Agnes Grey

by Anne Brontë

  Their hours of study were managed in much the same way; my judgement or convenience was never once consulted. Sometimes Matilda and John would determine ‘to get all the plaguey business over before breakfast,’ and send the maid to call me up at half-past five, without any scruple or apology; sometimes, I was told to be ready precisely at six, and, having dressed in a hurry, came down to an empty room, and after waiting a long time in suspense, discovered that they had changed their minds, and were still in bed; or, perhaps, if it were a fine summer morning, Brown would come to tell me that the young ladies and gentlemen had taken a holiday, and were gone out; and then, I was kept waiting for breakfast till I was almost ready to faint: they having fortified themselves with something before they went.

  Often they would do their lessons in the open air; which I had nothing to say against: except that I frequently caught cold by sitting on the damp grass, or from exposure to the evening dew, or some insidious draught, which seemed to have no injurious effect on them. It was quite right that they should be hardy; yet, surely, they might have been taught some consideration for others who were less so. But I must not blame them for what was, perhaps, my own fault; for I never made any particular objections to sitting where they pleased; foolishly choosing to risk the consequences rather than trouble them for my convenience. Their indecorous manner of doing their lessons was quite as remarkable as the caprice displayed in their choice of time and place. While receiving my instructions, or repeating what they had learned, they would lounge upon the sofa, lie on the rug, stretch, yawn, talk to each other, or look out of the window; whereas, I could not so much as stir the fire, or pick up the handkerchief I had dropped, without being rebuked for inattention by one of my pupils, or told that ‘mamma would not like me to be so careless.’

  The servants, seeing in what little estimation the governess was held by both parents and children, regulated their behaviour by the same standard. I have frequently stood up for them, at the risk of some injury to myself, against the tyranny and injustice of their young masters and mistresses; and I always endeavoured to give them as little trouble as possible: but they entirely neglected my comfort, despised my requests, and slighted my directions. All servants, I am convinced, would not have done so; but domestics in general, being ignorant and little accustomed to reason and reflection, are too easily corrupted by the carelessness and bad example of those above them; and these, I think, were not of the best order to begin with.

  I sometimes felt myself degraded by the life I led and ashamed of submitting to so many indignities, and sometimes I thought myself a fool for caring so much about them, and feared I must be sadly wanting in Christian humility, or that charity which ‘suffereth long and is kind, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked beareth all things, endureth all things.’ But, with time and patience, matters began to be slightly ameliorated: slowly, it is true, and almost imperceptibly; but I got rid of my male pupils (that was no trifling advantage), and the girls, as I intimated before concerning one of them, became a little less insolent, and began to show some symptoms of esteem. ‘Miss Grey was a queer creature: she never flattered, and did not praise them half enough; but whenever she did speak favourably of them, or anything belonging to them, they could be quite sure her approbation was sincere. She was very obliging, quiet, and peaceable in the main, but there were some things that put her out of temper: they did not much care for that, to be sure, but still it was better to keep her in tune; as when she was in a good humour she would talk to them, and be very agreeable and amusing sometimes, in her way; which was quite different to mamma’s, but still very well for a change. She had her own opinions on every subject, and kept steadily to them – very tiresome opinions they often were; as she was always thinking of what was right and what was wrong, and had a strange reverence for matters connected with religion, and an unaccountable liking to good people.’

  CHAPTER 8

  The ‘Coming Out’

  At eighteen, Miss Murray was to emerge from the quiet obscurity of the schoolroom into the full blaze of the fashionable world – as much of it, at least, as could be had out of London; for her papa could not be persuaded to leave his rural pleasures and pursuits, even for a few weeks’ residence in town. She was to make her debut on the third of January, at a magnificent ball, which her mamma proposed to give to all nobility and choice gentry of O— and its neighbourhood for twenty miles round. Of course, she looked forward to it with the wildest impatience, and the most extravagant anticipations of delight.

  ‘Miss Grey,’ said she, one evening, a month before the all-important day, as I was perusing a long and extremely interesting letter of my sister’s – which I had just glanced at in the morning to see that it contained no very bad news, and kept till now, unable before to find a quiet moment for reading it, – ‘Miss Grey, do put away that dull, stupid letter, and listen to me! I’m sure my talk must be far more amusing than that.’

  She seated herself on the low stool at my feet; and I, suppressing a sigh of vexation, began to fold up the epistle.

  ‘You should tell the good people at home not to bore you with such long letters,’ said she; ‘and above all, do bid them write on proper note-paper, and not on those great vulgar sheets. You should see the charming little lady-like notes mamma writes to her friends.’

  ‘The good people at home,’ replied I, ‘know very well that the longer their letters are, the better I like them. I should be very sorry to receive a charming little lady-like note from any of them; and I thought you were too much of a lady yourself, Miss Murray, to talk about the “vulgarity” of writing on a large sheet of paper.’

  ‘Well, I only said it to tease you. But now I want to talk about the ball; and to tell you that you positively must put off your holidays till it is over.’

  ‘Why so? – I shall not be present at the ball.’

  ‘No, but you will see the rooms decked out before it begins, and hear the music, and, above all, see me in my splendid new dress. I shall be so charming, you’ll be ready to worship me – you really must stay.’

  ‘I should like to see you very much; but I shall have many opportunities of seeing you equally charming, on the occasion of some of the numberless balls and parties that are to be and I cannot disappoint my friends by postponing my return so long.’

  ‘Oh, never mind your friends! Tell them we won’t let you go.’

  ‘But, to say the truth, it would be a disappointment to myself: I long to see them as much as they to see me – perhaps more.’

  ‘Well, but it is such a short time.’

  ‘Nearly a fortnight by my computation; and, besides, I cannot bear the thoughts of a Christmas spent from home: and, moreover, my sister is going to be married.’

  ‘Is she – when?’

  ‘Not till next month; but I want to be there to assist her in making preparations, and to make the best of her company while we have her.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’

  ‘I’ve only got the news in this letter, which you stigmatise as dull and stupid, and won’t let me read.’

  ‘To whom is she to be married?’

  ‘To Mr Richardson, the vicar of a neighbouring parish.’

  ‘Is he rich?’

  ‘No; only comfortable.’

  ‘Is he handsome?’

  ‘No; only decent.’

  ‘Young?’

  ‘No. Only middling.’

  ‘O mercy! what a wretch! What sort of a house is it?’

  ‘A quiet little vicarage, with an ivy-clad porch, an old-fashioned garden, and –’

  ‘Oh, stop! – you’ll make me sick. How can she bear it?’

  ‘I expect she’ll not only be able to bear it, but to be very happy. You did not ask me if Mr Richardson were a good, wise, or amiable man. I could have answered Yes, to all these questions – at least so Mary thinks, and I hope she will not find herself mistaken.’

  ‘But – miserable creature! how can she think of spending her
life there, cooped up with that nasty old man; and no hope of change?’

  ‘He is not old: he’s only six or seven and thirty; and she herself is twenty-eight, and as sober as if she were fifty.’

  ‘Oh! that’s better then – they’re well matched: but do they call him the “worthy vicar”?’

  ‘I don’t know; but if they do, I believe he merits the epithet.’

  ‘Mercy, how shocking! and will she wear a white apron, and make pies and puddings?’

  ‘I don’t know about the white apron, but I dare say she will make pies and puddings now and then; but that will be no great hardship, as she has done it before.’

  ‘And will she go about in a plain shawl, and a large straw bonnet, carrying tracts and bone soup to her husband’s poor parishioners?’

  ‘I’m not clear about that; but I dare say she will do her best to make them comfortable in body and mind, in accordance with our mother’s example.’

  CHAPTER 9

  The Ball

  ‘Now, Miss Grey,’ exclaimed Miss Murray, immediately I entered the schoolroom, after having taken off my out-door garments, upon returning from my four weeks’ recreation, ‘Now – shut the door, and sit down, and I’ll tell you all about the ball.’

  ‘No, – damn it, no!’ shouted Miss Matilda. ‘Hold your tongue, can’t ye? and let me tell her about my new mare – such a splendour, Miss Grey! a fine blood mare –’

  ‘Do be quiet, Matilda; and let me tell my news first.’

  ‘No, no, Rosalie; you’ll be such a damned long time over it – she shall hear me first – I’ll be hanged if she doesn’t!’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear, Miss Matilda, that you’ve not got rid of that shocking habit yet.’

  ‘Well, I can’t help it: but I’ll never say a wicked word again, if you’ll only listen to me, and tell Rosalie to hold her confounded tongue.’

  Rosalie remonstrated, and I thought I should have been torn in pieces between them; but Miss Matilda having the loudest voice, her sister at length gave in, and suffered her to tell her story first: so I was doomed to hear a long account of her splendid mare, its breeding and pedigree, its paces, its action, its spirit, etc., and of her own amazing skill and courage in riding it; concluding with an assertion that she could clear a five-barred gate ‘like winking,’ that papa said she might hunt the next time the hounds met, and mamma had ordered a bright scarlet hunting-habit for her.

  ‘Oh, Matilda! what stories you are telling!’ exclaimed her sister.

  ‘Well,’ answered she, no whit abashed, ‘I know I could clear a five-barred gate, if I tried, and papa will say I may hunt, and mamma will order the habit when I ask it.’

  ‘Well, now get along,’ replied Miss Murray; ‘and do, dear Matilda, try to be a little more lady-like. Miss Grey, I wish you would tell her not to use such shocking words; she will call her horse a mare: it is so inconceivably shocking! and then she uses such dreadful expressions in describing it: she must have learned it from the grooms. It nearly puts me into fits when she begins.’

  ‘I learned it from papa, you ass! and his jolly friends,’ said the young lady, vigorously cracking a hunting-whip, which she habitually carried in her hand. ‘I’m as good a judge of horseflesh as the best of ’m.’

  ‘Well, now get along, you shocking girl! I really shall take a fit if you go on in such a way. And now, Miss Grey, attend to me; I’m going to tell you about the ball. You must be dying to hear about it, I know. Oh, such a ball! You never saw or heard, or read, or dreamt of anything like it in all your life! The decorations, the entertainment, the supper, the music were indescribable! and then the guests! There were two noblemen, three baronets, and five titled ladies, and other ladies and gentlemen innumerable. The ladies, of course, were of no consequence to me, except to put me in a good humour with myself, by showing how ugly and awkward most of them were; and the best, mamma told me, – the most transcendent beauties among them, were nothing to me. As for me, Miss Grey – I’m so sorry you didn’t see me! I was charming – wasn’t I, Matilda?’

  ‘Middling.’

  ‘No, but I really was – at least so mamma said – and Brown and Williamson. Brown said she was sure no gentleman could set eyes on me without falling in love that minute; and so I may be allowed to be a little vain. I know you think me a shocking, conceited, frivolous girl; but, then, you know, I don’t attribute it all to my personal attractions: I give some praise to the hairdresser, and some to my exquisitely lovely dress – you must see it tomorrow – white gauze over pink satin – and so sweetly made! and a necklace and bracelet of beautiful large pearls!’

  ‘I have no doubt you looked very charming: but should that delight you so very much?’

  ‘Oh, no! – not that alone: but, then, I was so much admired; and I made so many conquests in that one night – you’d be astonished to hear –’

  ‘But what good will they do you?’

  ‘What good! Think of any woman asking that!’

  ‘Well, I should think one conquest would be enough; and too much, unless the subjugation were mutual.’

  ‘Oh, but you know I never agree with you on those points. Now, wait a bit, and I’ll tell you my principal admirers – those who made themselves very conspicuous that night and after: for I’ve been to two parties since. Unfortunately the two noblemen Lord G— and Lord F—, were married, or I might have condescended to be particularly gracious to them; as it was, I did not: though Lord F—, who hates his wife, was evidently much struck with me. He asked me to dance with him twice – he is a charming dancer, by the by, and so am I: you can’t think how well I did – I was astonished at myself. My lord was very complimentary too – rather too much so, in fact – and I thought proper to be a little haughty and repellent; but I had the pleasure of seeing his nasty, cross wife ready to perish with spite and vexation –’

  ‘Oh, Miss Murray! you don’t mean to say that such a thing could really give you pleasure! However cross or –’

  ‘Well, I know it’s very wrong; – but never mind! I mean to be good sometime – only don’t preach now, there’s a good creature. I haven’t told you half yet. Let me see. Oh! I was going to tell you how many unmistakable admirers I had: – Sir Thomas Ashby was one, – Sir Hugh Meltham and Sir Broadley Wilson are old codgers, only fit companions for papa and mamma. Sir Thomas is young, rich and gay; but an ugly beast, nevertheless: however, mamma says I should not mind that after a few months’ acquaintance. Then, there was Henry Meltham, Sir Hugh’s younger son; rather good-looking, and a pleasant fellow to flirt with: but being a younger son, that is all he is good for; then there was young Mr Green, rich enough, but of no family, and a great stupid fellow, a mere country booby; and then, our good rector, Mr Hatfield: an humble admirer he ought to consider himself, but I fear he has forgotten to number humility among his stock of Christian virtues.’

  ‘Was Mr Hatfield at the ball?’

  ‘Yes, to be sure. Did you think he was too good to go?’

  ‘I thought he might consider it unclerical.’

  ‘By no means. He did not profane his cloth by dancing: but it was with difficulty he could refrain, poor man; he looked as if he were dying to ask my hand just for one set; and – oh! by the by – he’s got a new curate: that seedy old fellow Mr Bligh has got his long-wished-for living at last, and is gone.’

  ‘And what is the new one like?’

  ‘Oh, such a beast! Weston his name is. I can give you his description in three words – an insensate, ugly, stupid blockhead. That’s four, but no matter – enough of him now.’

  Then she returned to the ball, and gave me a further account of her deportment there, and at the several parties she had since attended; and further particulars respecting Sir Thomas Ashby and Messrs Meltham, Green, and Hatfield, and the ineffaceable impression she had wrought upon each of them.

  ‘Well, which of the four do you like best?’ said I, suppressing my third or fourth yawn.

  ‘I detest them all!’ replied she, s
haking her bright ringlets in vivacious scorn.

  ‘That means, I suppose, I like them all – but which most?’

  ‘No, I really detest them all; but Harry Meltham is the handsomest and most amusing and Mr Hatfield the cleverest, Sir Thomas the wickedest, and Mr Green the most stupid. But the one I’m to have, I suppose, if I’m doomed to have any of them, is Sir Thomas Ashby.’

  ‘Surely not, if he’s so wicked, and if you dislike him?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mind his being wicked: he’s all the better for that; and as for disliking him – I shouldn’t greatly object to being Lady Ashby of Ashby Park if I must marry. But if I could be always young, I would be always single. I should like to enjoy myself thoroughly, and coquet with all the world, till I am on the verge of being called an old maid; and then, to escape the infamy of that, after having made ten thousand conquests, to break all their hearts save one, by marrying some high-born, rich, indulgent husband, whom, on the other hand, fifty ladies were dying to have.’

  ‘Well, as long as you entertain these views, keep single by all means, and never marry at all: not even to escape the infamy of old-maidenhood.’

  CHAPTER 10

  The Church

  ‘Well, Miss Grey, what do you think of the new curate?’ asked Miss Murray, on our return from church the Sunday after the recommencement of our duties.

  ‘I can scarcely tell,’ was my reply: ‘I have not even heard him preach.’

  ‘Well, but you saw him, didn’t you?’

  ‘Well, but I cannot pretend to judge of a man’s character by a single, cursory glance at his face.’

  ‘But isn’t he ugly?’

  ‘He did not strike me as being particularly so; I don’t dislike that cast of countenance: but the only thing I particularly noticed about him was his style of reading; which appeared to me good – infinitely better, at least, than Mr Hatfield’s. He read the Lessons as if he were bent on giving full effect to every passage: it seemed as if the most careless person could not have helped attending, nor the most ignorant have failed to understand; and the prayers he read as if he were not reading at all, but praying earnestly and sincerely from his own heart.’