Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Charlotte, Emily, Anne Brontë (Illustrated) (332 page)

CHAPTER XIV — THE RECTOR

The following day was as fine as the preceding one.  Soon after breakfast Miss Matilda, having galloped and blundered through a few unprofitable lessons, and vengeably 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 for her companion, leaving me in the schoolroom hard at work upon a water-colour drawing which 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 was 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 with 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 anyone 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 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 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 doorway for the conclusion of her address.

According to her prognostications, 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 for me.  It was my duty to interrupt the
tête-à-tête
: 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 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; 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 show my disapproval of his severity, I heard him say: ‘When shall I see you again, Miss Murray?’

‘At church, I 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 here, if I knew precisely when and where to find you.’

‘But if I would, I could not inform you, for I am so immethodical, I never can tell to-day what I shall do to-morrow.’

‘Then give me that, meantime, to comfort me,’ said he, half jestingly and half in earnest, extending his hand for the sprig of myrtle.

‘No, indeed, I 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 them, impatiently waiting his departure.

‘There then! take it and go,’ said Rosalie.

He joyfully received the gift, murmured something that made her blush and toss her head, but with a little laugh that showed her displeasure was entirely affected; and then with a courteous salutation withdrew.

‘Did you ever see such a man, Miss Grey?’ said she, turning to me; ‘I’m so
glad
you came!  I thought I never
should
, get rid of him; and I was so terribly afraid of papa seeing him.’

‘Has he been with you long?’

‘No, not long, but he’s so extremely impertinent: and he’s always hanging about, pretending his business or his clerical duties require his attendance in these parts, and really watching for poor me, and pouncing upon me wherever he sees me.’

‘Well, your mamma thinks you ought not to go beyond the park or garden without some discreet, matronly person like me to accompany you, and keep off all intruders.  She descried Mr. Hatfield hurrying past the park-gates, and forthwith despatched me with instructions to seek you up and to take care of you, and likewise to warn — ’

‘Oh, mamma’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-morrow, and implore me to be his wife, that 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 sex, I think it a perfect insult.  A preference I
might
acknowledge; but never for one like poor Mr. Hatfield, who has not seven hundred a year to bless himself with.  I like to talk to him, because he’s so clever and amusing — I wish Sir Thomas Ashby were half as nice; besides, I must have
somebody
to flirt with, and no one else has the sense to come here; and when we go out, mamma won’t let me flirt with anybody but Sir Thomas — if he’s there; and if he’s
not
there, I’m bound hand and foot, for fear somebody should go and make up some exaggerated story, and put it into his head that I’m engaged, or likely to be engaged, to somebody else; or, what is more probable, for fear his nasty old mother should see or hear of my ongoings, and 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 so, Miss Murray? and does your mamma know it, and yet wish you to marry him?’

‘To be sure, she does!  She knows more against him than I do, I 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 matter, really: he’ll be all right when he’s married, as mamma says; and reformed rakes make the best husbands,
everybody
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 would, if he were lord of Ashby Park — there’s not a doubt of it: but the fact is, I
must
have Ashby Park, whoever 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.’

‘
No
, indeed!  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 you, I like to amuse myself with him.  Besides, he 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.’

‘Well, mind 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 mind, if not her heart, was fixed upon him still, and that she was intent upon obtaining another interview: for though, in compliance with her mother’s request, I was now constituted the companion of her rambles for a time, she still persisted in wandering in the fields and lanes that lay in the nearest proximity to the road; and, whether she talked to me or read the book she carried in her hand, she kept continually pausing to look round her, or 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 be, that she hated him
because
he was not Mr. Hatfield.

‘Surely,’ thought I, ‘she is not so indifferent to him as she believes herself to be, or would have others to believe her; and her mother’s anxiety is not so wholly causeless as she affirms.’

Three days passed away, and he did not make his appearance.  On the afternoon of the fourth, as we were walking beside the park-palings in the memorable field, each 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 —

‘Oh, Miss Grey! do be so kind as to go and see Mark Wood, and take his wife half-a-crown from me — I should have given or sent it a week ago, but quite forgot.  There!’ said she, throwing me her purse, and speaking very fast — ‘Never mind getting it out now, but 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 quick, will you — and — oh, wait; hadn’t you better read to him a bit?  Run to the house and get some sort of a good book.  Anything will do.’