For human nature’s daily food.”
They were quite mistaken, as they would soon have found by living in the same house with her. They would have seen how capable she was of forbearance in trifles, of patience under daily trials, of the careful performance of irksome duties. Her mind was matured so far beyond her years, that a stranger who knew her age and not her circumstances, would have accused her of an affectation of womanishness. It was because she thought and felt like a woman, however, and not because she wished to be thought one, that her manner was that of a woman. It was peculiar, certainly; unlike that of any other girl of her age, which was a disadvantage in some respects; but there was nothing in it which a kind-hearted person would find fault with; it would rather please him. Knowing, as Mary did, that it was probable that their seclusion from female society had left them ignorant of many of the important proprieties of life, she was particularly watchful to obtain all the light she could on a subject of such great practical consequence; and her incessant observation and anxious desire proved excellent teachers. The very nicest sense of propriety grew out of the discipline she imposed on herself, and was now operating rapidly on the faulty external habits of her early years, and from the desire of doing right—a much better motive than the desire of being pleasing—Mary was becoming elegant and lady-like in her dress and appearance. And how went life with Anna all this time? Alas! very differently. She was delicate in health, and weak in spirits: all the instruction, all the discipline which had so remarkably improved her sister, seemed to fall short of its due effect on her. It taught her what was right, and gave her a tormenting, impotent wish to do it; but to do it, she seemed to have no power; and therefore the wish was tormenting. Her time was ill-employed, she could not tell how or why; for she was very sorry for it, and was always ready to own she was wrong, and profuse in her promises that she would mend; but no amendment followed. She presented the singular phenomenon of a strong understanding, which seemed of no use to any body; of a clear knowledge of what was right, which did not prevent her doing wrong; of a lively sympathy for other people’s feelings, which did not prevent her irritating and wounding them perpetually; of a temper gentle and amiable on the whole, but liable to sudden and unaccountable disturbance. It is needless to say that she was not happy, and that she did much to prevent her sister being so. Her father had many an anxious hour on her account, though he still hoped, that as she was so young, she would conquer the irresolution which seemed the origin of all her faults. He did not sufficiently remember that, owing to the peculiarity of their situation, time had done more than remained to be done in deciding the cast of character of his children. He did not enquire sufficiently into the cause of the irresolution of will, which, if he had so enquired, he would not have been so sanguine in the hope of curing: it proceeded from a premature and excessive exercise of the imagination. Whether Anna would, like Mary, prove herself great on great occasions, nobody could decide; but it was evident to every body that she was not great on small occasions. She met with much allowance on account of her health; but more than one who made this just allowance, felt convinced that her delicacy of health was as much the effect as the cause of her faulty state of mind.
Nurse Rickham was perhaps as good a judge of her case, as many a one whose education and intercourse with the superior classes of society might seem to qualify for a more accurate observation and judgment.
“I am glad, sir,” said she one day to Mr. Byerley, “that you are going to take the young ladies out to see the world a little, though I am sure I shall count the weeks till they come back again.”
“Thank you, nurse. I hope they will enjoy themselves; but I shall count the months as anxiously as you. I am not fond of wandering, and I am afraid I shall miss the quiet I have been accustomed to.”
“But you will have the satisfaction, I hope, sir, of seeing that it does the young ladies good to travel, Miss Anna especially. I am sorry to say so, sir; but it makes my heart ache to see her so different from what she used to be.”
He shook his head, and nurse went on:
“Miss Mary sings about the house like a nightingale, for all she is full of care sometimes, as I know; but Miss Anna, who used to be as high-spirited as a child need be, is so downcast now, that no one would think her to be the same.”
“What strikes you as the reason, nurse?”
“She seems to me to think too much: I don’t pretend to know how much she studies from books, and no doubt you look to that, sir; but she seems to me to be always thinking and thinking; and ’tis that hurts her health, I do believe, more than any thing else. When she comes to our farm, I don’t expect or wish that she should play with the children as she did when she was a child herself; but I don’t like to see her stand for hours together, looking up at the tree tops as if she was watching the rooks, when it comes out at last that she never saw one of them, nor thought about them at all.”