Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Charlotte, Emily, Anne Brontë (Illustrated) (338 page)

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.

CHAPTER XXII — THE VISIT

Ashby 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 schoolmistress, 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 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 visitors, 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 some time,’ said she, ‘I will show you the library: I never examined its shelves, but, I daresay, 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.’

‘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; 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 round, and told her it was a noble room, and very tastefully furnished.  She said little, but I saw she was pleased.

She showed me her fat French poodle, that lay curled up on a silk cushion, and the two fine Italian paintings: which, however, she would not give me time to examine, but, saying I must look at them some other day, insisted upon my admiring the little jewelled watch she had purchased in Geneva; and then she took me round the room to point out sundry articles of
vertu
she had brought from Italy: an elegant little timepiece, and several busts, small graceful figures, and vases, all beautifully carved in white marble.  She spoke of these with animation, and heard my admiring comments with a smile of pleasure: that soon, however, vanished, and was followed by a melancholy sigh; as if in consideration of the insufficiency of all such baubles to the happiness of the human heart, and their woeful inability to supply its insatiate demands.

Then, stretching herself upon a couch, she motioned me to a capacious easy-chair that stood opposite — not before the fire, but before a wide open window; for it was summer, be it remembered; a sweet, warm evening in the latter half of June.  I sat for a moment in silence, enjoying the still, pure air, and the delightful prospect of the park that lay before me, rich in verdure and foliage, and basking in yellow sunshine, relieved by the long shadows of declining day.  But I must take advantage of this pause: I had inquiries to make, and, like the substance of a lady’s postscript, the most important must come last.  So I began with asking after Mr. and Mrs. Murray, and Miss Matilda and the young gentlemen.

I was told that papa had the gout, which made him very ferocious; and that he would not give up his choice wines, and his substantial dinners and suppers, and had quarrelled with his physician, because the latter had dared to say that no medicine could cure him while he lived so freely; that mamma and the rest were well.  Matilda was still wild and reckless, but she had got a fashionable governess, and was considerably improved in her manners, and soon to be introduced to the world; and John and Charles (now at home for the holidays) were, by all accounts, ‘fine, bold, unruly, mischievous boys.’

‘And how are the other people getting on?’ said I — ‘the Greens, for instance?’

‘Ah! Mr. Green is heart-broken, you know,’ replied she, with a languid smile: ‘he hasn’t got over his disappointment yet, and never will, I suppose.  He’s doomed to be an old bachelor; and his sisters are doing their best to get married.’

‘And the Melthams?’

‘Oh, they’re jogging on as usual, I suppose: but I know very little about any of them — except Harry,’ said she, blushing slightly, and smiling again.  ‘I saw a great deal of him while we were in London; for, as soon as he heard we were there, he came up under pretence of visiting his brother, and either followed me, like a shadow, wherever I went, or met me, like a reflection, at every turn.  You needn’t look so shocked, Miss Grey; I was very discreet, I assure you, but, you know, one can’t help being admired.  Poor fellow!  He was not my only worshipper; though he was certainly the most conspicuous, and, I think, the most devoted among them all.  And that detestable — ahem — and Sir Thomas chose to take offence at him — or my profuse expenditure, or something — I don’t exactly know what — and hurried me down to the country at a moment’s notice; where I’m to play the hermit, I suppose, for life.’

And she bit her lip, and frowned vindictively upon the fair domain she had once so coveted to call her own.

‘And Mr. Hatfield,’ said I, ‘what is become of him?’

Again she brightened up, and answered gaily — ‘Oh! he made up to an elderly spinster, and married her, not long since; weighing her heavy purse against her faded charms, and expecting to find that solace in gold which was denied him in love — ha, ha!’

‘Well, and I think that’s all — except Mr. Weston: what is he doing?’

‘I don’t know, I’m sure.  He’s gone from Horton.’

‘How long since? and where is he gone to?’

‘I know nothing about him,’ replied she, yawning — ‘except that he went about a month ago — I never asked where’ (I would have asked whether it was to a living or merely another curacy, but thought it better not); ‘and the people made a great rout about his leaving,’ continued she, ‘much to Mr. Hatfield’s displeasure; for Hatfield didn’t like him, because he had too much influence with the common people, and because he was not sufficiently tractable and submissive to him — and for some other unpardonable sins, I don’t know what.  But now I positively must go and dress: the second bell will ring directly, and if I come to dinner in this guise, I shall never hear the end of it from Lady Ashby.  It’s a strange thing one can’t be mistress in one’s own house!  Just ring the bell, and I’ll send for my maid, and tell them to get you some tea.  Only think of that intolerable woman — ’

‘Who — your maid?’

‘No; — my mother-in-law — and my unfortunate mistake!  Instead of letting her take herself off to some other house, as she offered to do when I married, I was fool enough to ask her to live here still, and direct the affairs of the house for me; because, in the first place, I hoped we should spend the greater part of the year, in town, and in the second place, being so young and inexperienced, I was frightened at the idea of having a houseful of servants to manage, and dinners to order, and parties to entertain, and all the rest of it, and I thought she might assist me with her experience; never dreaming she would prove a usurper, a tyrant, an incubus, a spy, and everything else that’s detestable.  I wish she was dead!’

She then turned to give her orders to the footman, who had been standing bolt upright within the door for the last half minute, and had heard the latter part of her animadversions; and, of course, made his own reflections upon them, notwithstanding the inflexible, wooden countenance he thought proper to preserve in the drawing-room.  On my remarking afterwards that he must have heard her, she replied — ‘Oh, no matter!  I never care about the footmen; they’re mere automatons: it’s nothing to them what their superiors say or do; they won’t dare to repeat it; and as to what they think — if they presume to think at all — of course, nobody cares for that.  It would be a pretty thing indeed, it we were to be tongue-tied by our servants!’

So saying, she ran off to make her hasty toilet, leaving me to pilot my way back to my sitting-room, where, in due time, I was served with a cup of tea.  After that, I sat musing on Lady Ashby’s past and present condition; and on what little information I had obtained respecting Mr. Weston, and the small chance there was of ever seeing or hearing anything more of him throughout my quiet, drab-colour life: which, henceforth, seemed to offer no alternative between positive rainy days, and days of dull grey clouds without downfall.  At length, however, I began to weary of my thoughts, and to wish I knew where to find the library my hostess had spoken of; and to wonder whether I was to remain there doing nothing till bed-time.

As I was not rich enough to possess a watch, I could not tell how time was passing, except by observing the slowly lengthening shadows from the window; which presented a side view, including a corner of the park, a clump of trees whose topmost branches had been colonized by an innumerable company of noisy rooks, and a high wall with a massive wooden gate: no doubt communicating with the stable-yard, as a broad carriage-road swept up to it from the park.  The shadow of this wall soon took possession of the whole of the ground as far as I could see, forcing the golden sunlight to retreat inch by inch, and at last take refuge in the very tops of the trees.  Ere long, even they were left in shadow — the shadow of the distant hills, or of the earth itself; and, in sympathy for the busy citizens of the rookery, I regretted to see their habitation, so lately bathed in glorious light, reduced to the sombre, work-a-day hue of the lower world, or of my own world within.  For a moment, such birds as soared above the rest might still receive the lustre on their wings, which imparted to their sable plumage the hue and brilliance of deep red gold; at last, that too departed.  Twilight came stealing on; the rooks became more quiet; I became more weary, and wished I were going home to-morrow.  At length it grew dark; and I was thinking of ringing for a candle, and betaking myself to bed, when my hostess appeared, with many apologies for having neglected me so long, and laying all the blame upon that ‘nasty old woman,’ as she called her mother-in-law.