August 26, 2025 • 20 mins
17 - Chapter 17. Agnes Grey by Anne Brontë.
Agnes Grey is the daughter of a minister, whose family comes to financial ruin. Desperate to earn money to care for herself, she takes one of the few jobs allowed to respectable women in the early Victorian era, as a governess to the children of the wealthy. In working with two different families, the Bloomfields and the Murrays, she comes to learn about the troubles that face a young woman who must try to rein in unruly, spoiled children for a living, and about the ability of wealth and status to destroy social values. After her father's death, Agnes opens a small school with her mother and finds happiness with a man who loves her for herself.
Agnes Grey is the daughter of a minister, whose family comes to financial ruin. Desperate to earn money to care for herself, she takes one of the few jobs allowed to respectable women in the early Victorian era, as a governess to the children of the wealthy. In working with two different families, the Bloomfields and the Murrays, she comes to learn about the troubles that face a young woman who must try to rein in unruly, spoiled children for a living, and about the ability of wealth and status to destroy social values. After her father's death, Agnes opens a small school with her mother and finds happiness with a man who loves her for herself.
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Speaker 1 (00:00):
Chapter seventeen of Agnes Gray by Anne Bronte. This LibriVox
recording is in the public domain, Chapter seventeen Confessions.
Speaker 2 (00:13):
As I am in the way of confessions, I may
as well acknowledge that about this time I paid more
attention to dress than ever I had done before. This
is not saying much, for hitherto I had been a
little neglectful in that particular. But now also it was
no uncommon thing to spend as much as two minutes
in the contemplation of my own image in the glass.
(00:33):
Though I never could derive any consolation from such a study.
I could discover no beauty in those marked features, that pale,
hollow cheek, in ordinary dark brown hair. There might be
intellect in the forehead, there might be expression in the
dark gray eyes, but what of that? A low Grecian
brow and large black eyes, devoid of sentiment, would be
esteemed far preferable. It is foolish to wish for beauty.
(00:57):
Sensible people never either desire it for themselves or care
about it in others. If the mind be but well cultivated,
in the heart well disposed, no one ever cares for
the exterior. So set the teachers of our childhood, and
so say we to the children of the present day,
are very judicious and proper, no doubt, But are such
assertions supported by actual experience. We are naturally disposed to
(01:20):
love what gives us pleasure, and what more pleasing than
a beautiful face, when we know no harm of the possessor.
At least. A little girl loves her bird, why because
it lives and feels, because it is helpless and harmless.
A toad, likewise, lives and feels, and is equally helpless
and harmless. But though she would not hurt a toad,
(01:40):
she cannot love it like the bird, with its graceful form,
soft feathers, and bright speaking eyes. If a woman is
fair and amiable, she is praised for both qualities, but
especially the former, by the bulk of mankind. If, on
the other hand, she is disagreeable in person and character,
her plainness is commonly inveighed against as her greatest crime,
(02:02):
because to common observers it gives the greatest offense. While
if she is plain and good, provided she is a
person of retired manners and secluded life, no one ever
knows of her goodness except her immediate connections others. On
the contrary are disposed to form unfavorable opinions of her
mind and disposition, if it be, but to excuse themselves
(02:23):
for their instinctive dislike of one so unfavored by nature,
and vice versa with her whose angel form conceals a
vicious heart or sheds a false, deceitful charm over defects
and foibles that would not be tolerated in another. They
that have beauty, let them be thankful for it and
make a good use of it, like any other talent.
They that have it not, let them console themselves and
(02:45):
do the best they can without it. Certainly, though liable
to be overestimated, it is a gift of God and
not to be despised. Many will feel this who have
felt that they could love, and whose hearts tell them
that they are worthy to be loved again. While yet
yet they are debarred by the lack of this, or
some such seeming trifle, from giving and receiving that happiness
(03:06):
they seem almost made to feel and to impart. As well.
Might the humble glow worm despise that power of giving light,
without which the roving fly might pass her and repass
her a thousand times and never rest beside her. She
might hear her winged darling buzzing over and around her,
he vainly seeking her, she longing to be found, but
(03:26):
with no power to make her presence known, no voice
to call him, no wings to follow his flight. The
fly must seek another mate. The worm must live and
die alone. Such were some of my reflections about this period.
I might go unprosing more and more. I might dive
much deeper and disclose other thoughts, propose questions. The reader
might be puzzled to answer and deduce arguments that might
(03:48):
startle his prejudices, or perhaps provoke his ridicule because he
could not comprehend them. But I forbear now. Therefore let
us return to Miss Murray. She accompanied her mamma to
the ball on Tuesday, of course, splendidly attired and delighted
with her prospects and her charms. As Ashby Park was
nearly ten miles distant from Haughton Lodge, they had to
(04:09):
set out pretty early, and I intended to have spent
the evening with Nancy Brown, whom I had not seen
for a long time. But my kind pupil took care
I should spend it neither there nor anywhere else beyond
the limits of the school room, by giving me a
piece of music to copy, which kept me closely occupied
till bedtime. About eleven next morning, as soon as she
had left her room, she came to tell me her news.
(04:31):
Sir Thomas had indeed proposed to her at the ball,
an event which reflected great credit on her Mamma's sagacity,
if not upon her skill in contrivance. I rather inclined
to the belief that she had first laid her plans
and then predicted their success. The author had been accepted,
of course, and the bridegroom elect was coming that day
to settle matters with mister Murray. Rosalie was pleased with
(04:53):
the thoughts of becoming mistress of Ashby Park. She was
elated with the prospect of the bridal ceremony and its
attendant splendor. Yet the honeymoon spent abroad and the subsequent
gaieties she expected to enjoy in London and elsewhere. She
appeared pretty well pleased too, for the time being, with
Sir Thomas himself, because she had so lately seen him,
danced with him, and been flattered by him. But after
(05:15):
all she seemed to shrink from the idea of being
so soon united. She wished the ceremony to be delayed
some months at least, and I wished it too. It
seemed a horrible thing to hurry on the inauspicious match,
and not to give the poor creature time to think
and reason on the irrevocable step she was about to take.
I made no pretension to a mother's watchful, anxious care.
(05:35):
But I was amazed and horrified at missus Murray's heartlessness
or want of thought for the real good of her child.
And by my unheeded warnings and exhortations I vainly strove
to remedy the evil Miss Murray only laughed at what
I said, And I soon found that her reluctance to
an immediate union arose chiefly from a desire to do
what execution she could among the young gentlemen of her
(05:57):
acquaintance before she was incapacity sated from further mischief of
the kind. It was for this cause that before confiding
to me the secret of her engagement, she had extracted
a promise that I would not mention a word on
the subject to any one. And when I saw this
and when I beheld her plunge more recklessly than ever
into the depths of heartless coquetry, I had no more
(06:18):
pity for her. Come what will? I thought? She deserves it.
Sir Thomas cannot be too bad for her, and the
sooner she is incapacitated from deceiving and injuring others, the better.
The wedding was fixed for the first of June. Between
that and the critical ball was little more than six weeks,
but with Rosalie's accomplished skill and resolute exertion, much might
(06:39):
be done even within that period, especially as Sir Thomas
spent most of the interim in London, whither he went
up it was said, to settle affairs with his lawyer
and make other preparations for the approaching nuptials. He endeavored
to supply the want of his presence by a pretty
constant fire of billudeoux, but these did not attract the
neighbor's attention and open their eyes as per visits would
(07:00):
have done. An old lady Ashby's haughty, sour spirit of
reserve withheld her from spreading the news, while her indifferent
help prevented her coming to visit her future daughter in law,
so that altogether this affair was kept far closer than
such things usually are. Rosalie would sometimes show her lover's
epistles to me to convince me what a kind, devoted
husband he would make. She showed me the letters of
(07:22):
another individual, too, the unfortunate mister Greene, who had not
the courage, or, as she expressed it, the spunk to
plead his cause in person, but whom one denial would
not satisfy. He must write again and again. He would
not have done so if he could have seen the
grimaces his fair idol made over his moving appeals to
her feelings, and heard her scornful laughter and the approprious
(07:45):
epithets she heaped upon him for his perseverance. Why don't
you tell him at once that you are engaged, I.
Speaker 3 (07:51):
Asked, Oh, I don't want him to know that, replied she.
If he knew it, his sisters and everybody would know it,
and then they would be an end of my hem.
And besides, if I told him that, he would think
my engagement was the only obstacle, and that I would
have him if I were free, which I could not
bear that any man should think, and he, of all
(08:11):
others at least. Besides, I don't care for his letters.
Speaker 2 (08:15):
She added contemptuously.
Speaker 3 (08:17):
He may write as often as he pleases, and look
as great a calf as he likes. When I meet him.
It only amuses me.
Speaker 2 (08:23):
Meantime, young Maltham was pretty frequent in his visits to
the house or transits passed it, and, judging by Matilda's
execrations and reproaches, her sister paid more attention to him
than civility required. In other words, she carried on as
animated a flirtation as the presence of her parents would admit.
She made some attempts to bring mister Hatfield once more
(08:43):
to her feet, but finding them unsuccessful, she repaid his
haughty indifference with still loftier scorn, and spoke of him
with as much disdain and detestation as she had formerly
done of his curate. But amid all this she never
for a moment last sight of mister Weston. She embraced
every opportunity of meeting him, tried every art to fascinate him,
(09:05):
and pursued him with as much perseverance as if she
really loved him and no other, And the happiness of
her life depended upon eliciting a return of affection. Such
conduct was completely beyond my comprehension. Had I seen it
depicted in a novel, I should have thought it unnatural.
Had I heard it described by others, I should have
deemed it a mistake or an exaggeration. But when I
(09:27):
saw it with my own eyes, and suffered from it too,
I could only conclude that excessive vanity, like drunkenness, hardens
the heart, enslaves the faculties, and perverts the feelings, and
that dogs are not the only creatures which, when gorged
to the throat, will yet gloat over what they cannot devour,
and grudge the smallest morsel to a starving brother. She
(09:48):
now became extremely beneficent to the poor Cottagers. Her acquaintance
among them was more widely extended, her visits to their
humble dwellings were more frequent and excursive than they had
ever been before. Here she earned among them the reputation
of a condescending and very charitable young lady, and their
encomiums were sure to be repeated to mister Weston, whom
(10:08):
also she had thus a daily chance of meeting in
one or other of their abodes, or in her transits
to and fro and often likewise she could gather through
their gossip to what places he was likely to go
at such and such a time, whether to baptize a child,
or to visit the aged, the sick, the sad, or
the dying, And most skillfully she laid her plans accordingly.
(10:30):
In these excursions she would sometimes go with her sister,
whom by some means she had persuaded or bribed to
enter into her schemes, sometimes alone, never now with me,
so that I was debarred the pleasure of seeing mister Weston,
or hearing his voice, even in conversation with another, which
would certainly have been a very great pleasure, however hurtful,
(10:51):
or however fraught with pain. I could not even see
him at church, for Miss Murray, under some trivial pretext,
chose to take possession of their corner in the family pew,
which had been mine ever since I came. And unless
I had the presumption to station myself between mister and
Missus Murray, I must sit with my back to the pulpit,
which I accordingly did now. Also I never walked home
(11:12):
with my pupils. They said that Mamma thought it did
not look well to see three people out of the
family walking and only two going in the carriage, and
as they greatly preferred walking in fine weather, I should
be honored by going with the seniors.
Speaker 4 (11:25):
And besides, said they, you can't walk as fast as
we do.
Speaker 3 (11:30):
You know you're always lagging behind.
Speaker 2 (11:32):
I knew these were false excuses, but I made no
objections and never contradicted such assertions, well knowing the motives
which dictated them.
Speaker 4 (11:40):
And in the.
Speaker 2 (11:41):
Afternoons during those six memorable weeks, I never went to
church at all. If I had a cold or any
slight indisposition. They took advantage of that to make me
stay at home, and often they would tell me they
were not going again that day themselves, and then pretend
to change their minds and set off without telling me,
so managing their departure that I never discovered the change
of purpose till too late upon their return home. On
(12:04):
one of these occasions, they entertained me with an animated
account of a conversation they had had with mister Weston
as they came along, and.
Speaker 4 (12:11):
He asked if you were ill, Miss Gray, said Matilda,
But we told him you were quite well, only you
didn't want to come to church, so he'll think you're
turned wicked.
Speaker 2 (12:22):
All chance meetings on week days were likewise carefully prevented,
for lest I should go to see poor Nancy Brown
or any other person. Miss Murray took good care to
provide sufficient employment for all my leisure hours. There was
always some drawing to finish, some music to copy, or
some work to do, sufficient to incapacitate me from indulging
in anything beyond a short walk about the grounds, however
(12:44):
she or her sister might be occupied. One morning, having
sought and waylaid mister Weston, they returned in high glee
to give me an account of their interview.
Speaker 4 (12:53):
And he asked after you again.
Speaker 2 (12:55):
Said Matilda, in spite of her sister's silent but imperative
intimation that she should her tongue.
Speaker 4 (13:00):
He wondered why you were never with us, and thought
you must have delicate health, as you came out so seldom.
Speaker 3 (13:08):
He didn't, Matilda, what nonsense you're talking?
Speaker 4 (13:10):
Oh, Rosalie, what a lie? He did, you know? And
you said, don't Rosalie, hang it, I won't be pinched.
So and miss Gray, Rosalie told him you were quite well,
but you were always so buried in your books, that
you had no pleasure in anything else.
Speaker 2 (13:27):
What an idea he must have of me, I thought,
and I asked, does old Nancy ever inquire about me?
Speaker 4 (13:34):
Yes, and we tell her you are so fond of
reading and drawing that you can do nothing else.
Speaker 2 (13:40):
That is not the case, though, if you had told
her I was so busy I could not come to
see her, it would have been nearer the truth.
Speaker 3 (13:46):
I don't think it would.
Speaker 2 (13:48):
Replied Miss Murray, suddenly kindling up.
Speaker 3 (13:50):
I'm sure you have plenty of time to yourself now,
when you have so little teaching to do.
Speaker 2 (13:55):
It was no use beginning to dispute with such indulged,
unreasoning creatures. So I held my peace. I was accustomed
now to keeping silence when things distasteful to my ear
were uttered, and now too, I was used to wearing
a placid, smiling countenance when my heart was bitter within me.
Only those who have felt the like can imagine my
feelings as I sat with an assumption of smiling indifference,
(14:16):
listening to the accounts of those meetings and interviews with
mister Weston which they seemed to find such pleasure in
describing to me and hearing things asserted of him, which,
from the character of the man I knew to be
exaggerations and perversions of the truth, if not entirely false,
Things derogatory to him and flattering to them, especially to
Miss Murray, which I burned to contradict, or at least
(14:39):
to show my doubts about, but dared not, lest in
expressing my disbelief, I should display my interests too. Other
things I heard which I felt or feared were indeed
too true, But I must still conceal my anxiety respecting him,
my indignation against them, beneath a careless aspect. Others again
mere hints of something said or done, which I longed
(15:01):
to hear more of, but could not venture to inquire.
So passed the weary time. I could not even comfort
myself with saying, she will soon be married, and then
there may be hope. Soon after her marriage, the holidays
would come, and when I returned from home, most likely
mister Weston would be gone, for I was told that
he and the Rector could not agree, the rector's fault,
(15:21):
of course, and he was about to remove to another place.
Speaker 4 (15:25):
No.
Speaker 2 (15:26):
Besides my hope and God, my only consolation was in
thinking that, though he knew it not, I was more
worthy of his love than Rosalie Murray, charming and engaging
as she was, for I could appreciate his excellence, which
she could not. I would devote my life to the
promotion of his happiness. She would destroy his happiness for
the momentary gratification of her own vanity. Oh, if he
(15:48):
could but know the difference, I would earnestly exclaim, But no,
I would not have him see my heart. Yet. If
he could but know her hollowness, her worthless, heartless frivolity,
he would then be safe, and I should be almost happy,
though I might never see him more. I fear by
this time the reader is well nigh disgusted with the
(16:10):
folly and weakness I have so freely laid before him.
I never disclosed it then, and would not have done
so had my own sister or my mother been with
me in the house. I was a close and resolute
dissembler In this one case. At least, my prayers, my tears,
my wishes, fears and lamentations were witnessed by myself and
Heaven alone. When we are harassed by sorrows or anxieties
(16:34):
or long oppressed by any powerful feelings which we must
keep to ourselves, for which we can obtain and seek
no sympathy from any living creature, and which yet we
cannot or will not wholly crush. We often naturally seek
relief in poetry, and often find it too, whether in
the effusion of others which seem to harmonize with our
existing case, or in our own attempts to give utterance
(16:55):
to those thoughts and feelings in strains less musical, perchance,
but more appropriate and therefore more penetrating and sympathetic, and
for the time more soothing or more powerful to rouse
and to unburden the oppressed and swollen heart. Before this time,
at Wellwood House and here, when suffering from homesick melancholy,
I had sought relief twice or thrice at this secret
(17:17):
source of consolation. And now I flew to it again
with greater avidity than ever, because I seemed to need
it more. I still preserve those relics of past sufferings
and experience, like pillars of witness set up in traveling
through the veil of life to mark particular occurrences. The
footsteps are obliterated now the face of the country may
be changed, but the pillar is still there to remind
(17:40):
me how all things were when it was reared. Lest
the reader should be curious to see any of these effusions,
I will favor him with one short specimen. Cold and
languid as the lines may seem, it was almost a
passion of grief to which they owed their being. Oh,
they have robbed me of the hope my spirit held
so dear. They will not let me hear that voice
my soul delights to hear. They will not let me
(18:03):
see that face I so delight to see. And they
have taken all thy smiles and all thy love from me. Well,
let them seize on all they can. One treasure still
is mine, a heart that loves to think on thee
and feels the worth of thine. Yes, at least they
could not deprive me of that. I could think of
him day and night, and I could feel that he
(18:25):
was worthy to be thought of. Nobody knew him as
I did, nobody could appreciate him as I did, nobody
could love him as I could if I might. But
there was the evil. What business had I to think
so much of one that never thought of me? Was
it not foolish. Was it not wrong? Yet? If I
found such deep delight in thinking of him, and if
(18:47):
I kept those thoughts to myself and troubled no one
else with them, where was the harm of it? I
would ask myself. And such reasoning prevented me from making
any sufficient effort to shake off my fetters. But if
those thoughts brought delight, it was a painful, troubled pleasure,
too near akin to anguish, and one that did me
more injury than I was aware of. It was an
(19:09):
indulgence that a person of more wisdom or more experience
would doubtless have denied herself. And yet how dreary to
turn my eyes from the contemplation of that bright object
and force them to dwell on the dull, gray, desolate
prospect around the joyless, hopeless, solitary path that lay before me.
It was wrong to be so joyless, so desponding. I
(19:31):
should have made God my friend, and to do his
will the pleasure and the business of my life. But
faith was weak and passion was too strong. In this
time of trouble. I had two other causes of affliction.
The first may seem a trifle, but it cost me
many a tear snap, my little dumb, rough, visaged but
bright eyed, warm hearted companion. The only thing I had
(19:54):
to love me was taken away and delivered over to
the tender mercies of the village ratcatcher, a man notorious
for his brutal treatment of his canine slaves. The other
was serious enough. My letters from home gave intimation that
my father's health was worse. No boding fears were expressed,
but I was grown timid and despondent, and could not
help fearing that some dreadful calamity awaited us. There I
(20:17):
seemed to see the black clouds gathering round my native hills,
and to hear the angry muttering of a storm that
was about to burst and desolate our hearth.
Speaker 1 (20:26):
End of Chapter seventeen.
Chapter seventeen of Agnes Gray by Anne Bronte. This LibriVox
recording is in the public domain, Chapter seventeen Confessions.
Speaker 2 (00:13):
As I am in the way of confessions, I may
as well acknowledge that about this time I paid more
attention to dress than ever I had done before. This
is not saying much, for hitherto I had been a
little neglectful in that particular. But now also it was
no uncommon thing to spend as much as two minutes
in the contemplation of my own image in the glass.
(00:33):
Though I never could derive any consolation from such a study.
I could discover no beauty in those marked features, that pale,
hollow cheek, in ordinary dark brown hair. There might be
intellect in the forehead, there might be expression in the
dark gray eyes, but what of that? A low Grecian
brow and large black eyes, devoid of sentiment, would be
esteemed far preferable. It is foolish to wish for beauty.
(00:57):
Sensible people never either desire it for themselves or care
about it in others. If the mind be but well cultivated,
in the heart well disposed, no one ever cares for
the exterior. So set the teachers of our childhood, and
so say we to the children of the present day,
are very judicious and proper, no doubt, But are such
assertions supported by actual experience. We are naturally disposed to
(01:20):
love what gives us pleasure, and what more pleasing than
a beautiful face, when we know no harm of the possessor.
At least. A little girl loves her bird, why because
it lives and feels, because it is helpless and harmless.
A toad, likewise, lives and feels, and is equally helpless
and harmless. But though she would not hurt a toad,
(01:40):
she cannot love it like the bird, with its graceful form,
soft feathers, and bright speaking eyes. If a woman is
fair and amiable, she is praised for both qualities, but
especially the former, by the bulk of mankind. If, on
the other hand, she is disagreeable in person and character,
her plainness is commonly inveighed against as her greatest crime,
(02:02):
because to common observers it gives the greatest offense. While
if she is plain and good, provided she is a
person of retired manners and secluded life, no one ever
knows of her goodness except her immediate connections others. On
the contrary are disposed to form unfavorable opinions of her
mind and disposition, if it be, but to excuse themselves
(02:23):
for their instinctive dislike of one so unfavored by nature,
and vice versa with her whose angel form conceals a
vicious heart or sheds a false, deceitful charm over defects
and foibles that would not be tolerated in another. They
that have beauty, let them be thankful for it and
make a good use of it, like any other talent.
They that have it not, let them console themselves and
(02:45):
do the best they can without it. Certainly, though liable
to be overestimated, it is a gift of God and
not to be despised. Many will feel this who have
felt that they could love, and whose hearts tell them
that they are worthy to be loved again. While yet
yet they are debarred by the lack of this, or
some such seeming trifle, from giving and receiving that happiness
(03:06):
they seem almost made to feel and to impart. As well.
Might the humble glow worm despise that power of giving light,
without which the roving fly might pass her and repass
her a thousand times and never rest beside her. She
might hear her winged darling buzzing over and around her,
he vainly seeking her, she longing to be found, but
(03:26):
with no power to make her presence known, no voice
to call him, no wings to follow his flight. The
fly must seek another mate. The worm must live and
die alone. Such were some of my reflections about this period.
I might go unprosing more and more. I might dive
much deeper and disclose other thoughts, propose questions. The reader
might be puzzled to answer and deduce arguments that might
(03:48):
startle his prejudices, or perhaps provoke his ridicule because he
could not comprehend them. But I forbear now. Therefore let
us return to Miss Murray. She accompanied her mamma to
the ball on Tuesday, of course, splendidly attired and delighted
with her prospects and her charms. As Ashby Park was
nearly ten miles distant from Haughton Lodge, they had to
(04:09):
set out pretty early, and I intended to have spent
the evening with Nancy Brown, whom I had not seen
for a long time. But my kind pupil took care
I should spend it neither there nor anywhere else beyond
the limits of the school room, by giving me a
piece of music to copy, which kept me closely occupied
till bedtime. About eleven next morning, as soon as she
had left her room, she came to tell me her news.
(04:31):
Sir Thomas had indeed proposed to her at the ball,
an event which reflected great credit on her Mamma's sagacity,
if not upon her skill in contrivance. I rather inclined
to the belief that she had first laid her plans
and then predicted their success. The author had been accepted,
of course, and the bridegroom elect was coming that day
to settle matters with mister Murray. Rosalie was pleased with
(04:53):
the thoughts of becoming mistress of Ashby Park. She was
elated with the prospect of the bridal ceremony and its
attendant splendor. Yet the honeymoon spent abroad and the subsequent
gaieties she expected to enjoy in London and elsewhere. She
appeared pretty well pleased too, for the time being, with
Sir Thomas himself, because she had so lately seen him,
danced with him, and been flattered by him. But after
(05:15):
all she seemed to shrink from the idea of being
so soon united. She wished the ceremony to be delayed
some months at least, and I wished it too. It
seemed a horrible thing to hurry on the inauspicious match,
and not to give the poor creature time to think
and reason on the irrevocable step she was about to take.
I made no pretension to a mother's watchful, anxious care.
(05:35):
But I was amazed and horrified at missus Murray's heartlessness
or want of thought for the real good of her child.
And by my unheeded warnings and exhortations I vainly strove
to remedy the evil Miss Murray only laughed at what
I said, And I soon found that her reluctance to
an immediate union arose chiefly from a desire to do
what execution she could among the young gentlemen of her
(05:57):
acquaintance before she was incapacity sated from further mischief of
the kind. It was for this cause that before confiding
to me the secret of her engagement, she had extracted
a promise that I would not mention a word on
the subject to any one. And when I saw this
and when I beheld her plunge more recklessly than ever
into the depths of heartless coquetry, I had no more
(06:18):
pity for her. Come what will? I thought? She deserves it.
Sir Thomas cannot be too bad for her, and the
sooner she is incapacitated from deceiving and injuring others, the better.
The wedding was fixed for the first of June. Between
that and the critical ball was little more than six weeks,
but with Rosalie's accomplished skill and resolute exertion, much might
(06:39):
be done even within that period, especially as Sir Thomas
spent most of the interim in London, whither he went
up it was said, to settle affairs with his lawyer
and make other preparations for the approaching nuptials. He endeavored
to supply the want of his presence by a pretty
constant fire of billudeoux, but these did not attract the
neighbor's attention and open their eyes as per visits would
(07:00):
have done. An old lady Ashby's haughty, sour spirit of
reserve withheld her from spreading the news, while her indifferent
help prevented her coming to visit her future daughter in law,
so that altogether this affair was kept far closer than
such things usually are. Rosalie would sometimes show her lover's
epistles to me to convince me what a kind, devoted
husband he would make. She showed me the letters of
(07:22):
another individual, too, the unfortunate mister Greene, who had not
the courage, or, as she expressed it, the spunk to
plead his cause in person, but whom one denial would
not satisfy. He must write again and again. He would
not have done so if he could have seen the
grimaces his fair idol made over his moving appeals to
her feelings, and heard her scornful laughter and the approprious
(07:45):
epithets she heaped upon him for his perseverance. Why don't
you tell him at once that you are engaged, I.
Speaker 3 (07:51):
Asked, Oh, I don't want him to know that, replied she.
If he knew it, his sisters and everybody would know it,
and then they would be an end of my hem.
And besides, if I told him that, he would think
my engagement was the only obstacle, and that I would
have him if I were free, which I could not
bear that any man should think, and he, of all
(08:11):
others at least. Besides, I don't care for his letters.
Speaker 2 (08:15):
She added contemptuously.
Speaker 3 (08:17):
He may write as often as he pleases, and look
as great a calf as he likes. When I meet him.
It only amuses me.
Speaker 2 (08:23):
Meantime, young Maltham was pretty frequent in his visits to
the house or transits passed it, and, judging by Matilda's
execrations and reproaches, her sister paid more attention to him
than civility required. In other words, she carried on as
animated a flirtation as the presence of her parents would admit.
She made some attempts to bring mister Hatfield once more
(08:43):
to her feet, but finding them unsuccessful, she repaid his
haughty indifference with still loftier scorn, and spoke of him
with as much disdain and detestation as she had formerly
done of his curate. But amid all this she never
for a moment last sight of mister Weston. She embraced
every opportunity of meeting him, tried every art to fascinate him,
(09:05):
and pursued him with as much perseverance as if she
really loved him and no other, And the happiness of
her life depended upon eliciting a return of affection. Such
conduct was completely beyond my comprehension. Had I seen it
depicted in a novel, I should have thought it unnatural.
Had I heard it described by others, I should have
deemed it a mistake or an exaggeration. But when I
(09:27):
saw it with my own eyes, and suffered from it too,
I could only conclude that excessive vanity, like drunkenness, hardens
the heart, enslaves the faculties, and perverts the feelings, and
that dogs are not the only creatures which, when gorged
to the throat, will yet gloat over what they cannot devour,
and grudge the smallest morsel to a starving brother. She
(09:48):
now became extremely beneficent to the poor Cottagers. Her acquaintance
among them was more widely extended, her visits to their
humble dwellings were more frequent and excursive than they had
ever been before. Here she earned among them the reputation
of a condescending and very charitable young lady, and their
encomiums were sure to be repeated to mister Weston, whom
(10:08):
also she had thus a daily chance of meeting in
one or other of their abodes, or in her transits
to and fro and often likewise she could gather through
their gossip to what places he was likely to go
at such and such a time, whether to baptize a child,
or to visit the aged, the sick, the sad, or
the dying, And most skillfully she laid her plans accordingly.
(10:30):
In these excursions she would sometimes go with her sister,
whom by some means she had persuaded or bribed to
enter into her schemes, sometimes alone, never now with me,
so that I was debarred the pleasure of seeing mister Weston,
or hearing his voice, even in conversation with another, which
would certainly have been a very great pleasure, however hurtful,
(10:51):
or however fraught with pain. I could not even see
him at church, for Miss Murray, under some trivial pretext,
chose to take possession of their corner in the family pew,
which had been mine ever since I came. And unless
I had the presumption to station myself between mister and
Missus Murray, I must sit with my back to the pulpit,
which I accordingly did now. Also I never walked home
(11:12):
with my pupils. They said that Mamma thought it did
not look well to see three people out of the
family walking and only two going in the carriage, and
as they greatly preferred walking in fine weather, I should
be honored by going with the seniors.
Speaker 4 (11:25):
And besides, said they, you can't walk as fast as
we do.
Speaker 3 (11:30):
You know you're always lagging behind.
Speaker 2 (11:32):
I knew these were false excuses, but I made no
objections and never contradicted such assertions, well knowing the motives
which dictated them.
Speaker 4 (11:40):
And in the.
Speaker 2 (11:41):
Afternoons during those six memorable weeks, I never went to
church at all. If I had a cold or any
slight indisposition. They took advantage of that to make me
stay at home, and often they would tell me they
were not going again that day themselves, and then pretend
to change their minds and set off without telling me,
so managing their departure that I never discovered the change
of purpose till too late upon their return home. On
(12:04):
one of these occasions, they entertained me with an animated
account of a conversation they had had with mister Weston
as they came along, and.
Speaker 4 (12:11):
He asked if you were ill, Miss Gray, said Matilda,
But we told him you were quite well, only you
didn't want to come to church, so he'll think you're
turned wicked.
Speaker 2 (12:22):
All chance meetings on week days were likewise carefully prevented,
for lest I should go to see poor Nancy Brown
or any other person. Miss Murray took good care to
provide sufficient employment for all my leisure hours. There was
always some drawing to finish, some music to copy, or
some work to do, sufficient to incapacitate me from indulging
in anything beyond a short walk about the grounds, however
(12:44):
she or her sister might be occupied. One morning, having
sought and waylaid mister Weston, they returned in high glee
to give me an account of their interview.
Speaker 4 (12:53):
And he asked after you again.
Speaker 2 (12:55):
Said Matilda, in spite of her sister's silent but imperative
intimation that she should her tongue.
Speaker 4 (13:00):
He wondered why you were never with us, and thought
you must have delicate health, as you came out so seldom.
Speaker 3 (13:08):
He didn't, Matilda, what nonsense you're talking?
Speaker 4 (13:10):
Oh, Rosalie, what a lie? He did, you know? And
you said, don't Rosalie, hang it, I won't be pinched.
So and miss Gray, Rosalie told him you were quite well,
but you were always so buried in your books, that
you had no pleasure in anything else.
Speaker 2 (13:27):
What an idea he must have of me, I thought,
and I asked, does old Nancy ever inquire about me?
Speaker 4 (13:34):
Yes, and we tell her you are so fond of
reading and drawing that you can do nothing else.
Speaker 2 (13:40):
That is not the case, though, if you had told
her I was so busy I could not come to
see her, it would have been nearer the truth.
Speaker 3 (13:46):
I don't think it would.
Speaker 2 (13:48):
Replied Miss Murray, suddenly kindling up.
Speaker 3 (13:50):
I'm sure you have plenty of time to yourself now,
when you have so little teaching to do.
Speaker 2 (13:55):
It was no use beginning to dispute with such indulged,
unreasoning creatures. So I held my peace. I was accustomed
now to keeping silence when things distasteful to my ear
were uttered, and now too, I was used to wearing
a placid, smiling countenance when my heart was bitter within me.
Only those who have felt the like can imagine my
feelings as I sat with an assumption of smiling indifference,
(14:16):
listening to the accounts of those meetings and interviews with
mister Weston which they seemed to find such pleasure in
describing to me and hearing things asserted of him, which,
from the character of the man I knew to be
exaggerations and perversions of the truth, if not entirely false,
Things derogatory to him and flattering to them, especially to
Miss Murray, which I burned to contradict, or at least
(14:39):
to show my doubts about, but dared not, lest in
expressing my disbelief, I should display my interests too. Other
things I heard which I felt or feared were indeed
too true, But I must still conceal my anxiety respecting him,
my indignation against them, beneath a careless aspect. Others again
mere hints of something said or done, which I longed
(15:01):
to hear more of, but could not venture to inquire.
So passed the weary time. I could not even comfort
myself with saying, she will soon be married, and then
there may be hope. Soon after her marriage, the holidays
would come, and when I returned from home, most likely
mister Weston would be gone, for I was told that
he and the Rector could not agree, the rector's fault,
(15:21):
of course, and he was about to remove to another place.
Speaker 4 (15:25):
No.
Speaker 2 (15:26):
Besides my hope and God, my only consolation was in
thinking that, though he knew it not, I was more
worthy of his love than Rosalie Murray, charming and engaging
as she was, for I could appreciate his excellence, which
she could not. I would devote my life to the
promotion of his happiness. She would destroy his happiness for
the momentary gratification of her own vanity. Oh, if he
(15:48):
could but know the difference, I would earnestly exclaim, But no,
I would not have him see my heart. Yet. If
he could but know her hollowness, her worthless, heartless frivolity,
he would then be safe, and I should be almost happy,
though I might never see him more. I fear by
this time the reader is well nigh disgusted with the
(16:10):
folly and weakness I have so freely laid before him.
I never disclosed it then, and would not have done
so had my own sister or my mother been with
me in the house. I was a close and resolute
dissembler In this one case. At least, my prayers, my tears,
my wishes, fears and lamentations were witnessed by myself and
Heaven alone. When we are harassed by sorrows or anxieties
(16:34):
or long oppressed by any powerful feelings which we must
keep to ourselves, for which we can obtain and seek
no sympathy from any living creature, and which yet we
cannot or will not wholly crush. We often naturally seek
relief in poetry, and often find it too, whether in
the effusion of others which seem to harmonize with our
existing case, or in our own attempts to give utterance
(16:55):
to those thoughts and feelings in strains less musical, perchance,
but more appropriate and therefore more penetrating and sympathetic, and
for the time more soothing or more powerful to rouse
and to unburden the oppressed and swollen heart. Before this time,
at Wellwood House and here, when suffering from homesick melancholy,
I had sought relief twice or thrice at this secret
(17:17):
source of consolation. And now I flew to it again
with greater avidity than ever, because I seemed to need
it more. I still preserve those relics of past sufferings
and experience, like pillars of witness set up in traveling
through the veil of life to mark particular occurrences. The
footsteps are obliterated now the face of the country may
be changed, but the pillar is still there to remind
(17:40):
me how all things were when it was reared. Lest
the reader should be curious to see any of these effusions,
I will favor him with one short specimen. Cold and
languid as the lines may seem, it was almost a
passion of grief to which they owed their being. Oh,
they have robbed me of the hope my spirit held
so dear. They will not let me hear that voice
my soul delights to hear. They will not let me
(18:03):
see that face I so delight to see. And they
have taken all thy smiles and all thy love from me. Well,
let them seize on all they can. One treasure still
is mine, a heart that loves to think on thee
and feels the worth of thine. Yes, at least they
could not deprive me of that. I could think of
him day and night, and I could feel that he
(18:25):
was worthy to be thought of. Nobody knew him as
I did, nobody could appreciate him as I did, nobody
could love him as I could if I might. But
there was the evil. What business had I to think
so much of one that never thought of me? Was
it not foolish. Was it not wrong? Yet? If I
found such deep delight in thinking of him, and if
(18:47):
I kept those thoughts to myself and troubled no one
else with them, where was the harm of it? I
would ask myself. And such reasoning prevented me from making
any sufficient effort to shake off my fetters. But if
those thoughts brought delight, it was a painful, troubled pleasure,
too near akin to anguish, and one that did me
more injury than I was aware of. It was an
(19:09):
indulgence that a person of more wisdom or more experience
would doubtless have denied herself. And yet how dreary to
turn my eyes from the contemplation of that bright object
and force them to dwell on the dull, gray, desolate
prospect around the joyless, hopeless, solitary path that lay before me.
It was wrong to be so joyless, so desponding. I
(19:31):
should have made God my friend, and to do his
will the pleasure and the business of my life. But
faith was weak and passion was too strong. In this
time of trouble. I had two other causes of affliction.
The first may seem a trifle, but it cost me
many a tear snap, my little dumb, rough, visaged but
bright eyed, warm hearted companion. The only thing I had
(19:54):
to love me was taken away and delivered over to
the tender mercies of the village ratcatcher, a man notorious
for his brutal treatment of his canine slaves. The other
was serious enough. My letters from home gave intimation that
my father's health was worse. No boding fears were expressed,
but I was grown timid and despondent, and could not
help fearing that some dreadful calamity awaited us. There I
(20:17):
seemed to see the black clouds gathering round my native hills,
and to hear the angry muttering of a storm that
was about to burst and desolate our hearth.
Speaker 1 (20:26):
End of Chapter seventeen.
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