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DOC :1847 - BronteA - Agnes Grey.txt

AGNES GREY.

A NOVEL,

ACTON BELL.

VOL. III.

* * * * *

LONDON:
                     THOMAS CAUTLEY NEWBY, PUBLISHER,
                     72, MORTIMER ST., CAVENDISH SQ.

* * * * *

1847.

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 shock.

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...

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