Agnes Grey

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.

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.”

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 anyone 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!”

As my eyes wandered over the steep banks covered with young grass and green-leaved plants, and surmounted by budding hedges, I longed intensely for some familiar flower that might recall the woody dales or green hillsides of home: the brown moorlands, of course, were out of the question. Such a discovery would make my eyes gush out with water, no doubt; but that was one of my greatest enjoyments now. At length I descried, high up between the twisted roots of an oak, three lovely primroses, peeping so sweetly from their hiding-place that the tears already started at the sight; but they grew so high above me, that I tried in vain to gather one or two, to dream over and to carry with me: I could not reach them unless I climbed the bank, which I was deterred from doing by hearing a footstep at that moment behind me, and was, therefore, about to turn away, when I was startled by the words, “Allow me to gather them for you, Miss Grey,” spoken in the grave, low tones of a well-known voice. Immediately the flowers were gathered, and in my hand. It was Mr. Weston, of course⁠—who else would trouble himself to do so much for me?

When he was gone she began to laugh, and muttered to herself, “I thought I could do it!”

“Do what?” I asked.

“Fix that man.”

“What in the world do you mean?”

“I mean that he will go home and dream of me. I have shot him through the heart!”

“How do you know?”

“By many infallible proofs: more especially the look he gave me when he went away. It was not an impudent look⁠—I exonerate him from that⁠—it was a look of reverential, tender adoration. Ha, ha! he’s not quite such a stupid blockhead as I thought him!”

I made no answer, for my heart was in my throat, or something like it, and I could not trust myself to speak. “O God, avert it!” I cried, internally⁠—“for his sake, not for mine!”

Miss Murray made several trivial observations as we passed up the park, to which (in spite of my reluctance to let one glimpse of my feelings appear) I could only answer by monosyllables. Whether she intended to torment me, or merely to amuse herself, I could not tell⁠—and did not much care; but I thought of the poor man and his one lamb, and the rich man with his thousand flocks; and I dreaded I knew not what for Mr. Weston, independently of my own blighted hopes.