The Parsonage Again 3 page

“I suppose you would have had him cast a glance into the squire’s pew,” said I, laughing at the vehemence of her hostility.

“Indeed! I should have been highly indignant if he had dared to do such a thing!” replied she, haughtily tossing her head; then, after a moment’s reflection, she added—“Well, well! I suppose he’s good enough for his place; but, I’m glad I’m not dependent on him for amusement—that’s all. Did you see how Mr. Hatfield hurried out to get a bow from me, and be in time to put us into the carriage?”

“Yes,” answered I, internally adding, “and I thought it somewhat derogatory to his dignity as a clergyman to come flying from the pulpit in such eager haste to shake hands with the squire, and hand his wife and daughters into their carriage; and, moreover, I owe him a grudge for nearly shutting me out of it;” for, in fact, though I was standing before his face, close beside the carriage steps, waiting to get in, he would persist in putting them up, and closing the door, till one of the family stopped him by calling out that the governess was not in yet: then, without a word of apology, he departed, wishing them good morning, and leaving the footman to finish the business. Nota bene^ak—Mr. Hatfield never spoke to me, neither did Sir Hugh or Lady Meltham, nor Mr. Harry or Miss Meltham, nor Mr. Green or his sisters, nor any other lady or gentleman who frequented that church, nor, in fact, any one that visited at Horton Lodge.

Miss Murray ordered the carriage again, in the afternoon, for herself and her sister: she said it was too cold for them to enjoy themselves in the garden; and, besides, she believed Harry Meltham would be at church.

“For,” said she, smiling slyly at her own fair image in the glass, “he has been a most exemplary attendant at church these last few Sundays. You would think he was quite a good christian. And you may go with us, Miss Grey, I want you to see him; he is so greatly improved since he returned from abroad—you can’t think! And, besides, then you will have an opportunity of seeing the beautiful Mr. Weston again, and of hearing him preach.”

I did hear him preach, and was decidedly pleased with the evangelical truth of his doctrine, as well as the earnest simplicity of his manner, and the clearness and force of his style.²

It was truly refreshing to hear such a sermon, after being so long accustomed to the dry, prosy discourses of the former curate, and the still less edifying harangues of the rector, who would come sailing up the aisle, or rather sweeping along like a whirlwind, with his rich silk gown flying behind him, and rustling against the pew doors, mount the pulpit like a conqueror ascending his triumphal car; then sinking on the velvet cushion in an attitude of studied grace, remain in silent prostration for a certain time; then, mutter over a Collect,^al and gabble through the Lord’s Prayer, rise, draw off one bright lavender glove to give the congregation the benefit of his sparkling rings, lightly pass his fingers through his well-curled hair, flourish a cambric handkerchief, recite a very short passage, or, perhaps, a mere phrase of Scripture, as a head-piece^am to his discourse, and, finally, deliver a composition which, as a composition, might be considered good, though far too studied and too artificial to be pleasing to me; the propositions were well laid down, the arguments logically conducted; and yet, it was sometimes hard to listen quietly throughout, without some slight demonstrations of disapproval or impatience.

His favourite subjects were church discipline, rites and ceremonies, apostolical succession, the duty of reverence and obedience to the clergy, the atrocious criminality of dissent, the absolute necessity of observing all the forms of godliness, the reprehensible presumption of individuals who attempted to think for themselves in matters connected with religion, or to be guided by their own interpretations of Scripture, and, occasionally, (to please his wealthy parishioners,) the necessity of deferential obedience from the poor to the rich—supporting his maxims and exhortations throughout with quotations from the Fathers, with whom he appeared to be far better acquainted than with the Apostles and Evangelists, and whose importance he seemed to consider, at least, equal to theirs.

But now and then he gave us a sermon of a different order—what some would call a very good one, but sunless and severe, representing the Deity as a terrible task-master, rather than a benevolent father. Yet, as I listened, I felt inclined to think the man was sincere in all he said; he must have changed his views, and become decidedly religious, gloomy and austere, but still devout: but such illusions were usually dissipated, on coming out of church, by hearing his voice in jocund colloquy with some of the Melthams or Greens, or, perhaps, the Murrays themselves, probably laughing at his own sermon, and hoping that he had given the rascally people something to think about; perchance, exulting in the thoughts that old Betty Holmes would now lay aside the sinful indulgence of her pipe which had been her daily solace for upwards of thirty years, that George Higgins would be frightened out of his Sabbath evening walks, and Thomas Jackson would be sorely troubled in his conscience, and shaken in his sure and certain hope of a joyful resurrection at the last day.

Thus, I could not but conclude that Mr. Hatfield was one of those who bind heavy burdens, and grievous to be borne, and lay them upon men’s shoulders, while they themselves will not move them with one of their fingers, and that make the word of God of none effect by their traditions, teaching for doctrines the commandments of men.³ I was well pleased to observe that the new curate resembled him, as far as I could see, in none of these particulars.

“Well, Miss Grey! what do you think of him now?” said Miss Murray, as we took our places in the carriage after service.

“No harm still,” replied I.

“No harm!” repeated she in amazement. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I think no worse of him than I did before.”

“No worse! I should think not indeed—quite the contrary! Is he not greatly improved?”

“Oh, yes! very much indeed,” replied I; for I had now discovered that it was Harry Meltham she meant, not Mr. Weston. That gentleman had eagerly come forward to speak to the young ladies, a thing he would hardly have ventured to do had their mother been present; he had likewise politely handed them into the carriage—he had not attempted to shut me out like Mr. Hatfield; neither, of course, had he offered me his assistance, (I should not have accepted it if he had,) but as long as the door remained open he had stood smirking and chatting with them, and then lifted his hat and departed to his own abode;—but I had scarcely noticed him all the time. My companions, however, had been more observant; and, as we rolled along, they discussed between them not only his looks, words, and actions, but every feature of his face, and every article of his apparel.

“You shan’t have him all to yourself, Rosalie,” said Miss Matilda, at the close of this discussion; “I like him: I know he’d make a nice, jolly companion for me.”

“Well, you’re quite welcome to him, Matilda,” replied her sister, in a tone of affected indifference.

“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.

CHAPTER XI

The Cottagers

As 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.

“But one Sunday, when Maister Hatfield gave out about the sacrament, I noticed where he said, ‘If there be any of you that cannot quiet his own conscience, but requireth further comfort or counsel, let him come to me, or some other discreet and learned minister of God’s word and open his grief!⁴ So next Sunday morning, afore service, I just looked in to th’ vestry, an’ began a talking to th’ rector again ... I hardly could fashion to take such a liberty, but I thought when my soul was at stake, I shouldn’t stick at a trifle. But he said he hadn’t time to attend to me then.

“ ‘And indeed,’ says he, ‘I’ve nothing to say to you, but what I’ve said before . . . take the sacrament of course, and go on doing your duty; and if that won’t serve you, nothing will. So don’t bother me any more.’

“So then, I went away. But I heard Maister Weston ... Maister Weston was there Miss—this was his first Sunday at Horton you know, an’ he was i’ th’ vestry in his surplice helping th’ rector on with his gown.”

“Yes Nancy.”

“And I heard him ask Maister Hatfield who I was; an’ he said, ‘Oh! she’s a canting^ax old fool.’

“And I was very ill grieved Miss Grey; but I went to my seat, and I tried to do my duty as afore time; but I like got no peace. An’ I even took the sacrament; but I felt as though I were eating an’ drinking to my own damnation all th’ time. So I went home, sorely troubled.

“But next day, afore I’d gotten fettled up—for indeed Miss, I’d no heart to sweeping an’ fettling,^ay an’ washing pots; so I sat me down i’ th’ muck—but who should come in but Maister Weston! I started siding^az stuff then, an’ sweeping an’ doing; an’ I expected he’d begin a calling me for my idle ways as Maister Hatfield would a’ done; but I was mista’en: he only bid me good mornin’ like, in a quiet dacent way. So I dusted him a chair, an’ fettled up th’ fire place a bit; but I hadn’t forgotten th’ rector’s words, so says I,

“‘I wonder sir, you should give yourself that trouble, to come so far to see a “canting old fool,” such as me.’

“He liked seemed taken aback at that; but he would fain persuade me ’at the rector was only in jest; and when that wouldn’t do, he says,

“‘Well, Nancy, you shouldn’t think so much about it: Mr. Hatfield was a little out of humour just then; you know we’re none of us perfect—even Moses spoke unadvisedly with his lips.^ba But now sit down a minute, if you can spare the time, and tell me all your doubts and fears; and I’ll try to remove them.’

“So I sat me down anent^bb him. He was quite a stranger you know Miss Grey, and even younger nor Maister Hatfield, I believe; an’ I had thought him not so pleasant looking as him, and rather a bit crossish, at first, to look at; but he spake so civil like—and when th’ cat, poor thing, jumped on to his knee, he only stroked her, and gave a bit of a smile: so I thought that was a good sign; for once, when she did so to th’ rector, he knocked her off, like as it might be in scorn and anger, poor thing. But you can’t expect a cat to know manners like a christian, ⁵ you know Miss Grey.”

“No of course not Nancy. But what did Mr. Weston say then?”

“He said naught; but he listened to me as steady an’ patient as could be, an’ never a bit o’ scorn about him; so I went on, an’ telled him all, just as I’ve telled you—an’ more too.

“ ‘Well,’ says he, ‘Mr. Hatfield was quite right in telling you to persevere in doing your duty; but in advising you to go to church, and attend to the service, and so on, he didn’t mean that was the whole of a christian’s duty; he only thought you might there learn what more was to be done, and be led to take delight in those exercises, instead of finding them a task and a burden. And if you had asked him to explain those words that trouble you so much, I think he would have told you that, if many shall seek to enter in at the strait gate and shall not be able, it is their own sins that hinder them; just as a man with a large sack on his back, might wish to pass through a narrow doorway, and find it impossible to do so, unless, he would leave his sack behind him. But you Nancy, I dare say, have no sins that you would not gladly throw aside, if you knew how?’

“ ‘Indeed sir, you speak truth,’ says I.

“ ‘Well,’ says he, ‘you know the first, and great commandment—and the second which is like unto it—on which two commandments hang all the law and the prophets? You say you cannot love God; but it strikes me, that if you rightly consider who and what He is, you cannot help it. He is your father, your best friend; every blessing, everything good, pleasant, or useful comes from him; and everything evil, everything you have reason to hate, to shun, or to fear comes from Satan, His enemy as well as ours; and for this cause was God manifest in the flesh, that He might destroy the works of the devil: in one word God IS LOVE;⁶ and the more of love we have within us, the nearer we are to Him, and the more of His spirit we possess.’

“‘Well sir,’ I said, ‘if I can always think on these things, I think I might well love God; but how can I love my neighbours—when they vex me, and be so contrairy and sinful as some on ’em is?’

“ ‘It may seem a hard matter,’ says he, ‘to love our neighbours, who have so much of what is evil about them, and whose faults so often awaken the evil that lingers within ourselves, but remember, that He made them, and He loves them; and whosoever loved him that begat, loveth him that is begotten also.^bc And if God so loveth us, that He gave His only begotten son to die for us, we ought also to love one another.^bd But if you cannot feel positive affection for those who do not care for you, you can at least, try to do to them as you would they should do unto you;^be you can endeavour to pity their failings and excuse their offences, and to do all the good you can to those about you. And if you accustom yourself to this, Nancy, the very effort itself will make you love them in some degree—to say nothing of the goodwill your kindness would beget in them, though they might have little else that is good about them. If we love God and wish to serve Him, let us try to be like Him, to do His work, to labour for His glory, which is the good of man, to hasten the coming of His kingdom, which is the peace, and happiness of all the world—however powerless we may seem to be, in doing all the good we can through life, the humblest of us may do much towards it; and let us dwell in love, that He may dwell in us, and we in Him.^bf The more happiness we bestow, the more we shall receive, even here, and the greater will be our reward in Heaven when we rest from our labours.’

“I believe, Miss, them is his very words, for I’ve thought ‘em ower many a time. An’ then he took that bible, an’ read bits here and there, an’ explained ’em as clear as the day: and it seemed like as a new light broke in on my soul; an’ I felt fair a glow about my heart, an’ only wished poor Bill an’ all the world could a’ been there an’ heard it all, and rejoiced wi’ me.

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 564