In stature, he was a little—a very little above the middle size; perfectly symmetrical in figure, deep chested, and strongly built; the outline of his face would be pronounced too square for beauty, but, to me, it announced decision of character; his dark brown hair was not carefully curled, like Mr. Hatfield’s, but simply brushed aside over a broad, white forehead; the eyebrows, I suppose, were too projecting, but, from under those dark brows, there gleamed an eye of singular power, brown in colour, not large, and somewhat deepset but strikingly brilliant, and full of expression; there was character, too, in the mouth, something that bespoke a man of firm purpose, and an habitual thinker, and when he smiled—but I will not speak of that yet, for, at the time I mention, I had never seen him smile; and, indeed, his general appearance did not impress me with the idea of a man given to such a relaxation, nor of such an individual as the cottagers described him. I had early formed my opinion of him, and, in spite of Miss Murray’s objurgations, was fully convinced that he was a man of strong sense, firm faith, and ardent piety, but thoughtful and stern: and when I found that, to his other good qualities, was added that of true benevolence, and gentle, considerate kindness, the discovery, perhaps, delighted me the more, as I had not been prepared to expect it.
CHAPTER XII
The Shower
T
he next visit I payed to Nancy Brown was in the second week in March, for, though I had many spare minutes during the day, I seldom could look upon an hour as entirely my own, since, where everything was left to the caprices of Miss Matilda and her sister, there could be no order or regularity, and whatever occupation I chose, when not actually busied about them or their concerns, I had, as it were, to keep my loins girded, my shoes on my feet, and my staff in my hand;
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for, not to be immediately forth coming when called for, was regarded as a grave and inexcusable offence, not only by my pupils and their mother, but by the very servant who came in breathless haste to call me, exclaiming—
“You’re to go to the school-room
directly,
mum—the young ladies is WAITING!!”
Climax of horror! actually waiting for their governess!!!
But this time, I was pretty sure of an hour or two to myself, for Matilda was preparing for a long ride, and Rosalie was dressing for a dinner party at Lady Ashby’s: so I took the opportunity of repairing to the widow’s cottage, where I found her in some anxiety about her cat, which had been absent all day. I comforted her with as many anecdotes of that animal’s roving propensities as I could recollect.
“I’m feared o’ th’ gamekeepers,” said she, “that’s all ’at I think on. If th’ young gentlemen had been at home, I should a’ thought they’d been setting their dogs at her, an’ worried her, poor thing, as they did
many
a poor thing’s cat; but I haven’t that to be feared on now.”
Nancy’s eyes were better, but still far from well: she had been trying to make a Sunday shirt for her son, but told me she could only bear to do a little bit at it now and then; so that it progressed but slowly, though the poor lad wanted it sadly. So I proposed to help her a little, after I had read to her, for I had plenty of time that evening, and need not return till dusk. She thankfully accepted the offer.
“An’ you’ll be a bit o’ company for me too, Miss,” said she, “I like as I feel lonesome without my cat.”
But when I had finished reading, and done the half of a seam, with Nancy’s capacious brass thimble fitted on to my finger by means of a roll of paper, I was disturbed by the entrance of Mr. Weston with the identical cat in his arms. I now saw that he could smile, and very pleasantly too.
“I’ve done you a piece of good service, Nancy,” he began; then seeing me, he acknowledged my presence by a slight bow. I should have been invisible to Mr. Hatfield, or any other gentleman of those parts. “I’ve delivered your cat,” he continued, “from the hands, or rather the gun of Mr. Murray’s gamekeeper.”
“God bless you sir,” cried the grateful old woman, ready to weep for joy as she received her favourite from his arms.
“Take care of it,” said he, “and don’t let it go near the rabbit warren, for the gamekeeper swears he’ll shoot it, if he sees it there again. He would have done so to-day, if I had not been in time to stop him. I believe it is raining, Miss Grey,” added he, more quietly, observing that I had put aside my work and was preparing to depart. “Don’t let me disturb you—I shan’t stay two minutes.”
“You’ll
both
stay while this shower gets owered,”
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said Nancy as she stirred the fire, and placed another chair beside it; “what! there’s room for all.”
“I can see better here, thank you Nancy,” replied I, taking my work to the window, where she had the goodness to suffer me to remain unmolested, while she got a brush to remove the cat’s hairs from Mr. Weston’s coat, carefully wiped the rain from his hat, and gave the cat its supper, busily talking all the time; now thanking her clerical friend for what he had done; now wondering how the cat had found out the warren; and now lamenting the probable consequences of such a discovery. He listened with a quiet, good-natured smile, and at length took a seat in compliance with her pressing invitations, but repeated that he did not mean to stay.
“I have another place to go to,” said he, “and I see” (glancing at the book on the table) “some one else has been reading to you.”
“Yes sir, Miss Grey has been as kind as read me a chapter; an’ now she’s helping me with a shirt for our Bill—but I’m feared she’ll be cold there. Won’t you come to th’ fire, Miss?”
“No, thank you Nancy, I’m quite warm. I must go as soon as this shower is over.”
“Aw Miss! You said you could stop while dusk!” cried the provoking old woman, and Mr. Weston seized his hat.
“Nay sir,” exclaimed she, “pray don’t go now, while it rains so fast!”
“But, it strikes me I’m keeping your visiter away from the fire.”
“No you’re not Mr. Weston,” replied I, hoping there was no harm in a falsehood of that description.
“No, sure!” cried Nancy. “What, there’s lots o’ room!”
“Miss Grey,” said he, half jestingly, as if he felt it necessary to change the present subject, whether he had anything particular to say or not, “I wish you would make my peace with the squire, when you see him. He was by when I rescued Nancy’s cat, and did not quite approve of the deed. I told him I thought he might better spare all his rabbits than she her cat, for which audacious assertion, he treated me to some rather ungentlemanly language, and, I fear, I retorted a trifle too warmly.”
“Oh lawful sir! I hope you didn’t fall out wi’ th’ maister for sake o’ my cat! he cannot bide answering again—can th’ maister.”
“Oh! it’s not matter Nancy: I don’t care about it, really: I said nothing
very
uncivil; and I suppose Mr. Murray is accustomed to use rather strong language when he’s heated.”
“Ay sir: it’s a pity!”
“And now, I really must go. I have to visit a place a mile beyond this; and you would not have me to return in the dark: besides, it has nearly done raining now—so good evening Nancy.—Good evening Miss Grey.”
“Good evening Mr. Weston ... but don’t depend upon me for making your peace with Mr. Murray, for I never see him—to speak to.”
“Don’t you? it can’t be helped then!” replied he in dolorous resignation: then, with a peculiar half smile, he added, “But never mind; I imagine the squire has more to apologize for than I,” and left the cottage.
I went on with my sewing as long as I could see; and then bid Nancy good evening, checking her too lively gratitude by the undeniable assurance, that I had only done for her, what she would have done for me, if she had been in my place, and I in hers, and hastened back to Horton Lodge; where having entered the school-room, I found the tea-table all in confusion, the tray flooded with slops, and Miss Matilda in a most ferocious humour.
“Miss Grey, whatever have you been about? I’ve had tea half an hour ago, and had to make it myself, and drink it all alone! I wish you
would
come in sooner!”
“I’ve been to see Nancy Brown. I thought you would not be back from your ride.”
“How could I ride in the rain, I should like to know? That d—d pelting shower was vexatious enough—coming on when I was just in full swing; and then to come and find nobody in to tea!—and you know I can’t make the tea as I like it.”
1
“I didn’t think of the shower,” replied I, (and, indeed, the thought of its driving her home had never entered my head.)
“No of course, you were under shelter yourself, and you never thought of other people.”
I bore her coarse reproaches with astonishing equanimity, even with cheerfulness; for I was sensible that I had done more good to Nancy Brown, than harm to her; and perhaps some other thoughts assisted to keep up my spirits, and impart a relish to the cup of cold, overdrawn tea,
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and a charm to the otherwise unsightly table, and—I had almost said—to Miss Matilda’s unamiable face. But she soon betook herself to the stables, and left me to the quiet enjoyment of my solitary meal.
CHAPTER XIII
The Primroses
M
iss Murray now always went twice to church, for she so loved admiration that she could not bear to lose a sin gle opportunity of obtaining it; and she was so sure of it, wherever she showed herself, that whether Harry Meltham and Mr. Green were there or not, there was certain to be somebody present, who would be not insensible to her charms, besides the rector, whose official capacity generally obliged him to attend.
Usually, also, if the weather permitted, both she and her sister would walk home; Matilda because she hated the confinement of the carriage; she, because she disliked the privacy of it, and enjoyed the company that generally enlivened the first mile of the journey in walking from the church to Mr. Green’s park-gates, near which, commenced the private road to Horton Lodge, which lay in the opposite direction; while the highway conducted, in a straight-forward course to the still more distant mansion of Sir Hugh Meltham. Thus, there was always a chance of being accompanied, so far, either by Harry Meltham with or without Miss Meltham, or Mr. Green, with perhaps one or both of his sisters, and any gentlemen visiters they might have.
Whether I walked with the young ladies or rode with their parents, depended entirely upon their own capricious will: if they chose to “take” me, I went; if, for reasons best known to themselves, they chose to go alone, I took my seat in the carriage: I liked walking better, but a sense of reluctance to obtrude my presence on any one who did not desire it, always kept me passive on these and similar occasions; and I never inquired into the causes of their varying whims. And indeed this was the best policy—for to submit and oblige was the governess’s part, to consult their own pleasure was that of the pupils. But when I did walk, this first half of the journey was generally a great nuisance to me. As none of the beforementioned ladies and gentlemen ever noticed me, it was disagreeable to walk beside them, as if listening to what they said, or wishing to be thought one of them, while they talked over me or across, and if their eyes in speaking, chanced to fall on me, it seemed as if they looked on vacancy—as if they either did not see me, or were very desirous to make it appear so.
It was disagreeable, too, to walk behind, and thus appear to acknowledge my own inferiority; for in truth, I considered myself pretty nearly as good as the best of them, and wished them to know that I did so, and not to imagine that I looked upon myself as a mere domestic, who knew her own place too well to walk beside such fine ladies and gentlemen as they were ... though her young ladies might choose to have her with them, and even condescend to converse with her, when no better company were at hand.
Thus—I am almost ashamed to confess it—but indeed I gave myself no little trouble in my endeavours (if I did keep up with them) to appear perfectly unconscious or regardless of their presence, as if I were wholly absorbed in my own reflections or the contemplations of surrounding objects; or if I lingered behind, it was some bird or insect, some tree or flower, that attracted my attention, and having duly examined that, I would pursue my walk alone, at a leisurely pace, until my pupils had bid adieu to their companions, and turned off into the quiet, private road.
One such occasion I particularly well remember, it was a lovely afternoon about the close of March; Mr. Green and his sisters had sent their carriage back empty, in order to enjoy the bright sunshine and balmy air in a sociable walk home along with their visiters, Captain Somebody and Lieutenant Somebody else (a couple of military fops,) and the Misses Murray, who of course, contrived to join them.
Such a party was highly agreeable to Rosalie; but not finding it equally suitable to my taste, I presently fell back, and began to botanize and entomologize along the green banks and budding hedges, till the company was considerably in advance of me, and I could hear the sweet song of the happy lark: then my spirit of misanthropy began to melt away beneath the soft, pure air, and genial sunshine; but sad thoughts of early childhood, and yearnings for departed joys, or for a brighter future lot, arose instead.
As my eyes wandered over the steep banks covered with young grass and green-leaved plants, and surmounted by budding hedges, I longed intensely for some familiar flower that might recall the woody dales or green hillsides of home—the brown moorlands, of course, were out of the question. Such a discovery would make my eyes gush out with water, no doubt; but that was one of my greatest enjoyments now.
At length, I descried, high up between the twisted roots of an oak, three lovely primroses, peeping so sweetly from their hiding place that the tears already started at the sight, but they grew so high above me, that I tried in vain to gather one or two to dream over and to carry with me; I could not reach them, unless I climbed the bank, which I was deterred from doing by hearing a footstep, at that moment behind me, and was therefore, about to turn away, when I was startled by the words, “Allow me to gather them for you, Miss Grey,” spoken in the grave, low tones of a well-known voice.