AS I am in the way of confessions
I may as well acknowledge 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 unfavoured by nature;
and VISA 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 over-estimated, 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 that 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 glowworm despise that
power of giving light without
which the roving fly might pass
her and repass her a thousand
times, and never rest beside
her: she might hear her winged
darling buzzing over and around
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
schoolroom, 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 on
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 billets-doux; 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 show
her lover's epistles to me, to
convince me what a kind, devoted
husband he would make. She showed
me the letters of another individual,
too, the unfortunate Mr. Green,
who had not the courage, or,
as she expressed it, the 'spunk,'
to plead his cause in person,
but whom one denial would not
satisfy: he must write again
and again. He would not have
done so if he could have seen
the grimaces his fair idol made
over his moving appeals to her
feelings, and heard her scornful
laughter, and the opprobrious
epithets she heaped upon him
for his perseverance.
'Why don't you tell him, at
once, that you are engaged?'
I asked.
'Oh, I don't want him to know
that,' replied she. 'If he knew
it, his sisters and everybody
would know it, and then there
would be an end of my - ahem!
And, besides, if I told him that,
he would think my engagement
was the only obstacle, and that
I would have him if I were free;
which I could not bear that any
man should think, and he, of
all others, at least. Besides,
I don't care for his letters,'
she added, contemptuously; 'he
may write as often as he pleases,
and look as great a calf as he
likes when I meet him; it only
amuses me.'
Meantime, young Meltham was
pretty frequent in his visits
to the house or transits past
it; and, judging by Matilda's
execrations and reproaches, her
sister paid more attention to
him than civility required; in
other words, she carried on as
animated a flirtation as the
presence of her parents would
admit. She made some attempts
to bring Mr. Hatfield once more
to her feet; but finding them
unsuccessful, she repaid his
haughty indifference with still
loftier scorn, and spoke of him
with as much disdain and detestation
as she had formerly done of his
curate. But, amid all this, she
never for a moment lost sight
of Mr. Weston. She embraced every
opportunity of meeting him, tried
every art to fascinate him, and
pursued him with as much perseverance
as if she really loved him and
no other, and the happiness of
her life depended upon eliciting
a return of affection. Such conduct
was completely beyond my comprehension.
Had I seen it depicted in a novel,
I should have thought it unnatural;
had I heard it described by others,
I should have deemed it a mistake
or an exaggeration; but when
I saw it with my own eyes, and
suffered from it too, I could
only conclude that excessive
vanity, like drunkenness, hardens
the heart, enslaves the faculties,
and perverts the feelings; and
that dogs are not the only creatures
which, when gorged to the throat,
will yet gloat over what they
cannot devour, and grudge the
smallest morsel to a starving
brother.
She now became extremely beneficent
to the poor cottagers. Her acquaintance
among them was more widely extended,
her visits to their humble dwellings
were more frequent and excursive
than they had ever been before.
Hereby, she earned among them
the reputation of a condescending
and very charitable young lady;
and their encomiums were sure
to be repeated to Mr. Weston:
whom also she had thus a daily
chance of meeting in one or other
of their abodes, or in her transits
to and fro; and often, likewise,
she could gather, through their
gossip, to what places he was
likely to go at such and such
a time, whether to baptize a
child, or to visit the aged,
the sick, the sad, or the dying;
and most skilfully she laid her
plans accordingly. In these excursions
she would sometimes go with her
sister - whom, by some means,
she had persuaded or bribed to
enter into her schemes - sometimes
alone, never, now, with me; so
that I was debarred the pleasure
of seeing Mr. Weston, or hearing
his voice even in conversation
with another: which would certainly
have been a very great pleasure,
however hurtful or however fraught
with pain. I could not even see
him at church: for Miss Murray,
under some trivial pretext, chose
to take possession of that corner
in the family pew which had been
mine ever since I came; and,
unless I had the presumption
to station myself between Mr.
and Mrs. Murray, I must sit with
my back to the pulpit, which
I accordingly did.
Now, also, I never walked home
with my pupils: they said their
mamma thought it did not look
well to see three people out
of the family walking, and only
two going in the carriage; and,
as they greatly preferred walking
in fine weather, I should be
honoured by going with the seniors.
'And besides,' said they, 'you
can't walk as fast as we do;
you know you're always lagging
behind.' I knew these were false
excuses, but I made no objections,
and never contradicted such assertions,
well knowing the motives which
dictated them. And in the afternoons,
during those six memorable weeks,
I never went to church at all.
If I had a cold, or any slight
indisposition, they took advantage
of that to make me stay at home;
and often they would tell me
they were not going again that
day, themselves, and then pretend
to change their minds, and set
off without telling me: so managing
their departure that I never
discovered the change of purpose
till too late. Upon their return
home, on one of these occasions,
they entertained me with an animated
account of a conversation they
had had with Mr. Weston as they
came along. 'And he asked if
you were ill, Miss Grey,' said
Matilda; 'but we told him you
were quite well, only you didn't
want to come to church - so he'll
think you're turned wicked.'
All chance meetings on week-days
were likewise carefully prevented;
for, lest I should go to see
poor Nancy Brown or any other
person, Miss Murray took good
care to provide sufficient employment
for all my leisure hours. There
was always some drawing to finish,
some music to copy, or some work
to do, sufficient to incapacitate
me from indulging in anything
beyond a short walk about the
grounds, however she or her sister
might be occupied.
One morning, having sought
and waylaid Mr. Weston, they
returned in high glee to give
me an account of their interview.
'And he asked after you again,'
said Matilda, in spite of her
sister's silent but imperative
intimation that she should hold
her tongue. 'He wondered why
you were never with us, and thought
you must have delicate health,
as you came out so seldom.'
'He didn't Matilda - what nonsense
you're talking!'
'Oh, Rosalie, what a lie! He
did, you know; and you said -
Don't, Rosalie - hang it! - I
won't be pinched so! And, Miss
Grey, Rosalie told him you were
quite well, but you were always
so buried in your books that
you had no pleasure in anything
else.'
'What an idea he must have
of me!' I thought.
'And,' I asked, 'does old Nancy
ever inquire about me?'
'Yes; and we tell her you are
so fond of reading and drawing
that you can do nothing else.'
'That is not the case though;
if you had told her I was so
busy I could not come to see
her, it would have been nearer
the truth.'
'I don't think it would,' replied
Miss Murray, suddenly kindling
up; 'I'm sure you have plenty
of time to yourself now, when
you have so little teaching to
do.'
It was no use beginning to
dispute with such indulged, unreasoning
creatures: so I held my peace.
I was accustomed, now, to keeping
silence when things distasteful
to my ear were uttered; and now,
too, I was used to wearing a
placid smiling countenance when
my heart was bitter within me.
Only those who have felt the
like can imagine my feelings,
as I sat with an assumption of
smiling indifference, listening
to the accounts of those meetings
and interviews with Mr. Weston,
which they seemed to find such
pleasure in describing to me;
and hearing things asserted of
him which, from the character
of the man, I knew to be exaggerations
and perversions of the truth,
if not entirely false - things
derogatory to him, and flattering
to them - especially to Miss
Murray - which I burned to contradict,
or, at least, to show my doubts
about, but dared not; lest, in
expressing my disbelief, I should
display my interest too. Other
things I heard, which I felt
or feared were indeed too true:
but I must still conceal my anxiety
respecting him, my indignation
against them, beneath a careless
aspect; others, again, mere hints
of something said or done, which
I longed to hear more of, but
could not venture to inquire.
So passed the weary time. I could
not even comfort myself with
saying, 'She will soon be married;
and then there may be hope.'
Soon after her marriage the
holidays would come; and when
I returned from home, most likely,
Mr. Weston would be gone, for
I was told that he and the Rector
could not agree (the Rector's
fault, of course), and he was
about to remove to another place.
No - besides my hope in God,
my only consolation was in thinking
that, though he know it not,
I was more worthy of his love
than Rosalie Murray, charming
and engaging as she was; for
I could appreciate his excellence,
which she could not: I would
devote my life to the promotion
of his happiness; she would destroy
his happiness for the momentary
gratification of her own vanity.
'Oh, if he could but know the
difference!' I would earnestly
exclaim. 'But no! I would not
have him see my heart: yet, if
he could but know her hollowness,
her worthless, heartless frivolity,
he would then be safe, and I
should be - ALMOST happy, though
I might never see him more!'
I fear, by this time, the reader
is well nigh disgusted with the
folly and weakness I have so
freely laid before him. I never
disclosed it then, and would
not have done so had my own sister
or my mother been with me in
the house. I was a close and
resolute dissembler - in this
one case at least. My prayers,
my tears, my wishes, fears, and
lamentations, were witnessed
by myself and heaven alone.
When we are harassed by sorrows
or anxieties, or long oppressed
by any powerful feelings which
we must keep to ourselves, for
which we can obtain and seek
no sympathy from any living creature,
and which yet we cannot, or will
not wholly crush, we often naturally
seek relief in poetry - and often
find it, too - whether in the
effusions of others, which seem
to harmonize with our existing
case, or in our own attempts
to give utterance to those thoughts
and feelings in strains less
musical, perchance, but more
appropriate, and therefore more
penetrating and sympathetic,
and, for the time, more soothing,
or more powerful to rouse and
to unburden the oppressed and
swollen heart. Before this time,
at Wellwood House and here, when
suffering from home-sick melancholy,
I had sought relief twice or
thrice at this secret source
of consolation; and now I flew
to it again, with greater avidity
than ever, because I seemed to
need it more. I still preserve
those relics of past sufferings
and experience, like pillars
of witness set up in travelling
through the vale of life, to
mark particular occurrences.
The footsteps are obliterated
now; the face of the country
may be changed; but the pillar
is still there, to remind me
how all things were when it was
reared. Lest the reader should
be curious to see any of these
effusions, I will favour him
with one short specimen: cold
and languid as the lines may
seem, it was almost a passion
of grief to which they owed their
being:-
Oh, they have robbed me of
the hope My spirit held so dear;
They will not let me hear that
voice My soul delights to hear.
They will not let me see that
face I so delight to see; And
they have taken all thy smiles,
And all thy love from me.
Well, let them seize on all
they can; - One treasure still
is mine, - A heart that loves
to think on thee, And feels the
worth of thine.
Yes, at least, they could not
deprive me of that: I could think
of him day and night; and I could
feel that he was worthy to be
thought of. Nobody knew him as
I did; nobody could appreciate
him as I did; nobody could love
him as I - could, if I might:
but there was the evil. What
business had I to think so much
of one that never thought of
me? Was it not foolish? was it
not wrong? Yet, if I found such
deep delight in thinking of him,
and if I kept those thoughts
to myself, and troubled no one
else with them, where was the
harm of it? I would ask myself.
And such reasoning prevented
me from making any sufficient
effort to shake off my fetters.
But, if those thoughts brought
delight, it was a painful, troubled
pleasure, too near akin to anguish;
and one that did me more injury
than I was aware of. It was an
indulgence that a person of more
wisdom or more experience would
doubtless have denied herself.
And yet, how dreary to turn my
eyes from the contemplation of
that bright object and force
them to dwell on the dull, grey,
desolate prospect around: the
joyless, hopeless, solitary path
that lay before me. It was wrong
to be so joyless, so desponding;
I should have made God my friend,
and to do His will the pleasure
and the business of my life;
but faith was weak, and passion
was too strong.
In this time of trouble I had
two other causes of affliction.
The first may seem a trifle,
but it cost me many a tear: Snap,
my little dumb, rough-visaged,
but bright-eyed, warm-hearted
companion, the only thing I had
to love me, was taken away, and
delivered over to the tender
mercies of the village rat-catcher,
a man notorious for his brutal
treatment of his canine slaves.
The other was serious enough;
my letters from home gave intimation
that my father's health was worse.
No boding fears were expressed,
but I was grown timid and despondent,
and could not help fearing that
some dreadful calamity awaited
us there. I seemed to see the
black clouds gathering round
my native hills, and to hear
the angry muttering of a storm
that was about to burst, and
desolate our hearth.
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