tell how
time was passing, except by observing the slowly lengthening
shadows from the window; which presented a side view, including a
corner of the park, a clump of trees whose topmost branches had
been colonized by an innumerable company of noisy rooks, and a high
wall with a massive wooden gate: no doubt communicating with the
stable-yard, as a broad carriage-road swept up to it from the park.
The shadow of this wall soon took posession of the whole of the
ground as far as I could see, forcing the golden sunlight to
retreat inch by inch, and at last take refuge in the very tops of


the trees. Ere long, even they were left in shadow - the shadow of
the distant hills, or of the earth itself; and, in sympathy for the
busy citizens of the rookery, I regretted to see their habitation,
so lately bathed in glorious light, reduced to the sombre, work-aday
hue of the lower world, or of my own world within. For a
moment, such birds as soared above the rest might still receive the
lustre on their wings, which imparted to their sable plumage the
hue and brilliance of deep red gold; at last, that too departed.
Twilight came stealing on; the rooks became more quiet; I became
more weary, and wished I were going home to-morrow. At length it
grew dark; and I was thinking of ringing for a candle, and betaking
myself to bed, when my hostess appeared, with many apologies for
having neglected me so long, and laying all the blame upon that
'nasty old woman,' as she called her mother-in-law.

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

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

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

'Chiefly in watching the rooks.'

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

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

CHAPTER XXIII - THE PARK

I CAME down a little before eight, next morning, as I knew by the
striking of a distant clock. There was no appearance of breakfast.
I waited above an hour before it came, still vainly longing for
access to the library; and, after that lonely repast was concluded,


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

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

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

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

'Sir Thomas Ashby,' she replied, with dreary composure.

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

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

'But you knew what he was before you married him.'

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

'The best way to enjoy yourself is to do what is right and hate
nobody. The end of Religion is not to teach us how to die, but how
to live; and the earlier you become wise and good, the more of
happiness you secure. And now, Lady Ashby, I have one more piece
of advice to offer you, which is, that you will not make an enemy
of your mother-in-law. Don't get into the way of holding her at
arms' length, and regarding her with jealous distrust. I never saw
her, but I have heard good as well as evil respecting her; and I
imagine that, though cold and haughty in her general demeanour, and
even exacting in her requirements, she has strong affections for
those who can reach them; and, though so blindly attached to her
son, she is not without good principles, or incapable of hearing
reason. If you would but conciliate her a little, and adopt a
friendly, open manner - and even confide your grievances to her real
grievances, such as you have a right to complain of - it is my
firm belief that she would, in time, become your faithful friend,
and a comfort and support to you, instead of the incubus you
describe her.' But I fear my advice had little effect upon the
unfortunate young lady; and, finding I could render myself so
little serviceable, my residence at Ashby Park became doubly
painful. But still, I must stay out that day and the following
one, as I had promised to do so: though, resisting all entreaties
and inducements to prolong my visit further, I insisted upon
departing the next morning; affirming that my mother would be


lonely without me, and that she impatiently expected my return.
Nevertheless, it was with a heavy heart that I bade adieu to poor
Lady Ashby, and left her in her princely home. It was no slight
additional proof of her unhappiness, that she should so cling to
the consolation of my presence, and earnestly desire the company of
one whose general tastes and ideas were so little congenial to her
own - whom she had completely forgotten in her hour of prosperity,
and whose presence would be rather a nuisance than a pleasure, if
she could but have half her heart's desire.

CHAPTER XXIV - THE SANDS

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

I awoke early on the third morning after my return from Ashby Park

-the sun was shining through the blind, and I thought how pleasant
it would be to pass through the quiet town and take a solitary
ramble on the sands while half the world was in bed. I was not
long in forming the resolution, nor slow to act upon it. Of course
I would not disturb my mother, so I stole noiselessly downstairs,
and quietly unfastened the door. I was dressed and out, when the
church clock struck a quarter to six. There was a feeling of
freshness and vigour in the very streets; and when I got free of
the town, when my foot was on the sands and my face towards the
broad, bright bay, no language can describe the effect of the deep,
clear azure of the sky and ocean, the bright morning sunshine on
the semicircular barrier of craggy cliffs surmounted by green
swelling hills, and on the smooth, wide sands, and the low rocks
out at sea - looking, with their clothing of weeds and moss, like
little grass-grown islands - and above all, on the brilliant,
sparkling waves. And then, the unspeakable purity - and freshness
of the air! There was just enough heat to enhance the value of the
breeze, and just enough wind to keep the whole sea in motion, to
make the waves come bounding to the shore, foaming and sparkling,
as if wild with glee. Nothing else was stirring - no living
creature was visible besides myself. My footsteps were the first
to press the firm, unbroken sands; - nothing before had trampled
them since last night's flowing tide had obliterated the deepest
marks of yesterday, and left them fair and even, except where the
subsiding water had left behind it the traces of dimpled pools and
little running streams.
Refreshed, delighted, invigorated, I walked along, forgetting all
my cares, feeling as if I had wings to my feet, and could go at
least forty miles without fatigue, and experiencing a sense of
exhilaration to which I had been an entire stranger since the days


of early youth. About half-past six, however, the grooms began to
come down to air their masters' horses - first one, and then
another, till there were some dozen horses and five or six riders:
but that need not trouble me, for they would not come as far as the
low rocks which I was now approaching. When I had reached these,
and walked over the moist, slippery sea-weed (at the risk of
floundering into one of the numerous pools of clear, salt water
that lay between them), to a little mossy promontory with the sea
splashing round it, I looked back again to see who next was
stirring. Still, there were only the early grooms with their
horses, and one gentleman with a little dark speck of a dog running
before him, and one water-cart coming out of the town to get water
for the baths. In another minute or two, the distant bathing
machines would begin to move, and then the elderly gentlemen of
regular habits and sober quaker ladies would be coming to take
their salutary morning walks. But however interesting such a scene
might be, I could not wait to witness it, for the sun and the sea
so dazzled my eyes in that direction, that I could but afford one
glance; and then I turned again to delight myself with the sight
and the sound of the sea, dashing against my promontory - with no
prodigious force, for the swell was broken by the tangled sea-weed
and the unseen rocks beneath; otherwise I should soon have been
deluged with spray. But the tide was coming in; the water was
rising; the gulfs and lakes were filling; the straits were
widening: it was time to seek some safer footing; so I walked,
skipped, and stumbled back to the smooth, wide sands, and resolved
to proceed to a certain bold projection in the cliffs, and then
return.

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

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

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

'How far do you purpose to extend your walk?'

'I was thinking of returning - it must be almost time, I think.'

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

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

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

Never could discover? Had he endeavoured to do so then? I told
him the place of our abode. He asked how we prospered in our
affairs. I told him we were doing very well - that we had had a


considerable addition to our pupils after the Christmas vacation,
and expected a still further increase at the close of this.

'You must be an accomplished instructor,' he observed.

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

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

'Yes, willingly.'

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

'Yes, if - I suppose so.'

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

'You don't ask what brings me to A- ' said he. 'You can't suppose
I'm rich enough to come for my own pleasure.'

'I heard you had left Horton.'

'You didn't hear, then, that I had got the living of F-?'

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

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

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

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


me aware of it.

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

'If you require perfection, you never will.'

'I do not - I have no right to require it, as being so far from
perfect myself.'

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

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

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

'I'll leave you at the end of the next street,' said he.

'And when will you come to see mamma?'

'To-morrow - God willing.'

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

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

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

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

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


CHAPTER XXV - CONCLUSION

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

'You always do things by extremes: now, if you had taken a SHORT
walk every morning, and would continue to do so, it would do you
good.'

'Well, mamma, I will.'

'But this is worse than lying in bed or bending over your books:
you have quite put yourself into a fever.'

'I won't do it again,' said I.

I was racking my brains with thinking how to tell her about Mr.
Weston, for she must know he was coming to-morrow. However, I
waited till the breakfast things were removed, and I was more calm
and cool; and then, having sat down to my drawing, I began - 'I met
an old friend on the sands to-day, mamma.'

'An old friend! Who could it be?'

'Two old friends, indeed. One was a dog;' and then I reminded her
of Snap, whose history I had recounted before, and related the
incident of his sudden appearance and remarkable recognition; 'and
the other,' continued I, 'was Mr. Weston, the curate of Horton.'

'Mr. Weston! I never heard of him before.'

'Yes, you have: I've mentioned him several times, I believe: but
you don't remember.'

'I've heard you speak of Mr. Hatfield.'

'Mr. Hatfield was the rector, and Mr. Weston the curate: I used to
mention him sometimes in contradistinction to Mr. Hatfield, as
being a more efficient clergyman. However, he was on the sands
this morning with the dog - he had bought it, I suppose, from the
rat-catcher; and he knew me as well as it did - probably through
its means: and I had a little conversation with him, in the course
of which, as he asked about our school, I was led to say something
about you, and your good management; and he said he should like to
know you, and asked if I would introduce him to you, if he should
take the liberty of calling to-morrow; so I said I would. Was I
right?'

'Of course. What kind of a man is he?'

'A very RESPECTABLE man, I think: but you will see him to-morrow.
He is the new vicar of F-, and as he has only been there a few
weeks, I suppose he has made no friends yet, and wants a little
society.'

The morrow came. What a fever of anxiety and expectation I was in
from breakfast till noon - at which time he made his appearance!
Having introduced him to my mother, I took my work to the window,
and sat down to await the result of the interview. They got on


extremely well together - greatly to my satisfaction, for I had
felt very anxious about what my mother would think of him. He did
not stay long that time: but when he rose to take leave, she said
she should be happy to see him, whenever he might find it
convenient to call again; and when he was gone, I was gratified by
hearing her say, - 'Well! I think he's a very sensible man. But
why did you sit back there, Agnes,' she added, 'and talk so
little?'

'Because you talked so well, mamma, I thought you required no
assistance from me: and, besides, he was your visitor, not mine.'

After that, he often called upon us - several times in the course
of a week. He generally addressed most of his conversation to my
mother: and no wonder, for she could converse. I almost envied
the unfettered, vigorous fluency of her discourse, and the strong
sense evinced by everything she said - and yet, I did not; for,
though I occasionally regretted my own deficiencies for his sake,
it gave me very great pleasure to sit and hear the two beings I
loved and honoured above every one else in the world, discoursing
together so amicably, so wisely, and so well. I was not always
silent, however; nor was I at all neglected. I was quite as much
noticed as I would wish to be: there was no lack of kind words and
kinder looks, no end of delicate attentions, too fine and subtle to
be grasped by words, and therefore indescribable - but deeply felt
at heart.

Ceremony was quickly dropped between us: Mr. Weston came as an
expected guest, welcome at all times, and never deranging the
economy of our household affairs. He even called me 'Agnes:' the
name had been timidly spoken at first, but, finding it gave no
offence in any quarter, he seemed greatly to prefer that
appellation to 'Miss Grey;' and so did I. How tedious and gloomy
were those days in which he did not come! And yet not miserable;
for I had still the remembrance of the last visit and the hope of
the next to cheer me. But when two or three days passed without my
seeing him, I certainly felt very anxious - absurdly, unreasonably
so; for, of course, he had his own business and the affairs of his
parish to attend to. And I dreaded the close of the holidays, when
MY business also would begin, and I should be sometimes unable to
see him, and sometimes - when my mother was in the schoolroom obliged
to be with him alone: a position I did not at all desire,
in the house; though to meet him out of doors, and walk beside him,
had proved by no means disagreeable.

One evening, however, in the last week of the vacation, he arrived

-unexpectedly: for a heavy and protracted thunder-shower during
the afternoon had almost destroyed my hopes of seeing him that day;
but now the storm was over, and the sun was shining brightly.
'A beautiful evening, Mrs. Grey!' said he, as he entered. 'Agnes,
I want you to take a walk with me to - ' (he named a certain part
of the coast - a bold hill on the land side, and towards the sea a
steep precipice, from the summit of which a glorious view is to be
had). 'The rain has laid the dust, and cooled and cleared the air,
and the prospect will be magnificent. Will you come?'

'Can I go, mamma?'

'Yes; to be sure.'

I went to get ready, and was down again in a few minutes; though,
of course, I took a little more pains with my attire than if I had
merely been going out on some shopping expedition alone. The


thunder-shower had certainly had a most beneficial effect upon the
weather, and the evening was most delightful. Mr. Weston would
have me to take his arm; he said little during our passage through
the crowded streets, but walked very fast, and appeared grave and
abstracted. I wondered what was the matter, and felt an indefinite
dread that something unpleasant was on his mind; and vague
surmises, concerning what it might be, troubled me not a little,
and made me grave and silent enough. But these fantasies vanished
upon reaching the quiet outskirts of the town; for as soon as we
came within sight of the venerable old church, and the - hill, with
the deep blue beyond it, I found my companion was cheerful enough.

'I'm afraid I've been walking too fast for you, Agnes,' said he:
'in my impatience to be rid of the town, I forgot to consult your
convenience; but now we'll walk as slowly as you please. I see, by
those light clouds in the west, there will be a brilliant sunset,
and we shall be in time to witness its effect upon the sea, at the
most moderate rate of progression.'

When we had got about half-way up the hill, we fell into silence
again; which, as usual, he was the first to break.

'My house is desolate yet, Miss Grey,' he smilingly observed, 'and
I am acquainted now with all the ladies in my parish, and several
in this town too; and many others I know by sight and by report;
but not one of them will suit me for a companion; in fact, there is
only one person in the world that will: and that is yourself; and
I want to know your decision?'

'Are you in earnest, Mr. Weston?'

'In earnest! How could you think I should jest on such a subject?'

He laid his hand on mine, that rested on his arm: he must have
felt it tremble - but it was no great matter now.

'I hope I have not been too precipitate,' he said, in a serious
tone. 'You must have known that it was not my way to flatter and
talk soft nonsense, or even to speak the admiration that I felt;
and that a single word or glance of mine meant more than the honied
phrases and fervent protestations of most other men.'

I said something about not liking to leave my mother, and doing
nothing without her consent.

'I settled everything with Mrs. Grey, while you were putting on
your bonnet,' replied he. 'She said I might have her consent, if I
could obtain yours; and I asked her, in case I should be so happy,
to come and live with us - for I was sure you would like it better.
But she refused, saying she could now afford to employ an
assistant, and would continue the school till she could purchase an
annuity sufficient to maintain her in comfortable lodgings; and,
meantime, she would spend her vacations alternately with us and
your sister, and should be quite contented if you were happy. And
so now I have overruled your objections on her account. Have you
any other?'

'No - none.'

'You love me then?' said be, fervently pressing my hand.

'Yes.'


Here I pause. My Diary, from which I have compiled these pages,
goes but little further. I could go on for years, but I will
content myself with adding, that I shall never forget that glorious
summer evening, and always remember with delight that steep hill,
and the edge of the precipice where we stood together, watching the
splendid sunset mirrored in the restless world of waters at our
feet - with hearts filled with gratitude to heaven, and happiness,
and love - almost too full for speech.

A few weeks after that, when my mother had supplied herself with an
assistant, I became the wife of Edward Weston; and never have found
cause to repent it, and am certain that I never shall. We have had
trials, and we know that we must have them again; but we bear them
well together, and endeavour to fortify ourselves and each other
against the final separation - that greatest of all afflictions to
the survivor. But, if we keep in mind the glorious heaven beyond,
where both may meet again, and sin and sorrow are unknown, surely
that too may be borne; and, meantime, we endeavour to live to the
glory of Him who has scattered so many blessings in our path.

Edward, by his strenuous exertions, has worked surprising reforms
in his parish, and is esteemed and loved by its inhabitants - as he
deserves; for whatever his faults may be as a man (and no one is
entirely without), I defy anybody to blame him as a pastor, a
husband, or a father.

Our children, Edward, Agnes, and little Mary, promise well; their
education, for the time being, is chiefly committed to me; and they
shall want no good thing that a mother's care can give. Our modest
income is amply sufficient for our requirements: and by practising
the economy we learnt in harder times, and never attempting to
imitate our richer neighbours, we manage not only to enjoy comfort
and contentment ourselves, but to have every year something to lay
by for our children, and something to give to those who need it.

And now I think I have said sufficient.