THE RECTOR
The following day was as fine as the preceding one. Soon after
breakfast Miss Matilda, having galloped and blundered through a few
unprofitable lessons, and vengefully thumped the piano for an hour,
in a terrible humour with both me and it, because her mamma would not
give her a holiday, had betaken herself to her favourite places of
resort, the yards, the stables, and the dog-kennels; and Miss Murray
was gone forth to enjoy a quiet ramble with a new fashionable novel
for her companion, leaving me in the schoolroom hard at work upon a
water-colour drawing which I had promised to do for her, and which she
insisted upon my finishing that day.
At my feet lay a little rough terrier. It was the property of Miss
Matilda; but she hated the animal, and intended to sell it, alleging
that it was quite spoiled. It was really an excellent dog of its kind;
but she affirmed it was fit for nothing, and had not even the sense to
know its own mistress.
The fact was she had purchased it when but a small puppy, insisting at
first that no one should touch it but herself; but soon becoming tired
of so helpless and troublesome a nursling, she had gladly yielded to my
entreaties to be allowed to take charge of it; and I, by carefully
nursing the little creature from infancy to adolescence, of course, had
obtained its affections: a reward I should have greatly valued, and
looked upon as far outweighing all the trouble I had had with it, had
not poor Snap’s grateful feelings exposed him to many a harsh word and
many a spiteful kick and pinch from his owner, and were he not now in
danger of being “put away” in consequence, or transferred to some
rough, stony-hearted master. But how could I help it? I could not make
the dog hate me by cruel treatment, and she would not propitiate him by
kindness.
However, while I thus sat, working away with my pencil, Mrs. Murray
came, half-sailing, half-bustling, into the room.
“Miss Grey,” she began,—“dear! how can you sit at your drawing such a
day as this?” (She thought I was doing it for my own pleasure.) “I
_wonder_ you don’t put on your bonnet and go out with the young
ladies.”
“I think, ma’am, Miss Murray is reading; and Miss Matilda is amusing
herself with her dogs.”
“If you would try to amuse Miss Matilda yourself a little more, I think
she would not be driven to seek amusement in the companionship of dogs
and horses and grooms, so much as she is; and if you would be a little
more cheerful and conversable with Miss Murray, she would not so often
go wandering in the fields with a book in her hand. However, I don’t
want to vex you,” added she, seeing, I suppose, that my cheeks burned
and my hand trembled with some unamiable emotion. “Do, pray, try not to
be so touchy—there’s no speaking to you else. And tell me if you know
where Rosalie is gone: and why she likes to be so much alone?”
“She says she likes to be alone when she has a new book to read.”
“But why can’t she read it in the park or the garden?—why should she go
into the fields and lanes? And how is it that that Mr. Hatfield so
often finds her out? She told me last week he’d walked his horse by her
side all up Moss Lane; and now I’m sure it was he I saw, from my
dressing-room window, walking so briskly past the park-gates, and on
towards the field where she so frequently goes. I wish you would go and
see if she is there; and just gently remind her that it is not proper
for a young lady of her rank and prospects to be wandering about by
herself in that manner, exposed to the attentions of anyone that
presumes to address her; like some poor neglected girl that has no park
to walk in, and no friends to take care of her: and tell her that her
papa would be extremely angry if he knew of her treating Mr. Hatfield
in the familiar manner that I fear she does; and—oh! if you—if _any_
governess had but half a mother’s watchfulness—half a mother’s anxious
care, I should be saved this trouble; and you would see at once the
necessity of keeping your eye upon her, and making your company
agreeable to— Well, go—go; there’s no time to be lost,” cried she,
seeing that I had put away my drawing materials, and was waiting in the
doorway for the conclusion of her address.
According to her prognostications, I found Miss Murray in her favourite
field just without the park; and, unfortunately, not alone; for the
tall, stately figure of Mr. Hatfield was slowly sauntering by her side.
Here was a poser for me. It was my duty to interrupt the _tête-à-tête_:
but how was it to be done? Mr. Hatfield could not to be driven away by
so insignificant person as I; and to go and place myself on the other
side of Miss Murray, and intrude my unwelcome presence upon her without
noticing her companion, was a piece of rudeness I could not be guilty
of: neither had I the courage to cry aloud from the top of the field
that she was wanted elsewhere. So I took the intermediate course of
walking slowly but steadily towards them; resolving, if my approach
failed to scare away the beau, to pass by and tell Miss Murray her
mamma wanted her.
She certainly looked very charming as she strolled, lingering along
under the budding horse-chestnut trees that stretched their long arms
over the park-palings; with her closed book in one hand, and in the
other a graceful sprig of myrtle, which served her as a very pretty
plaything; her bright ringlets escaping profusely from her little
bonnet, and gently stirred by the breeze, her fair cheek flushed with
gratified vanity, her smiling blue eyes, now slyly glancing towards her
admirer, now gazing downward at her myrtle sprig. But Snap, running
before me, interrupted her in the midst of some half-pert, half-playful
repartee, by catching hold of her dress and vehemently tugging thereat;
till Mr. Hatfield, with his cane, administered a resounding thwack upon
the animal’s skull, and sent it yelping back to me with a clamorous
outcry that afforded the reverend gentleman great amusement: but seeing
me so near, he thought, I suppose, he might as well be taking his
departure; and, as I stooped to caress the dog, with ostentatious pity
to show my disapproval of his severity, I heard him say: “When shall I
see you again, Miss Murray?”
“At church, I suppose,” replied she, “unless your business chances to
bring you here again at the precise moment when I happen to be walking
by.”
“I could always manage to have business here, if I knew precisely when
and where to find you.”
“But if I would, I could not inform you, for I am so immethodical, I
never can tell to-day what I shall do to-morrow.”
“Then give me that, meantime, to comfort me,” said he, half jestingly
and half in earnest, extending his hand for the sprig of myrtle.
“No, indeed, I shan’t.”
“Do! _pray_ do! I shall be the most miserable of men if you don’t. You
cannot be so cruel as to deny me a favour so easily granted and yet so
highly prized!” pleaded he as ardently as if his life depended on it.
By this time I stood within a very few yards of them, impatiently
waiting his departure.
“There then! take it and go,” said Rosalie.
He joyfully received the gift, murmured something that made her blush
and toss her head, but with a little laugh that showed her displeasure
was entirely affected; and then with a courteous salutation withdrew.
“Did you ever see such a man, Miss Grey?” said she, turning to me; “I’m
so _glad_ you came! I thought I never _should_ get rid of him; and I
was so terribly afraid of papa seeing him.”
“Has he been with you long?”
“No, not long, but he’s so extremely impertinent: and he’s always
hanging about, pretending his business or his clerical duties require
his attendance in these parts, and really watching for poor me, and
pouncing upon me wherever he sees me.”
“Well, your mamma thinks you ought not to go beyond the park or garden
without some discreet, matronly person like me to accompany you, and
keep off all intruders. She descried Mr. Hatfield hurrying past the
park-gates, and forthwith despatched me with instructions to seek you
up and to take care of you, and likewise to warn—”
“Oh, mamma’s so tiresome! As if I couldn’t take care of myself. She
bothered me before about Mr. Hatfield; and I told her she might trust
me: I never should forget my rank and station for the most delightful
man that ever breathed. I wish he would go down on his knees to-morrow,
and implore me to be his wife, that I might just show her how mistaken
she is in supposing that I could ever—Oh, it provokes me so! To think
that I could be such a fool as to fall in _love_! It is quite beneath
the dignity of a woman to do such a thing. Love! I detest the word! As
applied to one of our sex, I think it a perfect insult. A preference I
_might_ acknowledge; but never for one like poor Mr. Hatfield, who has
not seven hundred a year to bless himself with. I like to talk to him,
because he’s so clever and amusing—I wish Sir Thomas Ashby were half as
nice; besides, I must have _somebody_ to flirt with, and no one else
has the sense to come here; and when we go out, mamma won’t let me
flirt with anybody but Sir Thomas—if he’s there; and if he’s _not_
there, I’m bound hand and foot, for fear somebody should go and make up
some exaggerated story, and put it into his head that I’m engaged, or
likely to be engaged, to somebody else; or, what is more probable, for
fear his nasty old mother should see or hear of my ongoings, and
conclude that I’m not a fit wife for her excellent son: as if the said
son were not the greatest scamp in Christendom; and as if any woman of
common decency were not a world too good for him.”
“Is it really so, Miss Murray? and does your mamma know it, and yet
wish you to marry him?”
“To be sure, she does! She knows more against him than I do, I believe:
she keeps it from me lest I should be discouraged; not knowing how
little I care about such things. For it’s no great matter, really:
he’ll be all right when he’s married, as mamma says; and reformed rakes
make the best husbands, _everybody_ knows. I only wish he were not so
ugly—_that’s_ all _I_ think about: but then there’s no choice here in
the country; and papa _will not_ let us go to London—”
“But I should think Mr. Hatfield would be far better.”
“And so he would, if he were lord of Ashby Park—there’s not a doubt of
it: but the fact is, I _must_ have Ashby Park, whoever shares it with
me.”
“But Mr. Hatfield thinks you like him all this time; you don’t consider
how bitterly he will be disappointed when he finds himself mistaken.”
“_No_, indeed! It will be a proper punishment for his presumption—for
ever _daring_ to think I could like him. I should enjoy nothing so much
as lifting the veil from his eyes.”
“The sooner you do it the better then.”
“No; I tell you, I like to amuse myself with him. Besides, he doesn’t
really think I like him. I take good care of that: you don’t know how
cleverly I manage. He may presume to think he can induce me to like
him; for which I shall punish him as he deserves.”
“Well, mind you don’t give too much reason for such presumption—that’s
all,” replied I.
But all my exhortations were in vain: they only made her somewhat more
solicitous to disguise her wishes and her thoughts from me. She talked
no more to me about the Rector; but I could see that her mind, if not
her heart, was fixed upon him still, and that she was intent upon
obtaining another interview: for though, in compliance with her
mother’s request, I was now constituted the companion of her rambles
for a time, she still persisted in wandering in the fields and lanes
that lay in the nearest proximity to the road; and, whether she talked
to me or read the book she carried in her hand, she kept continually
pausing to look round her, or gaze up the road to see if anyone was
coming; and if a horseman trotted by, I could tell by her unqualified
abuse of the poor equestrian, whoever he might be, that she hated him
_because_ he was not Mr. Hatfield.
“Surely,” thought I, “she is not so indifferent to him as she believes
herself to be, or would have others to believe her; and her mother’s
anxiety is not so wholly causeless as she affirms.”
Three days passed away, and he did not make his appearance. On the
afternoon of the fourth, as we were walking beside the park-palings in
the memorable field, each furnished with a book (for I always took care
to provide myself with something to be doing when she did not require
me to talk), she suddenly interrupted my studies by exclaiming—
“Oh, Miss Grey! do be so kind as to go and see Mark Wood, and take his
wife half-a-crown from me—I should have given or sent it a week ago,
but quite forgot. There!” said she, throwing me her purse, and speaking
very fast—“Never mind getting it out now, but take the purse and give
them what you like; I would go with you, but I want to finish this
volume. I’ll come and meet you when I’ve done it. Be quick, will
you—and—oh, wait; hadn’t you better read to him a bit? Run to the house
and get some sort of a good book. Anything will do.”
I did as I was desired; but, suspecting something from her hurried
manner and the suddenness of the request, I just glanced back before I
quitted the field, and there was Mr. Hatfield about to enter at the
gate below. By sending me to the house for a book, she had just
prevented my meeting him on the road.
“Never mind!” thought I, “there’ll be no great harm done. Poor Mark
will be glad of the half-crown, and perhaps of the good book too; and
if the Rector does steal Miss Rosalie’s heart, it will only humble her
pride a little; and if they do get married at last, it will only save
her from a worse fate; and she will be quite a good enough partner for
him, and he for her.”
Mark Wood was the consumptive labourer whom I mentioned before. He was
now rapidly wearing away. Miss Murray, by her liberality, obtained
literally the blessing of him that was ready to perish; for though the
half-crown could be of very little service to him, he was glad of it
for the sake of his wife and children, so soon to be widowed and
fatherless. After I had sat a few minutes, and read a little for the
comfort and edification of himself and his afflicted wife, I left them;
but I had not proceeded fifty yards before I encountered Mr. Weston,
apparently on his way to the same abode. He greeted me in his usual
quiet, unaffected way, stopped to inquire about the condition of the
sick man and his family, and with a sort of unconscious, brotherly
disregard to ceremony took from my hand the book out of which I had
been reading, turned over its pages, made a few brief but very sensible
remarks, and restored it; then told me about some poor sufferer he had
just been visiting, talked a little about Nancy Brown, made a few
observations upon my little rough friend the terrier, that was frisking
at his feet, and finally upon the beauty of the weather, and departed.
I have omitted to give a detail of his words, from a notion that they
would not interest the reader as they did me, and not because I have
forgotten them. No; I remember them well; for I thought them over and
over again in the course of that day and many succeeding ones, I know
not how often; and recalled every intonation of his deep, clear voice,
every flash of his quick, brown eye, and every gleam of his pleasant,
but too transient smile. Such a confession will look very absurd, I
fear: but no matter: I have written it: and they that read it will not
know the writer.
While I was walking along, happy within, and pleased with all around,
Miss Murray came hastening to meet me; her buoyant step, flushed cheek,
and radiant smiles showing that she, too, was happy, in her own way.
Running up to me, she put her arm through mine, and without waiting to
recover breath, began—“Now, Miss Grey, think yourself highly honoured,
for I’m come to tell you my news before I’ve breathed a word of it to
anyone else.”
“Well, what is it?”
“Oh, _such_ news! In the first place, you must know that Mr. Hatfield
came upon me just after you were gone. I was in such a way for fear
papa or mamma should see him; but you know I couldn’t call you back
again, and so!—oh, dear! I can’t tell you all about it now, for there’s
Matilda, I see, in the park, and I must go and open my budget to her.
But, however, Hatfield was most uncommonly audacious, unspeakably
complimentary, and unprecedentedly tender—tried to be so, at least—he
didn’t succeed very well in _that_, because it’s not his vein. I’ll
tell you all he said another time.”
“But what did _you_ say—I’m more interested in that?”
“I’ll tell you that, too, at some future period. I happened to be in a
very good humour just then; but, though I was complaisant and gracious
enough, I took care not to compromise myself in any possible way. But,
however, the conceited wretch chose to interpret my amiability of
temper his own way, and at length presumed upon my indulgence so
far—what do you think?—he actually made me an offer!”
“And you—”
“I proudly drew myself up, and with the greatest coolness expressed my
astonishment at such an occurrence, and hoped he had seen nothing in my
conduct to justify his expectations. You should have _seen_ how his
countenance fell! He went perfectly white in the face. I assured him
that I esteemed him and all that, but could not possibly accede to his
proposals; and if I did, papa and mamma could never be brought to give
their consent.”
“‘But if they could,’ said he, ‘would yours be wanting?’
“‘Certainly, Mr. Hatfield,’ I replied, with a cool decision which
quelled all hope at once. Oh, if you had seen how dreadfully mortified
he was—how crushed to the earth by his disappointment! really, I almost
pitied him myself.
“One more desperate attempt, however, he made. After a silence of
considerable duration, during which he struggled to be calm, and I to
be grave—for I felt a strong propensity to laugh—which would have
ruined all—he said, with the ghost of a smile—‘But tell me plainly,
Miss Murray, if I had the wealth of Sir Hugh Meltham, or the prospects
of his eldest son, would you still refuse me? Answer me truly, upon
your honour.’
“‘Certainly,’ said I. ‘That would make no difference whatever.’
“It was a great lie, but he looked so confident in his own attractions
still, that I determined not to leave him one stone upon another. He
looked me full in the face; but I kept my countenance so well that he
could not imagine I was saying anything more than the actual truth.
“‘Then it’s all over, I suppose,’ he said, looking as if he could have
died on the spot with vexation and the intensity of his despair. But he
was angry as well as disappointed. There was he, suffering so
unspeakably, and there was I, the pitiless cause of it all, so utterly
impenetrable to all the artillery of his looks and words, so calmly
cold and proud, he could not but feel some resentment; and with
singular bitterness he began—‘I certainly did not expect this, Miss
Murray. I might say something about your past conduct, and the hopes
you have led me to foster, but I forbear, on condition—’
“‘No conditions, Mr. Hatfield!’ said I, now truly indignant at his
insolence.
“‘Then let me beg it as a favour,’ he replied, lowering his voice at
once, and taking a humbler tone: ‘let me entreat that you will not
mention this affair to anyone whatever. If you will keep silence about
it, there need be no unpleasantness on either side—nothing, I mean,
beyond what is quite unavoidable: for my own feelings I will endeavour
to keep to myself, if I cannot annihilate them—I will try to forgive,
if I cannot forget the cause of my sufferings. I will not suppose, Miss
Murray, that you know how deeply you have injured me. I would not have
you aware of it; but if, in addition to the injury you have already
done me—pardon me, but, whether innocently or not, you _have_ done
it—and if you add to it by giving publicity to this unfortunate affair,
or naming it _at all_, you will find that I too can speak, and though
you scorned my love, you will hardly scorn my—’
“He stopped, but he bit his bloodless lip, and looked so terribly
fierce that I was quite frightened. However, my pride upheld me still,
and I answered disdainfully; ‘I do not know what motive you suppose I
could have for naming it to anyone, Mr. Hatfield; but if I were
disposed to do so, you would not deter me by threats; and it is
scarcely the part of a gentleman to attempt it.’
“‘Pardon me, Miss Murray,’ said he, ‘I have loved you so intensely—I do
still adore you so deeply, that I would not willingly offend you; but
though I never have loved, and never _can_ love any woman as I have
loved you, it is equally certain that I never was so ill-treated by
any. On the contrary, I have always found your sex the kindest and most
tender and obliging of God’s creation, till now.’ (Think of the
conceited fellow saying that!) ‘And the novelty and harshness of the
lesson you have taught me to-day, and the bitterness of being
disappointed in the only quarter on which the happiness of my life
depended, must excuse any appearance of asperity. If my presence is
disagreeable to you, Miss Murray,’ he said (for I was looking about me
to show how little I cared for him, so he thought I was tired of him, I
suppose)—‘if my presence is disagreeable to you, Miss Murray, you have
only to promise me the favour I named, and I will relieve you at once.
There are many ladies—some even in this parish—who would be delighted
to accept what you have so scornfully trampled under your feet. They
would be naturally inclined to hate one whose surpassing loveliness has
so completely estranged my heart from them and blinded me to their
attractions; and a single hint of the truth from me to one of these
would be sufficient to raise such a talk against you as would seriously
injure your prospects, and diminish your chance of success with any
other gentleman you or your mamma might design to entangle.’
“‘What do your mean, sir?’ said I, ready to stamp with passion.
“‘I mean that this affair from beginning to end appears to me like a
case of arrant flirtation, to say the least of it—such a case as you
would find it rather inconvenient to have blazoned through the world:
especially with the additions and exaggerations of your female rivals,
who would be too glad to publish the matter, if I only gave them a
handle to it. But I promise you, on the faith of a gentleman, that no
word or syllable that could tend to your prejudice shall ever escape my
lips, provided you will—’
“‘Well, well, I won’t mention it,’ said I. ‘You may rely upon my
silence, if that can afford you any consolation.’
“‘You promise it?’
“‘Yes,’ I answered; for I wanted to get rid of him now.
“‘Farewell, then!’ said he, in a most doleful, heart-sick tone; and
with a look where pride vainly struggled against despair, he turned and
went away: longing, no doubt, to get home, that he might shut himself
up in his study and cry—if he doesn’t burst into tears before he gets
there.”
“But you have broken your promise already,” said I, truly horrified at
her perfidy.
“Oh! it’s only to you; I know you won’t repeat it.”
“Certainly, I shall not: but you say you are going to tell your sister;
and she will tell your brothers when they come home, and Brown
immediately, if you do not tell her yourself; and Brown will blazon it,
or be the means of blazoning it, throughout the country.”
“No, indeed, she won’t. We shall not tell her at all, unless it be
under the promise of the strictest secrecy.”
“But how can you expect her to keep her promises better than her more
enlightened mistress?”
“Well, well, she shan’t hear it then,” said Miss Murray, somewhat
snappishly.
“But you will tell your mamma, of course,” pursued I; “and she will
tell your papa.”
“Of course I shall tell mamma—that is the very thing that pleases me so
much. I shall now be able to convince her how mistaken she was in her
fears about me.”
“Oh, _that’s_ it, is it? I was wondering what it was that delighted you
so much.”
“Yes; and another thing is, that I’ve humbled Mr. Hatfield so
charmingly; and another—why, you must allow me some share of female
vanity: I don’t pretend to be without that most essential attribute of
our sex—and if you had seen poor Hatfield’s intense eagerness in making
his ardent declaration and his flattering proposal, and his agony of
mind, that no effort of pride could conceal, on being refused, you
would have allowed I had some cause to be gratified.”
“The greater his agony, I should think, the less your cause for
gratification.”
“Oh, nonsense!” cried the young lady, shaking herself with vexation.
“You either can’t understand me, or you won’t. If I had not confidence
in your magnanimity, I should think you envied me. But you will,
perhaps, comprehend this cause of pleasure—which is as great as
any—namely, that I am delighted with myself for my prudence, my
self-command, my heartlessness, if you please. I was not a bit taken by
surprise, not a bit confused, or awkward, or foolish; I just acted and
spoke as I ought to have done, and was completely my own mistress
throughout. And here was a man, decidedly good-looking—Jane and Susan
Green call him bewitchingly handsome—I suppose they’re two of the
ladies he pretends would be so glad to have him; but, however, he was
certainly a very clever, witty, agreeable companion—not what you call
clever, but just enough to make him entertaining; and a man one needn’t
be ashamed of anywhere, and would not soon grow tired of; and to
confess the truth, I rather liked him—better even, of late, than Harry
Meltham—and he evidently idolised me; and yet, though he came upon me
all alone and unprepared, I had the wisdom, and the pride, and the
strength to refuse him—and so scornfully and coolly as I did: I have
good reason to be proud of that.”
“And are you equally proud of having told him that his having the
wealth of Sir Hugh Meltham would make no difference to you, when that
was not the case; and of having promised to tell no one of his
misadventure, apparently without the slightest intention of keeping
your promise?”
“Of course! what else could I do? You would not have had me—but I see,
Miss Grey, you’re not in a good temper. Here’s Matilda; I’ll see what
she and mamma have to say about it.”
She left me, offended at my want of sympathy, and thinking, no doubt,
that I envied her. I did not—at least, I firmly believed I did not. I
was sorry for her; I was amazed, disgusted at her heartless vanity; I
wondered why so much beauty should be given to those who made so bad a
use of it, and denied to some who would make it a benefit to both
themselves and others.
But, God knows best, I concluded. There are, I suppose, some men as
vain, as selfish, and as heartless as she is, and, perhaps, such women
may be useful to punish them.