CHAPTER XII.

THE SHOWER

The next visit I paid to Nancy Brown was in the second week in March:

for, though I had many spare minutes during the day, I seldom could

look upon an hour as entirely my own; since, where everything was left

to the caprices of Miss Matilda and her sister, there could be no order

or regularity. Whatever occupation I chose, when not actually busied

about them or their concerns, I had, as it were, to keep my loins

girded, my shoes on my feet, and my staff in my hand; for not to be

immediately forthcoming when called for, was regarded as a grave and

inexcusable offence: not only by my pupils and their mother, but by the

very servant, who came in breathless haste to call me, exclaiming,

“You’re to go to the schoolroom _directly_, mum, the young ladies is

WAITING!!” Climax of horror! actually waiting for their governess!!!

But this time I was pretty sure of an hour or two to myself; for

Matilda was preparing for a long ride, and Rosalie was dressing for a

dinner-party at Lady Ashby’s: so I took the opportunity of repairing to

the widow’s cottage, where I found her in some anxiety about her cat,

which had been absent all day. I comforted her with as many anecdotes

of that animal’s roving propensities as I could recollect. “I’m feared

o’ th’ gamekeepers,” said she: “that’s all ’at I think on. If th’ young

gentlemen had been at home, I should a’ thought they’d been setting

their dogs at her, an’ worried her, poor thing, as they did _many_ a

poor thing’s cat; but I haven’t that to be feared on now.” Nancy’s eyes

were better, but still far from well: she had been trying to make a

Sunday shirt for her son, but told me she could only bear to do a

little bit at it now and then, so that it progressed but slowly, though

the poor lad wanted it sadly. So I proposed to help her a little, after

I had read to her, for I had plenty of time that evening, and need not

return till dusk. She thankfully accepted the offer. “An’ you’ll be a

bit o’ company for me too, Miss,” said she; “I like as I feel lonesome

without my cat.” But when I had finished reading, and done the half of

a seam, with Nancy’s capacious brass thimble fitted on to my finger by

means of a roll of paper, I was disturbed by the entrance of Mr.

Weston, with the identical cat in his arms. I now saw that he could

smile, and very pleasantly too.

“I’ve done you a piece of good service, Nancy,” he began: then seeing

me, he acknowledged my presence by a slight bow. I should have been

invisible to Hatfield, or any other gentleman of those parts. “I’ve

delivered your cat,” he continued, “from the hands, or rather the gun,

of Mr. Murray’s gamekeeper.”

“God bless you, sir!” cried the grateful old woman, ready to weep for

joy as she received her favourite from his arms.

“Take care of it,” said he, “and don’t let it go near the

rabbit-warren, for the gamekeeper swears he’ll shoot it if he sees it

there again: he would have done so to-day, if I had not been in time to

stop him. I believe it is raining, Miss Grey,” added he, more quietly,

observing that I had put aside my work, and was preparing to depart.

“Don’t let me disturb you—I shan’t stay two minutes.”

“You’ll _both_ stay while this shower gets owered,” said Nancy, as she

stirred the fire, and placed another chair beside it; “what! there’s

room for all.”

“I can see better here, thank you, Nancy,” replied I, taking my work to

the window, where she had the goodness to suffer me to remain

unmolested, while she got a brush to remove the cat’s hairs from Mr.

Weston’s coat, carefully wiped the rain from his hat, and gave the cat

its supper, busily talking all the time: now thanking her clerical

friend for what he had done; now wondering how the cat had found out

the warren; and now lamenting the probable consequences of such a

discovery. He listened with a quiet, good-natured smile, and at length

took a seat in compliance with her pressing invitations, but repeated

that he did not mean to stay.

“I have another place to go to,” said he, “and I see” (glancing at the

book on the table) “someone else has been reading to you.”

“Yes, sir; Miss Grey has been as kind as read me a chapter; an’ now

she’s helping me with a shirt for our Bill—but I’m feared she’ll be

cold there. Won’t you come to th’ fire, Miss?”

“No, thank you, Nancy, I’m quite warm. I must go as soon as this shower

is over.”

“Oh, Miss! You said you could stop while dusk!” cried the provoking old

woman, and Mr. Weston seized his hat.

“Nay, sir,” exclaimed she, “pray don’t go now, while it rains so fast.”

“But it strikes me I’m keeping your visitor away from the fire.”

“No, you’re not, Mr. Weston,” replied I, hoping there was no harm in a

falsehood of that description.

“No, sure!” cried Nancy. “What, there’s lots o’ room!”

“Miss Grey,” said he, half-jestingly, as if he felt it necessary to

change the present subject, whether he had anything particular to say

or not, “I wish you would make my peace with the squire, when you see

him. He was by when I rescued Nancy’s cat, and did not quite approve of

the deed. I told him I thought he might better spare all his rabbits

than she her cat, for which audacious assertion he treated me to some

rather ungentlemanly language; and I fear I retorted a trifle too

warmly.”

“Oh, lawful sir! I hope you didn’t fall out wi’ th’ maister for sake o’

my cat! he cannot bide answering again—can th’ maister.”

“Oh! it’s no matter, Nancy: I don’t care about it, really; I said

nothing _very_ uncivil; and I suppose Mr. Murray is accustomed to use

rather strong language when he’s heated.”

“Ay, sir: it’s a pity.”

“And now, I really must go. I have to visit a place a mile beyond this;

and you would not have me to return in the dark: besides, it has nearly

done raining now—so good-evening, Nancy. Good-evening, Miss Grey.”

“Good-evening, Mr. Weston; but don’t depend upon me for making your

peace with Mr. Murray, for I never see him—to speak to.”

“Don’t you; it can’t be helped then,” replied he, in dolorous

resignation: then, with a peculiar half-smile, he added, “But never

mind; I imagine the squire has more to apologise for than I;” and left

the cottage.

I went on with my sewing as long as I could see, and then bade Nancy

good-evening; checking her too lively gratitude by the undeniable

assurance that I had only done for her what she would have done for me,

if she had been in my place and I in hers. I hastened back to Horton

Lodge, where, having entered the schoolroom, I found the tea-table all

in confusion, the tray flooded with slops, and Miss Matilda in a most

ferocious humour.

“Miss Grey, whatever have you been about? I’ve had tea half an hour

ago, and had to make it myself, and drink it all alone! I wish you

would come in sooner!”

“I’ve been to see Nancy Brown. I thought you would not be back from

your ride.”

“How could I ride in the rain, I should like to know. That damned

pelting shower was vexatious enough—coming on when I was just in full

swing: and then to come and find nobody in to tea! and you know I can’t

make the tea as I like it.”

“I didn’t think of the shower,” replied I (and, indeed, the thought of

its driving her home had never entered my head).

“No, of course; you were under shelter yourself, and you never thought

of other people.”

I bore her coarse reproaches with astonishing equanimity, even with

cheerfulness; for I was sensible that I had done more good to Nancy

Brown than harm to her: and perhaps some other thoughts assisted to

keep up my spirits, and impart a relish to the cup of cold, overdrawn

tea, and a charm to the otherwise unsightly table; and—I had almost

said—to Miss Matilda’s unamiable face. But she soon betook herself to

the stables, and left me to the quiet enjoyment of my solitary meal.