I have the misfortune of not being a fool. From a very early
age I have detected what those about me thought they hid from me. If I could
have been habitually imposed upon, instead of habitually discerning the truth, I
might have lived as smoothly as most fools do.
My childhood was passed with a grandmother; that is to say, with a lady who
represented that relative to me, and who took that title on herself. She had no
claim to it, but I--being to that extent a little fool--had no suspicion of her.
She had some children of her own family in her house, and some children of other
people. All girls; ten in number, including me. We all lived together and were
educated together.
I must have been about twelve years old when I began to see how determinedly
those girls patronised me. I was told I was an orphan. There was no other orphan
among us; and I perceived (here was the first disadvantage of not being a fool)
that they conciliated me in an insolent pity, and in a sense of superiority. I
did not set this down as a discovery, rashly. I tried them often. I could hardly
make them quarrel with me. When I succeeded with any of them, they were sure to
come after an hour or two, and begin a reconciliation. I tried them over and
over again, and I never knew them wait for me to begin. They were always
forgiving me, in their vanity and condescension. Little images of grown people!
One of them was my chosen friend. I loved that stupid mite in a passionate
way that she could no more deserve than I can remember without feeling ashamed
of, though I was but a child. She had what they called an amiable temper, an
affectionate temper. She could distribute, and did distribute pretty looks and
smiles to every one among them. I believe there was not a soul in the place,
except myself, who knew that she did it purposely to wound and gall me!
Nevertheless, I so loved that unworthy girl that my life was made stormy by
my fondness for her. I was constantly lectured and disgraced for what was called
'trying her;' in other words charging her with her little perfidy and throwing
her into tears by showing her that I read her heart. However, I loved her
faithfully; and one time I went home with her for the holidays.
She was worse at home than she had been at school. She had a crowd of cousins
and acquaintances, and we had dances at her house, and went out to dances at
other houses, and, both at home and out, she tormented my love beyond endurance.
Her plan was, to make them all fond of her--and so drive me wild with jealousy.
To be familiar and endearing with them all--and so make me mad with envying
them. When we were left alone in our bedroom at night, I would reproach her with
my perfect knowledge of her baseness; and then she would cry and cry and say I
was cruel, and then I would hold her in my arms till morning: loving her as much
as ever, and often feeling as if, rather than suffer so, I could so hold her in
my arms and plunge to the bottom of a river--where I would still hold her after
we were both dead.
It came to an end, and I was relieved. In the family there was an aunt who
was not fond of me. I doubt if any of the family liked me much; but I never
wanted them to like me, being altogether bound up in the one girl. The aunt was
a young woman, and she had a serious way with her eyes of watching me. She was
an audacious woman, and openly looked compassionately at me. After one of the
nights that I have spoken of, I came down into a greenhouse before breakfast.
Charlotte (the name of my false young friend) had gone down before me, and I
heard this aunt speaking to her about me as I entered. I stopped where I was,
among the leaves, and listened.
The aunt said, 'Charlotte, Miss Wade is wearing you to death, and this must
not continue.' I repeat the very words I heard.
Now, what did she answer? Did she say, 'It is I who am wearing her to death,
I who am keeping her on a rack and am the executioner, yet she tells me every
night that she loves me devotedly, though she knows what I make her undergo?'
No; my first memorable experience was true to what I knew her to be, and to all
my experience. She began sobbing and weeping (to secure the aunt's sympathy to
herself), and said, 'Dear aunt, she has an unhappy temper; other girls at
school, besides I, try hard to make it better; we all try hard.'
Upon that the aunt fondled her, as if she had said something noble instead of
despicable and false, and kept up the infamous pretence by replying, 'But there
are reasonable limits, my dear love, to everything, and I see that this poor
miserable girl causes you more constant and useless distress than even so good
an effort justifies.'
The poor miserable girl came out of her concealment, as you may be prepared
to hear, and said, 'Send me home.' I never said another word to either of them,
or to any of them, but 'Send me home, or I will walk home alone, night and day!'
When I got home, I told my supposed grandmother that, unless I was sent away to
finish my education somewhere else before that girl came back, or before any one
of them came back, I would burn my sight away by throwing myself into the fire,
rather than I would endure to look at their plotting faces.
I went among young women next, and I found them no better. Fair words and
fair pretences; but I penetrated below those assertions of themselves and
depreciations of me, and they were no better. Before I left them, I learned that
I had no grandmother and no recognised relation. I carried the light of that
information both into my past and into my future. It showed me many new
occasions on which people triumphed over me, when they made a pretence of
treating me with consideration, or doing me a service.
A man of business had a small property in trust for me. I was to be a
governess; I became a governess; and went into the family of a poor nobleman,
where there were two daughters--little children, but the parents wished them to
grow up, if possible, under one instructress. The mother was young and pretty.
From the first, she made a show of behaving to me with great delicacy. I kept my
resentment to myself; but I knew very well that it was her way of petting the
knowledge that she was my Mistress, and might have behaved differently to her
servant if it had been her fancy.
I say I did not resent it, nor did I; but I showed her, by not gratifying
her, that I understood her. When she pressed me to take wine, I took water. If
there happened to be anything choice at table, she always sent it to me: but I
always declined it, and ate of the rejected dishes. These disappointments of her
patronage were a sharp retort, and made me feel independent.
I liked the children. They were timid, but on the whole disposed to attach
themselves to me. There was a nurse, however, in the house, a rosy-faced woman
always making an obtrusive pretence of being gay and good-humoured, who had
nursed them both, and who had secured their affections before I saw them. I
could almost have settled down to my fate but for this woman. Her artful devices
for keeping herself before the children in constant competition with me, might
have blinded many in my place; but I saw through them from the first. On the
pretext of arranging my rooms and waiting on me and taking care of my wardrobe
(all of which she did busily), she was never absent. The most crafty of her many
subtleties was her feint of seeking to make the children fonder of me. She would
lead them to me and coax them to me. 'Come to good Miss Wade, come to dear Miss
Wade, come to pretty Miss Wade. She loves you very much. Miss Wade is a clever
lady, who has read heaps of books, and can tell you far better and more
interesting stories than I know. Come and hear Miss Wade!' How could I engage
their attentions, when my heart was burning against these ignorant designs? How
could I wonder, when I saw their innocent faces shrinking away, and their arms
twining round her neck, instead of mine? Then she would look up at me, shaking
their curls from her face, and say, 'They'll come round soon, Miss Wade; they're
very simple and loving, ma'am; don't be at all cast down about it,
ma'am'--exulting over me!
There was another thing the woman did. At times, when she saw that she had
safely plunged me into a black despondent brooding by these means, she would
call the attention of the children to it, and would show them the difference
between herself and me. 'Hush! Poor Miss Wade is not well. Don't make a noise,
my dears, her head aches. Come and comfort her. Come and ask her if she is
better; come and ask her to lie down. I hope you have nothing on your mind,
ma'am. Don't take on, ma'am, and be sorry!'
It became intolerable. Her ladyship, my Mistress, coming in one day when I
was alone, and at the height of feeling that I could support it no longer, I
told her I must go. I could not bear the presence of that woman Dawes.
'Miss Wade! Poor Dawes is devoted to you; would do anything for you!'
I knew beforehand she would say so; I was quite prepared for it; I only
answered, it was not for me to contradict my Mistress; I must go.
'I hope, Miss Wade,' she returned, instantly assuming the tone of superiority
she had always so thinly concealed, 'that nothing I have ever said or done since
we have been together, has justified your use of that disagreeable word,
"Mistress." It must have been wholly inadvertent on my part. Pray tell me what
it is.'
I replied that I had no complaint to make, either of my Mistress or to my
Mistress; but I must go.
She hesitated a moment, and then sat down beside me, and laid her hand on
mine. As if that honour would obliterate any remembrance!
'Miss Wade, I fear you are unhappy, through causes over which I have no
influence.'
I smiled, thinking of the experience the word awakened, and said, 'I have an
unhappy temper, I suppose.' 'I did not say that.'
'It is an easy way of accounting for anything,' said I.
'It may be; but I did not say so. What I wish to approach is something very
different. My husband and I have exchanged some remarks upon the subject, when
we have observed with pain that you have not been easy with us.'
'Easy? Oh! You are such great people, my lady,' said I.
'I am unfortunate in using a word which may convey a meaning--and evidently
does--quite opposite to my intention.' (She had not expected my reply, and it
shamed her.) 'I only mean, not happy with us. It is a difficult topic to enter
on; but, from one young woman to another, perhaps--in short, we have been
apprehensive that you may allow some family circumstances of which no one can be
more innocent than yourself, to prey upon your spirits. If so, let us entreat
you not to make them a cause of grief. My husband himself, as is well known,
formerly had a very dear sister who was not in law his sister, but who was
universally beloved and respected .
I saw directly that they had taken me in for the sake of the dead woman,
whoever she was, and to have that boast of me and advantage of me; I saw, in the
nurse's knowledge of it, an encouragement to goad me as she had done; and I saw,
in the children's shrinking away, a vague impression, that I was not like other
people. I left that house that night.
After one or two short and very similar experiences, which are not to the
present purpose, I entered another family where I had but one pupil: a girl of
fifteen, who was the only daughter. The parents here were elderly people: people
of station, and rich. A nephew whom they had brought up was a frequent visitor
at the house, among many other visitors; and he began to pay me attention.
I was resolute in repulsing him; for I had determined when I went there, that
no one should pity me or condescend to me. But he wrote me a letter. It led to
our being engaged to be married.
He was a year younger than I, and young-looking even when that allowance was
made. He was on absence from India, where he had a post that was soon to grow
into a very good one. In six months we were to be married, and were to go to
India. I was to stay in the house, and was to be married from the house. Nobody
objected to any part of the plan.
I cannot avoid saying he admired me; but, if I could, I would. Vanity has
nothing to do with the declaration, for his admiration worried me. He took no
pains to hide it; and caused me to feel among the rich people as if he had
bought me for my looks, and made a show of his purchase to justify himself. They
appraised me in their own minds, I saw, and were curious to ascertain what my
full value was. I resolved that they should not know. I was immovable and silent
before them; and would have suffered any one of them to kill me sooner than I
would have laid myself out to bespeak their approval.
He told me I did not do myself justice. I told him I did, and it was because
I did and meant to do so to the last, that I would not stoop to propitiate any
of them. He was concerned and even shocked, when I added that I wished he would
not parade his attachment before them; but he said he would sacrifice even the
honest impulses of his affection to my peace.
Under that pretence he began to retort upon me. By the hour together, he
would keep at a distance from me, talking to any one rather than to me. I have
sat alone and unnoticed, half an evening, while he conversed with his young
cousin, my pupil. I have seen all the while, in people's eyes, that they thought
the two looked nearer on an equality than he and I. I have sat, divining their
thoughts, until I have felt that his young appearance made me ridiculous, and
have raged against myself for ever loving him.
For I did love him once. Undeserving as he was, and little as he thought of
all these agonies that it cost me--agonies which should have made him wholly and
gratefully mine to his life's end--I loved him. I bore with his cousin's
praising him to my face, and with her pretending to think that it pleased me,
but full well knowing that it rankled in my breast; for his sake. While I have
sat in his presence recalling all my slights and wrongs, and deliberating
whether I should not fly from the house at once and never see him again--I have
loved him.
His aunt (my Mistress you will please to remember) deliberately, wilfully,
added to my trials and vexations. It was her delight to expatiate on the style
in which we were to live in India, and on the establishment we should keep, and
the company we should entertain when he got his advancement. My pride rose
against this barefaced way of pointing out the contrast my married life was to
present to my then dependent and inferior position. I suppressed my indignation;
but I showed her that her intention was not lost upon me, and I repaid her
annoyance by affecting humility. What she described would surely be a great deal
too much honour for me, I would tell her. I was afraid I might not be able to
support so great a change. Think of a mere governess, her daughter's governess,
coming to that high distinction! It made her uneasy, and made them all uneasy,
when I answered in this way. They knew that I fully understood her.
It was at the time when my troubles were at their highest, and when I was
most incensed against my lover for his ingratitude in caring as little as he did
for the innumerable distresses and mortifications I underwent on his account,
that your dear friend, Mr Gowan, appeared at the house. He had been intimate
there for a long time, but had been abroad. He understood the state of things at
a glance, and he understood me.
He was the first person I had ever seen in my life who had understood me. He
was not in the house three times before I knew that he accompanied every
movement of my mind. In his coldly easy way with all of them, and with me, and
with the whole subject, I saw it clearly. In his light protestations of
admiration of my future husband, in his enthusiasm regarding our engagement and
our prospects, in his hopeful congratulations on our future wealth and his
despondent references to his own poverty--all equally hollow, and jesting, and
full of mockery--I saw it clearly. He made me feel more and more resentful, and
more and more contemptible, by always presenting to me everything that
surrounded me with some new hateful light upon it, while he pretended to exhibit
it in its best aspect for my admiration and his own. He was like the dressed-up
Death in the Dutch series; whatever figure he took upon his arm, whether it was
youth or age, beauty or ugliness, whether he danced with it, sang with it,
played with it, or prayed with it, he made it ghastly.
You will understand, then, that when your dear friend complimented me, he
really condoled with me; that when he soothed me under my vexations, he laid
bare every smarting wound I had; that when he declared my 'faithful swain' to be
'the most loving young fellow in the world, with the tenderest heart that ever
beat,' he touched my old misgiving that I was made ridiculous. These were not
great services, you may say. They were acceptable to me, because they echoed my
own mind, and confirmed my own knowledge. I soon began to like the society of
your dear friend better than any other.
When I perceived (which I did, almost as soon) that jealousy was growing out
of this, I liked this society still better. Had I not been subject to jealousy,
and were the endurances to be all mine? No. Let him know what it was! I was
delighted that he should know it; I was delighted that he should feel keenly,
and I hoped he did.
More than that. He was tame in comparison with Mr Gowan, who knew how to
address me on equal terms, and how to anatomise the wretched people around us.
This went on, until the aunt, my Mistress, took it upon herself to speak to
me. It was scarcely worth alluding to; she knew I meant nothing; but she
suggested from herself, knowing it was only necessary to suggest, that it might
be better if I were a little less companionable with Mr Gowan.
I asked her how she could answer for what I meant? She could always answer,
she replied, for my meaning nothing wrong. I thanked her, but said I would
prefer to answer for myself and to myself. Her other servants would probably be
grateful for good characters, but I wanted none.
Other conversation followed, and induced me to ask her how she knew that it
was only necessary for her to make a suggestion to me, to have it obeyed? Did
she presume on my birth, or on my hire? I was not bought, body and soul. She
seemed to think that her distinguished nephew had gone into a slave-market and
purchased a wife.
It would probably have come, sooner or later, to the end to which it did
come, but she brought it to its issue at once. She told me, with assumed
commiseration, that I had an unhappy temper. On this repetition of the old
wicked injury, I withheld no longer, but exposed to her all I had known of her
and seen in her, and all I had undergone within myself since I had occupied the
despicable position of being engaged to her nephew. I told her that Mr Gowan was
the only relief I had had in my degradation; that I had borne it too long, and
that I shook it off too late; but that I would see none of them more. And I
never did. Your dear friend followed me to my retreat, and was very droll on the
severance of the connection; though he was sorry, too, for the excellent people
(in their way the best he had ever met), and deplored the necessity of breaking
mere house-flies on the wheel. He protested before long, and far more truly than
I then supposed, that he was not worth acceptance by a woman of such endowments,
and such power of character; but--well, well!--
Your dear friend amused me and amused himself as long as it suited his
inclinations; and then reminded me that we were both people of the world, that
we both understood mankind, that we both knew there was no such thing as
romance, that we were both prepared for going different ways to seek our
fortunes like people of sense, and that we both foresaw that whenever we
encountered one another again we should meet as the best friends on earth. So he
said, and I did not contradict him.
It was not very long before I found that he was courting his present wife,
and that she had been taken away to be out of his reach. I hated her then, quite
as much as I hate her now; and naturally, therefore, could desire nothing better
than that she should marry him. But I was restlessly curious to look at her--so
curious that I felt it to be one of the few sources of entertainment left to me.
I travelled a little: travelled until I found myself in her society, and in
yours. Your dear friend, I think, was not known to you then, and had not given
you any of those signal marks of his friendship which he has bestowed upon you.
In that company I found a girl, in various circumstances of whose position
there was a singular likeness to my own, and in whose character I was interested
and pleased to see much of the rising against swollen patronage and selfishness,
calling themselves kindness, protection, benevolence, and other fine names,
which I have described as inherent in my nature. I often heard it said, too,
that she had 'an unhappy temper.' Well understanding what was meant by the
convenient phrase, and wanting a companion with a knowledge of what I knew, I
thought I would try to release the girl from her bondage and sense of injustice.
I have no occasion to relate that I succeeded.
We have been together ever since, sharing my small means.
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