My father was a clergyman of the north of England,
who was deservedly respected by all who knew him; and, in his younger days,
lived pretty comfortably on the joint income of a small incumbency and a snug
little property of his own. My mother, who married him against the wishes of
her friends, was a squire’s daughter, and a woman of spirit. In vain it was
represented to her, that if she became the poor parson’s wife, she must
relinquish her carriage and her lady’s–maid, and all the luxuries and
elegancies of affluence; which to her were little less than the necessaries of
life. A carriage and a lady’s–maid were great conveniences; but, thank heaven,
she had feet to carry her, and hands to minister to her own necessities. An
elegant house and spacious grounds were not to be despised; but she would
rather live in a cottage with Richard Grey than in a palace with any other man
in the world.
Finding arguments of no avail, her father, at
length, told the lovers they might marry if they pleased; but, in so doing, his
daughter would forfeit every fraction of her fortune. He expected this would
cool the ardour of both; but he was mistaken. My father knew too well my
mother’s superior worth not to be sensible that she was a valuable fortune in
herself: and if she would but consent to embellish his humble hearth he should
be happy to take her on any terms; while she, on her part, would rather labour
with her own hands than be divided from the man she loved, whose happiness it
would be her joy to make, and who was already one with her in heart and soul.
So her fortune went to swell the purse of a wiser sister, who had married a
rich nabob; and she, to the wonder and compassionate regret of all who knew
her, went to bury herself in the homely village parsonage among the hills of —.
And yet, in spite of all this, and in spite of my mother’s high spirit and my
father’s whims, I believe you might search all England through, and fail to
find a happier couple.
Of six children, my sister Mary and myself were the
only two that survived the perils of infancy and early childhood. I, being the
younger by five or six years, was always regarded as THE child, and the pet of
the family: father, mother, and sister, all combined to spoil me—not by foolish
indulgence, to render me fractious and ungovernable, but by ceaseless kindness,
to make me too helpless and dependent—too unfit for buffeting with the cares
and turmoils of life.
Mary and I were brought up in the strictest seclusion.
My mother, being at once highly accomplished, well informed, and fond of
employment, took the whole charge of our education on herself, with the
exception of Latin—which my father undertook to teach us—so that we never even
went to school; and, as there was no society in the neighbourhood, our only
intercourse with the world consisted in a stately tea–party, now and then, with
the principal farmers and tradespeople of the vicinity (just to avoid being
stigmatized as too proud to consort with our neighbours), and an annual visit
to our paternal grandfather’s; where himself, our kind grandmamma, a maiden
aunt, and two or three elderly ladies and gentlemen, were the only persons we
ever saw. Sometimes our mother would amuse us with stories and anecdotes of her
younger days, which, while they entertained us amazingly, frequently awoke—in
ME, at least—a secret wish to see a little more of the world.
I thought she must have been very happy: but she
never seemed to regret past times. My father, however, whose temper was neither
tranquil nor cheerful by nature, often unduly vexed himself with thinking of
the sacrifices his dear wife had made for him; and troubled his head with
revolving endless schemes for the augmentation of his little fortune, for her
sake and ours. In vain my mother assured him she was quite satisfied; and if he
would but lay by a little for the children, we should all have plenty, both for
time present and to come: but saving was not my father’s forte. He would not
run in debt (at least, my mother took good care he should not), but while he
had money he must spend it: he liked to see his house comfortable, and his wife
and daughters well clothed, and well attended; and besides, he was charitably
disposed, and liked to give to the poor, according to his means: or, as some
might think, beyond them.
At length, however, a kind friend suggested to him a
means of doubling his private property at one stroke; and further increasing
it, hereafter, to an untold amount. This friend was a merchant, a man of enterprising
spirit and undoubted talent, who was somewhat straitened in his mercantile
pursuits for want of capital; but generously proposed to give my father a fair
share of his profits, if he would only entrust him with what he could spare;
and he thought he might safely promise that whatever sum the latter chose to
put into his hands, it should bring him in cent. per cent. The small patrimony
was speedily sold, and the whole of its price was deposited in the hands of the
friendly merchant; who as promptly proceeded to ship his cargo, and prepare for
his voyage.
My father was delighted, so were we all, with our
brightening prospects. For the present, it is true, we were reduced to the
narrow income of the curacy; but my father seemed to think there was no necessity
for scrupulously restricting our expenditure to that; so, with a standing bill
at Mr. Jackson’s, another at Smith’s, and a third at Hobson’s, we got along
even more comfortably than before: though my mother affirmed we had better keep
within bounds, for our prospects of wealth were but precarious, after all; and
if my father would only trust everything to her management, he should never
feel himself stinted: but he, for once, was incorrigible.
What happy hours Mary and I have passed while
sitting at our work by the fire, or wandering on the heath–clad hills, or
idling under the weeping birch (the only considerable tree in the garden),
talking of future happiness to ourselves and our parents, of what we would do,
and see, and possess; with no firmer foundation for our goodly superstructure
than the riches that were expected to flow in upon us from the success of the
worthy merchant’s speculations. Our father was nearly as bad as ourselves; only
that he affected not to be so much in earnest: expressing his bright hopes and
sanguine expectations in jests and playful sallies, that always struck me as
being exceedingly witty and pleasant. Our mother laughed with delight to see
him so hopeful and happy: but still she feared he was setting his heart too much
upon the matter; and once I heard her whisper as she left the room, ‘God grant
he be not disappointed! I know not how he would bear it.’
Disappointed he was; and bitterly, too. It came like
a thunder–clap on us all, that the vessel which contained our fortune had been
wrecked, and gone to the bottom with all its stores, together with several of
the crew, and the unfortunate merchant himself. I was grieved for him; I was
grieved for the overthrow of all our air–built castles: but, with the
elasticity of youth, I soon recovered the shook.
Though riches had charms, poverty had no terrors for
an inexperienced girl like me. Indeed, to say the truth, there was something
exhilarating in the idea of being driven to straits, and thrown upon our own
resources. I only wished papa, mamma, and Mary were all of the same mind as
myself; and then, instead of lamenting past calamities we might all cheerfully
set to work to remedy them; and the greater the difficulties, the harder our
present privations, the greater should be our cheerfulness to endure the
latter, and our vigour to contend against the former.
Mary did not lament, but she brooded continually
over the misfortune, and sank into a state of dejection from which no effort of
mine could rouse her. I could not possibly bring her to regard the matter on
its bright side as I did: and indeed I was so fearful of being charged with
childish frivolity, or stupid insensibility, that I carefully kept most of my
bright ideas and cheering notions to myself; well knowing they could not be
appreciated.
My mother thought only of consoling my father, and
paying our debts and retrenching our expenditure by every available means; but
my father was completely overwhelmed by the calamity: health, strength, and
spirits sank beneath the blow, and he never wholly recovered them. In vain my
mother strove to cheer him, by appealing to his piety, to his courage, to his
affection for herself and us. That very affection was his greatest torment: it
was for our sakes he had so ardently longed to increase his fortune—it was our
interest that had lent such brightness to his hopes, and that imparted such
bitterness to his present distress. He now tormented himself with remorse at
having neglected my mother’s advice; which would at least have saved him from
the additional burden of debt—he vainly reproached himself for having brought
her from the dignity, the ease, the luxury of her former station to toil with
him through the cares and toils of poverty. It was gall and wormwood to his
soul to see that splendid, highly–accomplished woman, once so courted and
admired, transformed into an active managing housewife, with hands and head
continually occupied with household labours and household economy. The very
willingness with which she performed these duties, the cheerfulness with which
she bore her reverses, and the kindness which withheld her from imputing the
smallest blame to him, were all perverted by this ingenious self–tormentor into
further aggravations of his sufferings. And thus the mind preyed upon the body,
and disordered the system of the nerves, and they in turn increased the
troubles of the mind, till by action and reaction his health was seriously
impaired; and not one of us could convince him that the aspect of our affairs
was not half so gloomy, so utterly hopeless, as his morbid imagination
represented it to be.
The useful pony phaeton was sold, together with the
stout, well–fed pony—the old favourite that we had fully determined should end
its days in peace, and never pass from our hands; the little coach–house and
stable were let; the servant boy, and the more efficient (being the more
expensive) of the two maid–servants, were dismissed. Our clothes were mended,
turned, and darned to the utmost verge of decency; our food, always plain, was
now simplified to an unprecedented degree—except my father’s favourite dishes;
our coals and candles were painfully economized—the pair of candles reduced to
one, and that most sparingly used; the coals carefully husbanded in the
half–empty grate: especially when my father was out on his parish duties, or
confined to bed through illness—then we sat with our feet on the fender,
scraping the perishing embers together from time to time, and occasionally
adding a slight scattering of the dust and fragments of coal, just to keep them
alive. As for our carpets, they in time were worn threadbare, and patched and
darned even to a greater extent than our garments. To save the expense of a
gardener, Mary and I undertook to keep the garden in order; and all the cooking
and household work that could not easily be managed by one servant–girl, was
done by my mother and sister, with a little occasional help from me: only a
little, because, though a woman in my own estimation, I was still a child in
theirs; and my mother, like most active, managing women, was not gifted with
very active daughters: for this reason—that being so clever and diligent
herself, she was never tempted to trust her affairs to a deputy, but, on the
contrary, was willing to act and think for others as well as for number one;
and whatever was the business in hand, she was apt to think that no one could
do it so well as herself: so that whenever I offered to assist her, I received
such an answer as—’No, love, you cannot indeed—there’s nothing here you can do.
Go and help your sister, or get her to take a walk with you—tell her she must
not sit so much, and stay so constantly in the house as she does— she may well
look thin and dejected.’
‘Mary, mamma says I’m to help you; or get you to
take a walk with me; she says you may well look thin and dejected, if you sit
so constantly in the house.’
‘Help me you cannot, Agnes; and I cannot go out with
YOU—I have far too much to do.’
‘Then let me help you.’
‘You cannot, indeed, dear child. Go and practise
your music, or play with the kitten.’
There was always plenty of sewing on hand; but I had
not been taught to cut out a single garment, and except plain hemming and
seaming, there was little I could do, even in that line; for they both asserted
that it was far easier to do the work themselves than to prepare it for me: and
besides, they liked better to see me prosecuting my studies, or amusing
myself—it was time enough for me to sit bending over my work, like a grave
matron, when my favourite little pussy was become a steady old cat. Under such
circumstances, although I was not many degrees more useful than the kitten, my
idleness was not entirely without excuse.
Through all our troubles, I never but once heard my
mother complain of our want of money. As summer was coming on she observed to
Mary and me, ‘What a desirable thing it would be for your papa to spend a few
weeks at a watering–place. I am convinced the sea–air and the change of scene
would be of incalculable service to him. But then, you see, there’s no money,’
she added, with a sigh. We both wished exceedingly that the thing might be
done, and lamented greatly that it could not. ‘Well, well!’ said she, ‘it’s no
use complaining. Possibly something might be done to further the project after
all. Mary, you are a beautiful drawer. What do you say to doing a few more
pictures in your best style, and getting them framed, with the water–coloured
drawings you have already done, and trying to dispose of them to some liberal
picture–dealer, who has the sense to discern their merits?’
‘Mamma, I should be delighted if you think they
COULD be sold; and for anything worth while.’
‘It’s worth while trying, however, my dear: do you
procure the drawings, and I’ll endeavour to find a purchaser.’
‘I wish _I_ could do something,’ said I.
‘You, Agnes! well, who knows? You draw pretty well,
too: if you choose some simple piece for your subject, I daresay you will be
able to produce something we shall all be proud to exhibit.’
‘But I have another scheme in my head, mamma, and
have had long, only I did not like to mention it.’
‘Indeed! pray tell us what it is.’
‘I should like to be a governess.’
My mother uttered an exclamation of surprise, and
laughed. My sister dropped her work in astonishment, exclaiming, ‘YOU a
governess, Agnes! What can you be dreaming of?’
‘Well! I don’t see anything so VERY extraordinary in
it. I do not pretend to be able to instruct great girls; but surely I could
teach little ones: and I should like it so much: I am so fond of children. Do
let me, mamma!’
‘But, my love, you have not learned to take care of
YOURSELF yet: and young children require more judgment and experience to manage
than elder ones.’
‘But, mamma, I am above eighteen, and quite able to
take care of myself, and others too. You do not know half the wisdom and
prudence I possess, because I have never been tried.’
‘Only think,’ said Mary, ‘what would you do in a
house full of strangers, without me or mamma to speak and act for you—with a
parcel of children, besides yourself, to attend to; and no one to look to for
advice? You would not even know what clothes to put on.’
‘You think, because I always do as you bid me, I
have no judgment of my own: but only try me—that is all I ask—and you shall see
what I can do.’
At that moment my father entered and the subject of
our discussion was explained to him.
‘What, my little Agnes a governess!’ cried he, and,
in spite of his dejection, he laughed at the idea.
‘Yes, papa, don’t YOU say anything against it: I
should like it so much; and I am sure I could manage delightfully.’
‘But, my darling, we could not spare you.’ And a
tear glistened in his eye as he added—’No, no! afflicted as we are, surely we
are not brought to that pass yet.’
‘Oh, no!’ said my mother. ‘There is no necessity
whatever for such a step; it is merely a whim of her own. So you must hold your
tongue, you naughty girl; for, though you are so ready to leave us, you know
very well we cannot part with YOU.’
I was silenced for that day, and for many succeeding
ones; but still I did not wholly relinquish my darling scheme. Mary got her
drawing materials, and steadily set to work. I got mine too; but while I drew,
I thought of other things. How delightful it would be to be a governess! To go
out into the world; to enter upon a new life; to act for myself; to exercise my
unused faculties; to try my unknown powers; to earn my own maintenance, and
something to comfort and help my father, mother, and sister, besides
exonerating them from the provision of my food and clothing; to show papa what
his little Agnes could do; to convince mamma and Mary that I was not quite the
helpless, thoughtless being they supposed. And then, how charming to be
entrusted with the care and education of children! Whatever others said, I felt
I was fully competent to the task: the clear remembrance of my own thoughts in
early childhood would be a surer guide than the instructions of the most mature
adviser. I had but to turn from my little pupils to myself at their age, and I
should know, at once, how to win their confidence and affections: how to waken
the contrition of the erring; how to embolden the timid and console the
afflicted; how to make Virtue practicable, Instruction desirable, and Religion
lovely and comprehensible.
– Delightful task! To teach the young idea how to
shoot!
To train the tender plants, and watch their buds
unfolding day by day!
Influenced by so many inducements, I determined
still to persevere; though the fear of displeasing my mother, or distressing my
father’s feelings, prevented me from resuming the subject for several days. At
length, again, I mentioned it to my mother in private; and, with some
difficulty, got her to promise to assist me with her endeavours. My father’s
reluctant consent was next obtained, and then, though Mary still sighed her
disapproval, my dear, kind mother began to look out for a situation for me. She
wrote to my father’s relations, and consulted the newspaper advertisements—her
own relations she had long dropped all communication with: a formal interchange
of occasional letters was all she had ever had since her marriage, and she
would not at any time have applied to them in a case of this nature. But so
long and so entire had been my parents’ seclusion from the world, that many
weeks elapsed before a suitable situation could be procured. At last, to my
great joy, it was decreed that I should take charge of the young family of a
certain Mrs. Bloomfield; whom my kind, prim aunt Grey had known in her youth,
and asserted to be a very nice woman. Her husband was a retired tradesman, who
had realized a very comfortable fortune; but could not be prevailed upon to
give a greater salary than twenty–five pounds to the instructress of his
children. I, however, was glad to accept this, rather than refuse the
situation—which my parents were inclined to think the better plan.
But some weeks more were yet to be devoted to
preparation. How long, how tedious those weeks appeared to me! Yet they were
happy ones in the main—full of bright hopes and ardent expectations. With what
peculiar pleasure I assisted at the making of my new clothes, and,
subsequently, the packing of my trunks! But there was a feeling of bitterness
mingling with the latter occupation too; and when it was done—when all was
ready for my departure on the morrow, and the last night at home approached—a
sudden anguish seemed to swell my heart. My dear friends looked so sad, and
spoke so very kindly, that I could scarcely keep my eyes from overflowing: but
I still affected to be gay. I had taken my last ramble with Mary on the moors,
my last walk in the garden, and round the house; I had fed, with her, our pet
pigeons for the last time—the pretty creatures that we had tamed to peck their
food from our hands: I had given a farewell stroke to all their silky backs as
they crowded in my lap. I had tenderly kissed my own peculiar favourites, the
pair of snow–white fantails; I had played my last tune on the old familiar
piano, and sung my last song to papa: not the last, I hoped, but the last for
what appeared to me a very long time. And, perhaps, when I did these things
again it would be with different feelings: circumstances might be changed, and
this house might never be my settled home again. My dear little friend, the
kitten, would certainly be changed: she was already growing a fine cat; and
when I returned, even for a hasty visit at Christmas, would, most likely, have
forgotten both her playmate and her merry pranks. I had romped with her for the
last time; and when I stroked her soft bright fur, while she lay purring
herself to sleep in my lap, it was with a feeling of sadness I could not easily
disguise. Then at bed–time, when I retired with Mary to our quiet little
chamber, where already my drawers were cleared out and my share of the bookcase
was empty—and where, hereafter, she would have to sleep alone, in dreary
solitude, as she expressed it—my heart sank more than ever: I felt as if I had
been selfish and wrong to persist in leaving her; and when I knelt once more
beside our little bed, I prayed for a blessing on her and on my parents more
fervently than ever I had done before. To conceal my emotion, I buried my face
in my hands, and they were presently bathed in tears. I perceived, on rising,
that she had been crying too: but neither of us spoke; and in silence we betook
ourselves to our repose, creeping more closely together from the consciousness
that we were to part so soon.
But the morning brought a renewal of hope and
spirits. I was to depart early; that the conveyance which took me (a gig, hired
from Mr. Smith, the draper, grocer, and tea–dealer of the village) might return
the same day. I rose, washed, dressed, swallowed a hasty breakfast, received
the fond embraces of my father, mother, and sister, kissed the cat—to the great
scandal of Sally, the maid— shook hands with her, mounted the gig, drew my veil
over my face, and then, but not till then, burst into a flood of tears. The gig
rolled on; I looked back; my dear mother and sister were still standing at the
door, looking after me, and waving their adieux. I returned their salute, and
prayed God to bless them from my heart: we descended the hill, and I could see
them no more.
‘It’s a coldish mornin’ for you, Miss Agnes,’
observed Smith; ‘and a darksome ‘un too; but we’s happen get to yon spot afore
there come much rain to signify.’
‘Yes, I hope so,’ replied I, as calmly as I could.
‘It’s comed a good sup last night too.’
‘Yes.’
‘But this cold wind will happen keep it off.’
‘Perhaps it will.’
Here ended our colloquy. We crossed the valley, and
began to ascend the opposite hill. As we were toiling up, I looked back again;
there was the village spire, and the old grey parsonage beyond it, basking in a
slanting beam of sunshine—it was but a sickly ray, but the village and
surrounding hills were all in sombre shade, and I hailed the wandering beam as
a propitious omen to my home. With clasped hands I fervently implored a
blessing on its inhabitants, and hastily turned away; for I saw the sunshine
was departing; and I carefully avoided another glance, lest I should see it in
gloomy shadow, like the rest of the landscape.
0 comments:
Post a Comment