by Anne Brontë
She greeted them, however, with a cheerful smile, and protestations of pleasure at the happy meeting equal to their own. They placed themselves one on each side of her, and all three walked away chatting and laughing as young ladies do when they get together, if they be but on tolerably intimate terms. But I, feeling myself to be one too many, left them to their merriment and lagged behind, as usual on such occasions: I had no relish for walking beside Miss Green or Miss Susan like one deaf and dumb, who could neither speak nor be spoken to.
But this time I was not long alone. It struck me, at first, as very odd, that just as I was thinking about Mr Weston he should come up and accost me; but afterwards, on due reflection, I thought there was nothing odd about it, unless it were the fact of his speaking to me; for on such a morning and so near his own abode, it was natural enough that he should be about; and as for my thinking of him, I had been doing that, with little intermission, ever since we set out on our journey; so there was nothing remarkable in that.
‘You are alone again, Miss Grey,’ said he.
‘Yes.’
‘What kind of people are those ladies – the Misses Green?’
‘I really don’t know.’
‘That’s strange – when you live so near and see them so often!’
‘Well, I suppose they are lively, good-tempered girls; but, I imagine you must know them better than I do yourself, for I never exchanged a word with either of them.’
‘Indeed! They don’t strike me as being particularly reserved.’
‘Very likely they are not so to people of their own class; but they consider themselves as moving in quite a different sphere from me!’
He made no reply to this; but after a short pause, he said –
‘I suppose it’s these things, Miss Grey, that make you think you could not live without a home?’
‘Not exactly. The fact is I am too socially disposed to be able to live contentedly without a friend; and as the only friends I have, or am likely to have, are at home, if it or rather, if they were gone – I will not say I could not live – but I would rather not live in such a desolate world.’
‘But why do you say the only friends you are likely to have? Are you so unsociable that you cannot make friends?’
‘No, but I never made one yet; and in my present position there is no possibility of doing so, or even of forming a common acquaintance. The fault may be partly in myself, but I hope not altogether.’
‘The fault is partly in society, and partly, I should think, in your immediate neighbours: and partly, too, in yourself; for many ladies, in your position, would make themselves be noticed and accounted of. But your pupils should be companions for you in some degree; they cannot be many years younger than yourself.’
‘Oh, yes, they are good company sometimes; but I cannot call them friends, nor would they think of bestowing such a name on me – they have other companions better suited to their tastes.’
‘Perhaps you are too wise for them. How do you amuse yourself when alone – do you read much?’
‘Reading is my favourite occupation, when I have leisure for it and books to read.’
From speaking of books in general, he passed to different books in particular, and proceeded by rapid transitions from topic to topic, till several matters, both of taste and opinion, had been discussed considerably within the space of half an hour, but without the embellishment of many observations from himself; he being evidently less bent upon communicating his own thoughts and predilections, than on discovering mine. He had not the tact, or the art, to effect such a purpose by skilfully drawing out my sentiments or ideas through the real or apparent statement of his own, or leading the conversation by imperceptible gradations to such topics as he wished to advert to: but such gentle abruptness, and such single-minded straightforwardness could not possibly offend me.
‘And why should he interest himself at all in my moral and intellectual capacities: what is it to him what I think or feel?’ I asked myself. And my heart throbbed in answer to the question.
But Jane and Susan Green soon reached their home. As they stood parleying at the park-gates, attempting to persuade Miss Murray to come in, I wished Mr Weston would go, that she might not see him with me when she turned round; but, unfortunately, his business, which was to pay one more visit to poor Mark Wood, led him to pursue the same path as we did, till nearly the close of our journey. When, however, he saw that Rosalie had taken leave of her friends and I was about to join her, he would have left me and passed on at a quicker pace but, as he civilly lifted his hat in passing her, to my surprise, instead of returning the salute with a stiff, ungracious bow, she accosted him with one of her sweetest smiles, and, walking by his side, began to talk to him with all imaginable cheerfulness and affability; and so we proceeded all three together.
After a short pause in the conversation, Mr Weston made some remark addressed particularly to me, as referring to something we had been talking of before but, before I could answer, Miss Murray replied to the observation and enlarged upon it: he rejoined; and, from thence to the close of the interview, she engrossed him entirely to herself. It might be partly owing to my own stupidity, my want of tact and assurance: but I felt myself wronged: I trembled with apprehension; and I listened with envy to her easy, rapid flow of utterance, and saw with anxiety the bright smile with which she looked into his face from time to time: for she was walking a little in advance, for the purpose (as I judged) of being seen as well as heard. If her conversation was light and trivial, it was amusing, and she was never at a loss for something to say, or for suitable words to express it in. There was nothing pert or flippant in her manner now, as when she walked with Mr Hatfield; there was only a gentle, playful kind of vivacity, which I thought must be peculiarly pleasing to a man of Mr Weston’s disposition and temperament.
When he was gone she began to laugh, and muttered to herself ‘I thought I could do it!’
‘Do what?’ I asked.
‘Fix that man.’
‘What in the world do you mean?”
‘I mean that he will go home and dream of me. I have shot him through the heart!’
‘How do you know?’
‘By many infallible proofs: more especially the look he gave me when he went away. It was not an impudent look – I exonerate him from that – it was a look of reverential, tender adoration. Ha, ha! he’s not quite such a stupid blockhead as I thought him!’
I made no answer, for my heart was in my throat, or something like it, and I could not trust myself to speak. ‘Oh, God, avert it!’ I cried internally – ‘for his sake, not for mine!’
Miss Murray made several trivial observations as we passed up the park, to which (in spite of my reluctance to let one glimpse of my feelings appear) I could only answer by monosyllables. Whether she intended to torment me, or merely to amuse herself, I could not tell – and did not much care; but I thought of the poor man and his one lamb, and the rich man with his thousand flocks; and I dreaded I knew not what for Mr Weston, independently of my own blighted hopes.
Right glad was I to get into the house, and find myself alone once more in my own room. My first impulse was to sink into the chair beside the bed; and laying my head on the pillow, to seek relief in a passionate burst of tears: there was an imperative craving for such an indulgence; but, alas! I must restrain and swallow back my feelings still: there was the bell – the odious bell for the schoolroom dinner; and I must go down with a calm face, and smile, and laugh, and talk nonsense – yes, and eat, too, if possible, as if all was right, and I was just returned from a pleasant walk.
CHAPTER 16
The Substitution
Next Sunday was one of the gloomiest of April days – a day of thick, dark clouds, and heavy showers. None of the Murrays were disposed to attend church in the afternoon, excepting Rosalie: she was bent upon going as usual; so she ordered the carriage, and I went with her: nothing loth, of course, for at church I might look without fear of scorn
or censure upon a form and face more pleasing to me than the most beautiful of God’s creations; I might listen without disturbance to a voice more charming than the sweetest music to my ears; I might seem to hold communion with that soul in which I felt so deeply interested, and imbibe its purest thoughts and holiest aspirations, with no alloy to such felicity except the secret reproaches of my conscience, which would too often whisper that I was deceiving my own self, and mocking God with the service of a heart more bent upon the creature than the Creator.
Sometimes such thoughts would give me trouble enough; but sometimes I could quiet them with thinking – it is not the man, it is his goodness that I love. ‘Whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are honest and of good report, think on these things.’ We do well to worship God in His works; and I know none of them in which so many of His attributes – so much of His own spirit shines, as in this His faithful servant; whom to know and not to appreciate, were obtuse insensibility in me, who have so little else to occupy my heart.
Almost immediately after the conclusion of the service, Miss Murray left the church. We had to stand in the porch, for it was raining, and the carriage was not yet come. I wondered at her coming forth so hastily, for neither young Meltham nor Squire Green was there; but I soon found it was to secure an interview with Mr Weston as he came out, which he presently did. Having saluted us both, he would have passed on, but she detained him; first with observations upon the disagreeable weather, and then with asking if he would be so kind as to come sometime tomorrow to see the granddaughter of the old woman who kept the porter’s lodge, for the girl was ill of a fever, and wished to see him. He promised to do so.
‘And at what time will you be most likely to come, Mr Weston? The old woman will like to know when to expect you – you know such people think more about having their cottages in order when decent people come to see them than we are apt to suppose.’
Here was a wonderful instance of consideration from the thoughtless Miss Murray. Mr Weston named an hour in the morning at which he would endeavour to be there. By this time the carriage was ready, and the footman was waiting, with an open umbrella, to escort Miss Murray through the churchyard. I was about to follow; but Mr Weston had an umbrella too, and offered me the benefit of its shelter, for it was raining heavily.
‘No, thank you, I don’t mind the rain,’ I said. I always lacked common sense when taken by surprise.
‘But you don’t like it, I suppose? – an umbrella will do you no harm at any rate,’ he replied, with a smile that showed he was not offended; as a man of worse temper or less penetration would have been at such a refusal of his aid. I could not deny the truth of his assertion, and so went with him to the carriage; he even offered me his hand on getting in: an unnecessary piece of civility, but I accepted that too, for fear of giving offence. One glance he gave, one little smile at parting – it was but for a moment; but therein I read, or thought I read, a meaning that kindled in my heart a brighter flame of hope than had ever yet arisen.
‘I would have sent the footman back for you, Miss Grey, if you’d waited a moment – you needn’t have taken Mr Weston’s umbrella,’ observed Rosalie, with a very unamiable cloud upon her pretty face.
‘I would have come without an umbrella, but Mr Weston offered me the benefit of his, and I could not have refused it more than I did without offending him,’ replied I, smiling placidly; for my inward happiness made that amusing, which would have wounded me at another time.
The carriage was now in motion. Miss Murray bent forwards and looked out of the window as we were passing Mr Weston. He was pacing homewards along the causeway, and did not turn his head.
‘Stupid ass!’ cried she, throwing herself back again in the seat. ‘You don’t know what you’ve lost by not looking this way!’
‘What has he lost?’
‘A bow from me, that would have raised him to the seventh heaven!’
I made no answer. I saw she was out of humour, and I derived a secret gratification from the fact, not that she was vexed, but that she thought she had reason to be so. It made me think my hopes were not entirely the offspring of my wishes and imagination.
‘I mean to take up Mr Weston instead of Mr Hatfield,’ said my companion, after a short pause, resuming something of her usual cheerfulness. ‘The ball at Ashby Park takes places on Tuesday, you know; and mamma thinks it very likely that Sir Thomas will propose to me then: such things are often done in the privacy of the ballroom, when gentlemen are most easily ensnared, and ladies most enchanting. But if I am to be married so soon, I must make the best of the present time: I am determined Hatfield shall not be the only man who shall lay his heart at my feet, and implore me to accept the worthless gift in vain.’
‘If you mean Mr Weston to be one of your victims,’ said I with affected indifference, ‘you will have to make such overtures yourself that you will find it difficult to draw back when he asks you to fulfil the expectations you have raised.’
‘I don’t suppose he will ask me to marry him – nor should I desire; it: that would be rather too much presumption! but I intend him to feel my power. He has felt it already, indeed: but he shall acknowledge it too; and what visionary hopes he may have, he must keep to himself, and only amuse me with the result of them – for a time.’
‘Oh! that some kind spirit would whisper those words in his ear!’ I inwardly exclaimed. I was far too indignant to hazard a reply to her observation aloud; and nothing more was said about Mr Weston that day, by me or in my hearing. But next morning, soon after breakfast, Miss Murray came into the schoolroom, where her sister was employed at her studies, or rather her lessons, for studies they were not, and said, ‘Matilda I want you to take a walk with me about eleven o’clock.’
‘Oh, I can’t, Rosalie! I have to give orders about my new bridle and saddle-cloth, and speak to the rat-catcher about his dogs: Miss Grey must go with you.’
‘No, I want you,’ said Rosalie; and calling her sister to the window, she whispered an explanation in her ear; upon which the latter consented to go.
I remembered that eleven was the hour at which Mr Weston proposed to come to the porter’s lodge; and remembering that I beheld the whole contrivance. Accordingly, at dinner, I was entertained with a long account of how Mr Weston had overtaken them as they were walking along the road; and how they had had a long walk and talk with him, and really found him quite an agreeable companion; and how he must have been, and evidently was, delighted with them and their amazing condescension, etc. etc.
CHAPTER 17
Confessions
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; though I never could derive any consolation from such a study. I could discover no beauty in those marked features, that pale hollow cheek, and ordinary dark brown hair; there might be intellect in the forehead, there might be expression in the dark grey 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. Sensible people never either desire it for themselves, or care about it in others. If the mind be but well cultivated, and the heart well disposed, no one ever cares for the exterior. So said the teachers of our childhood; and so say we to the children of the present day. All very judicious and proper, no doubt; but are such assertions supported by actual experience?
We are naturally disposed to 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, she cannot love it li
ke 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, because, to common observers, it gives the greatest offence; 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 unfavourable opinions of her mind and disposition, if it be but to excuse themselves for their instinctive dislike of one so unfavoured 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 do the best they can without it: certainly, though liable to be over-estimated, 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 they are debarred by the lack of this or some such seeming trifle, from giving and receiving that happiness 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 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.