CHAPTER XX.

THE FAREWELL

A house in A——, the fashionable watering-place, 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 flags—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 learned 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 _dis_honest; 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 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 anyone, 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 churchyard, 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

that 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.