CHAPTER V.

THE UNCLE

Besides the old lady, there was another relative of the family, whose

visits were a great annoyance to me—this was “Uncle Robson,” Mrs.

Bloomfield’s brother; a tall, self-sufficient fellow, with dark hair

and sallow complexion like his sister, a nose that seemed to disdain

the earth, and little grey eyes, frequently half-closed, with a mixture

of real stupidity and affected contempt of all surrounding objects. He

was a thick-set, strongly-built man, but he had found some means of

compressing his waist into a remarkably small compass; and that,

together with the unnatural stillness of his form, showed that the

lofty-minded, manly Mr. Robson, the scorner of the female sex, was not

above the foppery of stays. He seldom deigned to notice me; and, when

he did, it was with a certain supercilious insolence of tone and manner

that convinced me he was no gentleman: though it was intended to have a

contrary effect. But it was not for that I disliked his coming, so much

as for the harm he did the children—encouraging all their evil

propensities, and undoing in a few minutes the little good it had taken

me months of labour to achieve.

Fanny and little Harriet he seldom condescended to notice; but Mary Ann

was something of a favourite. He was continually encouraging her

tendency to affectation (which I had done my utmost to crush), talking

about her pretty face, and filling her head with all manner of

conceited notions concerning her personal appearance (which I had

instructed her to regard as dust in the balance compared with the

cultivation of her mind and manners); and I never saw a child so

susceptible of flattery as she was. Whatever was wrong, in either her

or her brother, he would encourage by laughing at, if not by actually

praising: people little know the injury they do to children by laughing

at their faults, and making a pleasant jest of what their true friends

have endeavoured to teach them to hold in grave abhorrence.

Though not a positive drunkard, Mr. Robson habitually swallowed great

quantities of wine, and took with relish an occasional glass of brandy

and water. He taught his nephew to imitate him in this to the utmost of

his ability, and to believe that the more wine and spirits he could

take, and the better he liked them, the more he manifested his bold,

and manly spirit, and rose superior to his sisters. Mr. Bloomfield had

not much to say against it, for his favourite beverage was gin and

water; of which he took a considerable portion every day, by dint of

constant sipping—and to that I chiefly attributed his dingy complexion

and waspish temper.

Mr. Robson likewise encouraged Tom’s propensity to persecute the lower

creation, both by precept and example. As he frequently came to course

or shoot over his brother-in-law’s grounds, he would bring his

favourite dogs with him; and he treated them so brutally that, poor as

I was, I would have given a sovereign any day to see one of them bite

him, provided the animal could have done it with impunity. Sometimes,

when in a very complacent mood, he would go a-birds’-nesting with the

children, a thing that irritated and annoyed me exceedingly; as, by

frequent and persevering attempts, I flattered myself I had partly

shown them the evil of this pastime, and hoped, in time, to bring them

to some general sense of justice and humanity; but ten minutes’

birds’-nesting with uncle Robson, or even a laugh from him at some

relation of their former barbarities, was sufficient at once to destroy

the effect of my whole elaborate course of reasoning and persuasion.

Happily, however, during that spring, they never, but once, got

anything but empty nests, or eggs—being too impatient to leave them

till the birds were hatched; that once, Tom, who had been with his

uncle into the neighbouring plantation, came running in high glee into

the garden, with a brood of little callow nestlings in his hands. Mary

Ann and Fanny, whom I was just bringing out, ran to admire his spoils,

and to beg each a bird for themselves. “No, not one!” cried Tom.

“They’re all mine; uncle Robson gave them to me—one, two, three, four,

five—you shan’t touch one of them! no, not one, for your lives!”

continued he, exultingly; laying the nest on the ground, and standing

over it with his legs wide apart, his hands thrust into his

breeches-pockets, his body bent forward, and his face twisted into all

manner of contortions in the ecstasy of his delight.

“But you shall see me fettle ’em off. My word, but I _will_ wallop ’em?

See if I don’t now. By gum! but there’s rare sport for me in that

nest.”

“But, Tom,” said I, “I shall not allow you to torture those birds. They

must either be killed at once or carried back to the place you took

them from, that the old birds may continue to feed them.”

“But you don’t know where that is, Madam: it’s only me and uncle Robson

that knows that.”

“But if you don’t tell me, I shall kill them myself—much as I hate it.”

“You daren’t. You daren’t touch them for your life! because you know

papa and mamma, and uncle Robson, would be angry. Ha, ha! I’ve caught

you there, Miss!”

“I shall do what I think right in a case of this sort without

consulting any one. If your papa and mamma don’t happen to approve of

it, I shall be sorry to offend them; but your uncle Robson’s opinions,

of course, are nothing to me.”

So saying—urged by a sense of duty—at the risk of both making myself

sick and incurring the wrath of my employers—I got a large flat stone,

that had been reared up for a mouse-trap by the gardener; then, having

once more vainly endeavoured to persuade the little tyrant to let the

birds be carried back, I asked what he intended to do with them. With

fiendish glee he commenced a list of torments; and while he was busied

in the relation, I dropped the stone upon his intended victims and

crushed them flat beneath it. Loud were the outcries, terrible the

execrations, consequent upon this daring outrage; uncle Robson had been

coming up the walk with his gun, and was just then pausing to kick his

dog. Tom flew towards him, vowing he would make him kick me instead of

Juno. Mr. Robson leant upon his gun, and laughed excessively at the

violence of his nephew’s passion, and the bitter maledictions and

opprobrious epithets he heaped upon me. “Well, you _are_ a good ’un!”

exclaimed he, at length, taking up his weapon and proceeding towards

the house. “Damme, but the lad has some spunk in him, too. Curse me, if

ever I saw a nobler little scoundrel than that. He’s beyond petticoat

government already: by God! he defies mother, granny, governess, and

all! Ha, ha, ha! Never mind, Tom, I’ll get you another brood

to-morrow.”

“If you do, Mr. Robson, I shall kill them too,” said I.

“Humph!” replied he, and having honoured me with a broad stare—which,

contrary to his expectations, I sustained without flinching—he turned

away with an air of supreme contempt, and stalked into the house. Tom

next went to tell his mamma. It was not her way to say much on any

subject; but, when she next saw me, her aspect and demeanour were

doubly dark and chilled. After some casual remark about the weather,

she observed—“I am sorry, Miss Grey, you should think it necessary to

interfere with Master Bloomfield’s amusements; he was very much

distressed about your destroying the birds.”

“When Master Bloomfield’s amusements consist in injuring sentient

creatures,” I answered, “I think it my duty to interfere.”

“You seemed to have forgotten,” said she, calmly, “that the creatures

were all created for our convenience.”

I thought that doctrine admitted some doubt, but merely replied—“If

they were, we have no right to torment them for our amusement.”

“I think,” said she, “a child’s amusement is scarcely to be weighed

against the welfare of a soulless brute.”

“But, for the child’s own sake, it ought not to be encouraged to have

such amusements,” answered I, as meekly as I could, to make up for such

unusual pertinacity. “‘Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain

mercy.’”

“Oh! of course; but that refers to our conduct towards each other.”

“‘The merciful man shows mercy to his beast,’” I ventured to add.

“I think _you_ have not shown much mercy,” replied she, with a short,

bitter laugh; “killing the poor birds by wholesale in that shocking

manner, and putting the dear boy to such misery for a mere whim.”

I judged it prudent to say no more. This was the nearest approach to a

quarrel I ever had with Mrs. Bloomfield; as well as the greatest number

of words I ever exchanged with her at one time, since the day of my

first arrival.

But Mr. Robson and old Mrs. Bloomfield were not the only guests whose

coming to Wellwood House annoyed me; every visitor disturbed me more or

less; not so much because they neglected me (though I did feel their

conduct strange and disagreeable in that respect), as because I found

it impossible to keep my pupils away from them, as I was repeatedly

desired to do: Tom must talk to them, and Mary Ann must be noticed by

them. Neither the one nor the other knew what it was to feel any degree

of shamefacedness, or even common modesty. They would indecently and

clamorously interrupt the conversation of their elders, tease them with

the most impertinent questions, roughly collar the gentlemen, climb

their knees uninvited, hang about their shoulders or rifle their

pockets, pull the ladies’ gowns, disorder their hair, tumble their

collars, and importunately beg for their trinkets.

Mrs. Bloomfield had the sense to be shocked and annoyed at all this,

but she had not sense to prevent it: she expected me to prevent it. But

how could I—when the guests, with their fine clothes and new faces,

continually flattered and indulged them, out of complaisance to their

parents—how could I, with my homely garments, every-day face, and

honest words, draw them away? I strained every nerve to do so: by

striving to amuse them, I endeavoured to attract them to my side; by

the exertion of such authority as I possessed, and by such severity as

I dared to use, I tried to deter them from tormenting the guests; and

by reproaching their unmannerly conduct, to make them ashamed to repeat

it. But they knew no shame; they scorned authority which had no terrors

to back it; and as for kindness and affection, either they had no

hearts, or such as they had were so strongly guarded, and so well

concealed, that I, with all my efforts, had not yet discovered how to

reach them.

But soon my trials in this quarter came to a close—sooner than I either

expected or desired; for one sweet evening towards the close of May, as

I was rejoicing in the near approach of the holidays, and

congratulating myself upon having made some progress with my pupils (as

far as their learning went, at least, for I _had_ instilled _something_

into their heads, and I had, at length, brought them to be a little—a

very little—more rational about getting their lessons done in time to

leave some space for recreation, instead of tormenting themselves and

me all day long to no purpose), Mrs. Bloomfield sent for me, and calmly

told me that after Midsummer my services would be no longer required.

She assured me that my character and general conduct were

unexceptionable; but the children had made so little improvement since

my arrival that Mr. Bloomfield and she felt it their duty to seek some

other mode of instruction. Though superior to most children of their

years in abilities, they were decidedly behind them in attainments;

their manners were uncultivated, and their tempers unruly. And this she

attributed to a want of sufficient firmness, and diligent, persevering

care on my part.

Unshaken firmness, devoted diligence, unwearied perseverance, unceasing

care, were the very qualifications on which I had secretly prided

myself; and by which I had hoped in time to overcome all difficulties,

and obtain success at last. I wished to say something in my own

justification; but in attempting to speak, I felt my voice falter; and

rather than testify any emotion, or suffer the tears to overflow that

were already gathering in my eyes, I chose to keep silence, and bear

all like a self-convicted culprit.

Thus was I dismissed, and thus I sought my home. Alas! what would they

think of me? unable, after all my boasting, to keep my place, even for

a single year, as governess to three small children, whose mother was

asserted by my own aunt to be a “very nice woman.” Having been thus

weighed in the balance and found wanting, I need not hope they would be

willing to try me again. And this was an unwelcome thought; for vexed,

harassed, disappointed as I had been, and greatly as I had learned to

love and value my home, I was not yet weary of adventure, nor willing

to relax my efforts. I knew that all parents were not like Mr. and Mrs.

Bloomfield, and I was certain all children were not like theirs. The

next family must be different, and any change must be for the better. I

had been seasoned by adversity, and tutored by experience, and I longed

to redeem my lost honour in the eyes of those whose opinion was more

than that of all the world to me.