THE SCHOOL
I left Horton Lodge, and to join my mother in our new at A——. I her well in health, in spirit, and cheerful, though and sober, in her demeanour. We had only three and a dozen day-pupils to with; but by and we long to the number of both.
I set myself with energy to the of this new mode of life. I call it new, for there was, indeed, a with my mother in a of our own, and as a among strangers, and upon by old and young; and for the I was by no means unhappy. "It is possible we may meet again," and "will it be of any to you we do or not?"—Those still in my ear and rested on my heart: they were my and support. "I shall see him again.—He will come; or he will write." No promise, in fact, was too or too for Hope to in my ear. I did not of what she told me: I to laugh at it all; but I was more than I myself supposed; otherwise, why did my up when a was at the door, and the maid, who opened it, came to tell my mother a to see her? and why was I out of for the of the day, it proved to be a music-master come to offer his services to our school? and what stopped my for a moment, when the having a of letters, my mother said, "Here, Agnes, this is for you," and one of them to me? and what the blood into my when I saw it was in a gentleman's hand? and why—oh! why did that cold, of upon me, when I had open the and it was only a from Mary, which, for some or other, her husband had for her?
Was it then come to this—that I should be to a from my only sister: and it was not by a stranger? Dear Mary! and she had it so kindly—and I should be so pleased to have it!—I was not to read it! And I believe, in my against myself, I should have put it till I had myself into a of mind, and was more of the and of its perusal: but there was my mother looking on, and to know what news it contained; so I read it and delivered it to her, and then into the to to the pupils: but the of copies and sums—in the of errors here, and of there, I was taking myself to with severity. "What a you must be," said my to my heart, or my to my self; "how you that he would to you? What have you for such a hope—or that he will see you, or give himself any trouble about you—or think of you again?" "What grounds?"—and then Hope set me that last, interview, and the I had so in my memory. "Well, and what was there in that?—Who his upon so a twig? What was there in those that any common 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 any of you—and then, as to the question that followed, anyone might ask that: and how did you answer?—Merely with a stupid, reply, such as you would have to Master Murray, or anyone else you had been on terms with." "But, then," Hope, "the 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 by, and he was to close you, and to speak very low, unless he to what he said, which—though it was nothing at all particular—of course, he would not." But then, above all, that emphatic, yet pressure of the hand, which to say, "Trust me;" and many other besides—too delightful, almost too flattering, to be to one's self. "Egregious folly—too to contradiction—mere of the imagination, which you ought to be of. If you would but your own exterior, your reserve, your diffidence—which must make you appear cold, dull, awkward, and ill-tempered too;—if you had but these from the beginning, you would have such thoughts: and now that you have been so foolish, pray and amend, and let us have no more of it!"
I cannot say that I my own injunctions: but such as this more and more as time on, and nothing was or of Mr. Weston; until, at last, I gave up hoping, for my it was all in vain. But still, I would think of him: I would his image in my mind; and every word, look, and that my memory retain; and over his and his peculiarities, and, in fact, all I had seen, heard, or him.
"Agnes, this sea air and of do you no good, I think: I saw you look so wretched. It must be that you too much, and allow the of the to worry you. You must learn to take easy, and to be more active and cheerful; you must take you can it, and the most to me: they will only to my patience, and, perhaps, try my a little."
So said my mother, as we sat at work one the Easter holidays. I her that my 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 were over: when came I should be as and as she wish to see me: but her me. I my was declining, my had failed, and I was and desponding;—and if, indeed, he for me, and I see him more—if I was to minister to his happiness—forbidden, for ever, to taste the of love, to bless, and to be blessed—then, life must be a burden, and if my Father would call me away, I should be to rest. But it would not do to die and my mother. Selfish, daughter, to her for a moment! Was not her in a great measure to my charge?—and the of our too? Should I from the work that God had set me, it was not to my taste? Did not He know best what I should do, and where I ought to labour?—and should I long to His service I had my task, and to enter into His without having to earn it? "No; by His help I will and address myself to my duty. If in this world is not for me, I will to promote the of those around me, and my shall be hereafter." So said I in my heart; and from that hour I only permitted my to to Edward Weston—or at least to upon him now and then—as a for occasions: and, it was the approach of or the of these good resolutions, or the of time, or all together, of mind was soon restored; and health and likewise, slowly, but surely, to return.
Early in June, I a from Lady Ashby, late Miss Murray. She had to me twice or thrice before, from the different of her tour, always in good spirits, and to be very happy. I every time that she had not me, in the of so much and of scene. At length, however, there was a pause; and it she had me, for of seven months passed away and no letter. Of course, I did not my about that, though I often how she was on; and when this last so arrived, I was to it. It was from Ashby Park, where she was come to settle at last, having her time the and the metropolis. She many for having neglected me so long, me she had not me, and had often to write, &c. &c., but had always been by something. She that she had been leading a very life, and I should think her very and very thoughtless; but, that, she a great deal, and, among other things, that she should like to see me. "We have been days here already," she. "We have not a single friend with us, and are likely to be very dull. You know I had a for with my husband like two in a nest, were he the most that a coat; so do take upon me and come. I your Midsummer in June, the same as other people's; therefore you cannot 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 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, you like to retire to it, and of books to read when my company is not amusing. I you like babies; if you do, you may have the of mine—the most child in the world, no doubt; and all the more so, that I am not with nursing it—I was I wouldn't be with that. Unfortunately, it is a girl, and Sir Thomas has me: but, however, if you will only come, I promise you shall be its as soon as it can speak; and you shall it up in the way it should go, and make a woman of it than its mamma. And you shall see my poodle, too: a little from Paris: and two Italian paintings of great value—I the artist. Doubtless you will be able to in them, which you must point out to me, as I only by hearsay; and many besides, which I purchased at Rome and elsewhere; and, finally, you shall see my new home—the house and I used to so greatly. Alas! how the promise of the of possession! There's a sentiment! I you I am a old matron: pray come, if it be only to the change. Write by return of post, and tell me when your commences, and say that you will come the day after, and till the day it closes—in to
"Yours affectionately,
"ROSALIE ASHBY."
I this to my mother, and her on what I ought to do. She me to go; and I went—willing to see Lady Ashby, and her baby, too, and to do anything I to her, by or advice; for I she must be unhappy, or she would not have to me thus—but feeling, as may be conceived, that, in the invitation, I a great for her, and did to my in many ways, of being with the of being by the baronet's lady to visit her as a friend. However, I my visit should be only for a days at most; and I will not that I some from the idea that, as Ashby Park was not very from Horton, I might possibly see Mr. Weston, or, at least, something about him.
