The Parsonage Again 10 page

Refreshed, delighted, invigorated, I walked along, forgetting all my cares, feeling as if I had wings to my feet, and could go at least forty miles without fatigue, and experiencing a sense of exhilaration to which I had been an entire stranger since the days of early youth. About half past six however, the grooms began to come down to air their masters’ horses—first one, and then another, till there were some dozen horses and five or six riders; but that need not trouble me, for they would not come as far as the low rocks which I was now approaching. When I had reached these, and walked over the moist, slippery sea-weed (at the risk of floundering into one of the numerous pools of clear, salt water that lay between them,) to a little mossy promontory with the sea splashing round it, I looked back again to see who next was stirring. Still, there were only the early grooms with their horses, and one gentleman with a little dark speck of a dog running before him, and one water-cart coming out of the town to get water for the baths. In another minute or two, the distant bathing machines^ck would begin to move: and then the elderly gentlemen, of regular habits, and sober quaker ladies would be coming to take their salutary morning walks. But however interesting such a scene might be, I could not wait to witness it, for the sun and the sea so dazzled my eyes in that direction, that I could but afford one glance; and then I turned again to delight myself with the sight and the sound of the sea dashing against my promontory—with no prodigious force, for the swell was broken by the tangled sea-weed and the unseen rocks beneath; otherwise I should soon have been deluged with spray.

But the tide was coming in; the water was rising; the gulfs and lakes were filling; the straits were widening: it was time to seek some safer footing; so I walked, skipped, and stumbled back to the smooth, wide sands, and resolved to proceed to a certain bold projection in the cliffs, and then return.

Presently, I heard a snuffling sound behind me, and then a dog came frisking and wriggling to my feet. It was my own Snap—the little dark, wire-haired terrier! When I spoke his name, he leapt up in my face, and yelled for joy.

Almost as much delighted as himself, I caught the little creature in my arms, and kissed him repeatedly. But how came he to be there? He could not have dropped from the sky, or come all that way alone: it must be either his master, the rat-catcher, or somebody else that had brought him; so, repressing my extravagant caresses, and endeavouring to repress his likewise, I looked round, and beheld—Mr. Weston!

“Your dog remembers you well, Miss Grey,” said he, warmly grasping the hand I offered him without clearly knowing what I was about.

“You rise early.”

“Not often so early as this,” I replied, with amazing composure, considering all the circumstances of the case.

“How far do you purpose to extend your walk?”

“I was thinking of returning—it must be almost time, I think.”

He consulted his watch—a gold one now²—and told me that it was only five minutes past seven.

“But doubtless, you have had a long enough walk,” said he, turning towards the town, to which I now proceeded leisurely to retrace my steps; and he walked beside me.

“In what part of the town do you live?” asked he. “I never could discover.”

Never could discover? Had he endeavoured to do so then? I told him the place of our abode.

He asked how we prospered in our affairs; I told him we were doing very well,—that we had had a considerable addition to our pupils after the Christmas vacation, and expected a still further increase at the close of this.

“You must be an accomplished instructor,” he observed.

“No, it is my mother,” I replied, “she manages things so well, and is so active, and clever, and kind.”

“I should like to know your mother—Will you introduce me to her sometime if I call?”

“Yes, willingly.”

“And will you allow me the privilege of an old friend, of looking in upon you now and then?”

“Yes, if—I suppose so.”

This was a very foolish answer, but the truth was, I considered that I had no right to invite any one to my mother’s house without her knowledge; and if I had said, “yes, if my mother does not object,” it would appear as if, by his question, I understood more than was expected, so, supposing she would not, I added, “I suppose so,” but of course I should have said something more sensible and more polite if I had had my wits about me. We continued our walk for a minute in silence, which, however, was shortly relieved, (no small relief to me,) by Mr. Weston commenting upon the brightness of the morning, and the beauty of the bay, and then, upon the advantages A—possessed over many other fashionable places of resort.

“You don’t ask what brings me to A—,” said he. “You can’t suppose I’m rich enough to come for my own pleasure.”

“I heard you had left Horton.”

“You didn’t hear then, that I had got the living of F—?”³

F—was a village about two miles distant from A—.

“No,” said I; “we live so completely out of the world, even here, that news seldom reaches me from any quarter—except through the medium of the—Gazette. But I hope you like your new parish; and that I may congratulate you on the acquisition?”

“I expect to like my parish better a year or two hence, when I have worked certain reforms I have set my heart upon—or, at least, progressed some steps towards such an achievement; but you may congratulate me, now, for I find it very agreeable to have a parish all to myself with nobody to interfere with me—to thwart my plans or cripple my exertions; and besides, I have a respectable house in a rather pleasant neighbourhood, and three hundred pounds a year; and, in fact, I have nothing but solitude to complain of; and nothing but a companion to wish for.”

He looked at me as he concluded; and the flash of his dark eyes seemed to set my face on fire, greatly to my own disconcertion, for to evince confusion at such a juncture was intolerable.

I made an effort, therefore, to remedy the evil, and disclaim all personal application of the remark, by a hasty, ill-expressed reply to the effect that, if he waited till he was well known in the neighbourhood, he might have numerous opportunities for supplying his want among the residents of F—, and its vicinity, or the visiters of A—, if he required so ample a choice; not considering the compliment implied by such an assertion, till his answer made me aware of it.

“I am not so presumptuous as to believe that,” said he, “though you tell it me; but if it were so—I am rather particular in my notions of a companion for life, and perhaps I might not find one to suit me among the ladies you mention.”

“If you require perfection, you never will.”

“I do not—I have no right to, as being so far from perfect myself.”

Here the conversation was interrupted by a water-cart lumbering past us, for we were now come to the busy part of the sands; and, for the next eight or ten minutes, between carts and horses, and asses, and men, there was little room for social intercourse, till we had turned our backs upon the sea, and begun to ascend the precipitous road leading into the town. Here my companion offered me his arm, which I accepted, though not with the intention of using it as a support.

“You don’t often come on to the sands, I think,” said he, “for I have walked there many times, both morning and evening, since I came, and never seen you till now; and several times, in passing through the town, too, I have looked about for your school—but I did not think of the—road; and once or twice I made inquiries—but without obtaining the requisite information.”

When we had surmounted the acclivity, I was about to withdraw my arm from his, but by a slight tightening of the elbow was tacitly informed that such was not his will, and accordingly desisted.

Discoursing on different subjects, we entered the town, and passed through several streets; I saw that he was going out of his way to accompany me, notwithstanding the long walk that was yet before him; and, fearing that he might be inconveniencing himself from motives of politeness, I observed—

“I fear I am taking you out of your way, Mr. Weston—I believe the road to F—lies quite in another direction.”

“I’ll leave you at the end of the next street,” said he.

“And when will you come to see mamma?”

“To-morrow—God willing.”

The end of the next street was nearly the conclusion of my journey. He stopped there, however, bid me good morning, and called Snap who seemed a little doubtful whether to follow his old mistress or his new master, but trotted away upon being summoned by the latter.

“I won’t offer to restore him to you, Miss Grey,” said Mr. Weston, smiling, “because I like him.”

“Oh, I don’t want him,” replied I; “now that he has a good master, I’m quite satisfied.”

“You take it for granted that I am a good one then?”

The man and the dog departed, and I returned home, full of gratitude to Heaven for so much bliss, and praying that my hopes might not again be crushed.

CHAPTER XXV

Conclusion

Well, Agnes, you must not take such long walks again before breakfast,” said my mother, observing that I drank an extra cup of coffee and ate nothing—pleading the heat of the weather, and the fatigue of my long walk as an excuse.

I certainly did feel feverish, and tired too.

“You always do things by extremes: now, if you had taken a short walk every morning, and would continue to do so, it would do you good.”

“Well, mamma, I will.”

“But this is worse than lying in bed, or bending over your books; you have quite put yourself into a fever.”

“I won’t do it again,” said I.

I was racking my brains with thinking how to tell her about Mr. Weston, for she must know he was coming to-morrow. However, I waited till the breakfast things were removed, and I was more calm and cool; and then, having sat down to my drawing, I began—

“I met an old friend on the sands to-day, mamma.”

“An old friend! Who could it be?”

“Two old friends indeed. One was a dog,” and then I reminded her of Snap whose history I had recounted before, and related the incident of his sudden appearance and remarkable recognition, “and the other,” continued I, “was Mr. Weston, the Curate of Horton.”

“Mr. Weston! I never heard of him before.”

“Yes, you have: I’ve mentioned him several times, I believe, but you don’t remember.”

“I’ve heard you speak of Mr. Hatfield.”

“Mr. Hatfield was the rector, and Mr. Weston the curate; I used to mention him sometimes in contradistinction to Mr. Hatfield, as being a more efficient clergyman. However, he was on the sands this morning with the dog—he had bought it, I suppose, from the rat-catcher; and he knew me as well as it did—probably through its means; and I had a little conversation with him, in the course of which, as he asked about our school, I was led to say something about you and your good management; and he said he should like to know you, and asked if I would introduce him to you, if he should take the liberty of calling to-morrow, so I said I would. Was I right?”

“Of course. What kind of man is he?”

“A very respectable man, I think; but you will see him to-morrow. He is the new vicar of F—, and as he has only been there a few weeks, I suppose he has made no friends yet, and wants a little society.”

The morrow came. What a fever of anxiety and expectation I was in from breakfast till noon—at which time he made his appearance.

Having introduced him to my mother, I took my work to the window, and sat down to await the result of the interview.

They got on extremely well together, greatly to my satisfaction, for I had felt very anxious about what my mother would think of him. He did not stay long that time; but when he rose to take leave, she said she should be happy to see him, whenever he might find it convenient to call again; and when he was gone, I was gratified by hearing her say,—

“Well! I think he’s a very sensible man. But why did you sit back there, Agnes,” she added, “and talk so little?”

“Because you talked so well, mamma, I thought you required no assistance from me; and, besides, he was your visiter, not mine.”

After that, he often called upon us—several times in the course of a week. He generally addressed most of his conversation to my mother; and no wonder, for she could converse. I almost envied the unfettered, vigorous fluency of her discourse, and the strong sense evinced by everything she said—and yet, I did not, for though I occasionally regretted my own deficiencies for his sake, it gave me very great pleasure to sit and hear the two beings, I loved and honoured above every one else in the world, discoursing together so amicably, so wisely, and so well.

I was not always silent, however; nor was I at all neglected. I was quite as much noticed as I would wish to be: there was no lack of kind words and kinder looks, no end of delicate attentions, too fine and subtle to be grasped by words, and, therefore, indescribable—but deeply felt at heart.

Ceremony was quickly dropped between us, Mr. Weston came as an expected guest, welcome at all times, and never deranging the economy of our household affairs. He even called me “Agnes;” the name had been timidly spoken at first, but, finding it gave no offence in any quarter, he seemed greatly to prefer that appellation to “Miss Grey,” and so did I.¹

How tedious and gloomy were those days in which he did not come! and yet not miserable, for I had still the remembrance of the last visit and the hope of the next to cheer me. But when two or three days passed without my seeing him, I certainly felt very anxious—absurdly, unreasonably so, for, of course, he had his own business and the affairs of his parish to attend to: and I dreaded the close of the holidays, when my business also would begin, and I should be sometimes unable to see him, and sometimes ... when my mother was in the school-room ... obliged to be with him alone, a position I did not at all desire ... in the house, though to meet him out of doors, and walk beside him had proved by no means disagreeable.

One evening, however, in the last week of the vacation, he arrived—unexpectedly, for a heavy and protracted thunder-shower during the afternoon had almost destroyed my hopes of seeing him that day; but now the storm was over, and the sun was shining brightly.

“A beautiful evening, Miss Grey!” said he, as he entered. “Agnes, I want you to take a walk with me to” (he named a certain part of the coast ... a bold hill on the land side, and towards the sea, a steep precipice, from the summit of which a glorious view is to be had.) “The rain has laid the dust, and cooled and cleared the air, and the prospect will be magnificent. Will you come?”

“Can I go, mamma?”

“Yes, to be sure.”

I went to get ready, and was down again in a few minutes, though, of course, I took a little more pains with my attire than if I had merely been going out on some shopping expedition alone.

The thunder-shower had certainly had a most beneficial effect upon the weather, and the evening was most delightful. Mr. Weston would have me to take his arm: he said little during our passage through the crowded streets, but walked very fast, and appeared grave and abstracted.

I wondered what was the matter, and felt an indefinite dread that something unpleasant was on his mind; and vague surmises, concerning what it might be, troubled me not a little, and made me grave and silent enough. But these fantasies vanished upon reaching the quiet outskirts of the town, for as soon as we came within sight of the venerable old church, and the—hill, with the deep blue sea beyond it, I found my companion was cheerful enough.

“I’m afraid I’ve been walking too fast for you, Agnes,” said he; “in my impatience to be rid of the town, I forgot to consult your convenience; but now, we’ll walk as slowly as you please: I see, by those light clouds in the west, there will be a brilliant sunset, and we shall be in time to witness its effect upon the sea, at the most moderate rate of progression.”

When we had got about half way up the hill, we fell into silence again, which, as usual, he was the first to break.

“My house is desolate yet, Miss Grey,” he smilingly observed, “and I am acquainted now with all the ladies in my parish, and several in this town too; and many others I know by sight and by report; but not one of them will suit me for a companion ... in fact, there is only one person in the world that will; and that is yourself; and I want to know your decision?”

“Are you in earnest, Mr. Weston?”

“In earnest! How could you think I should jest on such a subject?”

He laid his hand on mine that rested on his arm: he must have felt it tremble ... but it was no great matter now.

“I hope I have not been too precipitate,” he said, in a serious tone. “You must have known that it was not my way to flatter and talk soft nonsense, or even to speak the admiration that I felt; and that a single word or glance of mine meant more than the honied phrases and fervent protestations of most other men.”

I said something about not liking to leave my mother, and doing nothing without her consent.

“I settled everything with Mrs. Grey while you were putting on your bonnet,” replied he. “She said I might have her consent if I could obtain yours; and I asked her, in case I should be so happy, to come and live with us—for I was sure you would like it better; but she refused, saying she could now afford to employ an assistant, and would continue the school till she could purchase an annuity sufficient to maintain her in comfortable lodgings; and meantime she would spend her vacations alternately with us and your sister, and should be quite contented if you were happy. And so now I have overruled your objections on her account. Have you any other?”

“No—none.”

“You love me then?” said he, fervently pressing my hand.

“Yes.”

Here I pause. My diary, from which I compiled these pages, goes but little farther. I could go on for years; but I will content myself with adding, that I shall never forget that glorious Summer evening, and always remember with delight that steep hill, and the edge of the precipice where we stood together watching the splendid sunset mirrored on the restless world of waters at our feet—with hearts filled with gratitude to Heaven, and happiness, and love—almost too full for speech.

A few weeks after that, when my mother had supplied herself with an assistant, I became the wife of Edward Weston, and never have found cause to repent it, and am certain that I never shall. We have had trials, and we know that we must have them again; but we bear them well together, and endeavour to fortify ourselves and each other against the final separation—that greatest of all afflictions to the survivor; but, if we keep in mind the glorious Heaven beyond, where both may meet again, and sin and sorrow are unknown, surely that too may be borne; and meantime, we endeavour to live to the glory of Him who has scattered so many blessings in our path.

Edward, by his strenuous exertions, has worked surprising reforms in his parish, and is esteemed and loved by its inhabitants—as he deserves—for whatever his faults may be as a man, (and no one is entirely without,) I defy anybody to blame him as a pastor, a husband, or a father.

Our children, Edward, Agnes, and little Mary, promise well; their education, for the time being, is chiefly committed to me; and they shall want no good thing that a mother’s care can give.

Our modest income is amply sufficient for our requirements; and by practising the economy we learnt in harder times, and never attempting to imitate our richer neighbours, we manage not only to enjoy comfort and contentment ourselves, but to have every year something to lay by for our children, and something to give to those who need it.

And now I think I have said sufficient.

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 543