The Parsonage Again 2 page

Miss Matilda Murray was a veritable hoyden,^ah of whom little need be said. She was about two years and a half younger than her sister; her features were larger, her complexion much darker. She might possibly make a handsome woman, but she was far too big-boned and awkward ever to be called a pretty girl, and, at present, she cared little about it. Rosalie knew all her charms, and thought them even greater than they were, and valued them more highly than she ought to have done had they been three times as great; Matilda thought she was well enough, but cared little about the matter; still less did she care about the cultivation of her mind, and the acquisition of ornamental accomplishments. The manner in which she learnt her lessons and practised her music was calculated to drive any governess to despair. Short and easy as her tasks were, if done at all, they were slurred over at any time, and in any way, but generally at the least convenient times, and in the way least beneficial to herself, and least satisfactory to me; and the short half-hour of practising was horribly strummed through; she, meantime, unsparingly abusing me, either for interrupting her with corrections, or for not rectifying her mistakes before they were made, or something equally unreasonable.

Once or twice, I ventured to remonstrate with her seriously for such irrational conduct; but, on each of these occasions, I received such reprehensive expostulations from her mother, as convinced me that, if I wished to keep the situation, I must even let Miss Matilda go on in her own way.

When her lessons were over, however, her ill-humour was generally over too; while riding her spirited pony, or romping with the dogs, or her brothers and sister, but especially with her dear brother John, she was as happy as a lark.

As an animal, Matilda was all right, full of life, vigour, and activity; as an intelligent being, she was barbarously ignorant, indocile, careless, and irrational, and, consequently, very distressing to one who had the task of cultivating her understanding, reforming her manners, and aiding her to acquire those ornamental attainments which, unlike her sister, she despised as much as the rest: her mother was partly aware of her deficiencies, and gave me many a lecture as to how I should try to form her tastes, and endeavour to rouse and cherish her dormant vanity, and, by insinuating, skilful flattery, to win her attention to the desired objects—which I would not do—and how I should prepare and smooth the path of learning till she could glide along it without the least exertion to herself, which I could not, for nothing can be taught to any purpose without some little exertion on the part of the learner.

As a moral agent, she was reckless, headstrong, violent, and unamenable to reason. One proof of the deplorable state of her mind, was that from her father’s example, she had learnt to swear like a trooper.⁵

Her mother was greatly shocked at the “unlady-like trick,” and wondered “how she had picked it up.”

“But you can soon break her of it, Miss Grey,” said she; “it is only a habit; and if you will just gently remind her every time she does so, I am sure she will soon lay it aside.”

I not only “gently reminded” her, but I tried to impress upon her how wrong it was, and how distressing to the ears of decent people; but all in vain, I was only answered by a careless laugh, and—

“Oh, Miss Grey, how shocked you are! I’m so glad!”

Or—

“Well! I can’t help it; papa shouldn’t have taught me: I learnt it all from him; and maybe a bit from the coachman.”

Her brother John, alias Master Murray, was about eleven when I came, a fine, stout, healthy boy, frank, and good-natured in the main, and might have been a decent lad, had he been properly educated, but now, he was as rough as a young bear, boisterous, unruly, unprincipled, untaught, unteachable—at least, for a governess under his mother’s eye; his masters at school might be able to manage him better—for to school he was sent, greatly to my relief, in the course of a year; in a state, it is true, of scandalous ignorance, as to Latin, as well as the more useful, though more neglected things; and this, doubtless, would all be laid to the account of his education having been intrusted to an ignorant female teacher, who had presumed to take in hand what she was wholly incompetent to perform. I was not delivered from his brother till full twelve months after, when he also was despatched in the same state of disgraceful ignorance as the former.

Master Charles was his mother’s peculiar darling. He was little more than a year younger than John, but much smaller, paler, and less active and robust; a pettish, cowardly, capricious, selfish little fellow, only active in doing mischief, and only clever in inventing falsehoods, not simply to hide his faults, but, in mere malicious wantonness, to bring odium upon others; in fact, Master Charles was a very great nuisance to me: it was a trial of patience to live with him peaceably; to watch over him was worse; and to teach him, or pretend to teach him was inconceivable.

At ten years old, he could not read, correctly, the easiest line in the simplest book; and as, according to his mother’s principle, he was to be told every word, before he had time to hesitate, or examine its orthography, and never even to be informed, as a stimulant to exertion, that other boys were more forward than he, it is not surprising that he made but little progress during the two years I had charge of his education.

His minute portions of Latin grammar, &c., were to be repeated over to him, till he chose to say he knew them; and then, he was to be helped to say them: if he made mistakes in his little easy sums in arithmetic, they were to be shewn him at once, and the sum done for him, instead of his being left to exercise his faculties in finding them out himself; so that, of course, he took no pains to avoid mistakes, but frequently set down his figures at random without any calculation at all.

Yet, I did not invariably confine myself to these rules; it was against my conscience to do so; but I seldom ventured to deviate from them, in the slightest degree, without incurring the wrath of my little pupil, and subsequently of his mamma, to whom he would relate my transgressions, maliciously exaggerated, or adorned with embellishments of his own; and often, in consequence, was I on the point of losing, or resigning my situation; but, for their sakes at home, I smothered my pride and suppressed my indignation, and managed to struggle on till my little tormentor was despatched to school, his father declaring that home education was “no go for him it was plain; his mother spoiled him outrageously, and his governess could make no hand of him^ai at all.”

A few more observations about Horton Lodge and its ongoings, and I have done with dry description for the present.

The house was a very respectable one, superior to Mr. Bloomfield’s both in age, size, and magnificence: the garden was not so tastefully laid out; but instead of the smooth-shaven lawn, the young trees guarded by palings, the grove of upstart poplars, and the plantation of firs, there was a wide park, stocked with deer, and beautified by fine old trees. The surrounding country itself was pleasant, as far as fertile fields, flourishing trees, quiet green lanes, and smiling hedges, with wild flowers scattered along their banks, could make it; but, it was depressingly flat, to one born and nurtured among the rugged hills of—.

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.

CHAPTER VIII

The “Coming Out”¹

CHAPTER IX

The Ball

Now 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?”

“Middling.”

“No, but I really was—at least so mamma said ... and Brown and Williamson. Brown said she was sure no gentleman could set eyes on me without falling in love that minute; and so I may be allowed to be a little vain. I know you think me a shocking, conceited, frivolous girl, but then you know, I don’t attribute it all to my personal attractions: I give some praise to the hairdresser, and some to my exquisitely lovely dress—you must see it to-morrow-white gauze over pink satin ... and so sweetly made! and a necklace and bracelet of beautiful, large pearls!”

“I have no doubt you looked very charming; but should that delight you so very much?”

“Oh, no! ... not that alone: but then, I was so much admired; and I made so many conquests in that one night—you’d be astonished to hear—”

“But what good will they do you?”

“What good! Think of any woman asking that!”

“Well, I should think one conquest would be enough, and too much, unless the subjugation were mutual.”

“Oh, but you know I never agree with you on those points. Now wait a bit, and I’ll tell you my principal admirers—those who made themselves very conspicuous that night and after, for I’ve been to two parties since. Unfortunately the two noblemen Lord G——and Lord F——, were married or I might have condescended to be particularly gracious to them; as it was, I did not, though Lord F——who hates his wife, was evidently much struck with me. He asked me to dance with him twice—he is a charming dancer, by the by, and so am I ... you can’t think how well I did ... I was astonished at myself. My lord was very complimentary too—rather too much so in fact, and I thought it proper to be a little haughty and repellent; but I had the pleasure of seeing his nasty, cross wife ready to perish with spite and vexation—”

“Oh Miss Murray! you don’t mean to say that such a thing could really give you pleasure! However cross or—”

“Well I know it’s very wrong;—but never mind! I mean to be good sometime—only don’t preach now, there’s a good creature—I haven’t told you half yet.... Let me see ... Oh! I was going to tell you how many unmistakable admirers I had:—Sir Thomas Ashby was one,—Sir Hugh Meltham, and Sir Broadley Wilson are old codgers, only fit companions for papa and mamma. Sir Thomas is young, rich, and gay, but an ugly beast nevertheless: however, mamma says I should not mind that after a few months’ acquaintance. Then, there was Harry Meltham, Sir Hugh’s younger son, rather good-looking, and a pleasant fellow to flirt with; but being a younger son, that is all he is good for:¹ then there was young Mr. Green, rich enough, but of no family, and a great stupid fellow, a mere country booby; and then, our good rector Mr. Hatfield, an humble admirer, he ought to consider himself; but I fear he has forgotten to number humility among his stock of christian virtues.”

“Was Mr. Hatfield at the ball?”

“Yes to be sure. Did you think he was too good to go?”

“I thought he might consider it unclerical.”

“By no means. He did not profane his cloth by dancing; but it was with difficulty he could refrain poor man: he looked as if he were dying to ask my hand just for one set; and—Oh! by the by—he’s got a new curate ... that seedy old fellow Mr. Bligh has got his long-wished-for living at last, and gone.”

“And what is the new one like?”

“Oh such a beast! Weston his name is. I can give you his description in three words ... an insensate, ugly, stupid blockhead. That’s four, but no matter ... enough of him now.”

Then she returned to the ball, and gave me a further account of her deportment there, and at the several parties she had since attended, and further particulars respecting Sir Thomas Ashby and Messrs. Meltham, Green, and Hatfield, and the ineffaceable impression she had wrought upon each of them.

“Well, which of the four do you like best?” said I, suppressing my third or fourth yawn.

“I detest them all,” replied she, shaking her bright ringlets in vivacious scorn.

“That means, I suppose, I like them all—but which most?”

“No, I really do detest them all; but Harry Meltham is the handsomest and most amusing, and Mr. Hatfield the cleverest, Sir Thomas the wickedest, and Mr. Green the most stupid. But the one I’m to have, I suppose, if I’m doomed to have any of them, is Sir Thomas Ashby.”

“Surely not, if he’s so wicked, and if you dislike him?”

“Oh, I don’t mind his being wicked; he’s all the better for that; and as for disliking him—I shouldn’t greatly object to being Lady Ashby of Ashby Park, if I must marry; but if I could be always young, I would be always single. I should like to enjoy myself thoroughly, and coquet with all the world, till I am on the verge of being called an old maid; and then, to escape the infamy of that, after having made ten thousand conquests, to break all their hearts save one, by marrying some high-born, rich, indulgent husband, whom, on the other hand, fifty ladies were dying to have.”

“Well, as long as you entertain those views, keep single by all means, and never marry at all, not even to escape the infamy of old-maidenhood.”

CHAPTER X

The Church

Well, Miss Grey, what do you think of the new curate?” asked Miss Murray, on our return from church the Sunday after the recommencement of my duties.

“I can scarcely tell,” was my reply: “I have not even heard him preach.”

“Well, but you saw him, didn’t you?”

“Yes; but I cannot pretend to judge of a man’s character by a single, cursory glance at his face.”

“But, isn’t he ugly?”

“He did not strike me as being particularly so; I don’t dislike that cast of countenance: but the only thing I particularly noticed about him was his style of reading, which appeared, to me, good—infinitely better, at least, than Mr. Hatfield’s. He read the lessons as if he were bent on giving full effect to every passage: it seemed as if the most careless person could not have helped attending, nor the most ignorant have failed to understand; and the prayers, he read as if he were not reading at all, but praying, earnestly and sincerely from his own heart.”¹ “Oh, yes! that’s all he is good for: he can plod through the service well enough; but he has not a single idea beyond it.”

“How do you know?”

“Oh! I know perfectly well; I’m an excellent judge in such matters. Did you see how he went out of church? stumping along, as if there was nobody there but himself—never looking to the right hand or the left, and evidently thinking of nothing but just getting out of the church, and, perhaps, home to his dinner—his great stupid head could contain no other idea.”

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 521