Young was silent. Margaret hastened on—
“I suppose most people would say here what is said everywhere else about the nobleness and privilege of the task of teaching children. But I do not envy those who have it to do. I am as fond of children as any one; but then it is having them out to play on the grass, or romping with them in the nursery, that I like. When it becomes a matter of desks and school-books, I had far rather study than teach.”
“I believe everybody, except perhaps mothers, would agree with you,” said Miss Young, who was now, without apology, plying her needle.
“Indeed! then I am very sorry for you.”
“Thank you; but there’s no need to be sorry for me. Do you suppose that one’s comfort lies in having a choice of employments? My experience leads me to think the contrary.”
“I do not think I could be happy,” said Hester, “to be tied down to an employment I did not like.”
“Not to a positively disgusting one. But I am disposed to think that the greatest number of happy people may be found busy in employments that they have not chosen for themselves, and never would have chosen.”
“I am afraid these very happy people are haunted by longings to be doing something else.”
“Yes: there is their great trouble. They think, till experience makes them wiser, that if they were only in another set of circumstances, if they only had a choice what they would do, a chance for the exercise of the powers they are conscious of, they would do such things as should be the wonder and the terror of the earth. But their powers may be doubted, if they do not appear in the conquest of circumstances.”
“So you conquer these giddy children, when you had rather be conquering German metaphysicians, or—, or—, what else?”
“There is little to conquer in these children,” said Miss Young; “they are very good with me. I assure you I have much more to conquer in myself, with regard to them. It is but little that I can do for them; and that little I am apt to despise, in the vain desire to do more.”
“How more?”
“If I had them in a house by myself, to spend their whole time with me, so that I could educate, instead of merely teaching them. But here I am doing just what we were talking of just now—laying out a pretty-looking field of duty, in which there would probably be as many thorns as in any other. Teaching has its pleasures—its great occasional, and small daily pleasures, though they are not to be compared to the sublime delights of education.”
“You must have some of these sublime delights mixed in with the humbler. You are, in some degree, educating these children while teaching them.”
“Yes: but it is more a negative than a positive function, a very humble one. Governesses to children at home can do little more than stand between children and the faults of the people about them. I speak quite generally.”
“Is such an occupation one in which anybody can be happy?”
“Why not, as well as in making pins’ heads, or in nursing sick people, or in cutting square blocks out of a chalk pit for thirty years together, or in any other occupation which may be ordained to prove to us that happiness lies in the temper, and not in the object of a pursuit? Are there not free and happy pin-makers, and sick-nurses, and chalk-cutters?”
“Yes: but they know how much to expect. They have no idea of pin-making in itself being great happiness.”
“Just so. Well: let a governess learn what to expect; set her free from a hankering after happiness in her work, and you have a happy governess.”
“I thought such a thing was out of the order of nature.”
“Not quite. There have been such, though there are strong influences against it. The expectations of all parties are unreasonable; and those who are too humble, or too amiable, to be dissatisfied with others, are discontented with themselves, when the inevitable disappointment comes. There is a great deal said about the evils of the position of a governess—between the family and the servants—a great deal said that is very true, and always will be true, while governesses have proud hearts, like other people: but these are slight evils in comparison with the grand one of the common failure of the relation.—There! do you hear that bell?”
“What is it? The breakfast bell?”
“Yes. You must go. I would not be understood as inviting you here; for it is not, except upon sufferance, my room; and I have no inducement to offer. But I may just say, that you will always be welcome.”
“Always?” said Margaret. “In and out of school hours?”
“In and out of school hours, unless your presence should chance to turn my pupils’ heads. In that case, you will not be offended if I ask you to go away.”
Mary and Fanny had just reported in the breakfast-parlour, that the Miss Ibbotsons had been “such a time with Miss Young!” when Hester and Margaret entered. The testimony there was all in favour of Miss Young. Mr. Grey called her a most estimable young woman; and Mrs. Grey declared that, though she could not agree with her on all points, and decidedly thought that she overrated Matilda Rowland’s talents, she was convinced that her children enjoyed great advantages under her care. Sophia added, that she was very superior—quite learned. Mrs. Grey further explained that, though now so much at ease on the subject of her daughters’ education, no one could have an idea of the trouble she had had in getting the plan arranged. It had seemed a pity that the Rowlands and her children should not learn together: it was such an advantage for children to learn together! But Mrs. Rowland had made a thousand difficulties. After breakfast, she would show her young friends the room which she had proposed should be the schoolroom—as airy and advantageous in every way as could be imagined: but Mrs. Rowland had objected that she could not have Matilda and George come out in all weathers—as if they would have had to walk a mile, instead of just the sweep of the gravel-walk! Mrs. Rowland had proposed that her back-parlour should be the schoolroom: but really it was not to be thought of—so small and close, and such a dull room for Miss Young! The gentlemen had been obliged to take it up at last. Nobody could ever find out which of them it was that had thought of the summerhouse, though she was satisfied in her own mind that Mr. Rowland was not in the habit of having such clever ideas; but, however, it was soon settled. The summer-house was so exactly on the boundary-line between the two gardens, that really no objection had been left for Mrs. Rowland to make. She came as near to it as she could, however; for she had had the walk covered in at great expense from her garden door to the summer-house, when everybody knew she did not mind her children getting wet at other times on the grass before the dew was off.
“And the covered way is quite an eyesore from the drawing-room windows,” added Sophia.
“Quite,” said Mrs. Grey; “and it can be seen from ours, as I dare say you observed last night. But I have no doubt that entered into her calculations when she had it made.”
Mr. Grey inquired about the arrangements for the morning, and whether he could be of any service. It happened to be a leisure morning with him, and he did not know when he might have another at command. Sophia reminded her father that it would be impossible for the ladies of the family to go out, when they were expecting the neighbours to call: and this brought on another speculation as to who would call—and especially when the Rowlands might be looked for. Hester and Margaret believed they could have settled this matter; but they forbore to speak of what they had overheard. They began to wonder whether the subject of Mrs. Rowland was to be served up with every meal, for a continuance; and Hester found her anticipations of delight in a country life somewhat damped, by the idea of the frowning ghost of the obnoxious lady being for ever present.
Chapter Three.
Morning Calls.
The little girls