“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.
“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
ce
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
cf
—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 shewed 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.
CHAPTER XXII
The Visit
A
shby Park was certainly a very delightful residence. The mansion was stately without, commodious and elegant within, the park was spacious and beautiful—chiefly, on account of its magnificent old trees, its stately herds of deer, its broad sheet of water, and the ancient woods that stretched beyond it, for there was no broken ground to give variety to the landscape, and but very little of that undulating swell which adds so greatly to the charm of park scenery.
And so—this was the place Rosalie Murray had so longed to call her own, that she must have a share of it on whatever terms it might be offered, whatever price was to be paid for the title of mistress, and whoever was to be her partner in the honour and bliss of such a possession! Well—I am not disposed to censure her now.
She received me very kindly; and, though I was a poor clergyman’s daughter, a governess, and a school-mistress, she welcomed me with unaffected pleasure to her home; and—what surprised me rather—took some pains to make my visit agreeable. I could see, it is true, that she expected me to be greatly struck with the magnificence that surrounded her; and, I confess, I was rather annoyed at her evident efforts to reassure me, and prevent me from being overwhelmed by so much grandeur; too much awed at the idea of encountering her husband and mother-in-law, or too much ashamed of my own humble appearance—I was not ashamed of it at all; for, though plain, I had taken good care not to be shabby or mean, and should have been pretty considerably at my ease, if my condescending hostess had not taken such manifest pains to make me so; and, as for the magnificence that surrounded her, nothing that met my eyes struck me, or affected me half so much as her own altered appearance.
Whether from the influence of fashionable dissipation, or some other evil—a space of little more than twelve months, had had the effect that might be expected from as many years, in reducing the plumpness of her form, the freshness of her complexion, the vivacity of her movements, and the exuberance of her spirits.
I wished to know if she was unhappy; but I felt it was not my province to inquire; I might endeavour to win her confidence; but, if she chose to conceal her matrimonial cares from me, I would trouble her with no obtrusive questions.
I, therefore, at first, confined myself to a few general inquiries about her health and welfare, and a few commendations on the beauty of the park, and of the little girl that should have been a boy, a small delicate infant of seven or eight weeks old, whom its mother seemed to regard with no remarkable degree of interest or affection, though full as much as I expected her to show.
Shortly after my arrival, she commissioned her maid to conduct me to my room and see that I had everything I wanted: it was a small, unpretending, but sufficiently comfortable apartment.
When I descended thence—having divested myself of all travelling encumbrances, and arranged my toilet with due consideration for the feelings of my lady hostess—she conducted me herself to the room I was to occupy when I chose to be alone, or when she was engaged with visiters, or obliged to be with her mother-in-law, or otherwise prevented, as she said, from enjoying the pleasure of my society. It was a quiet, tidy little sitting-room, and I was not sorry to be provided with such a harbour of refuge.
“And sometime,” said she, “I will show you the library; I never examined its shelves, but, I dare say, it is full of wise books, and you may go and burrow among them whenever you please; and now you shall have some tea—it will soon be dinner-time, but, I thought, as you were accustomed to dine at one, you would perhaps like better to have a cup of tea about this time, and to dine when we lunch; and then, you know, you can have your tea in this room, and that will save you from having to dine with Lady Ashby and Sir Thomas, which would be rather awkward—at least, not awkward, but rather—a—you know what I mean—I thought you mightn’t like it so well—especially as we may have other ladies and gentlemen to dine with us occasionally.”
1
“Certainly,” said I, “I would much rather have it as you say; and, if you have no objection, I should prefer having all my meals in this room.”
“Why so?
»
“Because, I imagine, it would be more agreeable to Lady Ashby and Sir Thomas.”
“Nothing of the kind!”
“At any rate it would be more agreeable to me.”
She made some faint objections, but soon conceded; and I could see that the proposal was a considerable relief to her.
“Now, come into the drawing-room,” said she. “There’s the dressing-bell;
cg
but I won’t go yet; it’s no use dressing when there’s no one to see you; and I want to have a little discourse.”
The drawing-room was certainly an imposing apartment, and very elegantly furnished; but I saw its young mistress glance towards me as we entered, as if to notice how I was impressed by the spectacle, and, accordingly, I determined to preserve an aspect of stony indifference, as if I saw nothing at all remarkable—but this was only for a moment: immediately conscience whispered, “Why should I disappoint her to save my pride? No—rather let me sacrifice my pride to give her a little innocent gratification.” And I honestly looked around, and told her it was a noble room, and very tastefully furnished. She said little, but I saw she was pleased.