“Middling.”
“No, but I really
was—at
least so mamma said ... and Brown and Williamson. Brown said she was sure no gentleman could set eyes on me without falling in love that minute; and so I may be allowed to be a little vain. I know you think me a shocking, conceited, frivolous girl, but then you know, I don’t attribute it
all
to my personal attractions: I give some praise to the hairdresser, and some to my exquisitely lovely dress—you must see it to-morrow-white gauze over pink satin ... and so
sweetly
made! and a necklace and bracelet of beautiful, large pearls!”
“I have no doubt you looked very charming; but should that delight you so very much?”
“Oh, no! ... not that alone: but then, I was so much admired; and I made so
many
conquests in that one night—you’d be astonished to hear—”
“But what good will they do you?”
“What good! Think of any woman asking that!”
“Well, I should think one conquest would be enough, and too much, unless the subjugation were mutual.”
“Oh, but you know I never agree with you on those points. Now wait a bit, and I’ll tell you my principal admirers—those who made themselves very conspicuous that night and after, for I’ve been to two parties since. Unfortunately the two noblemen Lord G——and Lord F——, were married or I might have condescended to be particularly gracious to
them;
as it was, I did not, though Lord F——who hates his wife, was evidently much struck with me. He asked me to dance with him twice—he is a charming dancer, by the by, and so am I ... you can’t think how well I did ... I was astonished at myself. My lord was very complimentary too—rather too much so in fact, and I thought it proper to be a little haughty and repellent; but I had the pleasure of seeing his nasty, cross wife ready to perish with spite and vexation—”
“Oh Miss Murray! you don’t mean to say that such a thing could really give you pleasure! However cross or—”
“Well I know it’s very wrong;—but never mind! I mean to be good sometime—only don’t preach now, there’s a good creature—I haven’t told you half yet.... Let me see ... Oh! I was going to tell you how many unmistakable admirers I had:—Sir Thomas Ashby was one,—Sir Hugh Meltham, and Sir Broadley Wilson are old codgers, only fit companions for papa and mamma. Sir Thomas is young, rich, and gay, but an ugly beast nevertheless: however, mamma says I should not mind that after a few months’ acquaintance. Then, there was Harry Meltham, Sir Hugh’s younger son, rather good-looking, and a pleasant fellow to flirt with; but
being
a younger son, that is all he is good for:
1
then there was young Mr. Green, rich enough, but of no family, and a great stupid fellow, a mere country booby; and then, our good rector Mr. Hatfield, an
humble
admirer, he ought to consider himself; but I fear he has forgotten to number humility among his stock of christian virtues.”
“Was Mr. Hatfield at the ball?”
“Yes to be sure. Did you think he was too good to go?”
“I thought he might consider it unclerical.”
“By no means. He did not profane his cloth by dancing; but it was with difficulty he could refrain poor man: he looked as if he were dying to ask my hand just for
one
set; and—Oh! by the by—he’s got a new curate ... that seedy old fellow Mr. Bligh has got his long-wished-for living at last, and gone.”
“And what is the new one like?”
“Oh
such
a beast! Weston his name is. I can give you his description in three words ... an insensate, ugly, stupid blockhead. That’s four, but no matter ... enough of
him
now.”
Then she returned to the ball, and gave me a further account of her deportment there, and at the several parties she had since attended, and further particulars respecting Sir Thomas Ashby and Messrs. Meltham, Green, and Hatfield, and the ineffaceable impression she had wrought upon each of them.
“Well, which of the four do you like best?” said I, suppressing my third or fourth yawn.
“I detest them all,” replied she, shaking her bright ringlets in vivacious scorn.
“That means, I suppose, I like them all—but which most?”
“No, I really do detest them all; but Harry Meltham is the handsomest and most amusing, and Mr. Hatfield the cleverest, Sir Thomas the wickedest, and Mr. Green the most stupid. But the one I’m to have, I suppose, if I’m doomed to have any of them, is Sir Thomas Ashby.”
“Surely not, if he’s so wicked, and if you dislike him?”
“Oh, I don’t mind his being wicked; he’s all the better for that; and as for disliking him—I shouldn’t greatly object to being Lady Ashby of Ashby Park, if I must marry; but if I could be always young, I would be always single. I should like to enjoy myself thoroughly, and coquet with all the world, till I am on the verge of being called an old maid; and then, to escape the infamy of that, after having made ten thousand conquests, to break all their hearts save one, by marrying some high-born, rich, indulgent husband, whom, on the other hand, fifty ladies were dying to have.”
“Well, as long as you entertain those views, keep single by all means, and never marry at all, not even to escape the infamy of old-maidenhood.”
CHAPTER X
The Church
W
ell, Miss Grey, what do you think of the new curate?” asked Miss Murray, on our return from church the Sunday after the recommencement of my duties.
“I can scarcely tell,” was my reply: “I have not even heard him preach.”
“Well, but you saw him, didn’t you?”
“Yes; but I cannot pretend to judge of a man’s character by a single, cursory glance at his face.”
“But, isn’t he ugly?”
“He did not strike me as being particularly so; I don’t dislike that cast of countenance: but the only thing I particularly noticed about him was his style of reading, which appeared, to me, good—infinitely better, at least, than Mr. Hatfield’s. He read the lessons as if he were bent on giving full effect to every passage: it seemed as if the most careless person could not have helped attending, nor the most ignorant have failed to understand; and the prayers, he read as if he were not reading at all, but praying, earnestly and sincerely from his own heart.”
1
“Oh, yes! that’s all he is good for: he can plod through the service well enough; but he has not a single idea beyond it.”
“How do you know?”
“Oh! I know perfectly well; I’m an excellent judge in such matters. Did you see how he went out of church? stumping along, as if there was nobody there but himself—never looking to the right hand or the left, and evidently thinking of nothing but just getting out of the church, and, perhaps, home to his dinner—his great stupid head could contain no other idea.”
“I suppose you would have had him cast a glance into the squire’s pew,” said I, laughing at the vehemence of her hostility.
“Indeed! I should have been highly indignant if he had dared to do such a thing!” replied she, haughtily tossing her head; then, after a moment’s reflection, she added—“Well, well! I suppose he’s good enough for his place; but, I’m glad I’m not dependent on
him
for amusement—that’s all. Did you see how Mr. Hatfield hurried out to get a bow from me, and be in time to put us into the carriage?”
“Yes,” answered I, internally adding, “and I thought it somewhat derogatory to his dignity as a clergyman to come flying from the pulpit in such eager haste to shake hands with the squire, and hand his wife and daughters into their carriage; and, moreover, I owe him a grudge for nearly shutting me out of it;” for, in fact, though I was standing before his face, close beside the carriage steps, waiting to get in, he would persist in putting them up, and closing the door, till one of the family stopped him by calling out that the governess was not in yet: then, without a word of apology, he departed, wishing them good morning, and leaving the footman to finish the business.
Nota bene
ak
—Mr. Hatfield never spoke to me, neither did Sir Hugh or Lady Meltham, nor Mr. Harry or Miss Meltham, nor Mr. Green or his sisters, nor any other lady or gentleman who frequented that church, nor, in fact, any one that visited at Horton Lodge.
Miss Murray ordered the carriage again, in the afternoon, for herself and her sister: she said it was too cold for them to enjoy themselves in the garden; and, besides, she believed Harry Meltham would be at church.
“For,” said she, smiling slyly at her own fair image in the glass, “he has been a most exemplary attendant at church these last few Sundays. You would think he was quite a good christian. And you may go with us, Miss Grey, I want you to see him; he is so greatly improved since he returned from abroad—you can’t think! And, besides, then you will have an opportunity of seeing the beautiful Mr. Weston again, and of hearing him preach.”
I did hear him preach, and was decidedly pleased with the evangelical truth of his doctrine, as well as the earnest simplicity of his manner, and the clearness and force of his style.
2
It was truly refreshing to hear such a sermon, after being so long accustomed to the dry, prosy discourses of the former curate, and the still less edifying harangues of the rector, who would come sailing up the aisle, or rather sweeping along like a whirlwind, with his rich silk gown flying behind him, and rustling against the pew doors, mount the pulpit like a conqueror ascending his triumphal car; then sinking on the velvet cushion in an attitude of studied grace, remain in silent prostration for a certain time; then, mutter over a Collect,
al
and gabble through the Lord’s Prayer, rise, draw off one bright lavender glove to give the congregation the benefit of his sparkling rings, lightly pass his fingers through his well-curled hair, flourish a cambric handkerchief, recite a very short passage, or, perhaps, a mere phrase of Scripture, as a head-piece
am
to his discourse, and, finally, deliver a composition which, as a composition, might be considered good, though far too studied and too artificial to be pleasing to me; the propositions were well laid down, the arguments logically conducted; and yet, it was sometimes hard to listen quietly throughout, without some slight demonstrations of disapproval or impatience.
His favourite subjects were church discipline, rites and ceremonies, apostolical succession, the duty of reverence and obedience to the clergy, the atrocious criminality of dissent, the absolute necessity of observing all the forms of godliness, the reprehensible presumption of individuals who attempted to think for themselves in matters connected with religion, or to be guided by their own interpretations of Scripture, and, occasionally, (to please his wealthy parishioners,) the necessity of deferential obedience from the poor to the rich—supporting his maxims and exhortations throughout with quotations from the Fathers, with whom he appeared to be far better acquainted than with the Apostles and Evangelists, and whose importance he seemed to consider, at least, equal to theirs.
But now and then he gave us a sermon of a different order—what some would call a very good one, but sunless and severe, representing the Deity as a terrible task-master, rather than a benevolent father. Yet, as I listened, I felt inclined to think the man was sincere in all he said; he must have changed his views, and become decidedly religious, gloomy and austere, but still devout: but such illusions were usually dissipated, on coming out of church, by hearing his voice in jocund colloquy with some of the Melthams or Greens, or, perhaps, the Murrays themselves, probably laughing at his own sermon, and hoping that he had given the rascally people something to think about; perchance, exulting in the thoughts that old Betty Holmes would now lay aside the sinful indulgence of her pipe which had been her daily solace for upwards of thirty years, that George Higgins would be frightened out of his Sabbath evening walks, and Thomas Jackson would be sorely troubled in his conscience, and shaken in his sure and certain hope of a joyful resurrection at the last day.
Thus, I could not but conclude that Mr. Hatfield was one of those who bind heavy burdens, and grievous to be borne, and lay them upon men’s shoulders, while they themselves will not move them with one of their fingers, and that make the word of God of none effect by their traditions, teaching for doctrines the commandments of men.
3
I was well pleased to observe that the new curate resembled him, as far as I could see, in none of these particulars.
“Well, Miss Grey! what do you think of him now?” said Miss Murray, as we took our places in the carriage after service.
“No harm still,” replied I.
“No harm!” repeated she in amazement. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I think no worse of him than I did before.”
“No worse! I should think not indeed—quite the contrary! Is he not greatly improved?”
“Oh, yes! very much indeed,” replied I; for I had now discovered that it was Harry Meltham she meant, not Mr. Weston. That gentleman had eagerly come forward to speak to the young ladies, a thing he would hardly have ventured to do had their mother been present; he had likewise politely handed them into the carriage—he had not attempted to shut me out like Mr. Hatfield; neither, of course, had he offered me his assistance, (I should not have accepted it if he had,) but as long as the door remained open he had stood smirking and chatting with them, and then lifted his hat and departed to his own abode;—but I had scarcely noticed him all the time. My companions, however, had been more observant; and, as we rolled along, they discussed between them not only his looks, words, and actions, but every feature of his face, and every article of his apparel.
“You shan’t have him all to yourself, Rosalie,” said Miss Matilda, at the close of this discussion; “I like him: I know he’d make a nice, jolly companion for me.”
“Well, you’re quite welcome to him, Matilda,” replied her sister, in a tone of affected indifference.