Agnes Grey (16 page)

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

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

“Well, but he
does
though!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Often, when they had no more agreeable occupation at hand, the Misses Murray would amuse themselves with visiting the poor cottagers on their father’s estate to receive their flattering homage, or to hear the old stories, or gossipping news of the garrulous old women; or, perhaps, to enjoy the purer pleasure of making the poor people happy with their cheering presence, and their occasional gifts, so easily bestowed, so thankfully received. Sometimes, I was called upon to accompany one or both of the sisters in these visits; and, sometimes, I was desired to go alone to fulfil some promise, which they had been more ready to make than to perform, to carry some small donation, or read to one who was sick, or seriously disposed: and thus I made a few acquaintances among the cottagers; and, occasionally, I went to see them on my own account.
¹

I generally had more satisfaction in going alone than with either of the young ladies, for they, chiefly owing to their defective education, comported them towards their inferiors in a manner that was highly disagreeable for me to witness. They never in thought exchanged places with them; and, consequently, had no consideration for their feelings, regarding them as an order of beings entirely different from themselves.

They would watch the poor creatures at their meals, making uncivil remarks about their food, and their manner of eating; they would laugh at their simple notions and provincial expressions, till some of them scarcely durst venture to speak; they would call the grave, elderly men and women old fools, and silly old blockheads to their faces; and all this without meaning to offend.

I could see that the people were often hurt and annoyed by such conduct, though their fear of the “grand ladies” prevented them from testifying any resentment; but
they
never perceived it. They thought that, as these cottagers were poor and untaught, they must be stupid and brutish; and as long as they, their superiors, condescended to talk to them, and to give them shillings and half-crowns, or articles of clothing, they had a right to amuse themselves, even at their expense; and the people must adore them as angels of light, condescending to minister to their necessities, and enlighten their humble dwellings.

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

One bright day in the last week of February, I was walking in the park, enjoying the threefold luxury of solitude, a book, and pleasant weather, for Miss Matilda had set out on her daily ride, and Miss Murray was gone in the carriage with her mamma to pay some morning calls. But it struck me that I ought to leave these selfish pleasures, and the park with its glorious canopy of bright blue sky, the west wind sounding through its yet leafless branches, the snow-wreaths
^an
still lingering in its hollows, but melting fast beneath the sun, and the graceful deer browsing on its moist herbage already assuming the freshness and verdure of Spring ... and go to the cottage of one Nancy Brown, a widow, whose son was at work all day in the fields, and who was afflicted with an inflammation in the eyes which had, for some time, incapacitated her from reading, to her own great grief, for she was a woman of a serious, thoughtful turn of mind.

I accordingly went, and found her alone, as usual, in her little close, dark cottage, redolent of smoke and confined air, but as tidy and clean as she could make it. She was seated beside her little fire (consisting of a few red cinders and a bit of stick), busily knitting, with a small sackcloth cushion at her feet, placed for the accommodation of her gentle friend the cat who was seated thereon, with her long tail half encircling her velvet paws, and her half-closed eyes dreamily gazing on the low, crooked fender.

“Well, Nancy, how are you to-day?”

“Why, middling, Miss, i’ mysein—my eyes is no better, but I’m a deal easier i’ my mind nor I have been,” replied she, rising to welcome me with a contented smile which I was glad to see, for Nancy had been somewhat afflicted with religious melancholy.

I congratulated her upon the change. She agreed that it was a great blessing, and expressed herself “right down thankful for it,” adding, “If it please God to spare my sight, and make me so as I can read my bible again, I think I shall be as happy as a queen.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ay, he does so; and talks well too!”

“Does he?”

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

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

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

“Then he comes to see you Nancy?”

“He does Miss; and I‘se thankful for it. He comes to see all us poor bodies a deal ofter nor Maister Bligh, or th’ rector ever did; an’ it’s well he does, for he’s always welcome and we can’t say as much for th’ rector—there is ’at says they’re fair feared on him. When he comes into a house, they say he’s sure to find summut wrong, and begin a calling ‘em
^aq
as soon as he crosses th’ doorstuns: but may be, he thinks it his duty-like to tell ’em what’s wrong; and very oft, he comes o’ purpose to reprove folk for not coming to church, or not kneeling an’ standing when other folks does, or going to th’ Methody
^ar
chapel, or summut o’ that sort; but I can’t say ‘at he ever fund much fault wi’ me. He came to see me once or twice, afore Maister Weston come, when I was so ill troubled in my mind; and as I had only very poor health besides, I made bold to send for him—and he came right enough. I was sore distressed Miss Grey—thank God it’s owered now—but when I took my bible I could get no comfort of it at all. That very chapter ’at you’ve just been reading troubled me as much as ought
^as
—‘He that loveth not, knoweth not God.’ It seemed fearsome to me; for I felt that I loved neither God nor man as I should do, and could not, if I tried ever so. And th’ chapter afore, where it says ‘He that is born of God cannot commit sin.’ And another place where it says ‘Love is the fulfilling of the Law.’
²
And many—many others Miss; I should fair weary you out, if I was to tell them all.—But all seemed to condemn me, and to shew me ’at I was not in the right way; and as I knew not how to get into it, I sent our Bill to beg Maister Hatfield to be as kind as look in on me some day; and when he came, I telled him all my troubles.”

“And what did he say Nancy?”

“Why Miss, he liked seemed to scorn me. I might be mista’ en—but he like gave a sort of a whistle, and I saw a bit of a smile on his face; and he said, ‘Oh it’s all stuff! You’ve been among the Methodists my good woman.’ But I telled him I’d never been near the Methodies. And then he said,

“‘Well,’ says he, ‘you must come to church, where you’ll hear the Scriptures properly explained, instead of sitting poring over your bible at home.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“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’d seen the young Misses go on th’ Moss-lane;—an’ he kicked my poor cat right across th’ floor, an’ went off after ’em as gay as a lark; but I was very sad. That last word o’ his, fair sunk into my heart, an’ lay there like a lump o’ lead, till I was weary to bear it.
³

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

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

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