THE FAREWELL
A house in A, the watering-place, was for our seminary; and a promise of two or three was to with. I returned to Horton Lodge about the middle of July, my mother to the for the house, to obtain more pupils, to sell off the of our old abode, and to fit out the new one.
We often the poor, they have no to their relatives, and them to through their afflictions: but is not active the best for sorrow—the for despair? It may be a comforter: it may hard to be with the of life when we have no for its enjoyments; to be to when the is to break, and the for only to in silence: but is not than the we covet? and are not those petty, less than a over the great that us? Besides, we cannot have cares, and anxieties, and toil, without hope—if it be but the of our task, some needful project, or some annoyance. At any rate, I was my mother had so much for every of her action-loving frame. Our that she, once so in and station, should be to such in her time of sorrow; but I am that she would have thrice as much had she been left in affluence, with to in that house, the of her early and late affliction, and no to prevent her from over and her bereavement.
I will not upon the with which I left the old house, the well-known garden, the little village church—then dear to me, my father, who, for thirty years, had and prayed its walls, now its flags—and the old hills, in their very desolation, with the narrow between, in green and water—the house where I was born, the of all my early associations, the place where life my had been centred;—and left them to return no more! True, I was going to Horton Lodge, where, many evils, one of yet remained: but it was with pain; and my stay, alas! was limited to six weeks. And of that time, day after day by and I did not see him: at church, I saw him for a after my return. It a long time to me: and, as I was often out with my pupil, of would keep rising, and would ensue; and then, I would say to my own heart, "Here is a proof—if you would but have the to see it, or the to it—that he not for you. If he only as much about you as you do about him, he would have to meet you many times this: you must know that, by your own feelings. Therefore, have done with this nonsense: you have no ground for hope: dismiss, at once, these and from your mind, and turn to your own duty, and the blank life that you. You might have such was not for you."
But I saw him at last. He came upon me as I was a in returning from a visit to Nancy Brown, which I had taken the opportunity of paying while Matilda Murray was her mare. He must have of the I had sustained: he no sympathy, offered no condolence: but almost the he were, "How is your mother?" And this was no matter-of-course question, for I told him that I had a mother: he must have learned the from others, if he it at all; and, besides, there was goodwill, and deep, touching, in the and manner of the inquiry. I thanked him with civility, and told him she was as well as be expected. "What will she do?" was the next question. Many would have it an one, and an reply; but such an idea entered my head, and I gave a but plain of my mother's plans and prospects.
"Then you will this place shortly?" said he.
"Yes, in a month."
He paused a minute, as if in thought. When he spoke again, I it would be to his at my departure; but it was only to say, "I should think you will be to go?"
"Yes—for some things," I replied.
"For some only—I wonder what should make you it?"
I was at this in some degree; it embarrassed me: I had only one for it; and that was a secret, which he had no to trouble me about.
"Why," said I "why should you that I the place?"
"You told me so yourself," was the reply. "You said, at least, that you not live contentedly, without a friend; and that you had no friend here, and no possibility of making one—and, besides, I know you must it."
"But if you rightly, I said, or meant to say, I not live without a friend in the world: I was not so as to one always near me. I think I be happy in a house full of enemies, if " but no; that must not be continued—I paused, and added, "And, besides, we cannot well a place where we have for two or three years, without some of regret."
"Will you to part with Miss Murray, your and companion?"
"I say I shall in some degree: it was not without I with her sister."
"I can that."
"Well, Miss Matilda is as good—better in one respect."
"What is that?"
"She's honest."
"And the other is not?"
"I should not call her dishonest; but it must be she's a little artful."
"Artful is she?—I saw she was and vain—and now," he added, after a pause, "I can well she was too; but so so as to assume an of and openness. Yes," he, musingly, "that for some little that puzzled me a before."
After that, he the to more subjects. He did not me till we had nearly the park-gates: he had a little out of his way to me so far, for he now and Moss Lane, the entrance of which we had passed some time before. Assuredly I did not this circumstance: if had any place in my heart, it was that he was gone at last—that he was no longer walking by my side, and that that of was at an end. He had not a word of love, or one hint of or affection, and yet I had been happy. To be near him, to him talk as he did talk, and to that he me to be so spoken to—capable of and such discourse—was enough.
"Yes, Edward Weston, I be happy in a house full of enemies, if I had but one friend, who truly, deeply, and loved me; and if that friend were you—though we might be apart—seldom to from each other, still more to meet—though toil, and trouble, and might me, still—it would be too much for me to of! Yet who can tell," said I myself, as I up the park, "who can tell what this one month may forth? I have nearly three-and-twenty years, and I have much, and little yet; is it likely my life all through will be so clouded? Is it not possible that God may my prayers, these shadows, and me some of heaven's yet? Will He to me those which are so to others, who neither ask them them when received? May I not still and trust? I did and trust for a while: but, alas, alas! the time away: one week another, and, one and two meetings—during which anything was said—while I was walking with Miss Matilda, I saw nothing of him: except, of course, at church.
And now, the last Sunday was come, and the last service. I was often on the point of melting into the sermon—the last I was to from him: the best I should from anyone, I was well assured. It was over—the were departing; and I must follow. I had then him, and his voice, too, for the last time. In the churchyard, Matilda was upon by the two Misses Green. They had many to make about her sister, and I know not what besides. I only they would have done, that we might to Horton Lodge: I to the retirement of my own room, or some in the grounds, that I might deliver myself up to my feelings—to my last farewell, and my false and delusions. Only this once, and then to dreaming—thenceforth, only sober, solid, sad should my mind. But while I thus resolved, a low voice close me said "I you are going this week, Miss Grey?" "Yes," I replied. I was very much startled; and had I been at all inclined, I should have myself in some way then. Thank God, I was not.
"Well," said Mr. Weston, "I want to you good-bye—it is not likely I shall see you again you go."
"Good-bye, Mr. Weston," I said. Oh, how I to say it calmly! I gave him my hand. He it a in his.
"It is possible we may meet again," said he; "will it be of any to you we do or not?"
"Yes, I should be very to see you again."
I say no less. He pressed my hand, and went. Now, I was happy again—though more to into than ever. If I had been to speak at that moment, a of would have ensued; and as it was, I not keep the water out of my eyes. I walked along with Miss Murray, my face, and to notice remarks, till she out that I was either or stupid; and then (having my self-possession), as one from a fit of abstraction, I looked up and asked what she had been saying.
