CONFESSIONS
As I am in the way of I may as well that, about this time, I paid more attention to dress than I had done before. This is not saying much—for I had been a little in that particular; but now, also, it was no thing to as much as two minutes in the of my own image in the glass; though I any from such a study. I no in those marked features, that cheek, and ordinary dark hair; there might be in the forehead, there might be in the dark eyes, but what of that?—a low Grecian brow, and large black of would be preferable. It is to wish for beauty. Sensible people either it for themselves or about it in others. If the mind be but well cultivated, and the well disposed, no one for the exterior. So said the teachers of our childhood; and so say we to the children of the present day. All very and proper, no doubt; but are such supported by experience?
We are naturally to love what us pleasure, and what more than a face—when we know no of the at least? A little girl loves her bird—Why? Because it and feels; it is and harmless? A toad, likewise, and feels, and is and harmless; but though she would not a toad, she cannot love it like the bird, with its form, soft feathers, and bright, speaking eyes. If a woman is and amiable, she is for qualities, but the former, by the of mankind: if, on the other hand, she is in person and character, her is against as her crime, because, to common observers, it the offence; while, if she is plain and good, provided she is a person of retired manners and life, no one of her goodness, her connections. Others, on the contrary, are to opinions of her mind, and disposition, if it be but to themselves for their of one so by nature; and versâ with her a heart, or a false, over and that would not be in another. They that have beauty, let them be for it, and make a good use of it, like any other talent; they that have it not, let them themselves, and do the best they can without it: certainly, though to be over-estimated, it is a gift of God, and not to be despised. Many will this who have that they love, and tell them that they are to be loved again; while yet they are debarred, by the of this or some such trifle, from and that they almost to and to impart. As well might the that power of light without which the might pass her and her a thousand times, and her: she might her over and around her; he her, she to be found, but with no power to make her presence known, no voice to call him, no to his flight;—the must another mate, the must live and die alone.
Such were some of my about this period. I might go on more and more, I might much deeper, and other thoughts, questions the reader might be puzzled to answer, and that might his prejudices, or, perhaps, his ridicule, he not them; but I forbear.
Now, therefore, let us return to Miss Murray. She her to the on Tuesday; of attired, and with her and her charms. As Ashby Park was nearly ten miles from Horton Lodge, they had to set out early, and I to have the with Nancy Brown, I had not for a long time; but my took I should it neither there else the limits of the schoolroom, by me a piece of music to copy, which me closely 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 to her at the ball; an event which great on her mamma's sagacity, if not upon her skill in contrivance. I to the that she had her plans, and then their success. The offer had been accepted, of course, and the elect was that day to settle with Mr. Murray.
Rosalie was pleased with the of of Ashby Park; she was with the of the and its and éclat, the abroad, and the she to in London and elsewhere; she appeared well pleased too, for the time being, with Sir Thomas himself, she had so him, with him, and been by him; but, after all, she to from the idea of being so soon united: she the to be some months, at least; and I it too. It a thing to on the match, and not to give the time to think and on the step she was about to take. I no to "a mother's watchful, care," but I was and at Mrs. Murray's heartlessness, or want of for the good of her child; and by my and exhortations, I to the evil. Miss Murray only laughed at what I said; and I soon that her to an from a to do what she among the of her acquaintance, she was from of the kind. It was for this that, to me the of her engagement, she had a promise that I would not mention a word on the to any one. And when I saw this, and when I her more than into the of coquetry, I had no more for her. "Come what will," I thought, "she it. Sir Thomas cannot be too for her; and the sooner she is from and others the better."
The wedding was for the of June. Between that and the was little more than six weeks; but, with Rosalie's skill and exertion, much might be done, that period; as Sir Thomas most of the in London; he up, it was said, to settle with his lawyer, and make other for the nuptials. He to supply the want of his presence by a fire of billets-doux; but these did not the neighbours' attention, and open their eyes, as personal visits would have done; and old Lady Ashby's haughty, of her from the news, while her health her to visit her daughter-in-law; so that, altogether, this was closer than such are.
Rosalie would sometimes her lover's to me, to me what a kind, husband he would make. She me the of another individual, too, the Mr. Green, who had not the courage, or, as she it, the "spunk," to his in person, but one would not satisfy: he must again and again. He would not have done so if he have the his over his moving to her feelings, and her laughter, and the she 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," she. "If he it, his sisters and would know it, and then there would be an end of my—ahem! And, besides, if I told him that, he would think my was the only obstacle, and that I would have him if I were free; which I not that any man should think, and he, of all others, at least. Besides, I don't for his letters," she added, contemptuously; "he may as often as he pleases, and look as great a as he when I meet him; it only me."
Meantime, Meltham was in his visits to the house or past it; and, by Matilda's and reproaches, her sister paid more attention to him than required; in other words, she on as a as the presence of her would admit. She some to Mr. Hatfield once more to her feet; but them unsuccessful, she his with still scorn, and spoke of him with as much and as she had done of his curate. But, all this, she for a moment of Mr. Weston. She every opportunity of meeting him, every art to him, and him with as much as if she loved him and no other, and the of her life upon a return of affection. Such was my comprehension. Had I it in a novel, I should have it unnatural; had I it by others, I should have it a mistake or an exaggeration; but when I saw it with my own eyes, and from it too, I only that vanity, like drunkenness, the heart, the faculties, and the feelings; and that dogs are not the only which, when to the throat, will yet over what they cannot devour, and the smallest to a brother.
She now to the cottagers. Her among them was more extended, her visits to their were more and than they had been before. Hereby, she among them the of a and very lady; and their were sure to be to Mr. Weston: also she had thus a daily of meeting in one or other of their abodes, or in her to and fro; and often, likewise, she gather, through their gossip, to what places he was likely to go at such and such a time, to a child, or to visit the aged, the sick, the sad, or the dying; and most she her plans accordingly. In these she would sometimes go with her sister—whom, by some means, she had or to enter into her schemes—sometimes alone, never, now, with me; so that I was the of Mr. Weston, or his voice in with another: which would have been a very great pleasure, or with pain. I not see him at church: for Miss Murray, under some pretext, to take of that in the family which had been mine since I came; and, unless I had the to station myself Mr. and Mrs. Murray, I must with my to the pulpit, which I did.
Now, also, I walked home with my pupils: they said their it did not look well to see three people out of the family walking, and only two going in the carriage; and, as they walking in weather, I should be by going with the seniors. "And besides," said they, "you can't walk as fast as we do; you know you're always behind." I these were false excuses, but I no objections, and such assertions, well the which them. And in the afternoons, those six weeks, I to church at all. If I had a cold, or any indisposition, they took of that to make me at home; and often they would tell me they were not going again that day, themselves, and then to their minds, and set off without telling me: so their that I the of purpose till too late. Upon their return home, on one of these occasions, they me with an account of a 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 well, only you didn't want to come to church—so he'll think you're wicked."
All on week-days were prevented; for, I should go to see Nancy Brown or any other person, Miss Murray took good to provide for all my hours. There was always some to finish, some music to copy, or some work to do, to me from in anything a walk about the grounds, she or her sister might be occupied.
One morning, having and Mr. Weston, they returned in high to give me an account of their interview. "And he asked after you again," said Matilda, in of her sister's but that she should her tongue. "He why you were with us, and you must have 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 so! And, Miss Grey, Rosalie told him you were well, but you were always so in your books that you had no in anything else."
"What an idea he must have of me!" I thought.
"And," I asked, "does old Nancy about me?"
"Yes; and we tell her you are so of reading and that you can do nothing else."
"That is not the case though; if you had told her I was so I not come to see her, it would have been nearer the truth."
"I don't think it would," Miss Murray, up; "I'm sure you have of time to now, when you have so little teaching to do."
It was no use to with such indulged, creatures: so I my peace. I was accustomed, now, to when to my ear were uttered; and now, too, I was used to a when my was me. Only those who have the like can my feelings, as I sat with an of indifference, to the of those and with Mr. Weston, which they to such in to me; and of him which, from the of the man, I to be and of the truth, if not false—things to him, and to them—especially to Miss Murray—which I to contradict, or, at least, to my about, but not; lest, in my disbelief, I should my too. Other I heard, which I or were too true: but I must still my him, my against them, a careless aspect; others, again, of something said or done, which I to more of, but not to inquire. So passed the time. I not myself with saying, "She will soon be married; and then there may be hope."
Soon after her marriage the would come; and when I returned from home, most likely, Mr. Weston would be gone, for I was told that he and the Rector not agree (the Rector's fault, of course), and he was about to remove to another place.
No—besides my in God, my only was in that, though he know it not, I was more of his love than Rosalie Murray, and as she was; for I his excellence, which she not: I would my life to the promotion of his happiness; she would his for the of her own vanity. "Oh, if he but know the difference!" I would exclaim. "But no! I would not have him see my heart: yet, if he but know her hollowness, her worthless, frivolity, he would then be safe, and I should be—almost happy, though I might see him more!"
I fear, by this time, the reader is well with the and I have so him. I 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 dissembler—in this one case at least. My prayers, my tears, my wishes, fears, and lamentations, were by myself and alone.
When we are by or anxieties, or long by any powerful which we must keep to ourselves, for which we can obtain and no from any creature, and which yet we cannot, or will not crush, we often naturally in poetry—and often it, too—whether in the of others, which to with our case, or in our own to give to those and in less musical, perchance, but more appropriate, and therefore more and sympathetic, and, for the time, more soothing, or more powerful to and to the and heart. Before this time, at Wellwood House and here, when from home-sick melancholy, I had twice or thrice at this of consolation; and now I to it again, with than ever, I to need it more. I still those of past and experience, like of set up in through the of life, to mark particular occurrences. The are now; the of the country may be changed; but the is still there, to me how all were when it was reared. Lest the reader should be to see any of these effusions, I will him with one specimen: cold and as the lines may seem, it was almost a of to which they their being:—
Oh, they have me of the hope
My so dear;
They will not let me that voice
My to hear.
They will not let me see that face
I so to see;
And they have taken all smiles,
And all love from me.
Well, let them on all they can;—
One still is mine,—
A that loves to think on thee,
And the of thine.
Yes, at least, they not me of that: I think of him day and night; and I that he was to be of. Nobody him as I did; nobody him as I did; nobody love him as I—could, if I might: but there was the evil. What had I to think so much of one that of me? Was it not foolish? was it not wrong? Yet, if I such in of him, and if I those to myself, and no one else with them, where was the of it? I would ask myself. And such me from making any to shake off my fetters.
But, if those delight, it was a painful, pleasure, too near to anguish; and one that did me more than I was aware of. It was an that a person of more or more would have herself. And yet, how to turn my from the of that object and them to on the dull, grey, around: the joyless, hopeless, path that me. It was to be so joyless, so desponding; I should have God my friend, and to do His will the and the of my life; but was weak, and was too strong.
In this time of trouble I had two other of affliction. The may 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 of the village rat-catcher, a man for his of his slaves. The other was enough; my from home gave that my father's health was worse. No were expressed, but I was and despondent, and not help that some us there. I to see the black clouds my native hills, and to the angry of a that was about to burst, and our hearth.
