Agnes Grey (25 page)

I was about to give the lady some idea of the fallacy of her expectations; but she sailed away as soon as she had concluded her speech. Having said what she wished, it was no part of her plan to await my answer: it was my business to hear, and not to speak.

However, as I have said, Matilda at length yielded, in some degree, to her mother’s authority (pity it had not been exerted before), and being thus deprived of almost every source of amusement, there was nothing for it but to take long rides with the groom and long walks with the governess, and to visit the cottages and farm-houses on her father’s estate, to kill time in chatting with the old men and women that inhabited them.

In one of these walks, it was our chance to meet Mr. Weston. This was what I had long desired; but now, for a moment, I wished either he or I were away: I felt my heart throb so violently that I dreaded lest some outward signs of emotion should appear; but I think he hardly glanced at me, and I was soon calm enough. After a brief salutation to both, he asked Matilda if she had lately heard from her sister.

“Yes,” replied she. “She was at Paris when she wrote, and very well and very happy.”

She spoke the last word emphatically, and with a glance impertinently sly. He did not seem to notice it, but replied, with equal emphasis, and very seriously.

“I hope she will continue to be so.”

“Do you think it likely?” I ventured to inquire, for Matilda had started off in pursuit of her dog that was chasing a leveret.

“I cannot tell,” replied he. “Sir Thomas may be a better man than I may suppose, but, from all I have heard and seen, it seems a pity that one so young, and gay, and . . . and
interesting,
to express many things by one ... whose greatest, if not her only fault, appears to be thoughtlessness ... no trifling fault to be sure, since it renders the possessor liable to almost every other, and exposes him to so many temptations; but it seems a pity that she should be thrown away on such a man. It was her mother’s wish, I suppose?”

“Yes; and her own too, I think, for she always laughed at my attempts to dissuade her from the step.”

“You did attempt it? Then, at least, you will have the satisfaction of knowing that it is no fault of yours, if any harm should come of it; as for Mrs. Murray, I don’t know how she can justify her conduct; if I had sufficient acquaintance with her I’d ask her.”

“It seems unnatural; but some people think rank and wealth the chief good; and, if they can secure that to their children, they think they have done their duty.”

“True; but is it not strange that persons of experience who have been married themselves should judge so falsely?”

Matilda now came panting back, with the lacerated body of the young hare in her hand.

“Was it your intention to kill that hare, or to save it, Miss Murray?” asked Mr. Weston, apparently puzzled at her gleeful countenance.

“I pretended to want to save it,” she answered, honestly enough, “as it was so glaringly out of season; but I was better pleased to see it killed. However, you can both witness that I couldn’t help it; Prince was determined to have her; and he clutched her by the back, and killed her in a minute! Wasn’t it a noble chase?”

“Very! for a young lady after a leveret.”

There was a quiet sarcasm in the tone of his reply which was not lost upon her; she shrugged her shoulders, and, turning away with a significant “Humph!” asked me how I had enjoyed the fun.

I replied that I saw no fun in the matter; but admitted that I had not observed the transaction very narrowly.

“Didn’t you see how it doubled
^cb
—just like an old hare? and didn’t you hear it scream?”

“I’m happy to say I did not.”

“It cried out just like a child.”

“Poor little thing! What will you do with it?”

“Come along—I shall leave it in the first house we come to—I don’t want to take it home, for fear papa should scold me for letting the dog kill it.”

Mr. Weston was now gone, and we too went on our way; but as we returned, after having deposited the hare in a farm-house, and demolished some spice cake and currant wine in exchange, we met him returning also from the execution of his mission, whatever it might be. He carried in his hand a cluster of beautiful bluebells which he offered to me, observing, with a smile, that though he had seen so little of me for the last two months, he had not forgotten that bluebells were numbered among my favourite flowers.

It was done as a simple act of good will, without compliment, or remarkable courtesy, or any look that could be construed into “reverential, tender adoration,” (vide Rosalie Murray) ; but still, it was something to find my unimportant saying so well remembered; it was something that he had noticed so accurately the time I had ceased to be visible.

“I was told,” said he, “that you were a perfect book-worm, Miss Grey, so completely absorbed in your studies that you were lost to every other pleasure.”

“Yes, and it’s quite true!” cried Matilda.

“No, Mr. Weston; don’t believe it; it’s a scandalous libel. These young ladies are too fond of making random assertions at the expense of their friends; and you ought to be careful how you listen to them.”

“I hope
this
assertion is groundless, at any rate.”

“Why? Do you particularly object to ladies’ studying?”

“No; but I object to any one so devoting himself or herself to study, as to lose sight of everything else. Except under peculiar circumstances, I consider very close and constant study as a waste of time, and an injury to the mind as well as the body.”

“Well, I have neither the time nor the inclination for such transgressions.”

We parted again.

Well! what is there remarkable in all this? Why have I recorded it? Because, reader, it was important enough to give me a cheerful evening, a night of pleasing dreams, and a morning of felicitous hopes. Shallow-brained cheerfulness—foolish dreams—unfounded hopes—you would say; and I will not venture to deny it: suspicion to that effect arose too frequently in my own mind; but our wishes are like tinder: the flint and steel of circumstances are continually striking out sparks, which vanish immediately, unless they chance to fall upon the tinder of our wishes; then, they instantly ignite, and the flame of hope is kindled in a moment.

But alas! that very morning, my flickering flame of hope was dismally quenched by a letter from my mother, which spoke so seriously of my father’s increasing illness, that I feared there was little or no chance of his recovery; and, close at hand as the holidays were, I almost trembled lest they should come too late for me to meet him in this world. Two days after, a letter from Mary told me his life was despaired of, and his end seemed fast approaching.

Then, immediately, I sought permission to anticipate the vacation, and go without delay.

Mrs. Murray stared, and wondered at the unwonted energy and boldness with which I urged the request, and thought there was no occasion to hurry; but finally gave me leave, stating, however, that there was “no need to be in such agitation about the matter—it might prove a false alarm after all; and if not—why, it was only in the common course of nature; we must all die sometime; and I was not to suppose myself the only afflicted person in the world;” and concluding with saying I might have the phaeton to take me to 0——.

“And instead of
repining,
Miss Grey, be thankful for the
privileges
you enjoy. There’s many a poor clergyman whose family would be plunged into ruin by the events of his death; but you, you see, have influential friends ready to continue their patronage, and to show you every consideration.”

I thanked her for her “consideration,” and flew to my room to make some hurried preparations for my departure. My bonnet and shawl being on, and a few things hastily crammed into my largest trunk, I descended. But I might have done the work more leisurely, for no one else was in a hurry; and I had still a considerable time to wait for the phaeton.

At length it came to the door, and I was off; but oh, what a dreary journey was that! how utterly different from my former passages homewards!

Being too late for the last coach to—, I had to hire a cab for ten miles, and then a car to take me over the rugged hills.
¹
It was half-past ten before I reached home. They were not in bed.

My mother and sister both met me in the passage—sad—silent—pale! I was so much shocked and terror-stricken I could not speak to ask the information I so much longed yet dreaded to obtain.

“Agnes,” said my mother, struggling to repress some strong emotion.

“Oh, Agnes!” cried Mary, and burst into tears.

“How is he?” I asked, gasping for the answer.

“Dead!”

It was the reply I had anticipated; but the shock seemed none the less tremendous.

M
y father’s mortal remains had been consigned to the tomb; and we, with sad faces and sombre garments, sat lingering over the frugal breakfast-table, revolving plans for our future life.

My mother’s strong mind had not given way beneath even this affliction: her spirit, though crushed, was not broken. Mary’s wish was that I should go back to Horton Lodge, and that our mother should come and live with her and Mr. Richardson at the vicarage: she affirmed that he wished it no less than herself, and that such an arrangement could not fail to benefit all parties, for my mother’s society and experience would be of inestimable value to them, and they would do all they could to make her happy. But no arguments or entreaties could prevail: my mother was determined not to go; not that she questioned, for a moment, the kind wishes and intentions of her daughter; but she affirmed that so long as God spared her health and strength, she would make use of them to earn her own livelihood, and be chargeable to no one, whether her dependence would be felt as a burden or not. If she could afford to reside as a lodger in——vicarage, she would choose that house before all others as the place of her abode; but, not being so circumstanced, she would never come under its roof, except as an occasional visiter, unless sickness or calamity should render her assistance really needful, or until age or infirmity made her incapable of maintaining herself.

“No Mary,” said she, “if Richardson and you have anything to spare, you must lay it aside for your family; and Agnes and I must gather honey for ourselves. Thanks to my having had daughters to educate, I have not forgotten my accomplishments ... God willing I will check this vain repining,”—she said, while the tears coursed one another down her cheeks in spite of her efforts; but she wiped them away, and resolutely shaking back her head, continued, “I will exert myself and look out for a small house commodiously situated in some populous but healthy district, where we will take a few young ladies to board and educate—if we can get them—and as many day-pupils as will come, or as we can manage to instruct. Your father’s relations and old friends will be able to send us some pupils or to assist us with their recommendations no doubt: I shall not apply to my own. What say you to it Agnes—will you be willing to leave your present situation and try?”
¹

“Quite willing mamma; and the money I have saved will do to furnish the house. It shall be taken from the bank directly.”

“When it is wanted; we must get the house, and settle all preliminaries first.”

Mary offered to lend the little she possessed; but my mother declined it, saying that we must begin on an economical plan, and she hoped that the whole or part of mine added to what we could get by the sale of the furniture, and what little our dear papa had contrived to lay aside for her since the debts were paid, would be sufficient to last us till Christmas, when it was hoped, something would accrue from our united labours.

It was finally settled that this should be our plan; and that inquiries and preparations should immediately be set on foot; and while my mother busied herself with these, I should return to Horton Lodge at the close of my four weeks’ vacation, and give notice for my final departure when things were in train for the speedy commencement of our school.

We were discussing these affairs on the morning I have mentioned, about a fortnight after my father’s death, when a letter was brought in for my mother, on beholding which the colour mounted to her face—lately pale enough with anxious watchings and excessive sorrow.

“From my father!” murmured she, as she hastily tore off the cover.

 

 

It was many years since she had heard from any of her own relations before. Naturally wondering what the letter might contain, I watched her countenance while she read it, and was somewhat surprised to see her bite her lip and knit her brows as if in anger. When she had done, she somewhat irreverently, cast it on the table, saying with a scornful smile,

“Your grandpapa has been so kind as to write to me. He says he has no doubt I have long repented of my ‘unfortunate marriage,’ and if I will only acknowledge this, and confess I was wrong in neglecting his advice, and that I have justly suffered for it, he will make a lady of me once again—if that be possible after my long degradation—and remember my girls in his will. Get my desk
^cc
Agnes and send these things away—I will answer the letter directly—but first as I may be depriving you both of a legacy, it is just that I should tell you what I mean to say.

“I shall say that he is mistaken in supposing that I can regret the birth of my daughters, (who have been the pride of my life, and are likely to be the comfort of my old age,) or the thirty years I have passed in the company of my best and dearest friend;—that, had our misfortunes been three times as great as they were, (unless they had been my bringing on,) I should still the more rejoice to have shared them with your father, and administered what consolation I was able; and, had his sufferings in illness been ten times what they were, I could not regret having watched over and laboured to relieve them—that, if he had married a richer wife, misfortunes and trials would no doubt have come upon him still, while—I am an egotist enough to imagine that no other woman could have cheered him through them so well—not that I am superior to the rest, but I was made for him, and he for me; and I can no more repent the hours—days—years of happiness we have spent together, and which neither could have had without the other, than I can the privilege of having been his nurse in sickness, and his comfort in affliction.