Cast of Characters:
Agnes Grey: Amanda Friday
Edward Weston: Max Körlinge
Narrator/Mary Grey/Grandmama Bloomfield: CaprishaPage
Alice Grey: Tiffany Halla Colonna
Richard Grey: Aidan Brack
Mr. Murray/Uncle Robson: Anthony
Mrs. Murray/Jem's Wife: Elizabeth Klett
Rosalie Murray: Arielle Lipshaw
Matilda Murray: Elizabeth Barr
Mr. Hatfield: Algy Pug
Jem/Mr. Smith: Martin Geeson
Jem's Wife: Elizabeth Klett
Servant: Charlotte Duckett
Nancy Brown: Beth Thomas
Mrs. Bloomfield: Victoria Martin
Mr. Bloomfield: Robert Hoffman
Tom Bloomfield: Grace
Mary Ann Bloomfield: April Gonzales
Grandmama Bloomfield: CaprishaPage
Betty: Kristingj
Uncle Robson: Anthony
Narrator:CaprishaPage
Audio by Amanda Friday
CHAPTER I.
THE PARSONAGE
All true instruction; though, in some, the may be hard to find, and when found, so in quantity, that the dry, for the trouble of the nut. Whether this be the case with my history or not, I am to judge. I sometimes think it might prove useful to some, and to others; but the world may judge for itself. Shielded by my own obscurity, and by the of years, and a names, I do not to venture; and will the public what I would not to the most friend.
My father was a of the north of England, who was by all who him; and, in his days, on the joint of a small and a little property of his own. My mother, who married him against the of her friends, was a squire's daughter, and a woman of spirit. In it was to her, that if she the parson's wife, she must her and her lady's-maid, and all the and of affluence; which to her were little less than the of life. A and a lady's-maid were great conveniences; but, thank heaven, she had to her, and hands to minister to her own necessities. An house and were not to be despised; but she would live in a with Richard Grey than in a with any other man in the world.
Finding of no avail, her father, at length, told the lovers they might if they pleased; but, in so doing, his would every of her fortune. He this would the of both; but he was mistaken. My father too well my mother's not to be that she was a valuable in herself: and if she would but to his he should be happy to take her on any terms; while she, on her part, would with her own hands than be from the man she loved, it would be her to make, and who was already one with her in and soul. So her to the of a sister, who had married a rich nabob; and she, to the wonder and of all who her, to herself in the village among the of . And yet, in of all this, and in of my mother's high and my father's whims, I you might search all England through, and fail to a couple.
Of six children, my sister Mary and myself were the only two that the of and early childhood. I, being the by five or six years, was always as the child, and the of the family: father, mother, and sister, all to me—not by indulgence, to me and ungovernable, but by kindness, to make me too and dependent—too for with the and of life.
Mary and I were up in the seclusion. My mother, being at once accomplished, well informed, and of employment, took the whole of our education on herself, with the of Latin—which my father to teach us—so that we to school; and, as there was no in the neighbourhood, our only with the world in a tea-party, now and then, with the farmers and of the (just to avoid being as too proud to with our neighbours), and an visit to our grandfather's; where himself, our grandmamma, a aunt, and two or three ladies and gentlemen, were the only we saw. Sometimes our mother would us with and of her days, which, while they us amazingly, awoke—in me, at least—a wish to see a little more of the world.
I she must have been very happy: but she to past times. My father, however, was neither by nature, often himself with of the his dear wife had for him; and his with for the of his little fortune, for her and ours. In my mother him she was satisfied; and if he would but by a little for the children, we should all have plenty, for time present and to come: but saving was not my father's forte. He would not in (at least, my mother took good he should not), but while he had money he must it: he liked to see his house comfortable, and his wife and well clothed, and well attended; and besides, he was disposed, and liked to give to the poor, according to his means: or, as some might think, them.
At length, however, a friend to him a means of his private property at one stroke; and it, hereafter, to an amount. This friend was a merchant, a man of and talent, who was in his for want of capital; but to give my father a of his profits, if he would only him with what he spare; and he he might safely promise that the to put into his hands, it should him in cent. cent. The small was sold, and the whole of its price was deposited in the hands of the merchant; who as to ship his cargo, and prepare for his voyage.
My father was delighted, so were we all, with our prospects. For the present, it is true, we were to the narrow of the curacy; but my father to think there was no for restricting our to that; so, with a bill at Mr. Jackson's, another at Smith's, and a third at Hobson's, we got along more than before: though my mother we had keep bounds, for our of were but precarious, after all; and if my father would only trust to her management, he should himself stinted: but he, for once, was incorrigible.
What happy hours Mary and I have passed while at our work by the fire, or on the heath-clad hills, or under the (the only tree in the garden), talking of to ourselves and our parents, of what we would do, and see, and possess; with no for our than the that were to in upon us from the success of the merchant's speculations. Our father was nearly as as ourselves; only that he not to be so much in earnest: his and in and sallies, that always me as being and pleasant. Our mother laughed with to see him so and happy: but still she he was setting his too much upon the matter; and once I her as she left the room, "God he be not disappointed! I know not how he would it."
Disappointed he was; and bitterly, too. It came like a thunder-clap on us all, that the which our had been wrecked, and gone to the with all its stores, together with of the crew, and the merchant himself. I was for him; I was for the of all our air-built castles: but, with the of youth, I soon the shock.
Though had charms, had no terrors for an girl like me. Indeed, to say the truth, there was something in the idea of being to straits, and upon our own resources. I only papa, mamma, and Mary were all of the same mind as myself; and then, of past we might all set to work to them; and the the difficulties, the our present privations, the should be our to the latter, and our to against the former.
Mary did not lament, but she over the misfortune, and into a of from which no of mine her. I not possibly her to the on its as I did: and I was so of being with frivolity, or insensibility, that I most of my ideas and to myself; well they not be appreciated.
My mother only of my father, and paying our and our by every available means; but my father was by the calamity: health, strength, and the blow, and he them. In my mother to him, by to his piety, to his courage, to his for herself and us. That very was his torment: it was for our he had so to his fortune—it was our that had such to his hopes, and that such to his present distress. He now himself with at having neglected my mother's advice; which would at least have saved him from the additional of debt—he himself for having her from the dignity, the ease, the luxury of her station to with him through the and of poverty. It was and to his to see that splendid, highly-accomplished woman, once so and admired, into an active housewife, with hands and with and economy. The very with which she performed these duties, the with which she her reverses, and the which her from the smallest to him, were all by this self-tormentor into of his sufferings. And thus the mind upon the body, and the of the nerves, and they in turn the of the mind, till by action and his health was impaired; and not one of us him that the of our was not so gloomy, so hopeless, as his it to be.
The useful was sold, together with the stout, well-fed pony—the old that we had should end its days in peace, and pass from our hands; the little coach-house and were let; the boy, and the more (being the more expensive) of the two maid-servants, were dismissed. Our were mended, turned, and to the of decency; our food, always plain, was now to an degree—except my father's dishes; our and were economized—the pair of to one, and that most used; the in the half-empty grate: when my father was out on his duties, or to through illness—then we sat with our on the fender, the together from time to time, and occasionally adding a of the and of coal, just to keep them alive. As for our carpets, they in time were threadbare, and and to a than our garments. To save the of a gardener, Mary and I to keep the garden in order; and all the cooking and work that not easily be managed by one servant-girl, was done by my mother and sister, with a little occasional help from me: only a little, because, though a woman in my own estimation, I was still a child in theirs; and my mother, like most active, women, was not with very active daughters: for this reason—that being so and herself, she was to trust her to a deputy, but, on the contrary, was to act and think for others as well as for number one; and was the in hand, she was to think that no one do it so well as herself: so that I offered to her, I such an answer as "No, love, you cannot indeed—there's nothing here you can do. Go and help your sister, or her to take a walk with you—tell her she must not so much, and so in the house as she does—she may well look thin and dejected."
"Mary, says I'm to help you; or you to take a walk with me; she says you may well look thin and dejected, if you so in the house."
"Help me you cannot, Agnes; and I cannot go out with you—I have too much to do."
"Then let me help you."
"You cannot, indeed, dear child. Go and your music, or play with the kitten."
There was always of on hand; but I had not been to cut out a single garment, and plain and seaming, there was little I do, in that line; for they that it was to do the work themselves than to prepare it for me: and besides, they liked to see me my studies, or myself—it was time for me to over my work, like a matron, when my little was a old cat. Under such circumstances, although I was not many more useful than the kitten, my was not without excuse.
Through all our troubles, I but once my mother complain of our want of money. As was on she to Mary and me, "What a thing it would be for your papa to a at a watering-place. I am the sea-air and the of would be of service to him. But then, you see, there's no money," she added, with a sigh. We that the thing might be done, and that it not. "Well, well!" said she, "it's no use complaining. Possibly something might be done to the project after all. Mary, you are a drawer. What do you say to doing a more pictures in your best style, and them framed, with the water-coloured you have already done, and trying to of them to some picture-dealer, who has the to their merits?"
"Mamma, I should be if you think they be sold; and for anything while."
"It's while trying, however, my dear: do you the drawings, and I'll to a purchaser."
"I wish I do something," said I.
"You, Agnes! well, who knows? You well, too: if you choose some piece for your subject, I you will be able to produce something we shall all be proud to exhibit."
"But I have another in my head, mamma, and have had long, only I did not like to mention it."
"Indeed! pray tell us what it is."
"I should like to be a governess."
My mother an of surprise, and laughed. My sister her work in astonishment, exclaiming, "You a governess, Agnes! What can you be of?"
"Well! I don't see anything so very in it. I do not to be able to great girls; but surely I teach little ones: and I should like it so much: I am so of children. Do let me, mamma!"
"But, my love, you have not learned to take of yet: and children more and to manage than ones."
"But, mamma, I am above eighteen, and able to take of myself, and others too. You do not know the and I possess, I have been tried."
"Only think," said Mary, "what would you do in a house full of strangers, without me or to speak and act for you—with a parcel of children, yourself, to to; and no one to look to for advice? You would not know what to put on."
"You think, I always do as you me, I have no of my own: but only try me—that is all I ask—and you shall see what I can do."
At that moment my father entered and the of our was to him.
"What, my little Agnes a governess!" he, and, in of his dejection, he laughed at the idea.
"Yes, papa, don't you say anything against it: I should like it so much; and I am sure I manage delightfully."
"But, my darling, we not you." And a tear in his as he added "No, no! as we are, surely we are not to that pass yet."
"Oh, no!" said my mother. "There is no for such a step; it is a of her own. So you must your tongue, you girl; for, though you are so to us, you know very well we cannot part with you."
I was for that day, and for many ones; but still I did not my scheme. Mary got her materials, and set to work. I got mine too; but while I drew, I of other things. How it would be to be a governess! To go out into the world; to enter upon a new life; to act for myself; to my faculties; to try my unknown powers; to earn my own maintenance, and something to and help my father, mother, and sister, them from the of my food and clothing; to papa what his little Agnes do; to and Mary that I was not the helpless, being they supposed. And then, how to be with the and education of children! Whatever others said, I I was to the task: the clear of my own in early would be a than the of the most adviser. I had but to turn from my little to myself at their age, and I should know, at once, how to win their and affections: how to the of the erring; how to the and the afflicted; how to make Virtue practicable, Instruction desirable, and Religion and comprehensible.
—Delightful task!
To teach the idea how to shoot!
To train the plants, and watch their day by day!
Influenced by so many inducements, I still to persevere; though the of my mother, or my father's feelings, me from the for days. At length, again, I mentioned it to my mother in private; and, with some difficulty, got her to promise to me with her endeavours. My father's was next obtained, and then, though Mary still her disapproval, my dear, mother to look out for a for me. She to my father's relations, and the newspaper advertisements—her own relations she had long all with: a of occasional was all she had had since her marriage, and she would not at any time have to them in a case of this nature. But so long and so entire had been my parents' from the world, that many a be procured. At last, to my great joy, it was that I should take of the family of a Mrs. Bloomfield; my kind, aunt Grey had in her youth, and to be a very woman. Her husband was a retired tradesman, who had a very fortune; but not be upon to give a salary than twenty-five to the of his children. I, however, was to accept this, than the situation—which my were to think the plan.
But some more were yet to be to preparation. How long, how those appeared to me! Yet they were happy ones in the main—full of and expectations. With what I at the making of my new clothes, and, subsequently, the packing of my trunks! But there was a of with the too; and when it was done—when all was for my on the morrow, and the last night at home approached—a to my heart. My dear friends looked so sad, and spoke so very kindly, that I keep my from overflowing: but I still to be gay. I had taken my last with Mary on the moors, my last walk in the garden, and the house; I had fed, with her, our for the last time—the that we had to their food from our hands: I had a to all their as they in my lap. I had my own favourites, the pair of snow-white fantails; I had played my last on the old familiar piano, and my last song to papa: not the last, I hoped, but the last for what appeared to me a very long time. And, perhaps, when I did these again it would be with different feelings: might be changed, and this house might be my settled home again. My dear little friend, the kitten, would be changed: she was already a cat; and when I returned, for a visit at Christmas, would, most likely, have her and her pranks. I had with her for the last time; and when I her soft fur, while she herself to sleep in my lap, it was with a of I not easily disguise. Then at bed-time, when I retired with Mary to our little chamber, where already my were out and my of the was empty—and where, hereafter, she would have to sleep alone, in solitude, as she it—my more than ever: I as if I had been selfish and to in her; and when I once more our little bed, I prayed for a on her and on my more than I had done before. To my emotion, I my in my hands, and they were presently in tears. I perceived, on rising, that she had been too: but neither of us spoke; and in we ourselves to our repose, more closely together from the that we were to part so soon.
But the a of and spirits. I was to early; that the which took me (a gig, from Mr. Smith, the draper, grocer, and tea-dealer of the village) might return the same day. I rose, washed, dressed, a breakfast, the of my father, mother, and sister, the cat—to the great of Sally, the maid—shook hands with her, the gig, my over my face, and then, but not till then, into a of tears. The rolled on; I looked back; my dear mother and sister were still at the door, looking after me, and their adieux. I returned their salute, and prayed God to them from my heart: we the hill, and I see them no more.
"It's a mornin' for you, Miss Agnes," Smith; "and a 'un too; but we's to spot there come much rain to signify."
"Yes, I so," I, as as I could.
"It's a good last night too."
"Yes."
"But this cold wind will keep it off."
"Perhaps it will."
Here ended our colloquy. We the valley, and to the opposite hill. As we were up, I looked again; there was the village spire, and the old it, in a of sunshine—it was but a ray, but the village and were all in shade, and I the as a to my home. With hands I a on its inhabitants, and away; for I saw the was departing; and I another glance, I should see it in shadow, like the of the landscape.
