However, as I have said, Matilda at length yielded in some degree to her mother’s authority (pity it had not been exerted before); and being thus deprived of almost every source of amusement, there was nothing for it but to take long rides with the groom and long walks with the governess, and to visit the cottages and farmhouses on her father’s estate, to kill time in chatting with the old men and women that inhabited them. In one of these walks, it was our chance to meet Mr. Weston. This was what I had long desired; but now, for a moment, I wished either he or I were away: I felt my heart throb so violently that I dreaded lest some outward signs of emotion should appear; but I think he hardly glanced at me, and I was soon calm enough. After a brief salutation to both, he asked Matilda if she had lately heard from her sister.
“Yes,” replied she. “She was at Paris when she wrote, and very well, and very happy.”
She spoke the last word emphatically, and with a glance impertinently sly. He did not seem to notice it, but replied, with equal emphasis, and very seriously—
“I hope she will continue to be so.”
“Do you think it likely?” I ventured to inquire: for Matilda had started off in pursuit of her dog, that was chasing a leveret.
“I cannot tell,” replied he. “Sir Thomas may be a better man than I suppose; but, from all I have heard and seen, it seems a pity that one so young and gay, and—and interesting, to express many things by one word—whose greatest, if not her only fault, appears to be thoughtlessness—no trifling fault to be sure, since it renders the possessor liable to almost every other, and exposes him to so many temptations—but it seems a pity that she should be thrown away on such a man. It was her mother’s wish, I suppose?”
“Yes; and her own too, I think, for she always laughed at my attempts to dissuade her from the step.”
“You did attempt it? Then, at least, you will have the satisfaction of knowing that it is no fault of yours, if any harm should come of it. As for Mrs. Murray, I don’t know how she can justify her conduct: if I had sufficient acquaintance with her, I’d ask her.”
“It seems unnatural: but some people think rank and wealth the chief good; and, if they can secure that for their children, they think they have done their duty.”
“True: but is it not strange that persons of experience, who have been married themselves, should judge so falsely?” Matilda now came panting back, with the lacerated body of the young hare in her hand.
“Was it your intention to kill that hare, or to save it, Miss Murray?” asked Mr. Weston, apparently puzzled at her gleeful countenance.
“I pretended to want to save it,” she answered, honestly enough, “as it was so glaringly out of season; but I was better pleased to see it lolled. However, you can both witness that I couldn’t help it: Prince was determined to have her; and he clutched her by the back, and killed her in a minute! Wasn’t it a noble chase?”
“Very! for a young lady after a leveret.”
There was a quiet sarcasm in the tone of his reply which was not lost upon her; she shrugged her shoulders, and, turning away with a significant “Humph!” asked me how I had enjoyed the fun. I replied that I saw no fun in the matter; but admitted that I had not observed the transaction very narrowly.
“Didn’t you see how it doubled—just like an old hare? and didn’t you hear it scream?”
“I’m happy to say I did not.”
“It cried out just like a child.”
“Poor little thing! What will you do with it?”
“Come along—I shall leave it in the first house we come to. I don’t want to take it home, for fear papa should scold me for letting the dog kill it.”
Mr. Weston was now gone, and we too went on our way; but as we returned, after having deposited the hare in a farmhouse, and demolished some spice-cake and currant-wine in exchange, we met him returning also from the execution of his mission, whatever it might be. He carried in his hand a cluster of beautiful bluebells, which he offered to me; observing, with a smile, that though he had seen so little of me for the last two months, he had not forgotten that bluebells were numbered among my favourite flowers. It was done as a simple act of goodwill, without compliment or remarkable courtesy, or any look that could be construed into “reverential, tender adoration” (vide Rosalie Murray); but still, it was something to find my unimportant saying so well remembered: it was something that he had noticed so accurately the time I had ceased to be visible.
“I was told,” said he, “that you were a perfect bookworm, Miss Grey: so completely absorbed in your studies that you were lost to every other pleasure.”
“Yes, and it’s quite true!” cried Matilda.
“No, Mr. Weston: don’t believe it: it’s a scandalous libel. These young ladies are too fond of making random assertions at the expense of their friends; and you ought to be careful how you listen to them.”
“I hope this assertion is groundless, at any rate.”
“Why? Do you particularly object to ladies studying?”
“No; but I object to anyone so devoting himself or herself to study, as to lose sight of everything else. Except under peculiar circumstances, I consider very close and constant study as a waste of time, and an injury to the mind as well as the body.”
“Well, I have neither the time nor the inclination for such transgressions.”
We parted again.
Well! what is there remarkable in all this? Why have I recorded it? Because, reader, it was important enough to give me a cheerful evening, a night of pleasing
