Of course, I pitied her exceedingly, as well for her false idea of happiness and disregard of duty, as for the wretched partner with whom her fate was linked.
I said what I could to comfort her, and offered such counsels as I thought she most required, advising her, first, by gentle reasoning, by kindness, example, and persuasion to try to ameliorate her husband; and then, when she had done all she could, if she still found him incorrigible, to endeavour to abstract herself from him—to wrap herself up in her own integrity, and trouble herself as little about him as possible. I exhorted her to seek consolation in doing her duty to God and man, to put her trust in Heaven, and solace herself with the care and nurture of her little daughter, assuring her she would be amply rewarded by witnessing its progress in strength and wisdom, and receiving its genuine affection.
“But I can’t devote myself entirely to a child,” said she, “it may die—which is not at all improbable.”
“But with care, many a delicate infant has become a strong man or woman.”
“But it may grow so intolerably like its father that I shall hate it.”
“That is not likely; it is a little girl, and strongly resembles its mother.”
“No matter—I should like it better if it were a boy—only that its father will leave it no inheritance that he can possibly squander away. What pleasure can I have in seeing a girl grow up to eclipse me, and enjoy those pleasures that I am for ever debarred from? But supposing I could be so generous as to take delight in this, still it is
only
a child; and I can’t centre all my hopes in a child; that is only one degree better than devoting one’s self to a dog. And as for all the wisdom and goodness you have been trying to instil into me—that is all very right and proper, I dare say; and if I were some twenty years older, I might fructify by it; but people must enjoy themselves when they’re young—and if others won’t let them—why, they must hate them for it!”
“The best way to enjoy yourself is to do what is right, and hate nobody. The end of Religion is not to teach us how to die, but how to live; and the earlier you become wise and good, the more of happiness you secure. And now Lady Ashby, I have one more piece of advice to offer you, which is that you will not make an enemy of your mother-in-law. Don’t get into the way of holding her at arm’s length and regarding her with jealous distrust. I never saw her, but I have heard good as well as evil respecting her, and I imagine that, though cold and haughty in her general demeanour, and even exacting in her requirements, she has strong affections for those who can reach them; and, though so blindly attached to her son, she is not without good principles, or incapable of hearing reason; and if you would but conciliate her a little, and adopt a friendly, open manner—and even confide your grievances to her ... real grievances, such as you have a right to complain of ... it is my firm belief that she would in time, become your faithful friend, and a comfort and support to you, instead of the incubus you describe her.”
But I fear my advice had little effect upon the unfortunate young lady; and, finding I could render myself so little serviceable, my residence at Ashby Park became doubly painful. But still, I must stay out that day and the following one, as I had promised to do so; though, resisting all intreaties and inducements to prolong my visit further, I insisted upon departing the next morning, affirming that my mother would be lonely without me, and that she impatiently expected my return.
Nevertheless, it was with a heavy heart that I bid adieu to poor Lady Ashby and left her in her princely home. It was no slight additional proof of her unhappiness, that she should so cling to the consolation of my presence, and earnestly desire the company of one whose general tastes and ideas were so little congenial to her own, whom she had completely forgotten in her hours of prosperity, and whose presence would be rather a nuisance than a pleasure, if she could but have half her heart’s desire.
CHAPTER XXIV
The Sands
O
ur school was not situated in the heart of the town: on entering A—from the north-west there is a row of respectable looking houses, on each side of the broad, white road, with narrow slips of garden ground before them, Venetian blinds to the windows, and a flight of steps leading to each trim, brass-handled door. In one of the largest of these habitations dwelt my mother and I, with such young ladies as our friends and the public chose to commit to our charge. Consequently, we were a considerable distance from the sea, and divided from it by a labyrinth of streets and houses. But the sea was my delight; and I would often gladly pierce
cj
the town to obtain the pleasure of a walk beside it, whether with the pupils, or alone or with my mother during the vacations. It was delightful to me at all times and seasons, but especially in the wild commotion of a rough sea-breeze, and in the brilliant freshness of a Summer morning.
1
I awoke early on the third morning after my return from Ashby Park ... the sun was shining through the blind, and I thought how pleasant it would be to pass through the quiet town and take a solitary ramble on the sands while half the world was in bed. I was not long in forming the resolution, nor slow to act upon it. Of course I would not disturb my mother, so I stole noiselessly down stairs, and quietly unfastened the door. I was dressed, down, and out when the church clock struck a quarter to six.
There was a feeling of freshness and vigour in the very streets; and when I got free of the town, when my foot was on the sands and my face towards the broad, bright bay ... no language can describe the effect of the deep, clear azure of the sky and ocean, the bright morning sunshine on the semicircular barrier of craggy cliffs surmounted by green swelling hills, and on the smooth, wide sands, and the low rocks out at sea ... looking, with their clothing of weeds and moss, like little grass grown islands—and above all, on the brilliant, sparkling waves. And then, the unspeakable purity and freshness of the air! there was just enough heat to enhance the value of the breeze, and just enough wind to keep the whole sea in motion, to make the waves come bounding to the shore, foaming and sparkling, as if wild with glee. Nothing else was stirring—no living creature was visible besides myself. My footsteps were the first to press the firm, unbroken sands;—nothing before had trampled them since last night’s flowing tide had obliterated the deepest marks of yesterday, and left it fair and even, except where the subsiding water had left behind it the traces of dimpled pools, and little running streams.
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 now
2
—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.”