Agnes Grey (14 page)

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 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 head-ache was generally my companion throughout the day, which would otherwise have been one of welcome rest, and holy, calm enjoyment.
⁶
“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 school-room 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 learnt, 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 behav iour by the same standard.
⁷

I 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 precious 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.
^aj

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, becamea 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 from 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.

A
t eighteen, Miss Murray was to emerge from the quiet obscurity of the school-room 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 0- and its neighbourhood for twenty miles round. Of course, she looked forward to it with the wildest impatience, and the most extravagant anticipations of delight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, but it is such a short time.”

“Nearly a fortnight by my computation; and, besides, I cannot bear the thoughts of a Christmas spent from home; and, moreover, my sister is going to be married.”
²

“Is she—when?”

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

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

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

“Who is she to be married to?”

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

“Is he rich?”

“No,—only comfortable.”

“Is he handsome?”

“No,—only decent.”

“Young?”

“No—only middling.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

N
ow Miss Grey,” exclaimed Miss Murray, immediately as I entered the school-room, after having taken off my out-door garments, upon returning from my four weeks’ recreation, “Now shut the door, and sit down, and I’ll tell you all about the ball.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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