Chapter VIII (2)

Miss Branwell urged her views upon Mr. Bronte as soon as the immediate danger to the old servant's life was over. He refused at first to listen to the careful advice; it was repugnant to his liberal nature. But Miss Branwell persevered; urged economical motives; pressed on his love for his daughters. He gave way. Tabby was to be removed to her sister's, and there nursed and cared for, Mr. Bronte coming in with his aid when her own resources fell short. This decision was communicated to the girls. There were symptoms of a quiet, but sturdy rebellion, that winter afternoon, in the small precincts of Haworth parsonage. They made one unanimous and stiff remonstrance. Tabby had tended them in their childhood; they, and none other, should tend her in her infirmity and age. At tea-time, they were sad and silent, and the meal went away untouched by any of the three. So it was at breakfast; they did not waste many words on the subject, but each word they did utter was weighty. They "struck" eating till the resolution was rescinded, and Tabby was allowed to remain a helpless invalid entirely dependent upon them. Herein was the strong feeling of Duty being paramount to pleasure, which lay at the foundation of Charlotte's character, made most apparent; for we have seen how she yearned for her friend's company; but it was to be obtained only by shrinking from what she esteemed right, and that she never did, whatever might be the sacrifice.

She had another weight on her mind this Christmas. I have said that the air of Dewsbury Moor did not agree with her, though she herself was hardly aware how much her life there was affecting her health. But Anne had begun to suffer just before the holidays, and Charlotte watched over her younger sisters with the jealous vigilance of some wild creature, that changes her very nature if danger threatens her young. Anne had a slight cough, a pain at her side, a difficulty of breathing. Miss W--- considered it as little more than a common cold; but Charlotte felt every indication of incipient consumption as a stab at her heart, remembering Maria and Elizabeth, whose places once knew them, and should know them no more.

Stung by anxiety for this little sister, she upbraided Miss W--- for her fancied indifference to Anne's state of health. Miss W--- felt these reproaches keenly, and wrote to Mr. Bronte about them. He immediately replied most kindly, expressing his fear that Charlotte's apprehensions and anxieties respecting her sister had led her to give utterance to over- excited expressions of alarm. Through Miss W---'s kind consideration, Anne was a year longer at school than her friends intended. At the close of the half-year Miss W--- sought for the opportunity of an explanation of each other's words, and the issue proved that "the falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love." And so ended the first, last, and only difference Charlotte ever had with good, kind Miss W ---.

Still her heart had received a shock in the perception of Anne's delicacy; and all these holidays she watched over her with the longing, fond anxiety, which is so full of sudden pangs of fear.

Emily had given up her situation in the Halifax school, at the expiration of six months of arduous trial, on account of her health, which could only be re-established by the bracing moorland air and free life of home. Tabby's illness had preyed on the family resources. I doubt whether Branwell was maintaining himself at this time. For some unexplained reason, he had given up the idea of becoming a student of painting at the Royal Academy, and his prospects in life were uncertain, and had yet to be settled. So Charlotte had quietly to take up her burden of teaching again, and return to her previous monotonous life.

Brave heart, ready to die in harness! She went back to her work, and made no complaint, hoping to subdue the weakness that was gaining ground upon her. About this time, she would turn sick and trembling at any sudden noise, and could hardly repress her screams when startled. This showed a fearful degree of physical weakness in one who was generally so self-controlled; and the medical man, whom at length, through Miss W---'s entreaty, she was led to consult, insisted on her return to the parsonage. She had led too sedentary a life, he said; and the soft summer air, blowing round her home, the sweet company of those she loved, the release, the freedom of life in her own family, were needed, to save either reason or life. So, as One higher than she had over-ruled that for a time she might relax her strain, she returned to Haworth; and after a season of utter quiet, her father sought for her the enlivening society of her two friends, Mary and Martha T. At the conclusion of the following letter, written to the then absent E., there is, I think, as pretty a glimpse of a merry group of young people as need be; and like all descriptions of doing, as distinct from thinking or feeling, in letters, it saddens one in proportion to the vivacity of the picture of what was once, and is now utterly swept away.

"Haworth, June 9, 1838.

"I received your packet of despatches on Wednesday; it was brought me
by Mary and Martha, who have been staying at Haworth for a few days;
they leave us to-day. You will be surprised at the date of this
letter. I ought to be at Dewsbury Moor, you know; but I stayed as
long as I was able, and at length I neither could nor dared stay any
longer. My health and spirits had utterly failed me, and the medical
man whom I consulted enjoined me, as I valued my life, to go home. So
home I went, and the change has at once roused and soothed me; and I
am now, I trust, fairly in the way to be myself again.

"A calm and even mind like yours cannot conceive the feelings of the
shattered wretch who is now writing to you, when, after weeks of
mental and bodily anguish not to be described, something like peace
began to dawn again. Mary is far from well. She breathes short, has
a pain in her chest, and frequent flushings of fever. I cannot tell
you what agony these symptoms give me; they remind me too strongly of
my two sisters, whom no power of medicine could save. Martha is now
very well; she has kept in a continual flow of good humour during her
stay here, and has consequently been very fascinating . . . "

"They are making such a noise about me I cannot write any more. Mary
is playing on the piano; Martha is chattering as fast as her little
tongue can run; and Branwell is standing before her, laughing at her
vivacity."

Charlotte grew much stronger in this quiet, happy period at home. She paid occasional visits to her two great friends, and they in return came to Haworth. At one of their houses, I suspect, she met with the person to whom the following letter refers--some one having a slight resemblance to the character of "St. John," in the last volume of "Jane Eyre," and, like him, in holy orders.

"March 12, 1839.

. . . "I had a kindly leaning towards him, because he is an amiable
and well-disposed man. Yet I had not, and could not have, that
intense attachment which would make me willing to die for him; and if
ever I marry, it must be in that light of adoration that I will regard
my husband. Ten to one I shall never have the chance again; but
_n'importe_. Moreover, I was aware that he knew so little of me he
could hardly be conscious to whom he was writing. Why! it would
startle him to see me in my natural home character; he would think I
was a wild, romantic enthusiast indeed. I could not sit all day long
making a grave face before my husband. I would laugh, and satirize,
and say whatever came into my head first. And if he were a clever
man, and loved me, the whole world, weighed in the balance against his
smallest wish, should be light as air."

So that--her first proposal of marriage--was quietly declined and put on one side. Matrimony did not enter into the scheme of her life, but good, sound, earnest labour did; the question, however, was as yet undecided in what direction she should employ her forces. She had been discouraged in literature; her eyes failed her in the minute kind of drawing which she practised when she wanted to express an idea; teaching seemed to her at this time, as it does to most women at all times, the only way of earning an independent livelihood. But neither she nor her sisters were naturally fond of children. The hieroglyphics of childhood were an unknown language to them, for they had never been much with those younger than themselves. I am inclined to think, too, that they had not the happy knack of imparting information, which seems to be a separate gift from the faculty of acquiring it; a kind of sympathetic tact, which instinctively perceives the difficulties that impede comprehension in a child's mind, and that yet are too vague and unformed for it, with its half-developed powers of expression, to explain by words. Consequently, teaching very young children was anything but a "delightful task" to the three Bronte sisters. With older girls, verging on womanhood, they might have done better, especially if these had any desire for improvement. But the education which the village clergyman's daughters had received, did not as yet qualify them to undertake the charge of advanced pupils. They knew but little French, and were not proficients in music; I doubt whether Charlotte could play at all. But they were all strong again, and, at any rate, Charlotte and Anne must put their shoulders to the wheel. One daughter was needed at home, to stay with Mr. Bronte and Miss Branwell; to be the young and active member in a household of four, whereof three--the father, the aunt, and faithful Tabby--were past middle age. And Emily, who suffered and drooped more than her sisters when away from Haworth, was the one appointed to remain. Anne was the first to meet with a situation.

"April 15th, 1839.

"I could not write to you in the week you requested, as about that
time we were very busy in preparing for Anne's departure. Poor child!
she left us last Monday; no one went with her; it was her own wish
that she might be allowed to go alone, as she thought she could manage
better and summon more courage if thrown entirely upon her own
resources. We have had one letter from her since she went. She
expresses herself very well satisfied, and says that Mrs. --- is
extremely kind; the two eldest children alone are under her care, the
rest are confined to the nursery, with which and its occupants she has
nothing to do . . . I hope she'll do. You would be astonished what a
sensible, clever letter she writes; it is only the talking part that I
fear. But I do seriously apprehend that Mrs. --- will sometimes
conclude that she has a natural impediment in her speech. For my own
part, I am as yet 'wanting a situation,' like a housemaid out of
place. By the way, I have lately discovered I have quite a talent for
cleaning, sweeping up hearths, dusting rooms, making beds, &c.; so, if
everything else fails, I can turn my hand to that, if anybody will
give me good wages for little labour. I won't be a cook; I hate
soothing. I won't be a nurserymaid, nor a lady's-maid, far less a
lady's companion, or a mantua-maker, or a straw-bonnet maker, or a
taker-in of plain work. I won't be anything but a housemaid . . .
With regard to my visit to G., I have as yet received no invitation;
but if I should be asked, though I should feel it a great act of self-
denial to refuse, yet I have almost made up my mind to do so, though
the society of the T.'s is one of the most rousing pleasures I have
ever known. Good-bye, my darling E., &c.

"P. S.--Strike out that word 'darling;' it is humbug. Where's the use
of protestations? We've known each other, and liked each other, a
good while; that's enough."

Not many weeks after this was written, Charlotte also became engaged as a governess. I intend carefully to abstain from introducing the names of any living people, respecting whom I may have to tell unpleasant truths, or to quote severe remarks from Miss Bronte's letters; but it is necessary that the difficulties she had to encounter in her various phases of life, should be fairly and frankly made known, before the force "of what was resisted" can be at all understood. I was once speaking to her about "Agnes Grey"--the novel in which her sister Anne pretty literally describes her own experience as a governess--and alluding more particularly to the account of the stoning of the little nestlings in the presence of the parent birds. She said that none but those who had been in the position of a governess could ever realise the dark side of "respectable" human nature; under no great temptation to crime, but daily giving way to selfishness and ill-temper, till its conduct towards those dependent on it sometimes amounts to a tyranny of which one would rather be the victim than the inflicter. We can only trust in such cases that the employers err rather from a density of perception and an absence of sympathy, than from any natural cruelty of disposition. Among several things of the same kind, which I well remember, she told me what had once occurred to herself. She had been entrusted with the care of a little boy, three or four years old, during the absence of his parents on a day's excursion, and particularly enjoined to keep him out of the stable- yard. His elder brother, a lad of eight or nine, and not a pupil of Miss Bronte's, tempted the little fellow into the forbidden place. She followed, and tried to induce him to come away; but, instigated by his brother, he began throwing stones at her, and one of them hit her so severe a blow on the temple that the lads were alarmed into obedience. The next day, in full family conclave, the mother asked Miss Bronte what occasioned the mark on her forehead. She simply replied, "An accident, ma'am," and no further inquiry was made; but the children (both brothers and sisters) had been present, and honoured her for not "telling tales." From that time, she began to obtain influence over all, more or less, according to their different characters; and as she insensibly gained their affection, her own interest in them was increasing. But one day, at the children's dinner, the small truant of the stable-yard, in a little demonstrative gush, said, putting his hand in hers, "I love 'ou, Miss Bronte." Whereupon, the mother exclaimed, before all the children, "Love the _governess_, my dear!"

"The family into which she first entered was, I believe, that of a wealthy Yorkshire manufacturer. The following extracts from her correspondence at this time will show how painfully the restraint of her new mode of life pressed upon her. The first is from a letter to Emily, beginning with one of the tender expressions in which, in spite of 'humbug,' she indulged herself. 'Mine dear love,' 'Mine-bonnie love,' are her terms of address to this beloved sister.

"June 8th, 1839.

"I have striven hard to be pleased with my new situation. The country, the house and the grounds are, as I have said, divine; but, alack-a-day! there is such a thing as seeing all beautiful around you--pleasant woods, white paths, green lawns, and blue sunshiny sky--and not having a free moment or a free thought left to enjoy them. The children are constantly with me. As for correcting them, I quickly found that was out of the question; they are to do as they like. A complaint to the mother only brings black looks on myself, and unjust, partial excuses to screen the children. I have tried that plan once, and succeeded so notably, I shall try no more. I said in my last letter that Mrs. --- did not know me. I now begin to find she does not intend to know me; that she cares nothing about me, except to contrive how the greatest possible quantity of labour may be got out of me; and to that end she overwhelms me with oceans of needle-work; yards of cambric to hem, muslin nightcaps to make, and, above all things, dolls to dress. I do not think she likes me at all, because I can't help being shy in such an entirely novel scene, surrounded as I have hitherto been by strange and constantly changing faces . . . I used to think I should like to be in the stir of grand folks' society; but I have had enough of it--it is dreary work to look on and listen. I see more clearly than I have ever done before, that a private governess has no existence, is not considered as a living rational being, except as connected with the wearisome duties she has to fulfil . . . One of the pleasantest afternoons I have spent here--indeed, the only one at all pleasant--was when Mr. --- walked out with his children, and I had orders to follow a little behind. As he strolled on through his fields, with his magnificent Newfoundland dog at his side, he looked very like what a frank, wealthy, Conservative gentleman ought to be. He spoke freely and unaffectedly to the people he met, and, though he indulged his children and allowed them to tease himself far too much, he would not suffer them grossly to insult others."

(WRITTEN IN PENCIL TO A FRIEND.)

"July, 1839.

"I cannot procure ink, without going into the drawing-room, where I do not wish to go . . . I should have written to you long since, and told you every detail of the utterly new scene into which I have lately been cast, had I not been daily expecting a letter from yourself, and wondering and lamenting that you did not write; for you will remember it was your turn. I must not bother you too much with my sorrows, of which, I fear, you have heard an exaggerated account. If you were near me, perhaps I might be tempted to tell you all, to grow egotistical, and pour out the long history of a private governess's trials and crosses in her first situation. As it is, I will only ask you to imagine the miseries of a reserved wretch like me, thrown at once into the midst of a large family, at a time when they were particularly gay--when the house was filled with company--all strangers--people whose faces I had never seen before. In this state I had charge given me of a set of pampered, spoilt, turbulent children, whom I was expected constantly to amuse, as well as to instruct. I soon found that the constant demand on my stock of animal spirits reduced them to the lowest state of exhaustion; at times I felt--and, I suppose, seemed--depressed. To my astonishment, I was taken to task on the subject by Mrs. --- with a sternness of manner and a harshness of language scarcely credible; like a fool, I cried most bitterly. I could not help it; my spirits quite failed me at first. I thought I had done my best--strained every nerve to please her; and to be treated in that way, merely because I was shy and sometimes melancholy, was too bad. At first I was for giving all up and going home. But, after a little reflection, I determined to summon what energy I had, and to weather the storm. I said to myself, 'I have never yet quitted a place without gaining a friend; adversity is a good school; the poor are born to labour, and the dependent to endure.' I resolved to be patient, to command my feelings, and to take what came; the ordeal, I reflected, would not last many weeks, and I trusted it would do me good. I recollected the fable of the willow and the oak; I bent quietly, and now, I trust, the storm is blowing over me. Mrs. --- is generally considered an agreeable woman; so she is, I doubt not, in general society. She behaves somewhat more civilly to me now than she did at first, and the children are a little more manageable; but she does not know my character, and she does not wish to know it. I have never had five minutes' conversation with her since I came, except while she was scolding me. I have no wish to be pitied, except by yourself; if I were talking to you I could tell you much more."

(TO EMILY, ABOUT THIS TIME.)

"Mine bonnie love, I was as glad of your letter as tongue can express: it is a real, genuine pleasure to hear from home; a thing to be saved till bedtime, when one has a moment's quiet and rest to enjoy it thoroughly. Write whenever you can. I could like to be at home. I could like to work in a mill. I could like to feel some mental liberty. I could like this weight of restraint to be taken off. But the holidays will come. Coraggio."

Her temporary engagement in this uncongenial family ended in the July of this year; not before the constant strain upon her spirits and strength had again affected her health; but when this delicacy became apparent in palpitations and shortness of breathing, it was treated as affectation--as a phase of imaginary indisposition, which could be dissipated by a good scolding. She had been brought up rather in a school of Spartan endurance than in one of maudlin self-indulgence, and could bear many a pain and relinquish many a hope in silence.

After she had been at home about a week, her friend proposed that she should accompany her in some little excursion, having pleasure alone for its object. She caught at the idea most eagerly at first; but her hope stood still, waned, and had almost disappeared before, after many delays, it was realised. In its fulfilment at last, it was a favourable specimen of many a similar air-bubble dancing before her eyes in her brief career, in which stern realities, rather than pleasures, formed the leading incidents.

"July 26th, 1839.

"Your proposal has almost driven me 'clean daft'--if you don't
understand that ladylike expression, you must ask me what it means
when I see you. The fact is, an excursion with you anywhere,--whether
to Cleathorpe or Canada,--just by ourselves, would be to me most
delightful. I should, indeed, like to go; but I can't get leave of
absence for longer than a week, and I'm afraid that would not suit
you--must I then give it up entirely? I feel as if I _could not_; I
never had such a chance of enjoyment before; I do want to see you and
talk to you, and be with you. When do you wish to go? Could I meet
you at Leeds? To take a gig from Haworth to B., would be to me a very
serious increase of expense, and I happen to be very low in cash. Oh!
rich people seem to have many pleasures at their command which we are
debarred from! However, no repining.

"Say when you go, and I shall be able in my answer to say decidedly
whether I can accompany you or not. I must--I will--I'm set upon
it--I'll be obstinate and bear down all opposition.

"P.S.--Since writing the above, I find that aunt and papa have
determined to go to Liverpool for a fortnight, and take us all with
them. It is stipulated, however, that I should give up the Cleathorpe
scheme. I yield reluctantly."

I fancy that, about this time, Mr. Bronte found it necessary, either from failing health or the increased populousness of the parish, to engage the assistance of a curate. At least, it is in a letter written this summer that I find mention of the first of a succession of curates, who henceforward revolved round Haworth Parsonage, and made an impression on the mind of one of its inmates which she has conveyed pretty distinctly to the world. The Haworth curate brought his clerical friends and neighbours about the place, and for a time the incursions of these, near the parsonage tea-time, formed occurrences by which the quietness of the life there was varied, sometimes pleasantly, sometimes disagreeably. The little adventure recorded at the end of the following letter is uncommon in the lot of most women, and is a testimony in this case to the unusual power of attraction--though so plain in feature--which Charlotte possessed, when she let herself go in the happiness and freedom of home.

"August 4th, 1839.

"The Liverpool journey is yet a matter of talk, a sort of castle in
the air; but, between you and me, I fancy it is very doubtful whether
it will ever assume a more solid shape. Aunt--like many other elderly
people--likes to talk of such things; but when it comes to putting
them into actual execution, she rather falls off. Such being the
case, I think you and I had better adhere to our first plan of going
somewhere together independently of other people. I have got leave to
accompany you for a week--at the utmost a fortnight--but no more.
Where do you wish to go? Burlington, I should think, from what M.
says, would be as eligible a place as any. When do you set off?
Arrange all these things according to your convenience; I shall start
no objections. The idea of seeing the sea--of being near it--watching
its changes by sunrise, sunset, moonlight, and noon-day--in calm,
perhaps in storm--fills and satisfies my mind. I shall be
discontented at nothing. And then I am not to be with a set of people
with whom I have nothing in common--who would be nuisances and bores:
but with you, whom I like and know, and who knows me.

"I have an odd circumstance to relate to you: prepare for a hearty
laugh! The other day, Mr. ---, a vicar, came to spend the day with
us, bringing with him his own curate. The latter gentleman, by name
Mr. B., is a young Irish clergyman, fresh from Dublin University. It
was the first time we had any of us seen him, but, however, after the
manner of his countrymen, he soon made himself at home. His character
quickly appeared in his conversation; witty, lively, ardent, clever
too; but deficient in the dignity and discretion of an Englishman. At
home, you know, I talk with ease, and am never shy--never weighed down
and oppressed by that miserable _mauvaise honte_ which torments and
constrains me elsewhere. So I conversed with this Irishman, and
laughed at his jests; and, though I saw faults in his character,
excused them because of the amusement his originality afforded. I
cooled a little, indeed, and drew in towards the latter part of the
evening, because he began to season his conversation with something of
Hibernian flattery, which I did not quite relish. However, they went
away, and no more was thought about them. A few days after, I got a
letter, the direction of which puzzled me, it being in a hand I was
not accustomed to see. Evidently, it was neither from you nor Mary,
my only correspondents. Having opened and read it, it proved to be a
declaration of attachment and proposal of matrimony, expressed in the
ardent language of the sapient young Irishman! I hope you are
laughing heartily. This is not like one of my adventures, is it? It
more nearly resembles Martha's. I am certainly doomed to be an old
maid. Never mind. I made up my mind to that fate ever since I was
twelve years old.

"Well! thought I, I have heard of love at first sight, but this beats
all! I leave you to guess what my answer would be, convinced that you
will not do me the injustice of guessing wrong."

On the 14th of August she still writes from Haworth:--

"I have in vain packed my box, and prepared everything for our
anticipated journey. It so happens that I can get no conveyance this
week or the next. The only gig let out to hire in Haworth, is at
Harrowgate, and likely to remain there, for aught I can hear. Papa
decidedly objects to my going by the coach, and walking to B., though
I am sure I could manage it. Aunt exclaims against the weather, and
the roads, and the four winds of heaven, so I am in a fix, and, what
is worse, so are you. On reading over, for the second or third time,
your last letter (which, by the by, was written in such hieroglyphics
that, at the first hasty perusal, I could hardly make out two
consecutive words), I find you intimate that if I leave this journey
till Thursday I shall be too late. I grieve that I should have so
inconvenienced you; but I need not talk of either Friday or Saturday
now, for I rather imagine there is small chance of my ever going at
all. The elders of the house have never cordially acquiesced in the
measure; and now that impediments seem to start up at every step,
opposition grows more open. Papa, indeed, would willingly indulge me,
but this very kindness of his makes me doubt whether I ought to draw
upon it; so, though I could battle out aunt's discontent, I yield to
papa's indulgence. He does not say so, but I know he would rather I
stayed at home; and aunt meant well too, I dare say, but I am provoked
that she reserved the expression of her decided disapproval till all
was settled between you and myself. Reckon on me no more; leave me
out in your calculations: perhaps I ought, in the beginning, to have
had prudence sufficient to shut my eyes against such a prospect of
pleasure, so as to deny myself the hope of it. Be as angry as you
please with me for disappointing you. I did not intend it, and have
only one thing more to say--if you do not go immediately to the sea,
will you come to see us at Haworth? This invitation is not mine only,
but papa's and aunt's."

However, a little more patience, a little more delay, and she enjoyed the pleasure she had wished for so much. She and her friend went to Easton for a fortnight in the latter part of September. It was here she received her first impressions of the sea.

"Oct. 24th.

"Have you forgotten the sea by this time, E.? Is it grown dim in your
mind? Or can you still see it, dark, blue, and green, and foam-white,
and hear it roaring roughly when the wind is high, or rushing softly
when it is calm? . . . I am as well as need be, and very fat. I think
of Easton very often, and of worthy Mr. H., and his kind-hearted
helpmate, and of our pleasant walks to H--- Wood, and to Boynton, our
merry evenings, our romps with little Hancheon, &c., &c. If we both
live, this period of our lives will long be a theme for pleasant
recollection. Did you chance, in your letter to Mr. H., to mention my
spectacles? I am sadly inconvenienced by the want of them. I can
neither read, write, nor draw with comfort in their absence. I hope
Madame won't refuse to give them up . . . Excuse the brevity of this
letter, for I have been drawing all day, and my eyes are so tired it
is quite a labour to write."

But, as the vivid remembrance of this pleasure died away, an accident occurred to make the actual duties of life press somewhat heavily for a time.

"December 21st, 1839

"We are at present, and have been during the last month, rather busy,
as, for that space of time, we have been without a servant, except a
little girl to run errands. Poor Tabby became so lame that she was at
length obliged to leave us. She is residing with her sister, in a
little house of her own, which she bought with her savings a year or
two since. She is very comfortable, and wants nothing; as she is
near, we see her very often. In the meantime, Emily and I are
sufficiently busy, as you may suppose: I manage the ironing, and keep
the rooms clean; Emily does the baking, and attends to the kitchen. We
are such odd animals, that we prefer this mode of contrivance to
having a new face amongst us. Besides, we do not despair of Tabby's
return, and she shall not be supplanted by a stranger in her absence.
I excited aunt's wrath very much by burning the clothes, the first
time I attempted to iron; but I do better now. Human feelings are
queer things; I am much happier black-leading the stoves, making the
beds, and sweeping the floors at home, than I should be living like a
fine lady anywhere else. I must indeed drop my subscription to the
Jews, because I have no money to keep it up. I ought to have
announced this intention to you before, but I quite forgot I was a
subscriber. I intend to force myself to take another situation when I
can get one, though I _hate_ and _abhor_ the very thoughts of
governess-ship. But I must do it; and, therefore, I heartily wish I
could hear of a family where they need such a commodity as a
governess."