The Parsonage Again 8 page

But alas! that very morning, my flickering flame of hope was dismally quenched by a letter from my mother, which spoke so seriously of my father’s increasing illness, that I feared there was little or no chance of his recovery; and, close at hand as the holidays were, I almost trembled lest they should come too late for me to meet him in this world. Two days after, a letter from Mary told me his life was despaired of, and his end seemed fast approaching.

Then, immediately, I sought permission to anticipate the vacation, and go without delay.

Mrs. Murray stared, and wondered at the unwonted energy and boldness with which I urged the request, and thought there was no occasion to hurry; but finally gave me leave, stating, however, that there was “no need to be in such agitation about the matter—it might prove a false alarm after all; and if not—why, it was only in the common course of nature; we must all die sometime; and I was not to suppose myself the only afflicted person in the world;” and concluding with saying I might have the phaeton to take me to 0——.

“And instead of repining, Miss Grey, be thankful for the privileges you enjoy. There’s many a poor clergyman whose family would be plunged into ruin by the events of his death; but you, you see, have influential friends ready to continue their patronage, and to show you every consideration.”

I thanked her for her “consideration,” and flew to my room to make some hurried preparations for my departure. My bonnet and shawl being on, and a few things hastily crammed into my largest trunk, I descended. But I might have done the work more leisurely, for no one else was in a hurry; and I had still a considerable time to wait for the phaeton.

At length it came to the door, and I was off; but oh, what a dreary journey was that! how utterly different from my former passages homewards!

Being too late for the last coach to—, I had to hire a cab for ten miles, and then a car to take me over the rugged hills.¹ It was half-past ten before I reached home. They were not in bed.

My mother and sister both met me in the passage—sad—silent—pale! I was so much shocked and terror-stricken I could not speak to ask the information I so much longed yet dreaded to obtain.

“Agnes,” said my mother, struggling to repress some strong emotion.

“Oh, Agnes!” cried Mary, and burst into tears.

“How is he?” I asked, gasping for the answer.

“Dead!”

It was the reply I had anticipated; but the shock seemed none the less tremendous.

CHAPTER XIX

The Letter

My father’s mortal remains had been consigned to the tomb; and we, with sad faces and sombre garments, sat lingering over the frugal breakfast-table, revolving plans for our future life.

My mother’s strong mind had not given way beneath even this affliction: her spirit, though crushed, was not broken. Mary’s wish was that I should go back to Horton Lodge, and that our mother should come and live with her and Mr. Richardson at the vicarage: she affirmed that he wished it no less than herself, and that such an arrangement could not fail to benefit all parties, for my mother’s society and experience would be of inestimable value to them, and they would do all they could to make her happy. But no arguments or entreaties could prevail: my mother was determined not to go; not that she questioned, for a moment, the kind wishes and intentions of her daughter; but she affirmed that so long as God spared her health and strength, she would make use of them to earn her own livelihood, and be chargeable to no one, whether her dependence would be felt as a burden or not. If she could afford to reside as a lodger in——vicarage, she would choose that house before all others as the place of her abode; but, not being so circumstanced, she would never come under its roof, except as an occasional visiter, unless sickness or calamity should render her assistance really needful, or until age or infirmity made her incapable of maintaining herself.

“No Mary,” said she, “if Richardson and you have anything to spare, you must lay it aside for your family; and Agnes and I must gather honey for ourselves. Thanks to my having had daughters to educate, I have not forgotten my accomplishments ... God willing I will check this vain repining,”—she said, while the tears coursed one another down her cheeks in spite of her efforts; but she wiped them away, and resolutely shaking back her head, continued, “I will exert myself and look out for a small house commodiously situated in some populous but healthy district, where we will take a few young ladies to board and educate—if we can get them—and as many day-pupils as will come, or as we can manage to instruct. Your father’s relations and old friends will be able to send us some pupils or to assist us with their recommendations no doubt: I shall not apply to my own. What say you to it Agnes—will you be willing to leave your present situation and try?”¹

“Quite willing mamma; and the money I have saved will do to furnish the house. It shall be taken from the bank directly.”

“When it is wanted; we must get the house, and settle all preliminaries first.”

Mary offered to lend the little she possessed; but my mother declined it, saying that we must begin on an economical plan, and she hoped that the whole or part of mine added to what we could get by the sale of the furniture, and what little our dear papa had contrived to lay aside for her since the debts were paid, would be sufficient to last us till Christmas, when it was hoped, something would accrue from our united labours.

It was finally settled that this should be our plan; and that inquiries and preparations should immediately be set on foot; and while my mother busied herself with these, I should return to Horton Lodge at the close of my four weeks’ vacation, and give notice for my final departure when things were in train for the speedy commencement of our school.

We were discussing these affairs on the morning I have mentioned, about a fortnight after my father’s death, when a letter was brought in for my mother, on beholding which the colour mounted to her face—lately pale enough with anxious watchings and excessive sorrow.

“From my father!” murmured she, as she hastily tore off the cover.

It was many years since she had heard from any of her own relations before. Naturally wondering what the letter might contain, I watched her countenance while she read it, and was somewhat surprised to see her bite her lip and knit her brows as if in anger. When she had done, she somewhat irreverently, cast it on the table, saying with a scornful smile,

“Your grandpapa has been so kind as to write to me. He says he has no doubt I have long repented of my ‘unfortunate marriage,’ and if I will only acknowledge this, and confess I was wrong in neglecting his advice, and that I have justly suffered for it, he will make a lady of me once again—if that be possible after my long degradation—and remember my girls in his will. Get my desk^cc Agnes and send these things away—I will answer the letter directly—but first as I may be depriving you both of a legacy, it is just that I should tell you what I mean to say.

“I shall say that he is mistaken in supposing that I can regret the birth of my daughters, (who have been the pride of my life, and are likely to be the comfort of my old age,) or the thirty years I have passed in the company of my best and dearest friend;—that, had our misfortunes been three times as great as they were, (unless they had been my bringing on,) I should still the more rejoice to have shared them with your father, and administered what consolation I was able; and, had his sufferings in illness been ten times what they were, I could not regret having watched over and laboured to relieve them—that, if he had married a richer wife, misfortunes and trials would no doubt have come upon him still, while—I am an egotist enough to imagine that no other woman could have cheered him through them so well—not that I am superior to the rest, but I was made for him, and he for me; and I can no more repent the hours—days—years of happiness we have spent together, and which neither could have had without the other, than I can the privilege of having been his nurse in sickness, and his comfort in affliction.

“Will this do, children?—or shall I say we are all very sorry for what has happened during the last thirty years; and my daughters wish they had never been born; but since they have had that misfortune, they will be thankful for any trifle their grandpapa will be kind enough to bestow?”

Of course, we both applauded our mother’s resolution; Mary cleared away the breakfast things; I brought the desk; the letter was quickly written and despatched; and, from that day, we heard no more of our grandfather till we saw his death announced in the newspaper a considerable time after—all his worldly possessions, of course, being left to our wealthy, unknown cousins.

CHAPTER XX

The Farewell

A house in A——, the fashionable watering place,¹ was hired for our seminary; and a promise of two or three pupils was obtained to commence with. I returned to Horton Lodge about the middle of July, leaving my mother to conclude the bargain for the house, to obtain more pupils, to sell off the furniture of our old abode, and to fit out the new one.

We often pity the poor, because they have no leisure to mourn their departed relatives, and necessity obliges them to labour through their severest afflictions; but is not active employment the best remedy for overwhelming sorrow ... the surest antidote for despair? It may be a rough comforter: it may seem hard to be harassed with the cares of life when we have no relish for its enjoyments, to be goaded to labour when the heart is ready to break, and the vexed spirit implores for rest only to weep in silence; but is not labour better than the rest we covet? and are not those petty, tormenting cares less hurtful than a continual brooding over the great affliction that oppresses us?—Besides, we cannot have cares, and anxieties, and toil, without hope—if it be but the hope of fulfilling our joyless task, accomplishing some needful project, or escaping some further annoyance.

At any rate, I was glad my mother had so much employment for every faculty of her action-loving frame. Our kind neighbours lamented that she, once so exalted in wealth and station, should be reduced to such extremity in her time of sorrow; but I am persuaded that she would have suffered thrice as much had she been left in affluence, with liberty to remain in that house, the scene of her early happiness and late affliction, and no stern necessity to prevent her from incessantly brooding over, and lamenting her bereavement.

I will not dilate upon the feelings with which I left the old house, the well-known garden, the little village church—then doubly dear to me, because my father, who for thirty years had taught and prayed within its walls lay slumbering now beneath its nags—and the old bare hills, delightful in their very desolation, with the narrow vales, between, smiling in green wood and sparkling water—the house where I was born, the scene of all my early associations, the place where, throughout life, my earthly affections had been centred;—and left them to return no more! True, I was going back to Horton Lodge where, amid many evils, one source of pleasure yet remained; but it was pleasure mingled with excessive pain, and my stay, alas! was limited to six weeks.

And even of that precious time, day after day slipped by and I did not see him:—except at church, I never saw him for a fortnight after my return. It seemed a long time to me: and, as I was often out with my rambling pupil, of course hopes would keep rising, and disappointments would ensue; and then I would say to my own heart, “Here is a convincing proof—if you would but have the sense to see it, or the candour to acknowledge it—that he does not care for you. If he only thought half as much about you, as you do about him, he would have contrived to meet you many times ere this—you must know that by consulting your own feelings. Therefore have done with this nonsense; you have no ground for hope; dismiss, at once, these hurtful thoughts and foolish wishes from your mind and turn to your own duty and the dull, blank life that lies before you. You might have known such happiness was not for you.”

But I saw him at last. He came suddenly upon me as I was crossing a field in returning from a visit to Nancy Brown, which I had taken the opportunity of paying while Matilda Murray was riding her matchless mare.

He must have heard of the heavy loss I had sustained; he expressed no sympathy, offered no condolence, but almost the first words he uttered were, “How is your mother?” and this was no matter of course question, for I never told him that I had a mother, he must have learnt the fact from others, if he knew it at all—and besides, there was sincere goodwill, and even deep, touching, unobtrusive sympathy in the tone and manner of the inquiry.

I thanked him with due civility, and told him she was as well as could be expected.

“What will she do?” was the next question. Many would have deemed it an impertinent one, and given an evasive reply; but such an idea never entered my head, and I gave a brief, but plain statement of my mother’s plans and prospects.

“Then you will leave this place shortly?” said he.

“Yes, in a month.”

He paused a minute, as if in thought. When he spoke again I hoped it would be to express his concern at my departure; but it was only to say,

“I should think you will be willing enough to go?”

“Yes—for some things,” I replied.

“For some things only—I wonder what should make you regret it!”

I was annoyed at this, in some degree because it embarrassed me; I had only one reason for regretting it; and that was a profound secret, which he had no business to trouble me about.

“Why,” said I—“why should you suppose that I dislike the place?”

“You told me so yourself,” was the decisive reply. “You said, at least, that you could not live contentedly without a friend; and that you had no friend here, and no possibility of making one—and besides, I know you must dislike it.”

“But, if you remember rightly, I said—or meant to say, I could not live contentedly without a friend in the world: I was not so unreasonable as to require one always near me. I think I could be happy in a house full of enemies if—” but no; that sentence must not be continued—I paused, and hastily added, “And besides, we cannot well leave a place where we have lived for two or three years, without some feeling of regret.”

“Will you regret to part with Miss Murray ... your sole remaining pupil and companion?”

“I dare say I shall in some degree—it was not without sorrow I parted with her sister.”

“I can imagine that.”

“Well, Miss Matilda is quite as good . . . better in one respect.”

“What is that?”

“She’s honest.”

“And the other is not?”

“I should not call her dishonest; but it must be confessed, she’s a little artful.”

“Artful is she?—I saw she was giddy and vain—and now,” he added, after a pause, “I can well believe she was artful too, but so excessively so as to assume an aspect of extreme simplicity and unguarded openness. Yes,” continued he musingly, “that accounts for some little things that puzzled me a trifle before.”

After that, he turned the conversation to more general subjects. He did not leave me till we had nearly reached the park-gates: he had certainly stepped a little out of his way to accompany me so far, for he now went back and disappeared down Moss-lane, the entrance of which we had passed some time before. Assuredly, I did not regret this circumstance: if sorrow had any place in my heart, it was that he was gone at last . . . that he was no longer walking by my side, and that short interval of delightful intercourse was at an end. He had not breathed a word of love, or dropped one hint of tenderness or affection, and yet I had been supremely happy. To be near him, to hear him talk . . . as he did talk; and to feel that he thought me worthy to be so spoken to ... capable of understanding and duly appreciating such discourse ... was enough.

“Yes Edward Weston, I could indeed be happy in a house full of enemies, if I had but one friend who truly, deeply, and faithfully loved me, and if that friend were you-though we might be far apart ... seldom to hear from each other, still more seldom to meet ... though toil, and trouble, and vexation might surround me, still ... it would be too much happiness for me to dream of! Yet who can tell,” said I within myself, as I proceeded up the park, “who can tell what this one month may bring forth? I have lived nearly three and twenty years, and I have suffered much, and tasted little pleasure yet: is it likely my life all through will be so clouded? Is it not possible that God may hear my prayers, disperse these gloomy shadows, and grant me some beams of Heaven’s sunshine yet? Will He entirely deny to me those blessings which are so freely given to others, who neither ask them nor acknowledge them when received? May I not still hope and trust?”

I did hope and trust—for a while; but alas, alas! The time ebbed away; one week followed another, and, excepting one distant glimpse, and two transient meetings—during which scarcely anything was said—while I was walking with Miss Matilda, I saw nothing of him—except, of course, at church.

And now, the last Sunday was come, and the last service. I was often on the point of melting into tears during the sermon—the last I was to hear from him . . . the best, I should hear from any one, I was well assured. It was over ... the congregation were departing; and I must follow ... I had then seen him and heard his voice, too probably for the last time.

In the church-yard, Matilda was pounced upon by the two Misses Green. They had many inquiries to make about her sister, and I know not what besides. I only wished they would have done, that we might hasten back to Horton Lodge: I longed to seek the retirement of my own room, or some sequestered nook in the grounds, that I might deliver myself up to my feelings to weep my last farewell, and lament my false hopes and vain delusions ... only this once and then adieu to fruitless dreaming ... thenceforth, only sober, solid, sad reality should occupy my mind; but while I thus resolved, a low voice close beside me, said,

“I suppose you are going this week, Miss Grey?”

“Yes,” I replied. I was very much startled; and had I been at all hysterically inclined, I certainly should have committed myself in some way then. Thank God I was not.

“Well,” said Mr. Weston, “I want to bid you good-bye ... it is not likely I shall see you again before you go.”

“Good-bye Mr. Weston,” I said ... Oh, how I struggled to say it calmly! I gave him my hand. He retained it a few seconds in his.

“It is possible we may meet again,” said he, “will it be of any consequence to you whether we do or not?”

“Yes, I should be very glad to see you again.”

I could say no less. He kindly pressed my hand, and went. Now I was happy again ... though more inclined to burst into tears than ever. If I had been forced to speak at that moment, a succession of sobs would have inevitably ensued; and as it was, I could not keep the water out of my eyes. I walked along with Miss Murray, turning aside my face and neglecting to notice several successive remarks, till she bawled out I was either deaf or stupid, and then, (having recovered my self-possession) as one awakened from a fit of abstraction, I suddenly looked up and asked what she had been saying.

CHAPTER XXI

The School

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 school-room 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, any one might ask that; and how did you answer? —Merely with a stupid, common place reply, such as you would have given to Master Murray, or any one 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 school-room 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.”¹

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.^cd 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 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.

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 540