“ ‘I do not know what motive you suppose I could have for naming it to any one, Mr. Hatfield; but if I were disposed to do so, you would not deter me by threats; and it is scarcely the part of a gentleman to attempt it.’
“ ‘Pardon me, Miss Murray,’ said he, ‘I have loved you so intensely—I do still adore you so deeply that I would not willingly offend you; but though I never have loved, and never
can
love any woman as I have loved you, it is equally certain that I never was so ill-treated by any. On the contrary, I have always found your sex the kindest, and most tender and obliging of God’s creation, till now.’ (Think of the conceited fellow saying that!) ‘And the novelty and harshness of the lesson you have taught me to-day, and the bitterness of being disappointed in the only quarter on which the happiness of my life depended, must excuse any appearance of asperity. If my presence is disagreeable to you, Miss Murray,’ he said, (for I was looking about me to show how little I cared for him, so he thought I was tired of him, I suppose,) ‘if my presence is disagreeable to you, Miss Murray, you have only to promise me the favour I named, and I will relieve you at once. There are many ladies—some even in this parish—that would be delighted to accept what you have so scornfully trampled under your feet. They would be naturally inclined to hate one whose surpassing loveliness has so completely estranged my heart from them and blinded me to their attractions; and a single hint of the truth, from me to one of these, would be sufficient to raise such a talk against you as would seriously injure your prospects, and diminish your chance of success with any other gentleman you, or your mamma might design to entangle.’
“‘What do you mean, sir?’ said I, ready to stamp with passion.
“ ‘I mean that this affair from beginning to end appears to me like a case of arrant—flirtation, to say the least of it—such a case as you would find it rather inconvenient to have blazoned through the world—especially, with the additions and exaggerations of your female rivals, who would be too glad to publish the matter, if I only gave them a handle to it. But I promise you, on the faith of a gentleman, that no word or syllable that could tend to your prejudice shall ever escape my lips, provided you will—’
“ ‘Well, well, I won’t mention it,’ said I. ‘You may rely upon my silence, if that can afford you any consolation.’
“ ‘You promise it?’
“ ‘Yes,’ I answered, for I wanted to get rid of him now.
“‘Farewell, then!’ said he, in a most doleful heart-sick tone; and with a look where pride vainly struggled against despair, he turned and went away, longing, no doubt, to get home, that he might shut himself up in his study and cry—if he doesn’t burst into tears before he gets there.”
“But you have broken your promise already!” said I, truly horrified at her perfidy.
“Oh! it’s only to you—I know you won’t repeat it.”
“Certainly I shall not; but you say you are going to tell your sister; and she will tell your brothers when they come home, and Brown immediately, if you do not tell her yourself, and Brown will blazon it, or be the means of blazoning it throughout the country.”
“No, indeed she won’t—We shall not tell her at all, unless it be under promise of the strictest secrecy.”
“But how can you expect her to keep her promises better than her more enlightened mistress?”
“Well, well, she shan’t hear it then,” said Miss Murray, somewhat snappishly.
“But you will tell your mamma, of course,” pursued I; “and she will tell your papa.”
“Of course I shall tell mamma: that is the very thing that pleases me so much. I shall now be able to convince her how mistaken she was in her fears about me.”
“Oh,
that’s
it, is it? I was wondering what it was that delighted you so much.”
“Yes; and another thing is, that I’ve humbled Mr. Hatfield so charmingly; and another—why, you must allow me some share of female vanity; I don’t pretend to be without that most essential attribute of our sex—and if you had seen poor Hatfield’s intense eagerness in making his ardent declaration and his flattering proposal, and his agony of mind, that no effort of pride could conceal, on being refused, you would have allowed I had some cause to be gratified.”
“The greater his agony, I should think, the less your cause for gratification.”
“Oh, nonsense!” cried the young lady, shaking herself with vexation. “You either can’t understand me, or you won’t. If I had not confidence in your magnanimity, I should think you envied me. But you will perhaps comprehend this cause of pleasure—which is as great as any—namely, that I am delighted with myself for my prudence, my self-command, my heartlessness, if you please; I was not a bit taken by surprise, not a bit confused, or awkward, or foolish; I just acted and spoke as I ought to have done, and was completely my own mistress throughout. And here was a man, decidedly good-looking—Jane and Susan Green call him bewitchingly handsome—I suppose they’re two of the ladies he pretends would be so glad to have him—but, however, he was certainly a very clever, witty, agreeable companion—not what
you
call clever, but just enough to make him entertaining; and a man one needn’t be ashamed of anywhere, and would not soon grow tired of; and—, to confess the truth, I rather liked him—better even, of late, than Harry Meltham—and he evidently idolized me; and yet, though he came upon me all alone and unprepared, I had the wisdom, and the pride, and the strength to refuse him—and so scornfully and coolly as I did: I have good reason to be proud of that!”
“And are you equally proud of having told him that his having the wealth of Sir Hugh Meltham would make no difference to you when that was not the case; and of having promised to tell no one of his misadventure, apparently without the slightest intention of keeping your promise?”
“Of course! what else could I do? You would not have had me—but I see, Miss Grey, you’re not in a good temper—Here’s Matilda; I’ll see what she and mamma have to say about it.”
She left me, offended at my want of sympathy, and thinking, no doubt, that I envied her. I did not—at least, I firmly believe I did not. I was sorry for her; I was amazed, disgusted at her heartless vanity; I wondered why so much beauty should be given to those who made so bad a use of it, and denied to some who would make it a benefit to both themselves and others.
But, God knows best, I concluded. There are, I suppose, some men as vain, as selfish, and as heartless as she is, and perhaps such women may be useful to punish them.
CHAPTER XV
The Walk
O
dear! I wish Hatfield had not been so precipitate!” said Rosalie next day at four P.M., as, with a portentous yawn, she laid down her worsted-work and looked listlessly towards the window.
“There’s no inducement to go out now; and nothing to look forward to. The days will be so long and dull when there are no parties to enliven them; and there are none this week, or next either, that I know of.”
“Pity you were so cross to him,” observed Matilda, to whom this lamentation was addressed. “He’ll never come again; and I suspect you liked him after all. I hoped you would have taken him for your beau, and left dear Harry to me.”
“Humph! my beau must be an Adonis indeed, Matilda, the admired of all beholders, if I am to be contented with him alone. I’m sorry to lose Hatfield, I confess; but the first decent man, or number of men that come to supply his place will be more than welcome. It’s Sunday to-morrow—I do wonder how he’ll look, and whether he’ll be able to go through the service. Most likely he’ll pretend he’s got a cold and make Mr. Weston do it all.”
“Not he!” exclaimed Matilda, somewhat contemptuously. “Fool as he is, he’s not so soft as that comes to.”
Her sister was slightly offended; but the event proved Matilda was right. The disappointed lover performed his pastoral duties as usual. Rosalie, indeed, affirmed he looked very pale and dejected: he might be a little paler, but the difference, if any, was scarcely perceptible. As for his dejection, I certainly did not hear his laugh ringing from the vestry as usual, nor his voice loud in hilarious discourse, though I did hear it uplifted in rating
bu
the sexton in a manner that made the congregationstare; and, in his transits to and from the pulpit and the communion-table, there was more of solemn pomp, and less of that irreverent, self-confident, or rather self-delighted imperiousness with which he usually swept along—that air that seemed to say, “You all reverence and adore me I know; but if any one does not, I defy him to the teeth!”
But the most remarkable change was that he never once suffered his eyes to wander in the direction of Mr. Murray’s pew, and did not leave the church till we were gone.
Mr. Hatfield had doubtless received a very severe blow; but his pride impelled him to use every effort to conceal the effects of it. He had been disappointed in his certain hope of obtaining not only a beautiful and, to him, highly attractive wife, but one whose rank and fortune might give brilliance to far inferior charms: he was likewise, no doubt, intensely mortified by his repulse, and deeply offended at the conduct of Miss Murray throughout.
It would have given him no little consolation to have known how disappointed she was to find him apparently so little moved, and to see that he was able to refrain from casting a single glance at her throughout both the services, though, she declared, it showed he was thinking of her all the time, or his eyes would have fallen upon her, if it were only by chance; but if they had so chanced to fall, she would have affirmed it was because they could not resist the attraction. It might have pleased him too, in some degree, to have seen how dull and dissatisfied she was throughout that week, (the greater part of it, at least,) for lack of her usual source of excitement; and how often she regretted having “used him up so soon,” like a child that, having devoured its plum-cake too hastily, sits sucking its fingers, and vainly lamenting its greediness.
At length, I was called upon, one fine morning, to accompany her in a walk to the village. Ostensibly she went to get some shades of Berlin wool
1
at a tolerably respectable shop that was chiefly supported by the ladies of the vicinity: really—I trust there is no breach of charity in supposing, that she went with the idea of meeting either with the rector himself, or some other admirer by the way; for as we went along, she kept wondering, “what Hatfield would do or say if we met him,” &c., &c., as we passed Mr. Green’s park-gates, she “wondered whether he was at home—great stupid blockhead;” as Lady Meltham’s carriage passed us she “wondered what Mr. Harry was doing this fine day;” and then began to abuse his elder brother for being “such a fool as to get married and go and live in London.”
“Why,” said I, “I thought you wanted to live in London yourself.”
“Yes, because it’s so dull here; but then he makes it still duller by taking himself off; and if he were not married I might have him instead of that odious Sir Thomas.”
Then, observing the prints of a horse’s feet on the somewhat miry road, she “wondered whether it was a gentleman’s horse,” and finally concluded it was, for the impressions were too small to have been made by a “great, clumsy cart horse;” and then she “wondered who the rider could be,” and whether we should meet him coming back, for she was sure he had only passed that morning; and lastly, when we entered the village and saw only a few of its humble inhabitants moving about, she “wondered why the stupid people couldn’t keep in their houses; she was sure she didn’t want to see their ugly faces, and dirty, vulgar clothes—it wasn’t for that she came to Horton!”
Amid all this, I confess, I wondered too, in secret, whether we should meet, or catch a glimpse of somebody else; and as we passed his lodgings, I even went so far as to wonder whether he was at the window.
On entering the shop, Miss Murray desired me to stand in the doorway while she transacted her business, and tell her if any one passed. But alas! there was no one visible besides the villagers, except Jane and Susan Green coming down the single street, apparently returning from a walk.
“Stupid things!” muttered she, as she came out after having concluded her bargain. “Why couldn’t they have their dolt of a brother with them? even
he
would be better than nothing!”
She greeted them, however, with a cheerful smile, and protestations of pleasure at the happy meeting equal to their own. They placed themselves one on each side of her; and all three walked away chatting and laughing as young ladies do when they get together, if they be but on tolerably intimate terms. But I, feeling myself to be one too many, left them to their merriment and lagged behind, as usual on such occasions: I had no relish for walking beside Miss Green or Miss Susan like one deaf and dumb, who could neither speak nor be spoken to.
But this time, I was not long alone. It struck me, at first, as very odd, that just as I was thinking about Mr. Weston he should come up and accost me; but afterwards, on due reflection, I thought there was nothing odd about it, unless it were the fact of his speaking to me, for, on such a morning, and so near his own abode, it was natural enough that he should be about; and as for my thinking of him, I had been doing that, with little intermission, ever since we set out on our journey; so there was nothing remarkable in that.
“You are alone again, Miss Grey,” said he.
“Yes.”
“What kind of people are those ladies—the Misses Green?”
“I really don’t know.”
“That’s strange—when you live so near and see them so often!”
“Well, I suppose they are lively, good-tempered girls; but I imagine you must know them better than I do, yourself, for I never exchanged a word with either of them.”
“Indeed! They don’t strike me as being particularly reerved.”
“Very likely they are not so to people of their own class; but they consider themselves as moving in quite a different sphere from me!”