Article description: (description ) This attribute controls the content of the description and og:description elements. | AGNES GREY.
A NOVEL,
BY
ACTON BELL.
VOL. III.
* * * * *
LONDON:
THOMAS CAUTLEY NEWBY, PUBLISHER,
72, MORTIMER ST., CAVENDISH SQ.
* * * * *
1847.
[Picture: Birthplace of Charlotte, Emily and Anne Brontë, Thornton]
CHAPTER I—THE PARSONAGE
All true histories contain instruction; though, in some, the treasure may
be hard to find, and when found, so trivial in quantity, that the dry,
shrivelled kernel scarcely compensates for the trouble of cracking the
nut. Whether this be the case with my history or not, I am hardly
competent to judge. I sometimes think it might prove useful to some, and
entertaining to others; but the world may judge for itself. Shielded by
my own obscurity, and by the lapse of years, and a few fictitious names,
I do not fear to venture; and will candidly lay before the public what I
would not disclose to the most intimate friend.
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.
CHAPTER II—FIRST LESSONS IN THE ART OF INSTRUCTION
As we drove along, my spirits revived again, and I turned, with pleasure,
to the contemplation of the new life upon which I was entering. But
though it was not far past the middle of September, the heavy clouds and
strong north-easterly wind combined to render the day extremely cold and
dreary; and the journey seemed a very long one, for, as Smith observed,
the roads were ‘very heavy’; and certainly, his horse was very heavy too:
it crawled up the hills, and crept down them, and only condescended to
shake its sides in a trot where the road was at a dead level or a very
gentle slope, which was rarely the case in those rugged regions; so that
it was nearly one o’clock before we reached the place of our destination.
Yet, after all, when we entered the lofty iron gateway, when we drove
softly up the smooth, well-rolled carriage-road, with the green lawn on
each side, studded with young trees, and approached the new but stately
mansion of Wellwood, rising above its mushroom poplar-groves, my heart
failed me, and I wished it were a mile or two farther off. For the first
time in my life I must stand alone: there was no retreating now. I must
enter that house, and introduce myself among its strange inhabitants.
But how was it to be done? True, I was near nineteen; but, thanks to my
retired life and the protecting care of my mother and sister, I well knew
that many a girl of fifteen, or under, was gifted with a more womanly
address, and greater ease and self-possession, than I was. Yet, if Mrs.
Bloomfield were a kind, motherly woman, I might do very well, after all;
and the children, of course, I should soon be at ease with them—and Mr.
Bloomfield, I hoped, I should have but little to do with.
‘Be calm, be calm, whatever happens,’ I said within myself; and truly I
kept this resolution so well, and was so fully occupied in steadying my
nerves and stifling the rebellious flutter of my heart, that when I was
admitted into the hall and ushered into the presence of Mrs. Bloomfield,
I almost forgot to answer her polite salutation; and it afterwards struck
me, that the little I did say was spoken in the tone of one half-dead or
half-asleep. The lady, too, was somewhat chilly in her manner, as I
discovered when I had time to reflect. She was a tall, spare, stately
woman, with thick black hair, cold grey eyes, and extremely sallow
complexion.
With due politeness, however, she showed me my bedroom, and left me there
to take a little refreshment. I was somewhat dismayed at my appearance
on looking in the glass: the cold wind had swelled and reddened my hands,
uncurled and entangled my hair, and dyed my face of a pale purple; add to
this my collar was horridly crumpled, my frock splashed with mud, my feet
clad in stout new boots, and as the trunks were not brought up, there was
no remedy; so having smoothed my hair as well as I could, and repeatedly
twitched my obdurate collar, I proceeded to clomp down the two flights of
stairs, philosophizing as I went; and with some difficulty found my way
into the room where Mrs. Bloomfield awaited me.
She led me into the dining-room, where the family luncheon had been laid
out. Some beefsteaks and half-cold potatoes were set before me; and
while I dined upon these, she sat opposite, watching me (as I thought)
and endeavouring to sustain something like a conversation—consisting
chiefly of a succession of commonplace remarks, expressed with frigid
formality: but this might be more my fault than hers, for I really could
_not_ converse. In fact, my attention was almost wholly absorbed in my
dinner: not from ravenous appetite, but from distress at the toughness of
the beefsteaks, and the numbness of my hands, almost palsied by their
five-hours’ exposure to the bitter wind. I would gladly have eaten the
potatoes and let the meat alone, but having got a large piece of the
latter on to my plate, I could not be so impolite as to leave it; so,
after many awkward and unsuccessful attempts to cut it with the knife, or
tear it with the fork, or pull it asunder between them, sensible that the
awful lady was a spectator to the whole transaction, I at last
desperately grasped the knife and fork in my fists, like a child of two
years old, and fell to work with all the little strength I possessed.
But this needed some apology—with a feeble attempt at a laugh, I said,
‘My hands are so benumbed with the cold that I can scarcely handle my
knife and fork.’
‘I daresay you would find it cold,’ replied she with a cool, immutable
gravity that did not serve to reassure me.
When the ceremony was concluded, she led me into the sitting-room again,
where she rang and sent for the children.
‘You will find them not very far advanced in their attainments,’ said
she, ‘for I have had so little time to attend to their education myself,
and we have thought them too young for a governess till now; but I think
they are clever children, and very apt to learn, especially the little
boy; he is, I think, the flower of the flock—a generous, noble-spirited
boy, one to be led, but not driven, and remarkable for always speaking
the truth. He seems to scorn deception’ (this was good news). ‘His
sister Mary Ann will require watching,’ continued she, ‘but she is a very
good girl upon the whole; though I wish her to be kept out of the nursery
as much as possible, as she is now almost six years old, and might
acquire bad habits from the nurses. I have ordered her crib to be placed
in your room, and if you will be so kind as to overlook her washing and
dressing, and take charge of her clothes, she need have nothing further
to do with the nursery maid.’
I replied I was quite willing to do so; and at that moment my young
pupils entered the apartment, with their two younger sisters. Master Tom
Bloomfield was a well-grown boy of seven, with a somewhat wiry frame,
flaxen hair, blue eyes, small turned-up nose, and fair complexion. Mary
Ann was a tall girl too, somewhat dark like her mother, but with a round
full face and a high colour in her cheeks. The second sister was Fanny,
a very pretty little girl; Mrs. Bloomfield assured me she was a
remarkably gentle child, and required encouragement: she had not learned
anything yet; but in a few days, she would be four years old, and then
she might take her first lesson in the alphabet, and be promoted to the
schoolroom. The remaining one was Harriet, a little broad, fat, merry,
playful thing of scarcely two, that I coveted more than all the rest—but
with her I had nothing to do.
I talked to my little pupils as well as I could, and tried to render
myself agreeable; but with little success I fear, for their mother’s
presence kept me under an unpleasant restraint. They, however, were
remarkably free from shyness. They seemed bold, lively children, and I
hoped I should soon be on friendly terms with them—the little boy
especially, of whom I had heard such a favourable character from his
mamma. In Mary Ann there was a certain affected simper, and a craving
for notice, that I was sorry to observe. But her brother claimed all my
attention to himself; he stood bolt upright between me and the fire, with
his hands behind his back, talking away like an orator, occasionally
interrupting his discourse with a sharp reproof to his sisters when they
made too much noise.
‘Oh, Tom, what a darling you are!’ exclaimed his mother. ‘Come and kiss
dear mamma; and then won’t you show Miss Grey your schoolroom, and your
nice new books?’
‘I won’t kiss _you_, mamma; but I _will_ show Miss Grey my schoolroom,
and my new books.’
‘And _my_ schoolroom, and _my_ new books, Tom,’ said Mary Ann. ‘They’re
mine too.’
‘They’re _mine_,’ replied he decisively. ‘Come along, Miss Grey—I’ll
escort you.’
When the room and books had been shown, with some bickerings between the
brother and sister that I did my utmost to appease or mitigate, Mary Ann
brought me her doll, and began to be very loquacious on the subject of
its fine clothes, its bed, its chest of drawers, and other appurtenances;
but Tom told her to hold her clamour, that Miss Grey might see his
rocking-horse, which, with a most important bustle, he dragged forth from
its corner into the middle of the room, loudly calling on me to attend to
it. Then, ordering his sister to hold the reins, he mounted, and made me
stand for ten minutes, watching how manfully he used his whip and spurs.
Meantime, however, I admired Mary Ann’s pretty doll, and all its
possessions; and then told Master Tom he was a capital rider, but I hoped
he would not use his whip and spurs so much when he rode a real pony.
‘Oh, yes, I will!’ said he, laying on with redoubled ardour. ‘I’ll cut
into him like smoke! Eeh! my word! but he shall sweat for it.’
This was very shocking; but I hoped in time to be able to work a
reformation.
‘Now you must put on your bonnet and shawl,’ said the little hero, ‘and
I’ll show you my garden.’
‘And _mine_,’ said Mary Ann.
Tom lifted his fist with a menacing gesture; she uttered a loud, shrill
scream, ran to the other side of me, and made a face at him.
‘Surely, Tom, you would not strike your sister! I hope I shall _never_
see you do that.’
‘You will sometimes: I’m obliged to do it now and then to keep her in
order.’
‘But it is not your business to keep her in order, you know—that is for—’
‘Well, now go and put on your bonnet.’
‘I don’t know—it is so very cloudy and cold, it seems likely to rain;—and
you know I have had a long drive.’
‘No matter—you _must_ come; I shall allow of no excuses,’ replied the
consequential little gentleman. And, as it was the first day of our
acquaintance, I thought I might as well indulge him. It was too cold for
Mary Ann to venture, so she stayed with her mamma, to the great relief of
her brother, who liked to have me all to himself.
The garden was a large one, and tastefully laid out; besides several
splendid dahlias, there were some other fine flowers still in bloom: but
my companion would not give me time to examine them: I must go with him,
across the wet grass, to a remote sequestered corner, the most important
place in the grounds, because it contained _his_ garden. There were two
round beds, stocked with a variety of plants. In one there was a pretty
little rose-tree. I paused to admire its lovely blossoms.
‘Oh, never mind that!’ said he, contemptuously. ‘That’s only _Mary
Ann’s_ garden; look, THIS is mine.’
After I had observed every flower, and listened to a disquisition on
every plant, I was permitted to depart; but first, with great pomp, he
plucked a polyanthus and presented it to me, as one conferring a
prodigious favour. I observed, on the grass about his garden, certain
apparatus of sticks and corn, and asked what they were.
‘Traps for birds.’
‘Why do you catch them?’
‘Papa says they do harm.’
‘And what do you do with them when you catch them?’
‘Different things. Sometimes I give them to the cat; sometimes I cut
them in pieces with my penknife; but the next, I mean to roast alive.’
‘And why do you mean to do such a horrible thing?’
‘For two reasons: first, to see how long it will live—and then, to see
what it will taste like.’
‘But don’t you know it is extremely wicked to do such things? Remember,
the birds can feel as well as you; and think, how would you like it
yourself?’
‘Oh, that’s nothing! I’m not a bird, and I can’t feel what I do to
them.’
‘But you will have to feel it some time, Tom: you have heard where wicked
people go to when they die; and if you don’t leave off torturing innocent
birds, remember, you will have to go there, and suffer just what you have
made them suffer.’
‘Oh, pooh! I shan’t. Papa knows how I treat them, and he never blames
me for it: he says it is just what _he_ used to do when _he_ was a boy.
Last summer, he gave me a nest full of young sparrows, and he saw me
pulling off their legs and wings, and heads, and never said anything;
except that they were nasty things, and I must not let them soil my
trousers: end Uncle Robson was there too, and he laughed, and said I was
a fine boy.’
‘But what would your mamma say?’
‘Oh, she doesn’t care! she says it’s a pity to kill the pretty singing
birds, but the naughty sparrows, and mice, and rats, I may do what I like
with. So now, Miss Grey, you see it is _not_ wicked.’
‘I still think it is, Tom; and perhaps your papa and mamma would think so
too, if they thought much about it. However,’ I internally added, ‘they
may say what they please, but I am determined you shall do nothing of the
kind, as long as I have power to prevent it.’
He next took me across the lawn to see his mole-traps, and then into the
stack-yard to see his weasel-traps: one of which, to his great joy,
contained a dead weasel; and then into the stable to see, not the fine
carriage-horses, but a little rough colt, which he informed me had been
bred on purpose for him, and he was to ride it as soon as it was properly
trained. I tried to amuse the little fellow, and listened to all his
chatter as complacently as I could; for I thought if he had any
affections at all, I would endeavour to win them; and then, in time, I
might be able to show him the error of his ways: but I looked in vain for
that generous, noble spirit his mother talked of; though I could see he
was not without a certain degree of quickness and penetration, when he
chose to exert it.
When we re-entered the house it was nearly tea-time. Master Tom told me
that, as papa was from home, he and I and Mary Ann were to have tea with
mamma, for a treat; for, on such occasions, she always dined at
luncheon-time with them, instead of at six o’clock. Soon after tea, Mary
Ann went to bed, but Tom favoured us with his company and conversation
till eight. After he was gone, Mrs. Bloomfield further enlightened me on
the subject of her children’s dispositions and acquirements, and on what
they were to learn, and how they were to be managed, and cautioned me to
mention their defects to no one but herself. My mother had warned me
before to mention them as little as possible to _her_, for people did not
like to be told of their children’s faults, and so I concluded I was to
keep silence on them altogether. About half-past nine, Mrs. Bloomfield
invited me to partake of a frugal supper of cold meat and bread. I was
glad when that was over, and she took her bedroom candlestick and retired
to rest; for though I wished to be pleased with her, her company was
extremely irksome to me; and I could not help feeling that she was cold,
grave, and forbidding—the very opposite of the kind, warm-hearted matron
my hopes had depicted her to be.
CHAPTER III—A FEW MORE LESSONS
I rose next morning with a feeling of hopeful exhilaration, in spite of
the disappointments already experienced; but I found the dressing of Mary
Ann was no light matter, as her abundant hair was to be smeared with
pomade, plaited in three long tails, and tied with bows of ribbon: a task
my unaccustomed fingers found great difficulty in performing. She told
me her nurse could do it in half the time, and, by keeping up a constant
fidget of impatience, contrived to render me still longer. When all was
done, we went into the schoolroom, where I met my other pupil, and
chatted with the two till it was time to go down to breakfast. That meal
being concluded, and a few civil words having been exchanged with Mrs.
Bloomfield, we repaired to the schoolroom again, and commenced the
business of the day. I found my pupils very backward, indeed; but Tom,
though averse to every species of mental exertion, was not without
abilities. Mary Ann could scarcely read a word, and was so careless and
inattentive that I could hardly get on with her at all. However, by dint
of great labour and patience, I managed to get something done in the
course of the morning, and then accompanied my young charge out into the
garden and adjacent grounds, for a little recreation before dinner.
There we got along tolerably together, except that I found they had no
notion of going with me: I must go with them, wherever they chose to lead
me. I must run, walk, or stand, exactly as it suited their fancy. This,
I thought, was reversing the order of things; and I found it doubly
disagreeable, as on this as well as subsequent occasions, they seemed to
prefer the dirtiest places and the most dismal occupations. But there
was no remedy; either I must follow them, or keep entirely apart from
them, and thus appear neglectful of my charge. To-day, they manifested a
particular attachment to a well at the bottom of the lawn, where they
persisted in dabbling with sticks and pebbles for above half an hour. I
was in constant fear that their mother would see them from the window,
and blame me for allowing them thus to draggle their clothes and wet
their feet and hands, instead of taking exercise; but no arguments,
commands, or entreaties could draw them away. If _she_ did not see them,
some one else did—a gentleman on horseback had entered the gate and was
proceeding up the road; at the distance of a few paces from us he paused,
and calling to the children in a waspish penetrating tone, bade them
‘keep out of that water.’ ‘Miss Grey,’ said he, ‘(I suppose it _is_ Miss
Grey), I am surprised that you should allow them to dirty their clothes
in that manner! Don’t you see how Miss Bloomfield has soiled her frock?
and that Master Bloomfield’s socks are quite wet? and both of them
without gloves? Dear, dear! Let me _request_ that in future you will
keep them _decent_ at least!’ so saying, he turned away, and continued
his ride up to the house. This was Mr. Bloomfield. I was surprised that
he should nominate his children Master and Miss Bloomfield; and still
more so, that he should speak so uncivilly to me, their governess, and a
perfect stranger to himself. Presently the bell rang to summon us in. I
dined with the children at one, while he and his lady took their luncheon
at the same table. His conduct there did not greatly raise him in my
estimation. He was a man of ordinary stature—rather below than above—and
rather thin than stout, apparently between thirty and forty years of age:
he had a large mouth, pale, dingy complexion, milky blue eyes, and hair
the colour of a hempen cord. There was a roast leg of mutton before him:
he helped Mrs. Bloomfield, the children, and me, desiring me to cut up
the children’s meat; then, after twisting about the mutton in various
directions, and eyeing it from different points, he pronounced it not fit
to be eaten, and called for the cold beef.
‘What is the matter with the mutton, my dear?’ asked his mate.
‘It is quite overdone. Don’t you taste, Mrs. Bloomfield, that all the
goodness is roasted out of it? And can’t you see that all that nice, red
gravy is completely dried away?’
‘Well, I think the _beef_ will suit you.’
The beef was set before him, and he began to carve, but with the most
rueful expressions of discontent.
‘What is the matter with the _beef_, Mr. Bloomfield? I’m sure I thought
it was very nice.’
‘And so it _was_ very nice. A nicer joint could not be; but it is
_quite_ spoiled,’ replied he, dolefully.
‘How so?’
‘How so! Why, don’t you see how it is cut? Dear—dear! it is quite
shocking!’
‘They must have cut it wrong in the kitchen, then, for I’m sure I carved
it quite properly here, yesterday.’
‘No _doubt_ they cut it wrong in the kitchen—the savages! Dear—dear!
Did ever any one see such a fine piece of beef so completely ruined? But
remember that, in future, when a decent dish leaves this table, they
shall not _touch_ it in the kitchen. Remember _that_, Mrs. Bloomfield!’
Notwithstanding the ruinous state of the beef, the gentleman managed to
out himself some delicate slices, part of which he ate in silence. When
he next spoke, it was, in a less querulous tone, to ask what there was
for dinner.
‘Turkey and grouse,’ was the concise reply.
‘And what besides?’
‘Fish.’
‘What kind of fish?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘_You don’t know_?’ cried he, looking solemnly up from his plate, and
suspending his knife and fork in astonishment.
‘No. I told the cook to get some fish—I did not particularize what.’
‘Well, that beats everything! A lady professes to keep house, and
doesn’t even know what fish is for dinner! professes to order fish, and
doesn’t specify what!’
‘Perhaps, Mr. Bloomfield, you will order dinner yourself in future.’
Nothing more was said; and I was very glad to get out of the room with my
pupils; for I never felt so ashamed and uncomfortable in my life for
anything that was not my own fault.
In the afternoon we applied to lessons again: then went out again; then
had tea in the schoolroom; then I dressed Mary Ann for dessert; and when
she and her brother had gone down to the dining-room, I took the
opportunity of beginning a letter to my dear friends at home: but the
children came up before I had half completed it. At seven I had to put
Mary Ann to bed; then I played with Tom till eight, when he, too, went;
and I finished my letter and unpacked my clothes, which I had hitherto
found no opportunity for doing, and, finally, went to bed myself.
But this is a very favourable specimen of a day’s proceedings.
My task of instruction and surveillance, instead of becoming easier as my
charges and I got better accustomed to each other, became more arduous as
their characters unfolded. The name of governess, I soon found, was a
mere mockery as applied to me: my pupils had no more notion of obedience
than a wild, unbroken colt. The habitual fear of their father’s peevish
temper, and the dread of the punishments he was wont to inflict when
irritated, kept them generally within bounds in his immediate presence.
The girls, too, had some fear of their mother’s anger; and the boy might
occasionally be bribed to do as she bid him by the hope of reward; but I
had no rewards to offer; and as for punishments, I was given to
understand, the parents reserved that privilege to themselves; and yet
they expected me to keep my pupils in order. Other children might be
guided by the fear of anger and the desire of approbation; but neither
the one nor the other had any effect upon these.
Master Tom, not content with refusing to be ruled, must needs set up as a
ruler, and manifested a determination to keep, not only his sisters, but
his governess in order, by violent manual and pedal applications; and, as
he was a tall, strong boy of his years, this occasioned no trifling
inconvenience. A few sound boxes on the ear, on such occasions, might
have settled the matter easily enough: but as, in that case, he might
make up some story to his mother which she would be sure to believe, as
she had such unshaken faith in his veracity—though I had already
discovered it to be by no means unimpeachable—I determined to refrain
from striking him, even in self-defence; and, in his most violent moods,
my only resource was to throw him on his back and hold his hands and feet
till the frenzy was somewhat abated. To the difficulty of preventing him
from doing what he ought not, was added that of forcing him to do what he
ought. Often he would positively refuse to learn, or to repeat his
lessons, or even to look at his book. Here, again, a good birch rod
might have been serviceable; but, as my powers were so limited, I must
make the best use of what I had.
As there were no settled hours for study and play, I resolved to give my
pupils a certain task, which, with moderate attention, they could perform
in a short time; and till this was done, however weary I was, or however
perverse they might be, nothing short of parental interference should
induce me to suffer them to leave the schoolroom, even if I should sit
with my chair against the door to keep them in. Patience, Firmness, and
Perseverance were my only weapons; and these I resolved to use to the
utmost. I determined always strictly to fulfil the threats and promises
I made; and, to that end, I must be cautious to threaten and promise
nothing that I could not perform. Then, I would carefully refrain from
all useless irritability and indulgence of my own ill-temper: when they
behaved tolerably, I would be as kind and obliging as it was in my power
to be, in order to make the widest possible distinction between good and
bad conduct; I would reason with them, too, in the simplest and most
effective manner. When I reproved them, or refused to gratify their
wishes, after a glaring fault, it should be more in sorrow than in anger:
their little hymns and prayers I would make plain and clear to their
understanding; when they said their prayers at night and asked pardon for
their offences, I would remind them of the sins of the past day,
solemnly, but in perfect kindness, to avoid raising a spirit of
opposition; penitential hymns should be said by the naughty, cheerful
ones by the comparatively good; and every kind of instruction I would
convey to them, as much as possible, by entertaining discourse—apparently
with no other object than their present amusement in view.
By these means I hoped in time both to benefit the children and to gain
the approbation of their parents; and also to convince my friends at home
that I was not so wanting in skill and prudence as they supposed. I knew
the difficulties I had to contend with were great; but I knew (at least I
believed) unremitting patience and perseverance could overcome them; and
night and morning I implored Divine assistance to this end. But either
the children were so incorrigible, the parents so unreasonable, or myself
so mistaken in my views, or so unable to carry them out, that my best
intentions and most strenuous efforts seemed productive of no better
result than sport to the children, dissatisfaction to their parents, and
torment to myself.
The task of instruction was as arduous for the body as the mind. I had
to run after my pupils to catch them, to carry or drag them to the table,
and often forcibly to hold them there till the lesson was done. Tom I
frequently put into a corner, seating myself before him in a chair, with
a book which contained the little task that must be said or read, before
he was released, in my hand. He was not strong enough to push both me
and the chair away, so he would stand twisting his body and face into the
most grotesque and singular contortions—laughable, no doubt, to an
unconcerned spectator, but not to me—and uttering loud yells and doleful
outcries, intended to represent weeping but wholly without the
accompaniment of tears. I knew this was done solely for the purpose of
annoying me; and, therefore, however I might inwardly tremble with
impatience and irritation, I manfully strove to suppress all visible
signs of molestation, and affected to sit with calm indifference, waiting
till it should please him to cease this pastime, and prepare for a run in
the garden, by casting his eye on the book and reading or repeating the
few words he was required to say. Sometimes he was determined to do his
writing badly; and I had to hold his hand to prevent him from purposely
blotting or disfiguring the paper. Frequently I threatened that, if he
did not do better, he should have another line: then he would stubbornly
refuse to write this line; and I, to save my word, had finally to resort
to the expedient of holding his fingers upon the pen, and forcibly
drawing his hand up and down, till, in spite of his resistance, the line
was in some sort completed.
Yet Tom was by no means the most unmanageable of my pupils: sometimes, to
my great joy, he would have the sense to see that his wisest policy was
to finish his tasks, and go out and amuse himself till I and his sisters
came to join him; which frequently was not at all, for Mary Ann seldom
followed his example in this particular: she apparently preferred rolling
on the floor to any other amusement: down she would drop like a leaden
weight; and when I, with great difficulty, had succeeded in rooting her
thence, I had still to hold her up with one arm, while with the other I
held the book from which she was to read or spell her lesson. As the
dead weight of the big girl of six became too heavy for one arm to bear,
I transferred it to the other; or, if both were weary of the burden, I
carried her into a corner, and told her she might come out when she
should find the use of her feet, and stand up: but she generally
preferred lying there like a log till dinner or tea-time, when, as I
could not deprive her of her meals, she must be liberated, and would come
crawling out with a grin of triumph on her round, red face. Often she
would stubbornly refuse to pronounce some particular word in her lesson;
and now I regret the lost labour I have had in striving to conquer her
obstinacy. If I had passed it over as a matter of no consequence, it
would have been better for both parties, than vainly striving to overcome
it as I did; but I thought it my absolute duty to crush this vicious
tendency in the bud: and so it was, if I could have done it; and had my
powers been less limited, I might have enforced obedience; but, as it
was, it was a trial of strength between her and me, in which she
generally came off victorious; and every victory served to encourage and
strengthen her for a future contest. In vain I argued, coaxed,
entreated, threatened, scolded; in vain I kept her in from play, or, if
obliged to take her out, refused to play with her, or to speak kindly or
have anything to do with her; in vain I tried to set before her the
advantages of doing as she was bid, and being loved, and kindly treated
in consequence, and the disadvantages of persisting in her absurd
perversity. Sometimes, when she would ask me to do something for her, I
would answer,—‘Yes, I will, Mary Ann, if you will only say that word.
Come! you’d better say it at once, and have no more trouble about it.’
‘No.’
‘Then, of course, I can do nothing for you.’
With me, at her age, or under, neglect and disgrace were the most
dreadful of punishments; but on her they made no impression. Sometimes,
exasperated to the utmost pitch, I would shake her violently by the
shoulder, or pull her long hair, or put her in the corner; for which she
punished me with loud, shrill, piercing screams, that went through my
head like a knife. She knew I hated this, and when she had shrieked her
utmost, would look into my face with an air of vindictive satisfaction,
exclaiming,—‘_Now_, then! _that’s_ for you!’ and then shriek again and
again, till I was forced to stop my ears. Often these dreadful cries
would bring Mrs. Bloomfield up to inquire what was the matter?
‘Mary Ann is a naughty girl, ma’am.’
‘But what are these shocking screams?’
‘She is screaming in a passion.’
‘I never heard such a dreadful noise! You might be killing her. Why is
she not out with her brother?’
‘I cannot get her to finish her lessons.’
‘But Mary Ann must be a _good_ girl, and finish her lessons.’ This was
blandly spoken to the child. ‘And I hope I shall _never_ hear such
terrible cries again!’
And fixing her cold, stony eyes upon me with a look that could not be
mistaken, she would shut the door, and walk away. Sometimes I would try
to take the little obstinate creature by surprise, and casually ask her
the word while she was thinking of something else; frequently she would
begin to say it, and then suddenly cheek herself, with a provoking look
that seemed to say, ‘Ah! I’m too sharp for you; you shan’t trick it out
of me, either.’
On another occasion, I pretended to forget the whole affair; and talked
and played with her as usual, till night, when I put her to bed; then
bending over her, while she lay all smiles and good humour, just before
departing, I said, as cheerfully and kindly as before—‘Now, Mary Ann,
just tell me that word before I kiss you good-night. You are a good girl
now, and, of course, you will say it.’
‘No, I won’t.’
‘Then I can’t kiss you.’
‘Well, I don’t care.’
In vain I expressed my sorrow; in vain I lingered for some symptom of
contrition; she really ‘didn’t care,’ and I left her alone, and in
darkness, wondering most of all at this last proof of insensate
stubbornness. In _my_ childhood I could not imagine a more afflictive
punishment than for my mother to refuse to kiss me at night: the very
idea was terrible. More than the idea I never felt, for, happily, I
never committed a fault that was deemed worthy of such penalty; but once
I remember, for some transgression of my sister’s, our mother thought
proper to inflict it upon her: what _she_ felt, I cannot tell; but my
sympathetic tears and suffering for her sake I shall not soon forget.
Another troublesome trait in Mary Ann was her incorrigible propensity to
keep running into the nursery, to play with her little sisters and the
nurse. This was natural enough, but, as it was against her mother’s
express desire, I, of course, forbade her to do so, and did my utmost to
keep her with me; but that only increased her relish for the nursery, and
the more I strove to keep her out of it, the oftener she went, and the
longer she stayed, to the great dissatisfaction of Mrs. Bloomfield, who,
I well knew, would impute all the blame of the matter to me. Another of
my trials was the dressing in the morning: at one time she would not be
washed; at another she would not be dressed, unless she might wear some
particular frock, that I knew her mother would not like her to have; at
another she would scream and run away if I attempted to touch her hair.
So that, frequently, when, after much trouble and toil, I had, at length,
succeeded in bringing her down, the breakfast was nearly half over; and
black looks from ‘mamma,’ and testy observations from ‘papa,’ spoken at
me, if not to me, were sure to be my meed: for few things irritated the
latter so much as want of punctuality at meal times. Then, among the
minor annoyances, was my inability to satisfy Mrs. Bloomfield with her
daughter’s dress; and the child’s hair ‘was never fit to be seen.’
Sometimes, as a powerful reproach to me, she would perform the office of
tire woman herself, and then complain bitterly of the trouble it gave
her.
When little Fanny came into the schoolroom, I hoped she would be mild and
inoffensive, at least; but a few days, if not a few hours, sufficed to
destroy the illusion: I found her a mischievous, intractable little
creature, given up to falsehood and deception, young as she was, and
alarmingly fond of exercising her two favourite weapons of offence and
defence: that of spitting in the faces of those who incurred her
displeasure, and bellowing like a bull when her unreasonable desires were
not gratified. As she, generally, was pretty quiet in her parents’
presence, and they were impressed with the notion of her being a
remarkably gentle child, her falsehoods were readily believed, and her
loud uproars led them to suspect harsh and injudicious treatment on my
part; and when, at length, her bad disposition became manifest even to
their prejudiced eyes, I felt that the whole was attributed to me.
‘What a naughty girl Fanny is getting!’ Mrs. Bloomfield would say to her
spouse. ‘Don’t you observe, my dear, how she is altered since she
entered the schoolroom? She will soon be as bad as the other two; and, I
am sorry to say, they have quite deteriorated of late.’
‘You may say that,’ was the answer. ‘I’ve been thinking that same
myself. I thought when we got them a governess they’d improve; but,
instead of that, they get worse and worse: I don’t know how it is with
their learning, but their habits, I know, make no sort of improvement;
they get rougher, and dirtier, and more unseemly every day.’
I knew this was all pointed at me; and these, and all similar innuendoes,
affected me far more deeply than any open accusations would have done;
for against the latter I should have been roused to speak in my own
defence: now I judged it my wisest plan to subdue every resentful
impulse, suppress every sensitive shrinking, and go on perseveringly,
doing my best; for, irksome as my situation was, I earnestly wished to
retain it. I thought, if I could struggle on with unremitting firmness
and integrity, the children would in time become more humanized: every
month would contribute to make them some little wiser, and, consequently,
more manageable; for a child of nine or ten as frantic and ungovernable
as these at six and seven would be a maniac.
I flattered myself I was benefiting my parents and sister by my
continuance here; for small as the salary was, I still was earning
something, and with strict economy I could easily manage to have
something to spare for them, if they would favour me by taking it. Then
it was by my own will that I had got the place: I had brought all this
tribulation on myself, and I was determined to bear it; nay, more than
that, I did not even regret the step I had taken. I longed to show my
friends that, even now, I was competent to undertake the charge, and able
to acquit myself honourably to the end; and if ever I felt it degrading
to submit so quietly, or intolerable to toil so constantly, I would turn
towards my home, and say within myself—
They may crush, but they shall not subdue me!
’Tis of thee that I think, not of them.
About Christmas I was allowed to visit home; but my holiday was only of a
fortnight’s duration: ‘For,’ said Mrs. Bloomfield, ‘I thought, as you had
seen your friends so lately, you would not care for a longer stay.’ I
left her to think so still: but she little knew how long, how wearisome
those fourteen weeks of absence had been to me; how intensely I had
longed for my holidays, how greatly I was disap |