Agnes Grey (20 page)

“When shall I see you again, Miss Murray?”

“At church, I suppose,” replied she, “unless your business chances to bring you here again, at the precise moment when I happen to be walking by.”

“I could always manage to have business here, if I knew precisely when and where to find you.”

“But if I would, I could not inform you, for I am so immethodical I never can tell to-day what I shall do to-morrow.”

“Then give me that, meantime, to comfort me,” said he, half jestingly and half in earnest, extending his hand for the sprig of myrtle.

“No indeed, I shan’t!”

“Do!
Pray
do! I shall be the most miserable of men if you don’t. You cannot be so cruel as to deny me a favour so easily granted and yet so highly prized!” pleaded he as ardently as if his life depended on it.

By this time, I stood within a very few yards of them, impatiently waiting his departure.

“There then! take it and go,” said Rosalie.

He joyfully received the gift, murmured something that made her blush and toss aside her head, but with a little laugh that shewed her displeasure was entirely affected; and then with a courteous salutation withdrew.

“Did you ever see such a man Miss Grey?” said she turning to me. “I’m so
glad
you came! I thought I never
should
get rid of him;—and I was so terribly afraid of papa seeing him.”

“Has he been with you long?”

“No; not long, but he’s so extremely impertinent: and he’s always hanging about, pretending his business or his clerical duties require his attendance in these parts, and really watching for poor me, and pouncing upon me wherever he sees me.”

“Well, your mamma thinks you ought not to go beyond the park or garden without some discreet, matronly person like me to accompany you, and keep off all intruders. She descried Mr. Hatfield hurrying past the park-gates, and forthwith despatched me with instructions to seek you up and to take care of you, and likewise to warn”—

“Oh, mamma’s so tiresome! As if I couldn’t take care of myself! She bothered me before about Mr. Hatfield; and I told her she might trust me—I never should forget my rank and station for the most delightful man that ever breathed.—I wish he would go down on his knees to-morrow, and implore me to be his wife; that I might just shew her how mistaken she is in supposing that I could ever—Oh! it provokes me so—To think that I could be such a fool as to fall in
love!
It is quite beneath the dignity of a woman to do such a thing. Love! I detest the word! as applied to one of our sex, I think it a perfect insult! a preference I
might
acknowledge; but never for one like poor Mr. Hatfield who has not seven hundred a year to bless himself with. I like to talk to him, because he’s so clever and amusing—I wish Sir Thomas Ashby were half as nice—besides, I must have
somebody
to flirt with, and no one else has the sense to come here; and when we go out, mamma won’t let me flirt with anybody but Sir Thomas—if he’s there, and if he’s
not
there, I’m bound hand and foot, for fear somebody should go and make up some exaggerated story, and put it into his head that I’m engaged, or likely to be engaged to somebody else; or, what is more probable, for fear his nasty old mother should see, or hear of my ongoings, and conclude that I’m not a fit wife for her excellent son; as if the said son were not the greatest scamp in Christendom; and as if any woman of common decency were not a world too good for him.”

“Is it really so Miss Murray? and does your mamma know it, and yet wish you to marry him?”

“To be sure she does! She knows more against him than I do, I believe: she keeps it from me lest I should be discouraged; not knowing how little I care about such things. For it’s no great matter really: He’ll be all right when he’s married, as mamma says; and reformed rakes make the best husbands,
every
body knows.
²
I only wish he were not so ugly—
that’s
all
I
think about—but then there’s no choice here in the country, and papa
will not
let us go to London—”

“But I should think Mr. Hatfield would be far better.”

“And so he would if he were lord of Ashby Park—there’s not a doubt of it; but the fact is, I
must
have Ashby Park, whoever shares it with me.”

“But Mr. Hatfield thinks you like him all this time; you don’t consider how bitterly he will be disappointed when he finds himself mistaken.”

“No indeed! It will be a proper punishment for his presumption—for ever
daring
to think I could like him. I should enjoy nothing so much as lifting the veil from his eyes.”

“The sooner you do it the better then.”

“No:—I tell you, I like to amuse myself with him. Besides, he doesn’t really think I like him. I take good care of that; you don’t know how cleverly I manage. He may presume to think he can
induce
me to like him, for which I shall punish him as he deserves.”

“Well, mind you don’t give too much reason for such presumption—that’s all,” replied I.

But all my exhortations were in vain: they only made her somewhat more solicitous to disguise her wishes and her thoughts from me. She talked no more to me about the rector; but I could see that her mind, if not her heart, was fixed upon him still, and that she was intent upon obtaining another interview; for though, in compliance with her mother’s request, I was now constituted the companion of her rambles for a time, she still persisted in wandering in the fields and lanes that lay in the nearest proximity to the road; and, whether she talked to me, or read the book she carried in her hand, she kept continually pausing to look round her, or gaze up the road to see if any one was coming; and if a horseman trotted by, I could tell by her unqualified abuse of the poor equestrian whoever he might be, that she hated him
because,
he was not Mr. Hatfield.

“Surely,” thought I, “she is not so indifferent to him as she believes herself to be, or would have others to believe her; and her mother’s anxiety is not so wholly causeless as she affirms.”

Three days passed away, and he did not make his appearance. On the afternoon of the fourth, as we were walking beside the park-palings in the memorable field, each furnished with a book, (for I always took care to provide myself with something to be doing when she did not require me to talk), she suddenly interrupted my studies by exclaiming,

“Oh! Miss Grey, do be so kind as to go and see Mark Wood, and take his wife half a crown from me—I should have given or sent it a week ago, but quite forgot. There!” said she, throwing me her purse, and speaking very fast—“Never mind getting it out now, but take the purse and give them what you like—I would go with you, but I want to finish this volume. I’ll come and meet you when I’ve done it. Be quick will you—and—Oh wait; Hadn’t you better read to him a bit? Run to the house and get some sort of a good book—Anything will do.”

I did as I was desired; but, suspecting something from her hurried manner and the suddenness of the request, I just glanced back before I quitted the field, and there was Mr. Hatfield about to enter at the gate below. By sending me to the house for a book, she had just prevented my meeting him on the road.

“Never mind!” thought I, “there’ll be no great harm done. Poor Mark will be glad of the half-crown, and perhaps of the good book too; and if the rector does steal Miss Rosalie’s heart, it will only humble her pride a little; and if they do get married at last, it will only save her from a worse fate; and she will be quite a good enough partner for him, and he for her.”

Mark Wood was the consumptive labourer whom I mentioned before. He was now rapidly wearing away. Miss Murray, by her liberality, obtained literally the blessing of him that was ready to perish;
^bs
for though the half-crown could be of very little service to him, he was glad of it for the sake of his wife and children, so soon to be widowed and fatherless.

After I had sat a few minutes, and read a little for the comfort and edification of himself and his afflicted wife, I left them; but I had not proceeded fifty yards before I encountered Mr. Weston apparently on his way to the same abode.

He greeted me in his usual quiet, unaffected way, stopped to inquire about the condition of the sick man and his family, and with a sort of unconscious, brotherly disregard to ceremony, took from my hand the book out of which I had been reading, turned over the pages, made a few brief, but very sensible remarks, and restored it; then, told me about some poor sufferer he had just been visiting, talked a little about Nancy Brown, made a few observations upon my little rough friend the terrier, that was frisking at his feet, and finally upon the beauty of the weather, and departed.

I have omitted to give a detail of his words from a notion that they would not interest the reader as they did me, and not because I have forgotten them. No; I remember them well; for I thought them over and over again in the course of that day and many succeeding ones, I know not how often, and recalled every intonation of his deep, clear voice, every flash of his quick, brown eye, and every gleam of his pleasant, but too transient smile. Such a confession will look very absurd I fear—but no matter—I have written it; and they that read it will not know the writer.

While I was walking along, happy within, and pleased with all around, Miss Murray came hastening to meet me; her buoyant step, flushed cheek, and radiant smiles shewing that she, too, was happy, in her own way. Running up to me, she put her arm in mine, and without waiting to recover breath, began—

“Now Miss Grey, think yourself highly honoured, for I’m come to tell you my news before I’ve breathed a word of to it any one else.”

“Well, what is it?”

“Oh,
such
news! In the first place, you must know that Mr. Hatfield came upon me just after you were gone. I was in
such
a way for fear papa or mamma should see him!—but you know I couldn’t call you back again; and so I—Oh dear! I can’t tell you all about it now, for there’s Matilda, I see, in the park, and I must go and open my budget
^bt
to her. But however, Hatfield was most uncommonly audacious, unspeakably complimentary,and unprecedentedly tender—tried to be so at least—he didn’t succeed very well in
that,
because it’s not his vein. I’ll tell you all he said another time.”

“But what did
you
say—I’m more interested in that?”

“I’ll tell you that, too, at some future period. I happened to be in a very good humour just then; but, though I was complaisant and gracious enough, I took care not to compromise myself in any possible way. But, however, the conceited wretch chose to interpret my amiability of temper his own way, and at length presumed upon my indulgence so far, that—what do you think?—he actually—made me an offer!”

“And you—”

“I proudly drew myself up, and with the greatest coolness expressed my astonishment at such an occurrence, and hoped he had seen nothing in my conduct to justify his expectations. You should have
seen
how his countenance fell! He went perfectly white in the face. I assured him that I esteemed him and all that, but could not possibly accede to his proposals; and if I did, papa and mamma could never be brought to give their consent.”

“ ‘But if they could,’ said he, ‘would yours be wanting?’

“ ‘Certainly Mr. Hatfield,’ I replied with a cool decision which quelled all hope at once. Oh, if you had seen how dreadfully mortified he was—how crushed to the earth by his disappointment! really, I almost pitied him myself!

“One more desperate attempt, however, he made. After a silence of considerable duration, during which he struggled to be calm, and I to be grave—for I felt a strong propensity to laugh—which would have ruined all—he said, with the ghost of a smile;

“ ‘But tell me plainly, Miss Murray; if I had the wealth of Sir Hugh Meltham, or the prospects of his eldest son, would you still refuse me? answer me truly, upon your honour.’

“‘Certainly,’ said I. ‘That would make no difference whatever.’

“It was a great lie, but he looked so confident in his own attractions still, that I determined not to leave him one stone upon another. He looked me full in the face; but I kept my countenance so well that he could not imagine I was saying anything more than the actual truth.

“‘Then it’s all over, I suppose,’ he said, looking as if he could have died on the spot with vexation and the intensity of his despair. But he was angry as well as disappointed. There was he, suffering so unspeakably, and there was I, the pitiless cause of it all, so utterly impenetrable to all the artillery of his looks and words, so calmly cold and proud, he could not but feel some resentment; and with singular bitterness he began,

“ ‘I certainly did not expect this, Miss Murray. I might say something about your past conduct, and the hopes you have led me to foster; but I forbear, on condition—’

“ ‘No conditions, Mr. Hatfield!’ said I, now truly indignant at his insolence.

“‘Then let me beg it as a favour,’ he replied, lowering his voice at once, and taking an humbler tone; ‘let me entreat that you will not mention this affair to any one whatever. If you will keep silence about it, there need be no unpleasantness on either side—nothing, I mean, beyond what is quite unavoidable, for my own feelings, I will endeavour to keep to myself, if I cannot annihilate; I will try to forgive, if I cannot forget the cause of my sufferings. I will not suppose, Miss Murray, that you know how deeply you have injured me. I would not have you aware of it; but if, in addition to the injury you have already done me—pardon me; but whether innocently or not, you
have
done it—and if you add to it by giving publicity to this unfortunate affair, or naming it
at all,
you will find that I too can speak; and though you scorned my love, you will hardly scorn my—’

“He stopped, but he bit his bloodless lip and looked so terribly fierce that I was quite frightened. However, my pride upheld me still, and I answered disdainfully,