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

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.