THE following day was as fine
as the preceding one. Soon after
breakfast Miss Matilda, having
galloped and blundered through
a few unprofitable lessons, and
vengeably thumped the piano for
an hour, in a terrible humour
with both me and it, because
her mamma would not give her
a holiday, had betaken herself
to her favourite places of resort,
the yards, the stables, and the
dog-kennels; and Miss Murray
was gone forth to enjoy a quiet
ramble with a new fashionable
novel for her companion, leaving
me in the schoolroom hard at
work upon a water-colour drawing
which I had promised to do for
her, and which she insisted upon
my finishing that day.
At my feet lay a little rough
terrier. It was the property
of Miss Matilda; but she hated
the animal, and intended to sell
it, alleging that it was quite
spoiled. It was really an excellent
dog of its kind; but she affirmed
it was fit for nothing, and had
not even the sense to know its
own mistress.
The fact was she had purchased
it when but a small puppy, insisting
at first that no one should touch
it but herself; but soon becoming
tired of so helpless and troublesome
a nursling, she had gladly yielded
to my entreaties to be allowed
to take charge of it; and I,
by carefully nursing the little
creature from infancy to adolescence,
of course, had obtained its affections:
a reward I should have greatly
valued, and looked upon as far
outweighing all the trouble I
had had with it, had not poor
Snap's grateful feelings exposed
him to many a harsh word and
many a spiteful kick and pinch
from his owner, and were he not
now in danger of being 'put away'
in consequence, or transferred
to some rough, stony- hearted
master. But how could I help
it? I could not make the dog
hate me by cruel treatment, and
she would not propitiate him
by kindness.
However, while I thus sat,
working away with my pencil,
Mrs. Murray came, half-sailing,
half-bustling, into the room.
'Miss Grey,' she began, - 'dear!
how can you sit at your drawing
such a day as this?' (She thought
I was doing it for my own pleasure.)
'I WONDER you don't put on your
bonnet and go out with the young
ladies.'
'I think, ma'am, Miss Murray
is reading; and Miss Matilda
is amusing herself with her dogs.'
'If you would try to amuse
Miss Matilda yourself a little
more, I think she would not be
driven to seek amusement in the
companionship of dogs and horses
and grooms, so much as she is;
and if you would be a little
more cheerful and conversable
with Miss Murray, she would not
so often go wandering in the
fields with a book in her hand.
However, I don't want to vex
you,' added she, seeing, I suppose,
that my cheeks burned and my
hand trembled with some unamiable
emotion. 'Do, pray, try not to
be so touchy - there's no speaking
to you else. And tell me if you
know where Rosalie is gone: and
why she likes to be so much alone?'
'She says she likes to be alone
when she has a new book to read.'
'But why can't she read it
in the park or the garden? -
why should she go into the fields
and lanes? And how is it that
that Mr. Hatfield so often finds
her out? She told me last week
he'd walked his horse by her
side all up Moss Lane; and now
I'm sure it was he I saw, from
my dressing-room window, walking
so briskly past the park-gates,
and on towards the field where
she so frequently goes. I wish
you would go and see if she is
there; and just gently remind
her that it is not proper for
a young lady of her rank and
prospects to be wandering about
by herself in that manner, exposed
to the attentions of anyone that
presumes to address her; like
some poor neglected girl that
has no park to walk in, and no
friends to take care of her:
and tell her that her papa would
be extremely angry if he knew
of her treating Mr. Hatfield
in the familiar manner that I
fear she does; and - oh! if you
- if ANY governess had but half
a mother's watchfulness - half
a mother's anxious care, I should
be saved this trouble; and you
would see at once the necessity
of keeping your eye upon her,
and making your company agreeable
to - Well, go - go; there's no
time to be lost,' cried she,
seeing that I had put away my
drawing materials, and was waiting
in the doorway for the conclusion
of her address.
According to her prognostications,
I found Miss Murray in her favourite
field just without the park;
and, unfortunately, not alone;
for the tall, stately figure
of Mr. Hatfield was slowly sauntering
by her side.
Here was a poser for me. It
was my duty to interrupt the
TETE-A- TETE: but how was it
to be done? Mr. Hatfield could
not to be driven away by so insignificant
person as I; and to go and place
myself on the other side of Miss
Murray, and intrude my unwelcome
presence upon her without noticing
her companion, was a piece of
rudeness I could not be guilty
of: neither had I the courage
to cry aloud from the top of
the field that she was wanted
elsewhere. So I took the intermediate
course of walking slowly but
steadily towards them; resolving,
if my approach failed to scare
away the beau, to pass by and
tell Miss Murray her mamma wanted
her.
She certainly looked very charming
as she strolled, lingering along
under the budding horse-chestnut
trees that stretched their long
arms over the park-palings; with
her closed book in one hand,
and in the other a graceful sprig
of myrtle, which served her as
a very pretty plaything; her
bright ringlets escaping profusely
from her little bonnet, and gently
stirred by the breeze, her fair
cheek flushed with gratified
vanity, her smiling blue eyes,
now slyly glancing towards her
admirer, now gazing downward
at her myrtle sprig. But Snap,
running before me, interrupted
her in the midst of some half-pert,
half-playful repartee, by catching
hold of her dress and vehemently
tugging thereat; till Mr. Hatfield,
with his cane, administered a
resounding thwack upon the animal's
skull, and sent it yelping back
to me with a clamorous outcry
that afforded the reverend gentleman
great amusement: but seeing me
so near, he thought, I suppose,
he might as well be taking his
departure; and, as I stooped
to caress the dog, with ostentatious
pity to show my disapproval of
his severity, I heard him say:
'When shall I see you again,
Miss Murray?'
'At church, I suppose,' replied
she, 'unless your business chances
to bring you here again at the
precise moment when I happen
to be walking by.'
'I could always manage to have
business here, if I knew precisely
when and where to find you.'
'But if I would, I could not
inform you, for I am so immethodical,
I never can tell to-day what
I shall do tomorrow.'
'Then give me that, meantime,
to comfort me,' said he, half
jestingly and half in earnest,
extending his hand for the sprig
of myrtle.
'No, indeed, I shan't.'
'Do! PRAY do! I shall be the
most miserable of men if you
don't. You cannot be so cruel
as to deny me a favour so easily
granted and yet so highly prized!'
pleaded he as ardently as if
his life depended on it.
By this time I stood within
a very few yards of them, impatiently
waiting his departure.
'There then! take it and go,'
said Rosalie.
He joyfully received the gift,
murmured something that made
her blush and toss her head,
but with a little laugh that
showed her displeasure was entirely
affected; and then with a courteous
salutation withdrew.
'Did you ever see such a man,
Miss Grey?' said she, turning
to me; 'I'm so GLAD you came!
I thought I never SHOULD, get
rid of him; and I was so terribly
afraid of papa seeing him.'
'Has he been with you long?'
'No, not long, but he's so
extremely impertinent: and he's
always hanging about, pretending
his business or his clerical
duties require his attendance
in these parts, and really watching
for poor me, and pouncing upon
me wherever he sees me.'
'Well, your mamma thinks you
ought not to go beyond the park
or garden without some discreet,
matronly person like me to accompany
you, and keep off all intruders.
She descried Mr. Hatfield hurrying
past the park-gates, and forthwith
despatched me with instructions
to seek you up and to take care
of you, and likewise to warn
- '
'Oh, mamma's so tiresome! As
if I couldn't take care of myself.
She bothered me before about
Mr. Hatfield; and I told her
she might trust me: I never should
forget my rank and station for
the most delightful man that
ever breathed. I wish he would
go down on his knees to-morrow,
and implore me to be his wife,
that I might just show her how
mistaken she is in supposing
that I could ever - Oh, it provokes
me so! To think that I could
be such a fool as to fall in
LOVE! It is quite beneath the
dignity of a woman to do such
a thing. Love! I detest the word!
As applied to one of our sex,
I think it a perfect insult.
A preference I MIGHT acknowledge;
but never for one like poor Mr.
Hatfield, who has not seven hundred
a year to bless himself with.
I like to talk to him, because
he's so clever and amusing -
I wish Sir Thomas Ashby were
half as nice; besides, I must
have SOMEBODY to flirt with,
and no one else has the sense
to come here; and when we go
out, mamma won't let me flirt
with anybody but Sir Thomas -
if he's there; and if he's NOT
there, I'm bound hand and foot,
for fear somebody should go and
make up some exaggerated story,
and put it into his head that
I'm engaged, or likely to be
engaged, to somebody else; or,
what is more probable, for fear
his nasty old mother should see
or hear of my ongoings, and conclude
that I'm not a fit wife for her
excellent son: as if the said
son were not the greatest scamp
in Christendom; and as if any
woman of common decency were
not a world too good for him.'
'Is it really so, Miss Murray?
and does your mamma know it,
and yet wish you to marry him?'
'To be sure, she does! She
knows more against him than I
do, I believe: she keeps it from
me lest I should be discouraged;
not knowing how little I care
about such things. For it's no
great matter, really: he'll be
all right when he's married,
as mamma says; and reformed rakes
make the best husbands, EVERYBODY
knows. I only wish he were not
so ugly - THAT'S all I think
about: but then there's no choice
here in the country; and papa
WILL NOT let us go to London
- '
'But I should think Mr. Hatfield
would be far better.'
'And so he would, if he were
lord of Ashby Park - there's
not a doubt of it: but the fact
is, I MUST have Ashby Park, whoever
shares it with me.'
'But Mr. Hatfield thinks you
like him all this time; you don't
consider how bitterly he will
be disappointed when he finds
himself mistaken.'
'NO, indeed! It will be a proper
punishment for his presumption
- for ever DARING to think I
could like him. I should enjoy
nothing so much as lifting the
veil from his eyes.'
'The sooner you do it the better
then.'
'No; I tell you, I like to
amuse myself with him. Besides,
he doesn't really think I like
him. I take good care of that:
you don't know how cleverly I
manage. He may presume to think
he can induce me to like him;
for which I shall punish him
as he deserves.'
'Well, mind you don't give
too much reason for such presumption
- that's all,' replied I.
But all my exhortations were
in vain: they only made her somewhat
more solicitous to disguise her
wishes and her thoughts from
me. She talked no more to me
about the Rector; but I could
see that her mind, if not her
heart, was fixed upon him still,
and that she was intent upon
obtaining another interview:
for though, in compliance with
her mother's request, I was now
constituted the companion of
her rambles for a time, she still
persisted in wandering in the
fields and lanes that lay in
the nearest proximity to the
road; and, whether she talked
to me or read the book she carried
in her hand, she kept continually
pausing to look round her, or
gaze up the road to see if anyone
was coming; and if a horseman
trotted by, I could tell by her
unqualified abuse of the poor
equestrian, whoever he might
be, that she hated him BECAUSE
he was not Mr. Hatfield.
'Surely,' thought I, 'she is
not so indifferent to him as
she believes herself to be, or
would have others to believe
her; and her mother's anxiety
is not so wholly causeless as
she affirms.'
Three days passed away, and
he did not make his appearance.
On the afternoon of the fourth,
as we were walking beside the
park-palings in the memorable
field, each furnished with a
book (for I always took care
to provide myself with something
to be doing when she did not
require me to talk), she suddenly
interrupted my studies by exclaiming
-
'Oh, Miss Grey! do be so kind
as to go and see Mark Wood, and
take his wife half-a-crown from
me - I should have given or sent
it a week ago, but quite forgot.
There!' said she, throwing me
her purse, and speaking very
fast - 'Never mind getting it
out now, but take the purse and
give them what you like; I would
go with you, but I want to finish
this volume. I'll come and meet
you when I've done it. Be quick,
will you - and - oh, wait; hadn't
you better read to him a bit?
Run to the house and get some
sort of a good book. Anything
will do.'
I did as I was desired; but,
suspecting something from her
hurried manner and the suddenness
of the request, I just glanced
back before I quitted the field,
and there was Mr. Hatfield about
to enter at the gate below. By
sending me to the house for a
book, she had just prevented
my meeting him on the road.
'Never mind!' thought I, 'there'll
be no great harm done. Poor Mark
will be glad of the half-crown,
and perhaps of the good book
too; and if the Rector does steal
Miss Rosalie's heart, it will
only humble her pride a little;
and if they do get married at
last, it will only save her from
a worse fate; and she will be
quite a good enough partner for
him, and he for her.'
Mark Wood was the consumptive
labourer whom I mentioned before.
He was now rapidly wearing away.
Miss Murray, by her liberality,
obtained literally the blessing
of him that was ready to perish;
for though the half-crown could
be of very little service to
him, he was glad of it for the
sake of his wife and children,
so soon to be widowed and fatherless.
After I had sat a few minutes,
and read a little for the comfort
and edification of himself and
his afflicted wife, I left them;
but I had not proceeded fifty
yards before I encountered Mr.
Weston, apparently on his way
to the same abode. He greeted
me in his usual quiet, unaffected
way, stopped to inquire about
the condition of the sick man
and his family, and with a sort
of unconscious, brotherly disregard
to ceremony took from my hand
the book out of which I had been
reading, turned over its pages,
made a few brief but very sensible
remarks, and restored it; then
told me about some poor sufferer
he had just been visiting, talked
a little about Nancy Brown, made
a few observations upon my little
rough friend the terrier, that
was frisking at his feet, and
finally upon the beauty of the
weather, and departed.
I have omitted to give a detail
of his words, from a notion that
they would not interest the reader
as they did me, and not because
I have forgotten them. No; I
remember them well; for I thought
them over and over again in the
course of that day and many succeeding
ones, I know not how often; and
recalled every intonation of
his deep, clear voice, every
flash of his quick, brown eye,
and every gleam of his pleasant,
but too transient smile. Such
a confession will look very absurd,
I fear: but no matter: I have
written it: and they that read
it will not know the writer.
While I was walking along,
happy within, and pleased with
all around, Miss Murray came
hastening to meet me; her buoyant
step, flushed cheek, and radiant
smiles showing that she, too,
was happy, in her own way. Running
up to me, she put her arm through
mine, and without waiting to
recover breath, began - 'Now,
Miss Grey, think yourself highly
honoured, for I'm come to tell
you my news before I've breathed
a word of it to anyone else.'
'Well, what is it?'
'Oh, SUCH news! In the first
place, you must know that Mr.
Hatfield came upon me just after
you were gone. I was in such
a way for fear papa or mamma
should see him; but you know
I couldn't call you back again,
and so! - oh, dear! I can't tell
you all about it now, for there's
Matilda, I see, in the park,
and I must go and open my budget
to her. But, however, Hatfield
was most uncommonly audacious,
unspeakably complimentary, and
unprecedentedly tender - tried
to be so, at least - he didn't
succeed very well in THAT, because
it's not his vein. I'll tell
you all he said another time.'
'But what did YOU say - I'm
more interested in that?'
'I'll tell you that, too, at
some future period. I happened
to be in a very good humour just
then; but, though I was complaisant
and gracious enough, I took care
not to compromise myself in any
possible way. But, however, the
conceited wretch chose to interpret
my amiability of temper his own
way, and at length presumed upon
my indulgence so far - what do
you think? - he actually made
me an offer!'
'And you - '
'I proudly drew myself up,
and with the greatest coolness
expressed my astonishment at
such an occurrence, and hoped
he had seen nothing in my conduct
to justify his expectations.
You should have SEEN how his
countenance fell! He went perfectly
white in the face. I assured
him that I esteemed him and all
that, but could not possibly
accede to his proposals; and
if I did, papa and mamma could
never be brought to give their
consent.'
'"But if they could," said
he, "would yours be wanting?"
'"Certainly, Mr. Hatfield," I
replied, with a cool decision
which quelled all hope at once.
Oh, if you had seen how dreadfully
mortified he was - how crushed
to the earth by his disappointment!
really, I almost pitied him myself.
'One more desperate
attempt, however, he made.
After a silence
of considerable duration, during
which he struggled to be calm,
and I to be grave - for I felt
a strong propensity to laugh
- which would have ruined all
- he said, with the ghost of
a smile - "But tell me plainly,
Miss Murray, if I had the wealth
of Sir Hugh Meltham, or the prospects
of his eldest son, would you
still refuse me? Answer me truly,
upon your honour."
'"Certainly," said I. "That
would make no difference whatever."
'It was a great lie, but he
looked so confident in his own
attractions still, that I determined
not to leave him one stone upon
another. He looked me full in
the face; but I kept my countenance
so well that he could not imagine
I was saying anything more than
the actual truth.
'"Then it's all over, I suppose," he
said, looking as if he could
have died on the spot with vexation
and the intensity of his despair.
But he was angry as well as disappointed.
There was he, suffering so unspeakably,
and there was I, the pitiless
cause of it all, so utterly impenetrable
to all the artillery of his looks
and words, so calmly cold and
proud, he could not but feel
some resentment; and with singular
bitterness he began - "I certainly
did not expect this, Miss Murray.
I might say something about your
past conduct, and the hopes you
have led me to foster, but I
forbear, on condition - "
'"No conditions, Mr. Hatfield!" said
I, now truly indignant at his
insolence.
'"Then let me beg it as a favour," he
replied, lowering his voice at
once, and taking a humbler tone: "let
me entreat that you will not
mention this affair to anyone
whatever. If you will keep silence
about it, there need be no unpleasantness
on either side - nothing, I mean,
beyond what is quite unavoidable:
for my own feelings I will endeavour
to keep to myself, if I cannot
annihilate them - I will try
to forgive, if I cannot forget
the cause of my sufferings. I
will not suppose, Miss Murray,
that you know how deeply you
have injured me. I would not
have you aware of it; but if,
in addition to the injury you
have already done me - pardon
me, but, whether innocently or
not, you HAVE done it - and if
you add to it by giving publicity
to this unfortunate affair, or
naming it AT ALL, you will find
that I too can speak, and though
you scorned my love, you will
hardly scorn my - "
'He stopped,
but he bit his bloodless lip,
and looked so
terribly fierce that I was quite
frightened. However, my pride
upheld me still, and I answered
disdainfully; "I do not know
what motive you suppose I could
have for naming it to anyone,
Mr. Hatfield; but if I were disposed
to do so, you would not deter
me by threats; and it is scarcely
the part of a gentleman to attempt
it."
'"Pardon me, Miss Murray," said
he, "I have loved you so intensely
- I do still adore you so deeply,
that I would not willingly offend
you; but though I never have
loved, and never CAN love any
woman as I have loved you, it
is equally certain that I never
was so ill- treated by any. On
the contrary, I have always found
your sex the kindest and most
tender and obliging of God's
creation, till now." (Think of
the conceited fellow saying that!) "And
the novelty and harshness of
the lesson you have taught me
to-day, and the bitterness of
being disappointed in the only
quarter on which the happiness
of my life depended, must excuse
any appearance of asperity. If
my presence is disagreeable to
you, Miss Murray," he said (for
I was looking about me to show
how little I cared for him, so
he thought I was tired of him,
I suppose) - "if my presence
is disagreeable to you, Miss
Murray, you have only to promise
me the favour I named, and I
will relieve you at once. There
are many ladies - some even in
this parish - who would be delighted
to accept what you have so scornfully
trampled under your feet. They
would be naturally inclined to
hate one whose surpassing loveliness
has so completely estranged my
heart from them and blinded me
to their attractions; and a single
hint of the truth from me to
one of these would be sufficient
to raise such a talk against
you as would seriously injure
your prospects, and diminish
your chance of success with any
other gentleman you or your mamma
might design to entangle."
'"What do your mean, sir?" said
I, ready to stamp with passion.
'"I mean that
this affair from beginning
to end appears to me
like a case of arrant flirtation,
to say the least of it - such
a case as you would find it rather
inconvenient to have blazoned
through the world: especially
with the additions and exaggerations
of your female rivals, who would
be too glad to publish the matter,
if I only gave them a handle
to it. But I promise you, on
the faith of a gentleman, that
no word or syllable that could
tend to your prejudice shall
ever escape my lips, provided
you will - "
'"Well, well, I won't mention
it," said I. "You may rely upon
my silence, if that can afford
you any consolation."
'"You promise
it?"
'"Yes," I answered;
for I wanted to get rid of
him now.
'"Farewell, then!" said
he, in a most doleful, heart-sick
tone; and with a look where pride
vainly struggled against despair,
he turned and went away: longing,
no doubt, to get home, that he
might shut himself up in his
study and cry - if he doesn't
burst into tears before he gets
there.'
'But you have broken your promise
already,' said I, truly horrified
at her perfidy.
'Oh! it's only to you; I know
you won't repeat it.'
'Certainly, I shall not: but
you say you are going to tell
your sister; and she will tell
your brothers when they come
home, and Brown immediately,
if you do not tell her yourself;
and Brown will blazon it, or
be the means of blazoning it,
throughout the country.'
'No, indeed, she won't. We
shall not tell her at all, unless
it be under the promise of the
strictest secrecy.'
'But how can you expect her
to keep her promises better than
her more enlightened mistress?'
'Well, well, she shan't hear
it then,' said Miss Murray, somewhat
snappishly.
'But you will tell your mamma,
of course,' pursued I; 'and she
will tell your papa.'
'Of course I shall tell mamma
- that is the very thing that
pleases me so much. I shall now
be able to convince her how mistaken
she was in her fears about me.'
'Oh, THAT'S it, is it? I was
wondering what it was that delighted
you so much.'
'Yes; and another thing is,
that I've humbled Mr. Hatfield
so charmingly; and another -
why, you must allow me some share
of female vanity: I don't pretend
to be without that most essential
attribute of our sex - and if
you had seen poor Hatfield's
intense eagerness in making his
ardent declaration and his flattering
proposal, and his agony of mind,
that no effort of pride could
conceal, on being refused, you
would have allowed I had some
cause to be gratified.'
'The greater his agony, I should
think, the less your cause for
gratification.'
'Oh, nonsense!' cried the young
lady, shaking herself with vexation.
'You either can't understand
me, or you won't. If I had not
confidence in your magnanimity,
I should think you envied me.
But you will, perhaps, comprehend
this cause of pleasure - which
is as great as any - namely,
that I am delighted with myself
for my prudence, my self-command,
my heartlessness, if you please.
I was not a bit taken by surprise,
not a bit confused, or awkward,
or foolish; I just acted and
spoke as I ought to have done,
and was completely my own mistress
throughout. And here was a man,
decidedly good-looking - Jane
and Susan Green call him bewitchingly
handsome I suppose they're two
of the ladies he pretends would
be so glad to have him; but,
however, he was certainly a very
clever, witty, agreeable companion
- not what you call clever, but
just enough to make him entertaining;
and a man one needn't be ashamed
of anywhere, and would not soon
grow tired of; and to confess
the truth, I rather liked him
- better even, of late, than
Harry Meltham - and he evidently
idolised me; and yet, though
he came upon me all alone and
unprepared, I had the wisdom,
and the pride, and the strength
to refuse him - and so scornfully
and coolly as I did: I have good
reason to be proud of that.'
'And are you equally proud
of having told him that his having
the wealth of Sir Hugh Meltham
would make no difference to you,
when that was not the case; and
of having promised to tell no
one of his misadventure, apparently
without the slightest intention
of keeping your promise?'
'Of course! what else could
I do? You would not have had
me - but I see, Miss Grey, you're
not in a good temper. Here's
Matilda; I'll see what she and
mamma have to say about it.'
She left me, offended at my
want of sympathy, and thinking,
no doubt, that I envied her.
I did not - at least, I firmly
believed I did not. I was sorry
for her; I was amazed, disgusted
at her heartless vanity; I wondered
why so much beauty should be
given to those who made so bad
a use of it, and denied to some
who would make it a benefit to
both themselves and others.
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.
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