MIRTH AND MOURNING
The 1st of June at last: and Rosalie Murray was into Lady Ashby. Most she looked in her costume. Upon her return from church, after the ceremony, she came into the schoolroom, with excitement, and laughing, in mirth, and in desperation, as it to me.
"Now, Miss Grey, I'm Lady Ashby!" she exclaimed. "It's done, my is sealed: there's no now. I'm come to your and you good-by; and then I'm off for Paris, Rome, Naples, Switzerland, London—oh, dear! what a I shall see and I come again. But don't me: I shan't you, though I've been a girl. Come, why don't you me?"
"I cannot you," I replied, "till I know this is for the better: but I it is; and I wish you true and the best of blessings."
"Well, good-by, the is waiting, and they're calling me."
She gave me a kiss, and was away; but, returning, me with more than I her of evincing, and with in her eyes. Poor girl! I loved her then; and her from my all the she had done me—and others also: she had not it, I was sure; and I prayed God to her too.
During the of that day of sadness, I was left to my own devices. Being too much for any occupation, I about with a book in my hand for hours, more than reading, for I had many to think about. In the evening, I use of my to go and see my old friend Nancy once again; to for my long (which must have so and unkind) by telling her how I had been; and to talk, or read, or work for her, might be most acceptable, and also, of course, to tell her the news of this day: and to obtain a little from her in return, Mr. Weston's departure. But of this she to know nothing, and I hoped, as she did, that it was all a false report. She was very to see me; but, happily, her were now so nearly well that she was almost of my services. She was in the wedding; but while I her with the of the day, the of the party and of the herself, she often and her head, and good might come of it; she seemed, like me, to it as a for than rejoicing. I sat a long time talking to her about that and other things—but no one came.
Shall I that I sometimes looked the door with a half-expectant wish to see it open and give entrance to Mr. Weston, as had once before? and that, returning through the and fields, I often paused to look me, and walked more slowly than was at all necessary—for, though a evening, it was not a one—and, finally, a of and at having the house without meeting or a of any one, a returning from their work?
Sunday, however, was approaching: I should see him then: for now that Miss Murray was gone, I have my old again. I should see him, and by look, speech, and manner, I might judge the of her marriage had very much him. Happily I no of a difference: he the same as he had two months ago—voice, look, manner, all unchanged: there was the same keen-sighted, in his discourse, the same in his style, the same in all he said and did, that itself, not marked by the and ear, but upon the of his audience.
I walked home with Miss Matilda; but he did not join us. Matilda was now sadly at a for amusement, and in want of a companion: her at school, her sister married and gone, she too to be into society; for which, from Rosalie's example, she was in some to a taste—a taste at least for the company of of gentlemen; at this time of year—no going on, no even—for, though she might not join in that, it was something to see her father or the go out with the dogs, and to talk with them on their return, about the different they had bagged. Now, also, she was the which the of the coachman, grooms, horses, greyhounds, and might have afforded; for her mother having, the of a country life, so of her daughter, the of her had to turn her attention to the younger; and, being at the of her manners, and it high time to work a reform, had been at length to her authority, and the yards, stables, kennels, and coach-house. Of course, she was not obeyed; but, as she had been, when once her was roused, her was not so as she that of her to be, and her will was not to be with impunity. After many a of mother and daughter, many a which I was to witness, in which the father's authority was often called in to with and the mother's prohibitions—for he see that "Tilly, though she would have a lad, was not what a lady ought to be"—Matilda at length that her plan was to keep clear of the regions; unless she now and then a visit without her mother's knowledge.
Amid all this, let it not be that I without many a reprimand, and many an reproach, that none of its from not being openly worded; but the more deeply, because, from that very reason, it to self-defence. Frequently, I was told to Miss Matilda with other things, and to her of her mother's and prohibitions. I did so to the best of my power: but she would not be against her will, and not against her taste; and though I reminding, such as I use were ineffectual.
"Dear Miss Grey! it is the thing. I you can't help it, if it's not in your nature—but I wonder you can't win the of that girl, and make your at least as to her as that of Robert or Joseph!"
"They can talk the best about the in which she is most interested," I replied.
"Well! that is a confession, however, to come from her governess! Who is to a lady's tastes, I wonder, if the doesn't do it? I have who have so themselves with the of their ladies for and in mind and manners, that they would to speak a word against them; and to the to their was than to be in their own persons—and I think it very natural, for my part."
"Do you, ma'am?"
"Yes, of course: the lady's and is of more to the than her own, as well as to the world. If she to in her she must all her to her business: all her ideas and all her will to the of that one object. When we wish to decide upon the of a governess, we naturally look at the ladies she to have educated, and judge accordingly. The this: she that, while she in herself, her pupils' and will be open to every eye; and that, unless she of herself in their cultivation, she need not for success. You see, Miss Grey, it is just the same as any other or profession: they that wish to must themselves and to their calling; and if they to to or self-indulgence they are by competitors: there is little to choose a person that her by neglect, and one that them by her example. You will my these little hints: you know it is all for your own good. Many ladies would speak to you much more strongly; and many would not trouble themselves to speak at all, but look out for a substitute. That, of course, would be the plan: but I know the of a place like this to a person in your situation; and I have no to part with you, as I am sure you would do very well if you will only think of these and try to a little more: then, I am convinced, you would soon that which alone is wanting to give you a proper over the mind of your pupil."
I was about to give the lady some idea of the of her expectations; but she away as soon as she had her speech. Having said what she wished, it was no part of her plan to my answer: it was my to hear, and not to speak.
However, as I have said, Matilda at length in some to her mother's authority (pity it had not been before); and being thus of almost every of amusement, there was nothing for it but to take long with the and long walks with the governess, and to visit the and on her father's estate, to kill time in with the old men and that them. In one of these walks, it was our to meet Mr. Weston. This was what I had long desired; but now, for a moment, I either he or I were away: I my so that I some of should appear; but I think he at me, and I was soon enough. After a to both, he asked Matilda if she had from her sister.
"Yes," she. "She was at Paris when she wrote, and very well, and very happy."
She spoke the last word emphatically, and with a sly. He did not to notice it, but replied, with equal emphasis, and very seriously—
"I she will continue to be so."
"Do you think it likely?" I to inquire: for Matilda had started off in of her dog, that was a leveret.
"I cannot tell," he. "Sir Thomas may be a man than I suppose; but, from all I have and seen, it a that one so and gay, and—and interesting, to many by one word—whose greatest, if not her only fault, to be thoughtlessness—no fault to be sure, since it the to almost every other, and him to so many temptations—but it a that she should be away on such a man. It was her mother's wish, I suppose?"
"Yes; and her own too, I think, for she always laughed at my to her from the step."
"You did attempt it? Then, at least, you will have the of that it is no fault of yours, if any should come of it. As for Mrs. Murray, I don't know how she can her conduct: if I had with her, I'd ask her."
"It unnatural: but some people think rank and the good; and, if they can secure that for their children, they think they have done their duty."
"True: but is it not that of experience, who have been married themselves, should judge so falsely?" Matilda now came back, with the of the in her hand.
"Was it your to kill that hare, or to save it, Miss Murray?" asked Mr. Weston, puzzled at her countenance.
"I to want to save it," she answered, enough, "as it was so out of season; but I was pleased to see it lolled. However, you can that I couldn't help it: Prince was to have her; and he her by the back, and killed her in a minute! Wasn't it a chase?"
"Very! for a lady after a leveret."
There was a in the of his reply which was not upon her; she her shoulders, and, away with a "Humph!" asked me how I had the fun. I that I saw no fun in the matter; but that I had not the very narrowly.
"Didn't you see how it doubled—just like an old hare? and didn't you it scream?"
"I'm happy to say I did not."
"It out just like a child."
"Poor little thing! What will you do with it?"
"Come along—I shall it in the house we come to. I don't want to take it home, for papa should me for the dog kill it."
Mr. Weston was now gone, and we too on our way; but as we returned, after having deposited the in a farm-house, and some spice-cake and currant-wine in exchange, we met him returning also from the of his mission, it might be. He in his hand a of bluebells, which he offered to me; observing, with a smile, that though he had so little of me for the last two months, he had not that were numbered among my flowers. It was done as a act of goodwill, without or courtesy, or any look that be into "reverential, adoration" (vide Rosalie Murray); but still, it was something to my saying so well remembered: it was something that he had noticed so the time I had to be visible.
"I was told," said he, "that you were a perfect bookworm, Miss Grey: so in your that you were to every other pleasure."
"Yes, and it's true!" Matilda.
"No, Mr. Weston: don't it: it's a libel. These ladies are too of making at the of their friends; and you ought to be how you to them."
"I this is groundless, at any rate."
"Why? Do you particularly object to ladies studying?"
"No; but I object to anyone so himself or herself to study, as to of else. Except under circumstances, I very close and study as a waste of time, and an to the mind as well as the body."
"Well, I have neither the time the for such transgressions."
We again.
Well! what is there in all this? Why have I recorded it? Because, reader, it was to give me a evening, a night of dreams, and a of hopes. Shallow-brained cheerfulness, dreams, hopes, you would say; and I will not to it: to that too in my own mind. But our are like tinder: the and of are out sparks, which immediately, unless they to upon the of our wishes; then, they ignite, and the of is in a moment.
But alas! that very morning, my of was by a from my mother, which spoke so of my father's illness, that I there was little or no of his recovery; and, close at hand as the were, I almost they should come too late for me to meet him in this world. Two days after, a from Mary told me his life was of, and his end fast approaching. Then, immediately, I permission to the vacation, and go without delay. Mrs. Murray stared, and at the energy and with which I the request, and there was no occasion to hurry; but gave me leave: stating, however, that there was "no need to be in such about the matter—it might prove a false after all; and if not—why, it was only in the common of nature: we must all die some time; and I was not to myself the only person in the world;" and with saying I might have the to take me to O. "And of repining, Miss Grey, be for the you enjoy. There's many a family would be into by the event of his death; but you, you see, have friends to continue their patronage, and to you every consideration."
I thanked her for her "consideration," and to my room to make some for my departure. My and being on, and a into my largest trunk, I descended. But I might have done the work more leisurely, for no one else was in a hurry; and I had still a time to wait for the phaeton. At length it came to the door, and I was off: but, oh, what a was that! how different from my passages homewards! Being too late for the last coach to , I had to a for ten miles, and then a car to take me over the hills.
It was half-past ten I home. They were not in bed.
My mother and sister met me in the passage—sad—silent—pale! I was so much and terror-stricken that I not speak, to ask the I so much yet to obtain.
"Agnes!" said my mother, to some emotion.
"Oh, Agnes!" Mary, and into tears.
"How is he?" I asked, for the answer.
"Dead!"
It was the reply I had anticipated: but the none the less tremendous.
