THE SUBSTITUTION





Next Sunday was one of the gloomiest of April days—a day of thick, dark

clouds, and heavy showers. None of the Murrays were disposed to attend

church in the afternoon, excepting Rosalie: she was bent upon going as

usual; so she ordered the carriage, and I went with her: nothing loth,

of course, for at church I might look without fear of scorn or censure

upon a form and face more pleasing to me than the most beautiful of

God’s creations; I might listen without disturbance to a voice more

charming than the sweetest music to my ears; I might seem to hold

communion with that soul in which I felt so deeply interested, and

imbibe its purest thoughts and holiest aspirations, with no alloy to

such felicity except the secret reproaches of my conscience, which

would too often whisper that I was deceiving my own self, and mocking

God with the service of a heart more bent upon the creature than the

Creator.



Sometimes, such thoughts would give me trouble enough; but sometimes I

could quiet them with thinking—it is not the man, it is his goodness

that I love. “Whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely,

whatsoever things are honest and of good report, think on these

things.” We do well to worship God in His works; and I know none of

them in which so many of His attributes—so much of His own spirit

shines, as in this His faithful servant; whom to know and not to

appreciate, were obtuse insensibility in me, who have so little else to

occupy my heart.



Almost immediately after the conclusion of the service, Miss Murray

left the church. We had to stand in the porch, for it was raining, and

the carriage was not yet come. I wondered at her coming forth so

hastily, for neither young Meltham nor Squire Green was there; but I

soon found it was to secure an interview with Mr. Weston as he came

out, which he presently did. Having saluted us both, he would have

passed on, but she detained him; first with observations upon the

disagreeable weather, and then with asking if he would be so kind as to

come some time to-morrow to see the granddaughter of the old woman who

kept the porter’s lodge, for the girl was ill of a fever, and wished to

see him. He promised to do so.



“And at what time will you be most likely to come, Mr. Weston? The old

woman will like to know when to expect you—you know such people think

more about having their cottages in order when decent people come to

see them than we are apt to suppose.”



Here was a wonderful instance of consideration from the thoughtless

Miss Murray. Mr. Weston named an hour in the morning at which he would

endeavour to be there. By this time the carriage was ready, and the

footman was waiting, with an open umbrella, to escort Miss Murray

through the churchyard. I was about to follow; but Mr. Weston had an

umbrella too, and offered me the benefit of its shelter, for it was

raining heavily.



“No, thank you, I don’t mind the rain,” I said. I always lacked common

sense when taken by surprise.



“But you don’t _like_ it, I suppose?—an umbrella will do you no harm at

any rate,” he replied, with a smile that showed he was not offended; as

a man of worse temper or less penetration would have been at such a

refusal of his aid. I could not deny the truth of his assertion, and so

went with him to the carriage; he even offered me his hand on getting

in: an unnecessary piece of civility, but I accepted that too, for fear

of giving offence. One glance he gave, one little smile at parting—it

was but for a moment; but therein I read, or thought I read, a meaning

that kindled in my heart a brighter flame of hope than had ever yet

arisen.



“I would have sent the footman back for you, Miss Grey, if you’d waited

a moment—you needn’t have taken Mr. Weston’s umbrella,” observed

Rosalie, with a very unamiable cloud upon her pretty face.



“I would have come without an umbrella, but Mr. Weston offered me the

benefit of his, and I could not have refused it more than I did without

offending him,” replied I, smiling placidly; for my inward happiness

made that amusing, which would have wounded me at another time.



The carriage was now in motion. Miss Murray bent forwards, and looked

out of the window as we were passing Mr. Weston. He was pacing

homewards along the causeway, and did not turn his head.



“Stupid ass!” cried she, throwing herself back again in the seat. “You

don’t know what you’ve lost by not looking this way!”



“What has he lost?”



“A bow from me, that would have raised him to the seventh heaven!”



I made no answer. I saw she was out of humour, and I derived a secret

gratification from the fact, not that she was vexed, but that she

thought she had reason to be so. It made me think my hopes were not

entirely the offspring of my wishes and imagination.



“I mean to take up Mr. Weston instead of Mr. Hatfield,” said my

companion, after a short pause, resuming something of her usual

cheerfulness. “The ball at Ashby Park takes place on Tuesday, you know;

and mamma thinks it very likely that Sir Thomas will propose to me

then: such things are often done in the privacy of the ball-room, when

gentlemen are most easily ensnared, and ladies most enchanting. But if

I am to be married so soon, I must make the best of the present time: I

am determined Hatfield shall not be the only man who shall lay his

heart at my feet, and implore me to accept the worthless gift in vain.”



“If you mean Mr. Weston to be one of your victims,” said I, with

affected indifference, “you will have to make such overtures yourself

that you will find it difficult to draw back when he asks you to fulfil

the expectations you have raised.”



“I don’t suppose he will ask me to marry him, nor should I desire it:

that would be rather too much presumption! but I intend him to feel my

power. He has felt it already, indeed: but he shall _acknowledge_ it

too; and what visionary hopes he may have, he must keep to himself, and

only amuse me with the result of them—for a time.”



“Oh! that some kind spirit would whisper those words in his ear,” I

inwardly exclaimed. I was far too indignant to hazard a reply to her

observation aloud; and nothing more was said about Mr. Weston that day,

by me or in my hearing. But next morning, soon after breakfast, Miss

Murray came into the schoolroom, where her sister was employed at her

studies, or rather her lessons, for studies they were not, and said,

“Matilda, I want you to take a walk with me about eleven o’clock.”



“Oh, I can’t, Rosalie! I have to give orders about my new bridle and

saddle-cloth, and speak to the rat-catcher about his dogs: Miss Grey

must go with you.”



“No, I want you,” said Rosalie; and calling her sister to the window,

she whispered an explanation in her ear; upon which the latter

consented to go.



I remembered that eleven was the hour at which Mr. Weston proposed to

come to the porter’s lodge; and remembering that, I beheld the whole

contrivance. Accordingly, at dinner, I was entertained with a long

account of how Mr. Weston had overtaken them as they were walking along

the road; and how they had had a long walk and talk with him, and

really found him quite an agreeable companion; and how he must have

been, and evidently was, delighted with them and their amazing

condescension, &c. &c.