Agnes Grey (28 page)

She shewed me her fat French poodle that lay curled up on a silk cushion, and the two fine Italian paintings, which, however, she would not give me time to examine, but, saying I must look at them some other day, insisted upon my admiring the little jewelled watch she had brought from Geneva, and then took me round the room to point out sundry other articles of vertu
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she had imported from Italy, an elegant little timepiece, and several busts, small, graceful figures, and vases, all beautifully carved in white marble. She spoke of these with animation, and heard my admiring comments with a smile of pleasure, that soon, however, vanished, and was followed by a melancholy sigh, as if in consideration of the insufficiency of all such baubles to the happiness of the human heart, and their woful inability to supply its insatiate demands.

Then, stretching herself upon a couch, she motioned me to a capacious easy chair that stood opposite—not before the fire, but before a wide open window—for it was Summer, be it remembered—a sweet, warm evening in the latter half of June; and I sat for a moment in silence, enjoying the still, pure air, and the delightful prospect of the park, that lay before me, rich in verdure and foliage, and basking in yellow sunshine relieved by the long shadows of declining day. But I must take advantage of this pause: I had inquiries to make, and, like the substance of a lady’s postscript, the most important must come last.

So I began with asking after Mr. and Mrs. Murray, and Miss Matilda and the young gentlemen.

I was told that papa had got the gout which made him very ferocious, and that he would not give up his choice wines, and his substantial dinners and suppers, and had quarrelled with his physician, because the latter had dared to say, that no medicine could cure him while he lived so freely; that mamma and the rest were well: Matilda was still wild and reckless, but she had got a fashionable governess, and was considerably improved in her manners, and soon to be introduced to the world; and that John and Charles, (now at home for the holidays,) were, by all accounts, “fine, bold, unruly, mischievous boys.”

“And how are the other people getting on?” said I—“the Greens, for instance?”

“Ah! Mr. Green is heart-broken, you know,” replied she, with a languid smile; “he hasn’t got over his disappointment yet, and never will, I suppose. He’s doomed to be an old bachelor; and his sisters are doing their best to get married.”

“And the Melthams?”

“Oh, they’re jogging on as usual, I suppose; but I know very little about any of them—except Harry,” said she, blushing slightly, and smiling again; “I saw a great deal of him while we were in London; for, as soon as he heard we were there, he came up under pretence of visiting his brother, and either followed me, like a shadow, wherever I went, or met me, like a reflection, at every turn. But you needn’t look so shocked, Miss Grey; I was very discreet, I assure you; but, you know, one can’t help being admired. Poor fellow! He was not my only worshipper, but he was certainly the most conspicuous, and, I think, the most devoted among them all. And that detestable—ahem—and Sir Thomas chose to take offence at him—or my profuse expenditure, or something—I don’t exactly know what—and hurried me down to the country, at a moment’s notice, where I’m to play the hermit, I suppose, for life.”

And she bit her lip, and frowned vindictively upon the fair domain she had once so coveted to call her own.

“And Mr. Hatfield,” said I, “what is become of him?”

Again, she brightened up, and answered gaily—

“Oh! he made up to an elderly spinster, and married her, not long since, weighing her heavy purse against her faded charms, and expecting to find that solace in gold which was denied him in love, ha, ha!”

“Well, and I think that’s all—except Mr. Weston—what is he doing?”

“I don’t know I’m sure. He’s gone from Horton.”

“How long since; and where is he gone to?”

“I know nothing about him,” replied she, yawning—“except that he went about a month ago—I never asked where,” (I would have asked whether it was to a living or merely another curacy, but thought it better not,) “and the people made a great rout about his leaving,” continued she, “much to Mr. Hatfield’s displeasure, for Hatfield didn’t like him, because he had too much influence with the common people, and because he was not sufficiently tractable and submissive to him—and for some other unpardonable sins, I don’t know what. But now I positively must go and dress; the second bell will ring directly, and if I come to dinner in this guise, I shall never hear the end of it from Lady Ashby. It’s a strange thing one can’t be mistress in one’s own house! Just ring the bell, and I’ll send for my maid, and tell them to get you some tea. Only think of that intolerable woman—”

“Who—your maid?”

“No, my mother-in-law—and my unfortunate mistake! Instead of letting her take herself off to some other house, as she offered to do when I married, I was fool enough to ask her to live here still, and direct the affairs of the house for me; because, in the first place, I hoped we should spend the greater part of the year in Town, and in the second place, being so young and inexperienced, I was frightened at the idea of having a houseful of servants to manage, and dinners to order, and parties to entertain, and all the rest of it, and I thought she might assist me with her experience; never dreaming that she would prove a usurper, a tyrant, an incubus, a spy, and everything else that’s detestable. I wish she was dead!”

She then turned to give her orders to the footman who had been standing bolt upright within the door for the last half minute, and had heard the latter part of her animadversions, and, of course, made his own reflections upon them, notwithstanding the inflexible, wooden countenance he thought proper to preserve in the drawing-room.

On my remarking afterwards that he must have heard her, she replied,

“Oh, no matter! I never care about the footmen; they’re mere automatons—it’s nothing to them what their superiors say or do; they won’t dare to repeat it; and as to what they think—if they presume to think at all—of course, nobody cares for that. It would be a pretty thing indeed, if we were to be tongue-tied by our servants!”

So saying, she ran off to make her hasty toilet, leaving me to pilot my way back to my sitting-room, where, in due time, I was served with a cup of tea; and, after that, I sat musing on Lady Ashby’s past and present condition; and on what little information I had obtained respecting Mr. Weston, and the small chance there was of ever seeing or hearing anything more of him throughout my quiet, drab-colour life, which, henceforth, seemed to offer no alternative between positive rainy days, and days of dull, grey clouds without downfall.

At length, however, I began to weary of my thoughts, and to wish I knew where to find the library my hostess had spoken of, and to wonder whether I was to remain there, doing nothing till bed-time.

As I was not rich enough to possess a watch, I could not tell how time was passing, except by observing the slowly lengthening shadows from the window, which presented a side view, including a corner of the park, a clump of trees, whose topmost branches had been colonized by an innumerable company of noisy rooks, and a high wall with a massive wooden gate, no doubt, communicating with the stable yard, as a broad carriage-road swept up to it from the park. The shadow of this wall soon took possession of the whole of the ground as far as I could see, forcing the golden sunlight to retreat inch by inch, and at last take refuge in the very tops of the trees. At last, even they were left in shadow—the shadow of the distant hills, or of the earth itself; and, in sympathy for the busy citizens of the rookery, I regretted to see their habitation, so lately bathed in glorious light, reduced to the sombre, worka-day hue of the lower world, or of my own world within. For a moment, such birds as soared above the rest might still receive the lustre on their wings, which imparted to their sable plumage the hue and brilliance of deep red gold; at last, that too departed. Twilight came stealing on—the rooks became more quiet—I became more weary, and wished I were going home to-morrow.

At length it grew dark; and I was thinking of ringing for a candle, and betaking myself to bed, when my hostess appeared, with many apologies for having neglected me so long, and laying all the blame upon that “nasty old woman,” as she called her mother-in-law.

“If I didn’t sit with her in the drawing-room while Sir Thomas is taking his wine,” said she, “she would never forgive me; and then, if I leave the room the instant he comes—as I have done once or twice—it is an unpardonable offence against her dear Thomas.
She
never shewed such disrespect to her husband—and as for affection, wives never think of that now-a-days, she supposes; but things were different in her time—As if there was any good to be done, by staying in the room, when he does nothing but grumble and scold when he’s in a bad humour, talk disgusting nonsense when he’s in a good one, and go to sleep on the sofa when he’s too stupid for either, which is most frequently the case, now when he has nothing to do but to sot
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over his wine.”

“But could you not try to occupy his mind with something better; and engage him to give up such habits? I’m sure you have powers of persuasion, and qualifications for amusing a gentleman, which many ladies would be glad to possess.”

“And so you think I would lay myself out for his amusement! No; that’s not my idea of a wife. It’s the husband’s part to please the wife, not hers to please him; and if he isn’t satisfied with her as she is—and thankful to possess her too, he isn’t worthy of her—that’s all. And as for persuasion, I assure you I shan’t trouble myself with that: I’ve enough to do to bear with him as he is, without attempting to work a reform. But, I’m sorry I left you so long alone, Miss Grey. How have you passed the time?”

“Chiefly in watching the rooks.”

“Mercy, how dull you must have been! I really must show you the library; and you must ring for everything you want, just as you would in an inn, and make yourself comfortable. I have selfish reasons for wishing to make you happy, because I want you to stay with me, and not fulfil your horrid threat of running away in a day or two.”

“Well, don’t let me keep you out of the drawing-room any longer to-night, for at present I am tired, and wish to go to bed.”

I
came down a little before eight, next morning, as I knew by the striking of a distant clock. There was no appearance of breakfast. I waited above an hour before it came, still vainly longing for access to the library; and, after that lonely repast was concluded, I waited again about an hour and a half in great suspense and discomfort, uncertain what to do.

At length, Lady Ashby came to bid me good morning. She informed me she had only just breakfasted, and now wanted me to take an early walk with her in the park. She asked how long I had been up, and, on receiving my answer, expressed the deepest regret, and again promised to show me the library.

I suggested she had better do so at once, and then there would be no further trouble either with remembering or forgetting. She complied, on condition that I would not think of reading, or bothering with the books now, for she wanted to show me the gardens, and take a walk in the park with me, before it became too hot for enjoyment, which, indeed, was nearly the case already. Of course, I readily assented; and we took our walk accordingly.

As we were strolling in the park, talking of what my companion had seen and heard during her travelling experience, a gentleman on horseback rode up and passed us. As he turned, in passing, and stared me full in the face, I had a good opportunity of seeing what he was like. He was tall, thin, and wasted, with a slight stoop in the shoulders, a pale face, but somewhat blotchy, and disagreeably red about the eye-lids, plain features, and a general appearance of languor and flatness, relieved by a sinister expression about the mouth and the dull, soulless eyes.

“I detest that man!” whispered Lady Ashby with bitter emphasis, as he slowly trotted by.

“Who is it?” I asked, unwilling to suppose that she should so speak of her husband.

“Sir Thomas Ashby,” she replied with dreary composure.

“And do you
detest
him, Miss Murray?” said I, for I was too much shocked to remember her name at the moment.

“Yes, I do, Miss Grey—and despise him too! and if you knew him, you would not blame me.”

“But you knew what he was before you married him.”

“No; I only thought so;—I did not half know him really. I know you warned me against it; and I wish I had listened to you—but it’s too late to regret that now—and besides mamma ought to have known better than either of us; and she never said anything against it—quite the contrary—And then I thought he adored me, and would let me have my own way—he did pretend to do so at first; but now he does not care a bit about me. But I should not care for that; he might do as he pleased, if I might only be free to amuse myself and to stay in London, or have a few friends down here ... but he will do as he pleases—and I must be a prisoner and a slave. The moment he saw I could enjoy myself without him, and that others knew my value better than himself, the selfish wretch began to accuse me of coquetry and extravagance, and to abuse Harry Meltham whose shoes he was not worthy to clean;
¹
—and then, he must needs have me down in the country to lead the life of a nun, lest I should dishonour him or bring him to ruin, as if he had not been ten times worse every way—with his betting book, and his gaming table, and his opera girls, and his Lady this and Mrs. that—yes, and his bottles of wine, and glasses of brandy and water too—filthy beast! Oh, I would give ten thousand worlds to be Miss Murray again! It is too bad to feel life, health, and beauty wasting away, unfelt and unenjoyed, for such a brute as that!” exclaimed she, fairly bursting into tears in the bitterness of her vexation.