The Parsonage Again 4 page

“After he was gone, Hannah Rogers, one o’ th’ neighbours came in and wanted me to help her to wash. I telled her I couldn’t just then, for I hadn’t set on th’ potaties for th’ dinner, nor washed up th’ breakfast stuff yet. So then she began a calling me for my nasty, idle ways. I was a little bit vexed at first; but I never said nothing wrong to her: I only telled her, like all in a quiet way, ‘at I’d had th’ new parson to see me; but I’d get done as quick as ever I could, an’ then come an’ help her. So then she softened down; and my heart like as it warmed towards her, an’ in a bit, we was very good friends.

“An’ so it is, Miss Grey, ‘a soft answer turneth away wrath; but grievous words stir up anger.’^bg It isn’t only in them you speak to, but in yourself.”

“Very true, Nancy, if we could always remember it.”

“Aye, if we could!”

“And did Mr. Weston ever come to see you again?”

“Yes, many a time; and since my eyes has been so bad, he’s sat an’ read to me by the half-hour together; but you know Miss, he has other folks to see, and other things to do—God bless him! An’ that next Sunday he preached such a sermon! his text was ‘Come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest,’ and them two blessed verses that follows.^bh You wasn’t there, Miss, you was with your friends then—but it made me so happy! and I am happy now, thank God! an’ I take a pleasure, now, in doing little bits o’ jobs for my neighbours—such as a poor old body, ’ats half blind can do ... and they take it kindly of me, just as he said. You see Miss, I’m knitting a pair o’ stockings now:—they’re for Thomas Jackson: he’s a queerish old body, an’ we’ve had many a bout at threaping^bi one anent t’other; an’ at times we’ve differed sorely. So I thought I couldn’t do better nor knit him a pair o’ warm stockings; an’ I’ve felt to like him a deal better, poor old man, sin’ I began. It’s turned out just as Maister Weston said.”

“Well, I’m very glad to see you so happy Nancy, and so wise: but I must go now; I shall be wanted at the Hall,” said I; and bidding her good-bye, I departed, promising to come again when I had time, and feeling nearly as happy as herself.

At another time, I went to read to a poor labourer who was in the last stage of a consumption. The young ladies had been to see him, and somehow, a promise of reading to him had been extracted from them; but it was too much trouble, so they begged me to do it instead. I went, willingly enough, and there too I was gratified with the praises of Mr. Weston, both from the sick man and his wife. The former told me that he derived great comfort and benefit, from the visits of the new parson, who frequently came to see him, and was “another guess sort of man,”^bj to Mr. Hatfield, who before the other’s arrival at Horton, had now and then paid him a visit, on which occasions, he would always insist upon having the cottage door kept open to admit the fresh air for his own convenience, without considering how it might injure the sufferer, and having opened his prayer-book, and hastily read over a part of the service for the sick, would hurry away again, if he did not stay to administer some harsh rebuke to the afflicted wife, or to make some thoughtless, not to say heartless, observation rather calculated to increase than diminish the troubles of the suffering pair.

“Whereas,” said the man, “Maister Weston ’ull pray with me quite in a different fashion, an’ talk to me as kind as owt,^bk an’ oft read to me too, an’ sit beside me just like a brother.”

“Just for all the world!” exclaimed his wife, “an’ about a three wik sin’, when he seed how poor Jem shivered wi’ cold, an’ what pitiful fires we kept, he axed if wer stock o’ coals was nearly done. I telled him it was, an’ we was ill set to get more—but you know mum I didn’t think o’ him helping us—but howsoever, he sent us a sack o’ coals next day; an’ we’ve had good fires ever sin’; an’ a great blessing it is, this winter time. But that’s his way, Miss Grey—when he comes into a poor body’s house a seein’ sick folk, he like notices what they most stand i’ need on, an’ if he thinks they can’t readily get it therseln, he never says nowt^bl about it, but just gets it for ’em:—an’ it isn’t everybody ‘at ’ud do that, ’at has as little as he has; for you know mum, he’s nowt at all to live on, but what he gets fra’ th’ rector; an’ that’s little enough they say.”

I remembered then, with a species of exultation, that he had frequently been styled a vulgar brute by the amiable Miss Murray, because he sported a silver watch,⁷ and clothes not quite so bright and fresh as Mr. Hatfield’s.

In returning to the lodge, I felt very happy, and thanked God that I had now something to think about, something to dwell on as a relief from the weary monotony, the lonely drudgery of my present life—for I was lonely—never, from month to month, from year to year, except during my brief intervals of rest at home, did I see one creature to whom I could open my heart, or freely speak my thoughts with any hope of sympathy, or even comprehension; never one, unless it were poor Nancy Brown, with whom I could enjoy a single moment of real social intercourse, or whose conversation was calculated to render me better, wiser, or happier than before; or who, as far as I could see, could be greatly benefited by mine. My only companions had been unamiable children, and ignorant, wrong-headed girls, from whose fatiguing folly, unbroken solitude was often a relief most earnestly desired, and dearly prized. But to be restricted to such associates was a serious evil, both in its immediate effects, and the consequences that were likely to ensue.

Never a new idea or a stirring thought came to me from without; and such as rose within me were, for the most part, miserably crushed at once, or doomed to sicken and fade away, because they could not see the light.

Habitual associates are known to exercise a great influence over each other’s minds and manners. Those whose actions are for ever before our eyes, whose words are ever in our ears, will naturally lead us, albeit, against our will—slowly—gradually—imperceptibly, perhaps, to act and speak as they do. I will not presume to say how far this irresistible power of assimilation extends; but if one civilized man were doomed to pass a dozen years amid a race of intractable savages, unless he had power to improve them, I greatly question whether, at the close of that period, he would not have become, at least, a barbarian himself. And I, as I could not make my young companions better, feared exceedingly that they would make me worse—would gradually bring my feelings, habits, capacities to the level of their own, without, however, imparting to me their light-heartedness, and cheerful vivacity. Already, I seemed to feel my intellect deteriorating, my heart petrifying, my soul contracting, and I trembled lest my very moral perceptions should become deadened, my distinctions of right and wrong confounded, and all my better faculties be sunk, at last, beneath the baleful influence of such a mode of life. The gross vapours of earth were gathering round me, and closing in upon my inward heaven; and thus it was, that Mr. Weston rose, at length, upon me, appearing, like the morning star in my horizon, to save me from the fear of utter darkness; and I rejoiced that I had now a subject for contemplation, that was above me, not beneath. I was glad to see that all the world was not made up of Bloomfields, Murrays, Hatfields, Ashbys, &c.; and that human excellence was not a mere dream of the imagination. When we hear a little good, and no harm of a person, it is easy and pleasant to imagine more—in short, it is needless to analyze all my thoughts, but Sunday was now become a day of peculiar delight to me, (I was now almost broken in to the back corner in the carriage,) for I liked to hear him—and I liked to see him too, though I knew he was not handsome, or even, what is called, agreeable, in outward aspect, but, certainly, he was not ugly.

In stature, he was a little—a very little above the middle size; perfectly symmetrical in figure, deep chested, and strongly built; the outline of his face would be pronounced too square for beauty, but, to me, it announced decision of character; his dark brown hair was not carefully curled, like Mr. Hatfield’s, but simply brushed aside over a broad, white forehead; the eyebrows, I suppose, were too projecting, but, from under those dark brows, there gleamed an eye of singular power, brown in colour, not large, and somewhat deepset but strikingly brilliant, and full of expression; there was character, too, in the mouth, something that bespoke a man of firm purpose, and an habitual thinker, and when he smiled—but I will not speak of that yet, for, at the time I mention, I had never seen him smile; and, indeed, his general appearance did not impress me with the idea of a man given to such a relaxation, nor of such an individual as the cottagers described him. I had early formed my opinion of him, and, in spite of Miss Murray’s objurgations, was fully convinced that he was a man of strong sense, firm faith, and ardent piety, but thoughtful and stern: and when I found that, to his other good qualities, was added that of true benevolence, and gentle, considerate kindness, the discovery, perhaps, delighted me the more, as I had not been prepared to expect it.

CHAPTER XII

The Shower

The next visit I payed to Nancy Brown was in the second week in March, for, though I had many spare minutes during the day, I seldom could look upon an hour as entirely my own, since, where everything was left to the caprices of Miss Matilda and her sister, there could be no order or regularity, and whatever occupation I chose, when not actually busied about them or their concerns, I had, as it were, to keep my loins girded, my shoes on my feet, and my staff in my hand;^bm for, not to be immediately forth coming when called for, was regarded as a grave and inexcusable offence, not only by my pupils and their mother, but by the very servant who came in breathless haste to call me, exclaiming—

“You’re to go to the school-room directly, mum—the young ladies is WAITING!!”

Climax of horror! actually waiting for their governess!!!

But this time, I was pretty sure of an hour or two to myself, for Matilda was preparing for a long ride, and Rosalie was dressing for a dinner party at Lady Ashby’s: so I took the opportunity of repairing to the widow’s cottage, where I found her in some anxiety about her cat, which had been absent all day. I comforted her with as many anecdotes of that animal’s roving propensities as I could recollect.

“I’m feared o’ th’ gamekeepers,” said she, “that’s all ’at I think on. If th’ young gentlemen had been at home, I should a’ thought they’d been setting their dogs at her, an’ worried her, poor thing, as they did many a poor thing’s cat; but I haven’t that to be feared on now.”

Nancy’s eyes were better, but still far from well: she had been trying to make a Sunday shirt for her son, but told me she could only bear to do a little bit at it now and then; so that it progressed but slowly, though the poor lad wanted it sadly. So I proposed to help her a little, after I had read to her, for I had plenty of time that evening, and need not return till dusk. She thankfully accepted the offer.

“An’ you’ll be a bit o’ company for me too, Miss,” said she, “I like as I feel lonesome without my cat.”

But when I had finished reading, and done the half of a seam, with Nancy’s capacious brass thimble fitted on to my finger by means of a roll of paper, I was disturbed by the entrance of Mr. Weston with the identical cat in his arms. I now saw that he could smile, and very pleasantly too.

“I’ve done you a piece of good service, Nancy,” he began; then seeing me, he acknowledged my presence by a slight bow. I should have been invisible to Mr. Hatfield, or any other gentleman of those parts. “I’ve delivered your cat,” he continued, “from the hands, or rather the gun of Mr. Murray’s gamekeeper.”

“God bless you sir,” cried the grateful old woman, ready to weep for joy as she received her favourite from his arms.

“Take care of it,” said he, “and don’t let it go near the rabbit warren, for the gamekeeper swears he’ll shoot it, if he sees it there again. He would have done so to-day, if I had not been in time to stop him. I believe it is raining, Miss Grey,” added he, more quietly, observing that I had put aside my work and was preparing to depart. “Don’t let me disturb you—I shan’t stay two minutes.”

“You’ll both stay while this shower gets owered,”^bn said Nancy as she stirred the fire, and placed another chair beside it; “what! there’s room for all.”

“I can see better here, thank you Nancy,” replied I, taking my work to the window, where she had the goodness to suffer me to remain unmolested, while she got a brush to remove the cat’s hairs from Mr. Weston’s coat, carefully wiped the rain from his hat, and gave the cat its supper, busily talking all the time; now thanking her clerical friend for what he had done; now wondering how the cat had found out the warren; and now lamenting the probable consequences of such a discovery. He listened with a quiet, good-natured smile, and at length took a seat in compliance with her pressing invitations, but repeated that he did not mean to stay.

“I have another place to go to,” said he, “and I see” (glancing at the book on the table) “some one else has been reading to you.”

“Yes sir, Miss Grey has been as kind as read me a chapter; an’ now she’s helping me with a shirt for our Bill—but I’m feared she’ll be cold there. Won’t you come to th’ fire, Miss?”

“No, thank you Nancy, I’m quite warm. I must go as soon as this shower is over.”

“Aw Miss! You said you could stop while dusk!” cried the provoking old woman, and Mr. Weston seized his hat.

“Nay sir,” exclaimed she, “pray don’t go now, while it rains so fast!”

“But, it strikes me I’m keeping your visiter away from the fire.”

“No you’re not Mr. Weston,” replied I, hoping there was no harm in a falsehood of that description.

“No, sure!” cried Nancy. “What, there’s lots o’ room!”

“Miss Grey,” said he, half jestingly, as if he felt it necessary to change the present subject, whether he had anything particular to say or not, “I wish you would make my peace with the squire, when you see him. He was by when I rescued Nancy’s cat, and did not quite approve of the deed. I told him I thought he might better spare all his rabbits than she her cat, for which audacious assertion, he treated me to some rather ungentlemanly language, and, I fear, I retorted a trifle too warmly.”

“Oh lawful sir! I hope you didn’t fall out wi’ th’ maister for sake o’ my cat! he cannot bide answering again—can th’ maister.”

“Oh! it’s not matter Nancy: I don’t care about it, really: I said nothing very uncivil; and I suppose Mr. Murray is accustomed to use rather strong language when he’s heated.”

“Ay sir: it’s a pity!”

“And now, I really must go. I have to visit a place a mile beyond this; and you would not have me to return in the dark: besides, it has nearly done raining now—so good evening Nancy.—Good evening Miss Grey.”

“Good evening Mr. Weston ... but don’t depend upon me for making your peace with Mr. Murray, for I never see him—to speak to.”

“Don’t you? it can’t be helped then!” replied he in dolorous resignation: then, with a peculiar half smile, he added, “But never mind; I imagine the squire has more to apologize for than I,” and left the cottage.

I went on with my sewing as long as I could see; and then bid Nancy good evening, checking her too lively gratitude by the undeniable assurance, that I had only done for her, what she would have done for me, if she had been in my place, and I in hers, and hastened back to Horton Lodge; where having entered the school-room, I found the tea-table all in confusion, the tray flooded with slops, and Miss Matilda in a most ferocious humour.

“Miss Grey, whatever have you been about? I’ve had tea half an hour ago, and had to make it myself, and drink it all alone! I wish you would come in sooner!”

“I’ve been to see Nancy Brown. I thought you would not be back from your ride.”

“How could I ride in the rain, I should like to know? That d—d pelting shower was vexatious enough—coming on when I was just in full swing; and then to come and find nobody in to tea!—and you know I can’t make the tea as I like it.”¹

“I didn’t think of the shower,” replied I, (and, indeed, the thought of its driving her home had never entered my head.)

“No of course, you were under shelter yourself, and you never thought of other people.”

I bore her coarse reproaches with astonishing equanimity, even with cheerfulness; for I was sensible that I had done more good to Nancy Brown, than harm to her; and perhaps some other thoughts assisted to keep up my spirits, and impart a relish to the cup of cold, overdrawn tea,^bo and a charm to the otherwise unsightly table, and—I had almost said—to Miss Matilda’s unamiable face. But she soon betook herself to the stables, and left me to the quiet enjoyment of my solitary meal.

CHAPTER XIII

The Primroses

Miss Murray now always went twice to church, for she so loved admiration that she could not bear to lose a sin gle opportunity of obtaining it; and she was so sure of it, wherever she showed herself, that whether Harry Meltham and Mr. Green were there or not, there was certain to be somebody present, who would be not insensible to her charms, besides the rector, whose official capacity generally obliged him to attend.

Usually, also, if the weather permitted, both she and her sister would walk home; Matilda because she hated the confinement of the carriage; she, because she disliked the privacy of it, and enjoyed the company that generally enlivened the first mile of the journey in walking from the church to Mr. Green’s park-gates, near which, commenced the private road to Horton Lodge, which lay in the opposite direction; while the highway conducted, in a straight-forward course to the still more distant mansion of Sir Hugh Meltham. Thus, there was always a chance of being accompanied, so far, either by Harry Meltham with or without Miss Meltham, or Mr. Green, with perhaps one or both of his sisters, and any gentlemen visiters they might have.

Whether I walked with the young ladies or rode with their parents, depended entirely upon their own capricious will: if they chose to “take” me, I went; if, for reasons best known to themselves, they chose to go alone, I took my seat in the carriage: I liked walking better, but a sense of reluctance to obtrude my presence on any one who did not desire it, always kept me passive on these and similar occasions; and I never inquired into the causes of their varying whims. And indeed this was the best policy—for to submit and oblige was the governess’s part, to consult their own pleasure was that of the pupils. But when I did walk, this first half of the journey was generally a great nuisance to me. As none of the beforementioned ladies and gentlemen ever noticed me, it was disagreeable to walk beside them, as if listening to what they said, or wishing to be thought one of them, while they talked over me or across, and if their eyes in speaking, chanced to fall on me, it seemed as if they looked on vacancy—as if they either did not see me, or were very desirous to make it appear so.

It was disagreeable, too, to walk behind, and thus appear to acknowledge my own inferiority; for in truth, I considered myself pretty nearly as good as the best of them, and wished them to know that I did so, and not to imagine that I looked upon myself as a mere domestic, who knew her own place too well to walk beside such fine ladies and gentlemen as they were ... though her young ladies might choose to have her with them, and even condescend to converse with her, when no better company were at hand.

Thus—I am almost ashamed to confess it—but indeed I gave myself no little trouble in my endeavours (if I did keep up with them) to appear perfectly unconscious or regardless of their presence, as if I were wholly absorbed in my own reflections or the contemplations of surrounding objects; or if I lingered behind, it was some bird or insect, some tree or flower, that attracted my attention, and having duly examined that, I would pursue my walk alone, at a leisurely pace, until my pupils had bid adieu to their companions, and turned off into the quiet, private road.

One such occasion I particularly well remember, it was a lovely afternoon about the close of March; Mr. Green and his sisters had sent their carriage back empty, in order to enjoy the bright sunshine and balmy air in a sociable walk home along with their visiters, Captain Somebody and Lieutenant Somebody else (a couple of military fops,) and the Misses Murray, who of course, contrived to join them.

Such a party was highly agreeable to Rosalie; but not finding it equally suitable to my taste, I presently fell back, and began to botanize and entomologize along the green banks and budding hedges, till the company was considerably in advance of me, and I could hear the sweet song of the happy lark: then my spirit of misanthropy began to melt away beneath the soft, pure air, and genial sunshine; but sad thoughts of early childhood, and yearnings for departed joys, or for a brighter future lot, arose instead.

As my eyes wandered over the steep banks covered with young grass and green-leaved plants, and surmounted by budding hedges, I longed intensely for some familiar flower that might recall the woody dales or green hillsides of home—the brown moorlands, of course, were out of the question. Such a discovery would make my eyes gush out with water, no doubt; but that was one of my greatest enjoyments now.

At length, I descried, high up between the twisted roots of an oak, three lovely primroses, peeping so sweetly from their hiding place that the tears already started at the sight, but they grew so high above me, that I tried in vain to gather one or two to dream over and to carry with me; I could not reach them, unless I climbed the bank, which I was deterred from doing by hearing a footstep, at that moment behind me, and was therefore, about to turn away, when I was startled by the words, “Allow me to gather them for you, Miss Grey,” spoken in the grave, low tones of a well-known voice.

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.”

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 706