Agnes Grey (19 page)

Immediately the flowers were gathered, and in my hand. It was Mr. Weston of course—who else would trouble himself to do so much for
me?

I thanked him; whether warmly or coldly, I cannot tell: but certain I am, that I did not express half the gratitude I felt. It was foolish perhaps, to feel my gratitude at all, but it seemed to me, at that moment, as if this were a remarkable instance of his good nature, an act of kindness which I could not repay, but never should forget: so utterly unaccustomed was I to receive such civilities, so little prepared to expect them—from any one 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 perhaps, if Mr. Weston had taken the hint, and let me pass without another word, I might have repented 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.

“Yes; they 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 say, and feared he might be in the same predicament. At length, however, he broke the pause by asking, with a certain quiet abruptness peculiar to himself if I liked flowers.

“Yes very much,” I answered, “wild flowers especially.”

“I
like wild flowers,” said he, “others I don’t care about, because I have no particular associations connected with them-except one or two. What are your favorite flowers?”

“Primroses, bluebells, and heath-blossoms.”

“Not violets?”

“No, because, as you say, I 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 home, Miss Grey,” observed my companion after a short pause, “however remote, or however seldom visited, still it is something to look to.”

“It is so much, that I think I could not live without it,” replied I, with an enthusiasm of which I immediately repented, for I thought it must have sounded essentially silly.

“O yes, you could!” said he with a thoughtful smile. “The ties that bind us to life are tougher than you imagine, or than any one can, who has not felt how roughly they may be pulled without breaking. You might be miserable without a home, but even
you
could live, and not so miserably as you suppose. The human heart is like indian-rubber,
¹
a little swells it, but a great deal will not burst it. If ‘little more than nothing,’ will disturb it, ‘little less than all things will suffice,’ to break it. As in the outer members of our frame, there 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 hand, and strengthens its muscles instead of wasting them away: so that a day of arduous toil, that might excoriate a lady’s palm, would 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 least, I was fully persuaded that Home and its affections were the only things that made life tolerable ... that if deprived of these, existence 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 yet, not only I live, but 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 day, and 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-house, where I suppose Mr. Weston purposed to make himself “useful,” for he presently took leave of me, crossed the stile, and traversed the path with his usual firm, elastic tread, leaving 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 this, I thought, accounted for the shade of premature thoughtfulness that so frequently clouded his brow, and 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 too, if he pleases, and doubtless he will please sometime; and God grant the partner of that home may be worthy of his choice, and 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 fellow creature’s heart: but we have
some
thoughts that all the angels in Heaven are welcome to behold—but not our brother-men—not even the best and kindest amongst them.
²

By this time the Greens had taken themselves to their own abode, and the Murrays had turned down the private road, whither I hastened to follow them. I found the two girls lost 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 exclaim, with malicious glee,

“Oh ho, Miss Grey! you’re come at last, are 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!”

“Now come Miss Murray, don’t be foolish,” said I attempting 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 fictions coined for the occasion—that I thought it necessary to say something in my own justification.

“What humbug all this is!” I exclaimed. “If Mr. Weston’s road happened to be the same as mine for a few yards, and if he chose to exchange a word or two in passing, what is there so remarkable in that? I assure you I never spoke to him before; except once.”

“Where? where? and when,” cried they eagerly.

“In Nancy’s cottage.”

“Ah ha! you’ve met him there have you?” exclaimed Rosalie, with exultant laughter. “Ah! now Matilda, I’ve found out why she’s so fond of going to Nancy Brown’s! she goes there to flirt with Mr. Weston!”

“Really that is not worth contradicting! ... I only saw him there once, I tell you ... and how could I know he was coming?”

Irritated as I was at their foolish mirth and vexatious imputations, the uneasiness did not continue long: when they had had their laugh out, they returned again to the Captain and Lieutenant; and, while they disputed and commented upon them, my indignation rapidly cooled; the cause of it was quickly forgotten, and I turned my thoughts into a pleasanter channel.

Thus we proceeded up the park, and entered the Hall; and as I ascended the stairs to my own chamber, I had but one thought within me, my heart was filled to overflowing with one single earnest wish. Having entered the room, and shut the door, I fell upon my knees and offered up a fervent, but not impetuous prayer: “Thy will be done,” I strove to say throughout, but, “Father, all things are possible with Thee, and may it be Thy will,” was sure to follow. That wish ... that prayer both men and women would have scorned me for . . . “But Father, Thou wilt
not
despise!” I said—and felt that it was true. It seemed to me, that another’s welfare was at least as ardently implored for as my own—nay, even that
that
was the principal object of my heart’s desire. I might have been deceiving myself; but that idea gave me confidence to ask, and power to hope I did not ask in vain.
³

As for the primroses, I kept two of them in a glass in my room until they were completely withered, and the housemaid threw them out, and the petals of the other, I pressed between the leaves of my bible—I have them still, and mean to keep them always.

T
he following day was as fine as the preceding one. Soon after breakfast, Miss Matilda, having gallopped and blun dered through a few unprofitable lessons, and vengeably
^bp
thumped the piano for an hour, in a terrible humour with both me and it, because her mamma would not give her a holiday, had betaken herself to her favourite places of resort, the yards, the stables, and the dog-kennels: and Miss Murray, was gone forth to enjoy a quiet ramble with a new fashionable novel
¹
for her companion, leaving me in the school-room, hard at work upon a water-colour drawing I had promised to do for her, and 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 animal, and 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 nothing, and had not even the sense to know its own mistress.

The fact is, she had purchased it when but a small puppy, insisting, at first, that no one should touch it but herself; but, soon becoming tired of so helpless and troublesome a nursling, she 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 adolescence, of course, had obtained its affections; a reward, I should have greatly valued and looked upon as far outweighing all the trouble I had had with it, had not poor Snap’s grateful feelings exposed him to many a harsh word and many a spiteful kick and pinch from his owner, and were he not now in danger of being “put away,” in consequence, or transferred to some rough, stony-hearted master. But how could I help it? I could not make the dog hate me by cruel treatment; and she would not propitiate him by kindness.

However, while I thus sat, working away at my pencil, Mrs. Murray came, half-sailing, half-bustling, into 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 think, ma’am Miss Murray is reading; and Miss Matilda is amusing herself with her dogs.”

“If you would try to amuse Miss Matilda yourself a little more, I think she would not be
driven
to seek amusement in the companionship of dogs and horses, and grooms, so much as she is; and if you would be a little more cheerful and conversable with Miss Murray, she would not so often go wandering in the fields with a book in her hand. However, I don’t want to vex you,” added she, seeing I suppose, that my cheeks burned and my hand trembled with some unamiable emotion. “Do, pray, try 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 saw from my dressing-room window, walking so briskly past the park-gates, and 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 manner, exposed to the attentions of any one that presumes to address her, like some poor neglected girl that has no park to walk in, and 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 that 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 care, I should be saved this trouble; and you would see at once the necessity of keeping your eye upon her, and making your company agreeable to—Well go—go; there’s no time to be lost,” cried she, seeing that I had put away my drawing materials, and was waiting in the door-way for the conclusion of her address.

According to her prognastications, I found Miss Murray in her favourite field just without the park; and, unfortunately, not alone; for the tall, stately figure of Mr. Hatfield was slowly sauntering by her side.

Here was a poser
^bq
for me. It was my duty to interrupt the
tête-à-tête:
but how was it to be done? Mr. Hatfield could not be driven away by so insignificant a person as I; and to go and place myself on the other side of Miss Murray, and intrude my unwelcome presence upon her without noticing her companion, was 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, resolving, if my approach failed to scare away the beau, to pass by and tell Miss Murray her mamma wanted her.

She certainly looked very charming as she strolled lingering along under the budding horse-chestnut trees that stretched their long arms over the park-palings,
^br
with her closed book in one hand, and in the other, a graceful sprig of myrtle which served her as a very pretty plaything ... her bright ringlets escaping profusely from her little bonnet, and gently stirred by the breeze, her fair cheek flushed with gratified vanity, her smiling blue eyes, now slyly glancing towards her admirer, now gazing downward at her myrtle sprig. But Snap, running before me, interrupted her in the midst of some half pert, half playful repartee, by catching hold of her dress and vehemently tugging thereat, till Mr. Hatfield, with his cane administered a resounding thwack upon the animal’s skull, and sent it yelping back to me, with a clamorous outcry that afforded the reverend gentleman great amusement; but seeing me so near, he thought I suppose, he might as well be taking his departure; and as I stooped to caress the dog, with ostentatious pity to shew my disapproval of his severity, I heard him say,