The Parsonage Again 6 page

But, God knows best, I concluded. There are, I suppose, some men as vain, as selfish, and as heartless as she is, and perhaps such women may be useful to punish them.

CHAPTER XV

The Walk

O dear! I wish Hatfield had not been so precipitate!” said Rosalie next day at four P.M., as, with a portentous yawn, she laid down her worsted-work and looked listlessly towards the window.

“There’s no inducement to go out now; and nothing to look forward to. The days will be so long and dull when there are no parties to enliven them; and there are none this week, or next either, that I know of.”

“Pity you were so cross to him,” observed Matilda, to whom this lamentation was addressed. “He’ll never come again; and I suspect you liked him after all. I hoped you would have taken him for your beau, and left dear Harry to me.”

“Humph! my beau must be an Adonis indeed, Matilda, the admired of all beholders, if I am to be contented with him alone. I’m sorry to lose Hatfield, I confess; but the first decent man, or number of men that come to supply his place will be more than welcome. It’s Sunday to-morrow—I do wonder how he’ll look, and whether he’ll be able to go through the service. Most likely he’ll pretend he’s got a cold and make Mr. Weston do it all.”

“Not he!” exclaimed Matilda, somewhat contemptuously. “Fool as he is, he’s not so soft as that comes to.”

Her sister was slightly offended; but the event proved Matilda was right. The disappointed lover performed his pastoral duties as usual. Rosalie, indeed, affirmed he looked very pale and dejected: he might be a little paler, but the difference, if any, was scarcely perceptible. As for his dejection, I certainly did not hear his laugh ringing from the vestry as usual, nor his voice loud in hilarious discourse, though I did hear it uplifted in rating^bu the sexton in a manner that made the congregationstare; and, in his transits to and from the pulpit and the communion-table, there was more of solemn pomp, and less of that irreverent, self-confident, or rather self-delighted imperiousness with which he usually swept along—that air that seemed to say, “You all reverence and adore me I know; but if any one does not, I defy him to the teeth!”

But the most remarkable change was that he never once suffered his eyes to wander in the direction of Mr. Murray’s pew, and did not leave the church till we were gone.

Mr. Hatfield had doubtless received a very severe blow; but his pride impelled him to use every effort to conceal the effects of it. He had been disappointed in his certain hope of obtaining not only a beautiful and, to him, highly attractive wife, but one whose rank and fortune might give brilliance to far inferior charms: he was likewise, no doubt, intensely mortified by his repulse, and deeply offended at the conduct of Miss Murray throughout.

It would have given him no little consolation to have known how disappointed she was to find him apparently so little moved, and to see that he was able to refrain from casting a single glance at her throughout both the services, though, she declared, it showed he was thinking of her all the time, or his eyes would have fallen upon her, if it were only by chance; but if they had so chanced to fall, she would have affirmed it was because they could not resist the attraction. It might have pleased him too, in some degree, to have seen how dull and dissatisfied she was throughout that week, (the greater part of it, at least,) for lack of her usual source of excitement; and how often she regretted having “used him up so soon,” like a child that, having devoured its plum-cake too hastily, sits sucking its fingers, and vainly lamenting its greediness.

At length, I was called upon, one fine morning, to accompany her in a walk to the village. Ostensibly she went to get some shades of Berlin wool¹ at a tolerably respectable shop that was chiefly supported by the ladies of the vicinity: really—I trust there is no breach of charity in supposing, that she went with the idea of meeting either with the rector himself, or some other admirer by the way; for as we went along, she kept wondering, “what Hatfield would do or say if we met him,” &c., &c., as we passed Mr. Green’s park-gates, she “wondered whether he was at home—great stupid blockhead;” as Lady Meltham’s carriage passed us she “wondered what Mr. Harry was doing this fine day;” and then began to abuse his elder brother for being “such a fool as to get married and go and live in London.”

“Why,” said I, “I thought you wanted to live in London yourself.”

“Yes, because it’s so dull here; but then he makes it still duller by taking himself off; and if he were not married I might have him instead of that odious Sir Thomas.”

Then, observing the prints of a horse’s feet on the somewhat miry road, she “wondered whether it was a gentleman’s horse,” and finally concluded it was, for the impressions were too small to have been made by a “great, clumsy cart horse;” and then she “wondered who the rider could be,” and whether we should meet him coming back, for she was sure he had only passed that morning; and lastly, when we entered the village and saw only a few of its humble inhabitants moving about, she “wondered why the stupid people couldn’t keep in their houses; she was sure she didn’t want to see their ugly faces, and dirty, vulgar clothes—it wasn’t for that she came to Horton!”

Amid all this, I confess, I wondered too, in secret, whether we should meet, or catch a glimpse of somebody else; and as we passed his lodgings, I even went so far as to wonder whether he was at the window.

On entering the shop, Miss Murray desired me to stand in the doorway while she transacted her business, and tell her if any one passed. But alas! there was no one visible besides the villagers, except Jane and Susan Green coming down the single street, apparently returning from a walk.

“Stupid things!” muttered she, as she came out after having concluded her bargain. “Why couldn’t they have their dolt of a brother with them? even he would be better than nothing!”

She greeted them, however, with a cheerful smile, and protestations of pleasure at the happy meeting equal to their own. They placed themselves one on each side of her; and all three walked away chatting and laughing as young ladies do when they get together, if they be but on tolerably intimate terms. But I, feeling myself to be one too many, left them to their merriment and lagged behind, as usual on such occasions: I had no relish for walking beside Miss Green or Miss Susan like one deaf and dumb, who could neither speak nor be spoken to.

But this time, I was not long alone. It struck me, at first, as very odd, that just as I was thinking about Mr. Weston he should come up and accost me; but afterwards, on due reflection, I thought there was nothing odd about it, unless it were the fact of his speaking to me, for, on such a morning, and so near his own abode, it was natural enough that he should be about; and as for my thinking of him, I had been doing that, with little intermission, ever since we set out on our journey; so there was nothing remarkable in that.

“You are alone again, Miss Grey,” said he.

“Yes.”

“What kind of people are those ladies—the Misses Green?”

“I really don’t know.”

“That’s strange—when you live so near and see them so often!”

“Well, I suppose they are lively, good-tempered girls; but I imagine you must know them better than I do, yourself, for I never exchanged a word with either of them.”

“Indeed! They don’t strike me as being particularly reerved.”

“Very likely they are not so to people of their own class; but they consider themselves as moving in quite a different sphere from me!”

He made no reply to this; but after a short pause, he said, “I suppose it’s these things, Miss Grey, that make you think you could not live without a home?”

“Not exactly. The fact is I am too socially disposed to be able to live contentedly without a friend, and as the only friends I have, or am likely to have, are at home, if it—or rather, if they were gone—I will not say I could not live—but I would rather not live in such a desolate world.”

“But why do you say the only friends you are likely to have? Are you so unsociable that you cannot make friends?”

“No, but I never made one yet; and in my present position there is no possibility of doing so, or even of forming a common acquaintance. The fault may be partly in myself, but I hope not altogether.”

“The fault is partly in society, and partly, I should think, in your immediate neighbours, and partly, too, in yourself; for many ladies, in your position, would make themselves be noticed and accounted of. But your pupils should be companions for you in some degree; they cannot be many years younger than yourself.”

“Oh yes, they are good company sometimes; but I cannot call them friends, nor would they think of bestowing such a name on me—they have other companions better suited to their tastes.”

“Perhaps you are too wise for them. How do you amuse yourself when alone—do you read much?”

“Reading is my favourite occupation when I have leisure for it, and books to read.”

From speaking of books in general, he passed to different books in particular, and proceeded by rapid transitions from topic to topic, till several matters, both of taste and opinion, had been discussed considerably within the space of half an hour, but without the embellishment of many observations from himself; he being evidently less bent upon communicating his own thoughts and predilections, than on discovering mine. He had not the tact or the art to effect such a purpose by skilfully drawing out my sentiments or ideas through the real or apparent statement of his own, or leading the conversation by imperceptible gradations to such topics as he wished to advert to. But such gentle abruptness, and such single-minded straightforwardness could not possibly offend me.

“And why should he interest himself at all in my moral and intellectual capacities: what is it to him what I think or feel?” I asked myself.

And my heart throbbed in answer to the question.

But Jane and Susan Green soon reached their home. As they stood parleying at the park-gates, attempting to persuade Miss Murray to come in, I wished Mr. Weston would go, that she might not see him with me when she turned round; but, unfortunately, his business, which was to pay one more visit to poor Mark Wood, led him to pursue the same path as we did, till nearly the close of our journey.

When, however, he saw that Rosalie had taken leave of her friends, and I was about to join her, he would have left me and passed on at a quicker pace; but, as he civilly lifted his hat in passing her, to my surprise, instead of returning the salute with a stuff, ungracious bow, she accosted him with one of her sweetest smiles, and, walking by his side, began to talk to him with all imaginable cheerfulness and affability; and so we proceeded all three together.

After a short pause in the conversation, Mr. Weston made some remark addressed particularly to me, as referring to something we had been talking of before; but, before I could answer, Miss Murray replied to the observation and enlarged upon it: he rejoined; and, from thence to the close of the interview, she engrossed him entirely to herself.

It might be partly owing to my own stupidity, my want of tact and assurance; but I felt myself wronged; I trembled with apprehension; and I listened with envy to her easy, rapid flow of utterance, and saw with anxiety the bright smile with which she looked into his face from time to time, for she was walking a little in advance for the purpose, (as I judged) of being seen as well as heard.

If her conversation was light and trivial, it was amusing, and she was never at a loss for something to say, or for suitable words to express it in. There was nothing pert or flippant in her manner now, as when she walked with Mr. Hatfield; there was only a gentle, playful kind of vivacity which I thought must be peculiarly pleasing to a man of Mr. Weston’s disposition and temperament.

When he was gone she began to laugh, and muttered to herself.

“I thought I could do it!”

“Do what?” I asked.

“Fix that man.”^bv

“What in the world do you mean?”

“I mean that he will go home and dream of me. I have shot him through the heart!”

“How do you know?”

“By many infallible proofs: more especially the look he gave me when he went away. It was not an impudent look—I exonerate him from that—it was a look of reverential, tender adoration. Ha, ha! he’s not quite such a stupid blockhead as I thought him!”

I made no answer, for my heart was in my throat, or something like it, and I could not trust myself to speak.

“Oh, God, avert it!” I cried, internally—“for his sake, not for mine!”

Miss Murray made several trivial observations as we passed up the park, to which, (in spite of my reluctance to let one glimpse of my feelings appear,) I could only answer by monosyllables.

Whether she intended to torment me, or merely to amuse herself, I could not tell—and did not much care; but I thought of the poor man and his one lamb, and the rich man with his thousand flocks;^bw and I dreaded I knew not what for Mr. Weston, independently of my own blighted hopes.

Right glad was I to get into the house, and find myself alone once more in my own room. My first impulse was to sink into the chair beside the bed, and laying my head on the pillow, to seek relief in a passionate burst of tears: there was an imperative craving for such an indulgence; but alas! I must restrain and swallow back my feelings still: there was the bell—the odious bell for the school-room dinner; and I must go down with a calm face, and smile, and laugh, and talk nonsense—yes; and eat too, if possible, as if all was right, and I was just returned from a pleasant walk.

CHAPTER XVI

The Substitution

Next Sunday was one of the gloomiest of April days, a day of thick, dark clouds, and heavy showers. None of the Murrays were disposed to attend church in the afternoon, excepting Rosalie: she was bent upon going as usual; so she ordered the carriage, and I went with her, nothing loth of course, for at church I might look without fear of scorn or censure upon a form and face more pleasing to me than the most beautiful of God’s creations; I might listen without disturbance to a voice more charming than the sweetest music to my ears; I might seem to hold communion with that soul in which I felt so deeply interested, and imbibe its purest thoughts and holiest aspirations, with no alloy to such felicity, except the secret reproaches of my conscience which would too often whisper that I was deceiving my own self, and mocking God with the service of a heart more bent upon the creature than the creator.

Sometimes, such thoughts would give me trouble enough; but sometimes, I could quiet them with thinking.

It is not the man, it is his goodness that I love.

“Whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are honest and of good report, think on these things.”^bx

We do well to worship God in His works; and I know none of them in which so many of His attributes—so much of His own spirit shines, as this His faithful servant, whom to know and not to appreciate, were obtuse insensibility in me, who have so little else to occupy my heart.

Almost immediately after the conclusion of the service, Miss Murray left the church. We had to stand in the porch; for it was raining, and the carriage was not yet come. I wondered at her coming forth so hastily, for neither young Meltham nor Squire Green were there; but I soon found it was to secure an interview with Mr. Weston as he came out, which he presently did, and, having saluted us both, would have passed on, but she detained him; first with observations upon the disagreeable weather, and then with asking if he would be so kind as to come sometime to-morrow to see the granddaughter of the old woman who kept the porter’s lodge, for the girl was ill of a fever, and wished to see him. He promised to do so.

“And at what time will you be most likely to come, Mr. Weston? The old woman will like to know when to expect you—you know such people think more about having their cottages in order when decent people come to see them than we are apt to suppose.”

Here was a wonderful instance of consideration from the thoughtless Miss Murray.

Mr. Weston named an hour in the morning at which he would endeavour to be there. By this time the carriage was ready, and the footman was waiting, with an open umbrella, to escort Miss Murray through the church-yard. I was about to follow; but Mr. Weston had an umbrella too, and offered me the benefit of its shelter, for it was raining heavily.

“No, thank you, I don’t mind the rain,” I said.

I always lacked common sense when taken by surprise.

“But you don’t like it I suppose?—an umbrella will do you no harm at any rate,” he replied, with a smile that shewed he was not offended, as a man of worse temper or less penetration would have been at such a refusal of his aid.

I could not deny the truth of his assertion, and so went with him to the carriage; he even offered me his hand on getting in, an unnecessary piece of civility, but I accepted that too for fear of giving offence. One glance he gave, one little smile at parting—it was but for a moment, but therein I read, or thought I read a meaning that kindled in my heart a brighter flame of hope than had ever yet arisen.

“I would have sent the footman back for you, Miss Grey, if you’d waited a moment—you needn’t to have taken^by Mr. Weston’s umbrella,” observed Rosalie, with a very unamiable cloud upon her pretty face.

“I would have come without an umbrella, but Mr. Weston offered me the benefit of his and I could not have refused it, more than I did, without offending him,” replied I, smiling placidly, for my inward happiness made that amusing, which would have wounded me at another time.

The carriage was now in motion. Miss Murray bent forwards, and looked out of the window as we were passing Mr. Weston. He was pacing homewards along the causeway, and did not turn his head.

“Stupid ass!” cried she throwing herself back again in the seat. “You don’t know what you’ve lost by not looking this way!”

“What has he lost?”

“A bow from me, that would have raised him to the seventh heaven!”

I made no answer. I saw she was out of humour, and I derived a secret gratification from the fact; not that she was vexed, but that she thought she had reason to be so. It made me think my hopes were not entirely the offspring of my wishes and imagination.

“I mean to take up Mr. Weston instead of Mr. Hatfield,” said my companion after a short pause, resuming something of her usual cheerfulness. “The ball at Ashby Park takes place on Tuesday you know; and mamma thinks it very likely that Sir Thomas will propose to me then—such things are often done in the privacy of the ball-room, when gentlemen are most easily ensnared, and ladies most enchanting:—but if I am to be married so soon, I must make the best of the present time: I am determined Hatfield shall not be the only man who shall lay his heart at my feet, and implore me to accept the worthless gift in vain.”

“If you mean Mr. Weston to be one of your victims,” said I, with affected indifference, “you will have to make such over-turesyourself, that you will find it difficult to draw back when he asks you to fulfil the expectations you have raised.”

“I don’t suppose he will ask me to marry him—nor should I desire it ... that would be rather too much presumption! but I intend him to feel my power—he has felt it already, indeed—but he shall acknowledge it too; and what visionary hopes he may have, he must keep to himself, and only amuse me with the result of them—for a time.”

“Oh! that some kind spirit would whisper those words in his ear!” I inwardly exclaimed. I was far too indignant to hazard a reply to her observation aloud; and nothing more was said about Mr. Weston that day, by me or in my hearing.

But next morning, soon after breakfast, Miss Murray came into the school-room where her sister was employed with me at her studies ... or rather her lessons, for studies they were not ... and said,

“Matilda, I want you to take a walk with me about eleven o’clock.”

“Oh, I can’t Rosalie! I’ve got to give orders about my new bridle and saddle-cloth, and to speak to the rat-catcher about his dogs . . . Miss Grey must go with you.”

“No, I want you,” said Rosalie; and calling her sister to the window, she whispered an explanation in her ear, upon which the latter consented to go.

I remembered that eleven was the hour at which Mr. Weston proposed to come to the porter’s lodge; and remembering that, I beheld the whole contrivance.

Accordingly at dinner, I was entertained with a long account of how Mr. Weston had overtaken them as they were walking along the road; and how they had had a long walk and talk with him, and really found him quite an agreeable companion; and how he must have been, and evidently was, delighted with them and their amazing condescension, &c., &c.

CHAPTER XVII

Confessions

As I am in the way of confessions, I may as well acknowl edge that, about this time, I paid more attention to dress than ever I had done before . . . this is not saying much, for hitherto I had been a little neglectful in that particular ... but now, also, it was no uncommon thing to spend as much as two minutes in the contemplation of my own image in the glass; though I never could derive any consolation from such a study: I could discover no beauty in those marked features, that pale hollow cheek, and ordinary dark brown hair; there might be intellect in the forehead, there might be expression in the dark grey eyes, but what of that? ... a low Grecian brow, and large black eyes devoid of sentiment would be esteemed far preferable.

It is foolish to wish for beauty. Sensible people never either desire it for themselves or care about it in others. If the mind be but well cultivated, and the heart well disposed, no one ever cares for the exterior.

So said the teachers of our childhood; and so say we to the children of the present day. All very judicious and proper no doubt; but are such assertions supported by actual experience?

We are naturally disposed to love what gives us pleasure, and what more pleasing than a beautiful face ... when we know no harm of the possessor at least? A little girl loves her bird.... Why? ... Because it lives and feels, because it is helpless and harmless. A toad, likewise, lives and feels, and is equally helpless and harmless; but though she would not hurt a toad, she cannot love it like the bird with its graceful form, soft feathers, and bright, speaking eyes. If a woman is fair and amiable, she is praised for both qualities, but especially the former, by the bulk of mankind: if, on the other hand, she is disagreeable in person and character, her plainness is commonly inveighed against as her greatest crime, because to common observers, it gives the greatest offence; while, if she is plain and good, provided she is a person of retired manners and secluded life, no one ever knows of her goodness, except her immediate connections; others, on the contrary, are disposed to form unfavourable opinions of her mind and disposition, if it be but to excuse themselves for their instinctive dislike of one so un-favoured by nature; and vice versa with her whose angel form conceals a vicious heart, or sheds a false, deceitful charm over defects and foibles that would not be tolerated in another.

They that have beauty, let them be thankful for it, and make a good use of it, like any other talent: they that have it not, let them console themselves, and do the best they can without it—certainly, though liable to be overestimated, it is a gift of God, and not to be despised. Many will feel this, who have felt that they could love, and whose hearts tell them they are worthy to be loved again, while yet they are debarred, by the lack of this, or some such seeming trifle from giving and receiving that happiness they seem almost made to feel and to impart. As well might the humble glow-worm despise that power of giving light, without which, the roving fly might pass her and repass her a thousand times, and never light beside her; he vainly seeking her, she longing to be found, but with no power to make her presence known, no voice to call him, no wings to follow his flight; ... the fly must seek another mate, the worm must live and die alone.

Such were some of my reflections about this period. I might go on prosing more and more, I might dive much deeper, and disclose other thoughts, propose questions the reader might be puzzled to answer, and deduce arguments that might startle his prejudices, or perhaps provoke his ridicule, because he could not comprehend them; but I forbear.

Now, therefore, let us return to Miss Murray. She accompanied her mamma to the ball on Tuesday; of course, splendidly attired, and delighted with her prospects and her charms. As Ashby Park was nearly ten miles distant from Horton Lodge, they had to set out pretty early, and I intended to have spent the evening with Nancy Brown, whom I had not seen for a long time; but my kind pupil took care I should spend it neither there nor anywhere else beyond the limits of the school-room by giving me a piece of music to copy, which kept me closely occupied till bed-time.

About eleven next morning, as soon as she had left her room, she came to tell me her news. Sir Thomas had indeed proposed to her at the ball, an event which reflected great credit on her mamma’s sagacity, if not upon her skill in contrivance; I rather incline to the belief that she had first laid her plans, and then predicted their success.

The offer had been accepted of course, and the bridegroom elect was coming that day to settle matters with Mr. Murray.

Rosalie was pleased with the thoughts of becoming mistress of Ashby Park; she was elated with the prospect of the bridal ceremony and its attendant splendour and eclat, the honeymoon spent abroad, and the subsequent gaieties she expected to enjoy in London and elsewhere; she appeared pretty well pleased too, for the time being, with Sir Thomas himself, because she had so lately seen him, danced with him, and been flattered by him; but, after all, she seemed to shrink from the idea of being so soon united: she wished the ceremony to be delayed some months, at least; and I wished it too. It seemed a horrible thing to hurry out the inauspicious match, and not to give the poor creature time to think and reason on the irrevocable step she was about to take. I made no pretension to “a mother’s watchful, anxious care,” but I was amazed and horrified at Mrs. Murray’s heartlessness, or want of thought for the real good of her child; and, by my unheeded warnings and exhortations, I vainly strove to remedy the evil. Miss Murray only laughed at what I said; and I soon found that her reluctance to an immediate union arose chiefly from a desire to do what execution she could among the young gentlemen of her acquaintance before she was incapacitated from further mischief of the kind. It was for this cause that, before confiding to me the secret of her engagement, she had extracted a promise that I would not mention a word on the subject to any one. And when I saw this, and when I beheld her plunge more recklessly than ever into the depths of heartless coquetry, I had no more pity for her.

“Come what will,” I thought, “she deserves it. Sir Thomas cannot be too bad for her; and the sooner she is incapacitated from deceiving and injuring others the better.”

The wedding was fixed for the first of June. Between that and the critical ball was little more than six weeks; but, with Rosalie’s accomplished skill and resolute exertion, much might be done, even within that period, especially as Sir Thomas spent most of the interim in London, whither he went up, it was said, to settle affairs with his lawyer, and make other preparations for the approaching nuptials.

He endeavoured to supply the want of his presence by a pretty constant fire of billet-doux;^bz but these did not attract the neighbours’ attention, and open their eyes as personal visits would have done; and old Lady Ashby’s haughty, sour spirit of reserve withheld her from spreading the news, while her indifferent health prevented her coming to visit her future daughter-in-law; so that, altogether, this affair was kept far closer than such things usually are.

Rosalie would sometimes shew her lover’s epistles to me to convince me what a kind, devoted husband he would make. She shewed me the letters of another individual too, the unfortunate Mr. Green, who had not the courage, or, as she expressed it, the “spunk”^ca to plead his cause in person, but whom one denial would not satisfy; he must write again and again.

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 525