CHAPTER II.

FIRST LESSONS IN THE ART OF INSTRUCTION

As we drove along, my spirits revived again, and I turned, with

pleasure, to the contemplation of the new life upon which I was

entering. But though it was not far past the middle of September, the

heavy clouds and strong north-easterly wind combined to render the day

extremely cold and dreary; and the journey seemed a very long one, for,

as Smith observed, the roads were “very heavy”; and certainly, his

horse was very heavy too: it crawled up the hills, and crept down them,

and only condescended to shake its sides in a trot where the road was

at a dead level or a very gentle slope, which was rarely the case in

those rugged regions; so that it was nearly one o’clock before we

reached the place of our destination. Yet, after all, when we entered

the lofty iron gateway, when we drove softly up the smooth, well-rolled

carriage-road, with the green lawn on each side, studded with young

trees, and approached the new but stately mansion of Wellwood, rising

above its mushroom poplar-groves, my heart failed me, and I wished it

were a mile or two farther off. For the first time in my life I must

stand alone: there was no retreating now. I must enter that house, and

introduce myself among its strange inhabitants. But how was it to be

done? True, I was near nineteen; but, thanks to my retired life and the

protecting care of my mother and sister, I well knew that many a girl

of fifteen, or under, was gifted with a more womanly address, and

greater ease and self-possession, than I was. Yet, if Mrs. Bloomfield

were a kind, motherly woman, I might do very well, after all; and the

children, of course, I should soon be at ease with them—and Mr.

Bloomfield, I hoped, I should have but little to do with.

“Be calm, be calm, whatever happens,” I said within myself; and truly I

kept this resolution so well, and was so fully occupied in steadying my

nerves and stifling the rebellious flutter of my heart, that when I was

admitted into the hall and ushered into the presence of Mrs.

Bloomfield, I almost forgot to answer her polite salutation; and it

afterwards struck me, that the little I did say was spoken in the tone

of one half-dead or half-asleep. The lady, too, was somewhat chilly in

her manner, as I discovered when I had time to reflect. She was a tall,

spare, stately woman, with thick black hair, cold grey eyes, and

extremely sallow complexion.

With due politeness, however, she showed me my bedroom, and left me

there to take a little refreshment. I was somewhat dismayed at my

appearance on looking in the glass: the cold wind had swelled and

reddened my hands, uncurled and entangled my hair, and dyed my face of

a pale purple; add to this my collar was horridly crumpled, my frock

splashed with mud, my feet clad in stout new boots, and as the trunks

were not brought up, there was no remedy; so having smoothed my hair as

well as I could, and repeatedly twitched my obdurate collar, I

proceeded to clomp down the two flights of stairs, philosophizing as I

went; and with some difficulty found my way into the room where Mrs.

Bloomfield awaited me.

She led me into the dining-room, where the family luncheon had been

laid out. Some beefsteaks and half-cold potatoes were set before me;

and while I dined upon these, she sat opposite, watching me (as I

thought) and endeavouring to sustain something like a

conversation—consisting chiefly of a succession of commonplace remarks,

expressed with frigid formality: but this might be more my fault than

hers, for I really could _not_ converse. In fact, my attention was

almost wholly absorbed in my dinner: not from ravenous appetite, but

from distress at the toughness of the beefsteaks, and the numbness of

my hands, almost palsied by their five-hours’ exposure to the bitter

wind. I would gladly have eaten the potatoes and let the meat alone,

but having got a large piece of the latter on to my plate, I could not

be so impolite as to leave it; so, after many awkward and unsuccessful

attempts to cut it with the knife, or tear it with the fork, or pull it

asunder between them, sensible that the awful lady was a spectator to

the whole transaction, I at last desperately grasped the knife and fork

in my fists, like a child of two years old, and fell to work with all

the little strength I possessed. But this needed some apology—with a

feeble attempt at a laugh, I said, “My hands are so benumbed with the

cold that I can scarcely handle my knife and fork.”

“I daresay you would find it cold,” replied she with a cool, immutable

gravity that did not serve to reassure me.

When the ceremony was concluded, she led me into the sitting-room

again, where she rang and sent for the children.

“You will find them not very far advanced in their attainments,” said

she, “for I have had so little time to attend to their education

myself, and we have thought them too young for a governess till now;

but I think they are clever children, and very apt to learn, especially

the little boy; he is, I think, the flower of the flock—a generous,

noble-spirited boy, one to be led, but not driven, and remarkable for

always speaking the truth. He seems to scorn deception” (this was good

news). “His sister Mary Ann will require watching,” continued she, “but

she is a very good girl upon the whole; though I wish her to be kept

out of the nursery as much as possible, as she is now almost six years

old, and might acquire bad habits from the nurses. I have ordered her

crib to be placed in your room, and if you will be so kind as to

overlook her washing and dressing, and take charge of her clothes, she

need have nothing further to do with the nursery maid.”

I replied I was quite willing to do so; and at that moment my young

pupils entered the apartment, with their two younger sisters. Master

Tom Bloomfield was a well-grown boy of seven, with a somewhat wiry

frame, flaxen hair, blue eyes, small turned-up nose, and fair

complexion. Mary Ann was a tall girl too, somewhat dark like her

mother, but with a round full face and a high colour in her cheeks. The

second sister was Fanny, a very pretty little girl; Mrs. Bloomfield

assured me she was a remarkably gentle child, and required

encouragement: she had not learned anything yet; but in a few days, she

would be four years old, and then she might take her first lesson in

the alphabet, and be promoted to the schoolroom. The remaining one was

Harriet, a little broad, fat, merry, playful thing of scarcely two,

that I coveted more than all the rest—but with her I had nothing to do.

I talked to my little pupils as well as I could, and tried to render

myself agreeable; but with little success I fear, for their mother’s

presence kept me under an unpleasant restraint. They, however, were

remarkably free from shyness. They seemed bold, lively children, and I

hoped I should soon be on friendly terms with them—the little boy

especially, of whom I had heard such a favourable character from his

mamma. In Mary Ann there was a certain affected simper, and a craving

for notice, that I was sorry to observe. But her brother claimed all my

attention to himself; he stood bolt upright between me and the fire,

with his hands behind his back, talking away like an orator,

occasionally interrupting his discourse with a sharp reproof to his

sisters when they made too much noise.

“Oh, Tom, what a darling you are!” exclaimed his mother. “Come and kiss

dear mamma; and then won’t you show Miss Grey your schoolroom, and your

nice new books?”

“I won’t kiss _you_, mamma; but I _will_ show Miss Grey my schoolroom,

and my new books.”

“And _my_ schoolroom, and _my_ new books, Tom,” said Mary Ann. “They’re

mine too.”

“They’re _mine_,” replied he decisively. “Come along, Miss Grey—I’ll

escort you.”

When the room and books had been shown, with some bickerings between

the brother and sister that I did my utmost to appease or mitigate,

Mary Ann brought me her doll, and began to be very loquacious on the

subject of its fine clothes, its bed, its chest of drawers, and other

appurtenances; but Tom told her to hold her clamour, that Miss Grey

might see his rocking-horse, which, with a most important bustle, he

dragged forth from its corner into the middle of the room, loudly

calling on me to attend to it. Then, ordering his sister to hold the

reins, he mounted, and made me stand for ten minutes, watching how

manfully he used his whip and spurs. Meantime, however, I admired Mary

Ann’s pretty doll, and all its possessions; and then told Master Tom he

was a capital rider, but I hoped he would not use his whip and spurs so

much when he rode a real pony.

“Oh, yes, I will!” said he, laying on with redoubled ardour. “I’ll cut

into him like smoke! Eeh! my word! but he shall sweat for it.”

This was very shocking; but I hoped in time to be able to work a

reformation.

“Now you must put on your bonnet and shawl,” said the little hero, “and

I’ll show you my garden.”

“And _mine_,” said Mary Ann.

Tom lifted his fist with a menacing gesture; she uttered a loud, shrill

scream, ran to the other side of me, and made a face at him.

“Surely, Tom, you would not strike your sister! I hope I shall _never_

see you do that.”

“You will sometimes: I’m obliged to do it now and then to keep her in

order.”

“But it is not your business to keep her in order, you know—that is

for—”

“Well, now go and put on your bonnet.”

“I don’t know—it is so very cloudy and cold, it seems likely to

rain;—and you know I have had a long drive.”

“No matter—you _must_ come; I shall allow of no excuses,” replied the

consequential little gentleman. And, as it was the first day of our

acquaintance, I thought I might as well indulge him. It was too cold

for Mary Ann to venture, so she stayed with her mamma, to the great

relief of her brother, who liked to have me all to himself.

The garden was a large one, and tastefully laid out; besides several

splendid dahlias, there were some other fine flowers still in bloom:

but my companion would not give me time to examine them: I must go with

him, across the wet grass, to a remote sequestered corner, the most

important place in the grounds, because it contained _his_ garden.

There were two round beds, stocked with a variety of plants. In one

there was a pretty little rose-tree. I paused to admire its lovely

blossoms.

“Oh, never mind that!” said he, contemptuously. “That’s only _Mary

Ann’s_ garden; look, THIS is mine.”

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.”

“But you will have to feel it some time, Tom: you have heard where

wicked people go to when they die; and if you don’t leave off torturing

innocent birds, remember, you will have to go there, and suffer just

what you have made them suffer.”

“Oh, pooh! I shan’t. Papa knows how I treat them, and he never blames

me for it: he says it is just what _he_ used to do when _he_ was a boy.

Last summer, he gave me a nest full of young sparrows, and he saw me

pulling off their legs and wings, and heads, and never said anything;

except that they were nasty things, and I must not let them soil my

trousers: and Uncle Robson was there too, and he laughed, and said I

was a fine boy.”

“But what would your mamma say?”

“Oh, she doesn’t care! she says it’s a pity to kill the pretty singing

birds, but the naughty sparrows, and mice, and rats, I may do what I

like with. So now, Miss Grey, you see it is _not_ wicked.”

“I still think it is, Tom; and perhaps your papa and mamma would think

so too, if they thought much about it. However,” I internally added,

“they may say what they please, but I am determined you shall do

nothing of the kind, as long as I have power to prevent it.”

He next took me across the lawn to see his mole-traps, and then into

the stack-yard to see his weasel-traps: one of which, to his great joy,

contained a dead weasel; and then into the stable to see, not the fine

carriage-horses, but a little rough colt, which he informed me had been

bred on purpose for him, and he was to ride it as soon as it was

properly trained. I tried to amuse the little fellow, and listened to

all his chatter as complacently as I could; for I thought if he had any

affections at all, I would endeavour to win them; and then, in time, I

might be able to show him the error of his ways: but I looked in vain

for that generous, noble spirit his mother talked of; though I could

see he was not without a certain degree of quickness and penetration,

when he chose to exert it.

When we re-entered the house it was nearly tea-time. Master Tom told me

that, as papa was from home, he and I and Mary Ann were to have tea

with mamma, for a treat; for, on such occasions, she always dined at

luncheon-time with them, instead of at six o’clock. Soon after tea,

Mary Ann went to bed, but Tom favoured us with his company and

conversation till eight. After he was gone, Mrs. Bloomfield further

enlightened me on the subject of her children’s dispositions and

acquirements, and on what they were to learn, and how they were to be

managed, and cautioned me to mention their defects to no one but

herself. My mother had warned me before to mention them as little as

possible to _her_, for people did not like to be told of their

children’s faults, and so I concluded I was to keep silence on them

altogether. About half-past nine, Mrs. Bloomfield invited me to partake

of a frugal supper of cold meat and bread. I was glad when that was

over, and she took her bedroom candlestick and retired to rest; for

though I wished to be pleased with her, her company was extremely

irksome to me; and I could not help feeling that she was cold, grave,

and forbidding—the very opposite of the kind, warm-hearted matron my

hopes had depicted her to be.