Agnes Grey (24 page)

Other things I heard, which I felt or feared were indeed too true; but I must still conceal my anxiety respecting him, my indignation against them beneath a careless aspect; others again—mere hints of something said or done, which I longed to hear more of—but 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 home, most likely, Mr. Weston would be gone, for, I was told that he and the rector could not agree, (the rector’s fault, of course,) and he was about to remove to another place.

No—besides my hope in God, my only consolation was in thinking that, though he knew it not, I was more worthy of his love than Rosalie Murray, charming and engaging as she was; for I could appreciate his excellence, which 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—but if he could but know her hollowness, her worthless, heartless frivolity—he would then be safe, and I should be—
almost
happy, though I might never see him more!”

I fear, by this time, the reader is well nigh disgusted with the folly and weakness I have so freely laid before him. I never disclosed it then, and 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 prayers, my tears, my wishes, fears, and lamentations were witnessed by myself and Heaven alone.

When we are harassed by sorrows or anxieties, or long oppressed by any powerful feelings which we must keep to ourselves, for which we can obtain and seek no sympathy from any living creature, and which, yet, we cannot, or will not wholly crush, we often, naturally, seek relief in poetry—and often find it too—whether in the effusions of others, which seem to harmonize with our existing case, or in our own attempts to give utterance to those thoughts and feelings in strains less musical, perchance, but more appropriate, and, therefore more penetrating and sympathetic, and, for the time, more soothing, or more powerful to rouse and to unburden the oppressed and swollen heart.

Before this time, at Wellwood House and here, when suffering from home-sick melancholy, I had sought relief twice or thrice at this secret source of consolation; and now I flew to it again, with greater avidity than ever, because I seemed to need it more. I still preserve those relics of past sufferings and experience, like pillars of witness set up, in travelling through the vale of life, to mark particular occurences.

The footsteps are obliterated now; the face of the country may be changed, but the pillar is still there to remind me how all things were when it was reared.
¹

Lest the reader should be curious to see any of these effusions, I will favour him with one short specimen: cold and languid as the lines may seem, it was almost a passion of grief to which they owed their being.

Yes! at least, they 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 . . . could, if 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?

Yet, if I found such deep delight in thinking of him, and if I kept those thoughts to myself, and troubled no one else with them, where was the harm of it? I would ask myself.

And such reasoning prevented me from making any sufficient effort to shake off my fetters.

But, if those thoughts brought delight, it was a painful, troubled pleasure, too 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 yet . . . how dreary to turn my eyes from the contemplation of that bright object, and force them to dwell on the dull, grey, desolate prospect around, the joyless, hopeless, solitary path that lay before me.

It was wrong to be so joyless, so desponding; I should have made God my friend, and to do His will the pleasure and the business of my life; but Faith was weak, and Passion was too strong.

In this time of trouble I had two other causes of affliction. The first may seem a trifle, but it cost me many a tear: Snap, my little dumb, rough-visaged, but bright-eyed, warm-hearted companion, the only thing I had to love me, was taken away, and delivered over to the tender mercies of the village rat-catcher, a 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 expressed, but I was grown timid and despondent, and could not help fearing that some dreadful calamity awaited us there. I seemed to see the black clouds gathering round my native hills, and to hear the angry muttering of a storm that was about to burst, and desolate our hearth.

T
he first 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 church after the ceremony, she came flying into the school-room, flushed with excitement, and laughing . . . half in mirth, and half in reckless desperation ... as it seemed to me.

“Now, Miss Grey, I’m Lady Ashby!” she exclaimed. “It’s done! my fate is sealed ... there’s no drawing back now! I’m come to receive your congratulations, and bid you good-bye; and then I’m off . . . for Paris . . . Rome ... Naples ... Switzerland ... London ... Oh dear! what a deal I shall see and hear before I come back again! But don’t forget me; I shan’t forget you, though I’ve been a naughty girl. Come! why 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.”

“Well good-bye—the carriage is waiting, and they’re calling me.”

She gave me a hasty kiss, and was hurrying away, but, suddenly returning, embraced me with more affection than I thought her capable of evincing, and 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 it, I was sure; and I prayed God to pardon her too.

During the remainder of that day of festal sadness, I 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 hours—more thinking than reading, for I had many things to think about; and in the evening, I made use of my liberty to go and see my old friend Nancy once again; to apologise for my long absence, which must have seemed so neglectful and unkind, by telling her how busy I had been, and to talk, or read, or work for her, whichever might be most acceptable; and also of course, to tell her the news of this important day, and perhaps to obtain a little information from her in return, respecting Mr. Weston’s expected departure. But of this, she seemed to know nothing, and I hoped, as she did, that it was all a false report.

She was very glad to see me; but, happily, her 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 day, the splendours of the bridal party and of the bride herself, she often sighed and shook her head, and wished good might come of it: she seemed like me to 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 that, returning through the lanes and fields, I often paused to look round me, and walked more slowly than was at all necessary—for, though a fine evening, it was not a hot one—and, finally, felt a sense of emptiness and disappointment at having reached the house without meeting or even catching a distant glimpse of any one, except a few labourers returning from their work?

Sunday however was approaching: I should see him then; for now that Miss Murray was gone, I could have my old corner again—I should see him; and by look, speech, and manner I 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—voice, look, manner—all alike unchanged: there was the same keen-sighted, unclouded truthfulness in his discourse, the same forcible clearness in his style, the same earnest simplicity in all he said and did, that made itself, not marked by the eye and ear, but 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 amusement, and wofully in want of a companion. Her brothers at school—her sister married and gone—she too young to be admitted into society, for which, from Rosalie’s example, she 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 the year—no hunting going on ... no shooting even ... for, though she might not join in that, it was
something
to see her father or the gamekeeper go out with the dogs, and to talk with them, on their return, about the different birds they had bagged. Now also she was denied the solace which the companionship of the coachman, groom, horses, greyhounds, and pointers might have afforded; for her mother, having notwithstanding the disadvantages of a country life so satisfactorily disposed of her elder daughter, the pride of her heart, had begun seriously to turn her attention to the younger, and being truly alarmed at the roughness of her manners, and thinking it high time to work a reform, had been roused at length to exert her authority, and prohibited entirely, the yards, stables, kennels, and coach-house. Of course, she was not implicitly obeyed; but indulgent as she had hitherto been, when once her spirit was roused, her temper was not so gentle as she required that of her governesses to be, and her will was not to be thwarted with impunity; and after many a scene of contention between mother and daughter, many 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 “Tiffy, though she would have made a fine lad, was 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 this, let it not be imagined that I escaped without many a reprimand, and many an implied reproach that lost none of its sting from not being openly worded, but rather wounded the more deeply, because from that very reason, it seemed to preclude self-defence. Frequently, I was told to amuse Miss Matilda with other things, and 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 will, and could not against her taste and though I went beyond mere reminding, such gentle remonstrances as I could use were utterly ineffectual.

“Dear
Miss Grey! it is the
strangest
thing. I suppose you can’t help it, if it’s not in your nature—but I
wonder
you can’t win the confidence of that girl, and 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 confession
however,
to come from her
governess!
Who is to form a young lady’s tastes, I wonder, if 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 manners, that 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 natural for my part.”

“Do you ma’am?”

“Yes: of course, the young lady’s proficiency and elegance is of more consequence to the governess than her own, as 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 governess, we naturally look at the young ladies she professes to have educated, and judge accordingly. The
judicious
governess knows this; she knows that, while she lives in obscurity herself, her pupils’ virtues and defects will be open to every eye, and, that unless she loses sight of herself in their cultivation, she need not hope for success. You see Miss Grey, it 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 neglect, and 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. That, of course would 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 you, as I am sure you would do very well if you will only think of these things and try to exert yourself a
little
more; and then, I am convinced, you would
soon
acquire that delicate tact which alone is wanting to give you a proper influence over the mind of your pupil.”