I LEFT Horton Lodge, and went
to join my mother in our new
abode at A-. I found her well
in health, resigned in spirit,
and even cheerful, though subdued
and sober, in her general demeanour.
We had only three boarders and
half a dozen day-pupils to commence
with; but by due care and diligence
we hoped ere long to increase
the number of both.
I set myself with befitting
energy to discharge the duties
of this new mode of life. I call
it NEW, for there was, indeed,
a considerable difference between
working with my mother in a school
of our own, and working as a
hireling among strangers, despised
and trampled upon by old and
young; and for the first few
weeks I was by no means unhappy.
'It is possible we may meet again,'
and 'will it be of any consequence
to you whether we do or not?'
- Those words still rang in my
ear and rested on my heart: they
were my secret solace and support.
'I shall see him again. - He
will come; or he will write.'
No promise, in fact, was too
bright or too extravagant for
Hope to whisper in my ear. I
did not believe half of what
she told me: I pretended to laugh
at it all; but I was far more
credulous than I myself supposed;
otherwise, why did my heart leap
up when a knock was heard at
the front door, and the maid,
who opened it, came to tell my
mother a gentleman wished to
see her? and why was I out of
humour for the rest of the day,
because it proved to be a music-master
come to offer his services to
our school? and what stopped
my breath for a moment, when
the postman having brought a
couple of letters, my mother
said, 'Here, Agnes, this is for
you,' and threw one of them to
me? and what made the hot blood
rush into my face when I saw
it was directed in a gentleman's
hand? and why - oh! why did that
cold, sickening sense of disappointment
fall upon me, when I had torn
open the cover and found it was
ONLY a letter from Mary, which,
for some reason or other, her
husband had directed for her?
Was it then come to this -
that I should be DISAPPOINTED
to receive a letter from my only
sister: and because it was not
written by a comparative stranger?
Dear Mary! and she had written
it so kindly - and thinking I
should be so pleased to have
it! - I was not worthy to read
it! And I believe, in my indignation
against myself, I should have
put it aside till I had schooled
myself into a better frame of
mind, and was become more deserving
of the honour and privilege of
its perusal: but there was my
mother looking on, and wishful
to know what news it contained;
so I read it and delivered it
to her, and then went into the
schoolroom to attend to the pupils:
but amidst the cares of copies
and sums - in the intervals of
correcting errors here, and reproving
derelictions of duty there, I
was inwardly taking myself to
task with far sterner severity.
'What a fool you must be,' said
my head to my heart, or my sterner
to my softer self; - 'how could
you ever dream that he would
write to you? What grounds have
you for such a hope - or that
he will see you, or give himself
any trouble about you - or even
think of you again?' 'What grounds?'
- and then Hope set before me
that last, short interview, and
repeated the words I had so faithfully
treasured in my memory. 'Well,
and what was there in that? -
Who ever hung his hopes upon
so frail a twig? What was there
in those words that any common
acquaintance might not say to
another? Of course, it was possible
you might meet again: he might
have said so if you had been
going to New Zealand; but that
did not imply any INTENTION of
seeing you - and then, as to
the question that followed, anyone
might ask that: and how did you
answer? - Merely with a stupid,
commonplace reply, such as you
would have given to Master Murray,
or anyone else you had been on
tolerably civil terms with.'
'But, then,' persisted Hope,
'the tone and manner in which
he spoke.' 'Oh, that is nonsense!
he always speaks impressively;
and at that moment there were
the Greens and Miss Matilda Murray
just before, and other people
passing by, and he was obliged
to stand close beside you, and
to speak very low, unless he
wished everybody to hear what
he said, which - though it was
nothing at all particular - of
course, he would rather not.'
But then, above all, that emphatic,
yet gentle pressure of the hand,
which seemed to say, 'TRUST me;'
and many other things besides
- too delightful, almost too
flattering, to be repeated even
to one's self. 'Egregious folly
- too absurd to require contradiction
- mere inventions of the imagination,
which you ought to be ashamed
of. If you would but consider
your own unattractive exterior,
your unamiable reserve, your
foolish diffidence - which must
make you appear cold, dull, awkward,
and perhaps ill-tempered too;
- if you had but rightly considered
these from the beginning, you
would never have harboured such
presumptuous thoughts: and now
that you have been so foolish,
pray repent and amend, and let
us have no more of it!'
I cannot say that I implicitly
obeyed my own injunctions: but
such reasoning as this became
more and more effective as time
wore on, and nothing was seen
or heard of Mr. Weston; until,
at last, I gave up hoping, for
even my heart acknowledged it
was all in vain. But still, I
would think of him: I would cherish
his image in my mind; and treasure
every word, look, and gesture
that my memory could retain;
and brood over his excellences
and his peculiarities, and, in
fact, all I had seen, heard,
or imagined respecting him.
'Agnes, this sea air and change
of scene do you no good, I think:
I never saw you look so wretched.
It must be that you sit too much,
and allow the cares of the schoolroom
to worry you. You must learn
to take things easy, and to be
more active and cheerful; you
must take exercise whenever you
can get it, and leave the most
tiresome duties to me: they will
only serve to exercise my patience,
and, perhaps, try my temper a
little.'
So said my mother, as we sat
at work one morning during the
Easter holidays. I assured her
that my employments were not
at all oppressive; that I was
well; or, if there was anything
amiss, it would be gone as soon
as the trying months of spring
were over: when summer came I
should be as strong and hearty
as she could wish to see me:
but inwardly her observation
startled me. I knew my strength
was declining, my appetite had
failed, and I was grown listless
and desponding; - and if, indeed,
he could never care for me, and
I could never see him more -
if I was forbidden to minister
to his happiness - forbidden,
for ever, to taste the joys of
love, to bless, and to be blessed
- then, life must be a burden,
and if my heavenly Father would
call me away, I should be glad
to rest. But it would not do
to die and leave my mother. Selfish,
unworthy daughter, to forget
her for a moment! Was not her
happiness committed in a great
measure to my charge? - and the
welfare of our young pupils too?
Should I shrink from the work
that God had set before me, because
it was not fitted to my taste?
Did not He know best what I should
do, and where I ought to labour?
- and should I long to quit His
service before I had finished
my task, and expect to enter
into His rest without having
laboured to earn it? 'No; by
His help I will arise and address
myself diligently to my appointed
duty. If happiness in this world
is not for me, I will endeavour
to promote the welfare of those
around me, and my reward shall
be hereafter.' So said I in my
heart; and from that hour I only
permitted my thoughts to wander
to Edward Weston - or at least
to dwell upon him now and then
- as a treat for rare occasions:
and, whether it was really the
approach of summer or the effect
of these good resolutions, or
the lapse of time, or all together,
tranquillity of mind was soon
restored; and bodily health and
vigour began likewise, slowly,
but surely, to return.
Early in June,
I received a letter from Lady
Ashby, late
Miss Murray. She had written
to me twice or thrice before,
from the different stages of
her bridal tour, always in good
spirits, and professing to be
very happy. I wondered every
time that she had not forgotten
me, in the midst of so much gaiety
and variety of scene. At length,
however, there was a pause; and
it seemed she had forgotten me,
for upwards of seven months passed
away and no letter. Of course,
I did not break my heart about
THAT, though I often wondered
how she was getting on; and when
this last epistle so unexpectedly
arrived, I was glad enough to
receive it. It was dated from
Ashby Park, where she was come
to settle down at last, having
previously divided her time between
the continent and the metropolis.
She made many apologies for having
neglected me so long, assured
me she had not forgotten me,
and had often intended to write, &c. &c.,
but had always been prevented
by something. She acknowledged
that she had been leading a very
dissipated life, and I should
think her very wicked and very
thoughtless; but, notwithstanding
that, she thought a great deal,
and, among other things, that
she should vastly like to see
me. 'We have been several days
here already,' wrote she. 'We
have not a single friend with
us, and are likely to be very
dull. You know I never had a
fancy for living with my husband
like two turtles in a nest, were
he the most delightful creature
that ever wore a coat; so do
take pity upon me and come. I
suppose your Midsummer holidays
commence in June, the same as
other people's; therefore you
cannot plead want of time; and
you must and shall come - in
fact, I shall die if you don't.
I want you to visit me as a friend,
and stay a long time. There is
nobody with me, as I told you
before, but Sir Thomas and old
Lady Ashby: but you needn't mind
them - they'll trouble us but
little with their company. And
you shall have a room to yourself,
whenever you like to retire to
it, and plenty of books to read
when my company is not sufficiently
amusing. I forget whether you
like babies; if you do, you may
have the pleasure of seeing mine
- the most charming child in
the world, no doubt; and all
the more so, that I am not troubled
with nursing it - I was determined
I wouldn't be bothered with that.
Unfortunately, it is a girl,
and Sir Thomas has never forgiven
me: but, however, if you will
only come, I promise you shall
be its governess as soon as it
can speak; and you shall bring
it up in the way it should go,
and make a better woman of it
than its mamma. And you shall
see my poodle, too: a splendid
little charmer imported from
Paris: and two fine Italian paintings
of great value - I forget the
artist. Doubtless you will be
able to discover prodigious beauties
in them, which you must point
out to me, as I only admire by
hearsay; and many elegant curiosities
besides, which I purchased at
Rome and elsewhere; and, finally,
you shall see my new home - the
splendid house and grounds I
used to covet so greatly. Alas!
how far the promise of anticipation
exceeds the pleasure of possession!
There's a fine sentiment! I assure
you I am become quite a grave
old matron: pray come, if it
be only to witness the wonderful
change. Write by return of post,
and tell me when your vacation
commences, and say that you will
come the day after, and stay
till the day before it closes
- in mercy to
'Yours affectionately,
'ROSALIE ASHBY.'
I showed this strange epistle
to my mother, and consulted her
on what I ought to do. She advised
me to go; and I went - willing
enough to see Lady Ashby, and
her baby, too, and to do anything
I could to benefit her, by consolation
or advice; for I imagined she
must be unhappy, or she would
not have applied to me thus -
but feeling, as may readily be
conceived, that, in accepting
the invitation, I made a great
sacrifice for her, and did violence
to my feelings in many ways,
instead of being delighted with
the honourable distinction of
being entreated by the baronet's
lady to visit her as a friend.
However, I determined my visit
should be only for a few days
at most; and I will not deny
that I derived some consolation
from the idea that, as Ashby
Park was not very far from Horton,
I might possibly see Mr. Weston,
or, at least, hear something
about him.
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