CONCLUSION
"Well, Agnes, you must not take such long walks again breakfast," said my mother, that I an cup of coffee and ate nothing—pleading the of the weather, and the of my long walk as an excuse. I did and too.
"You always do by extremes: now, if you had taken a walk every morning, and would continue to do so, it would do you good."
"Well, mamma, I will."
"But this is than in or over your books: you have put into a fever."
"I won't do it again," said I.
I was my with how to tell her about Mr. Weston, for she must know he was to-morrow. However, I waited till the were removed, and I was more and cool; and then, having sat to my drawing, I "I met an old friend on the to-day, mamma."
"An old friend! Who it be?"
"Two old friends, indeed. One was a dog;" and then I her of Snap, history I had before, and related the of his and recognition; "and the other," I, "was Mr. Weston, the of Horton."
"Mr. Weston! I of him before."
"Yes, you have: I've mentioned him times, I believe: but you don't remember."
"I've you speak of Mr. Hatfield."
"Mr. Hatfield was the rector, and Mr. Weston the curate: I used to mention him sometimes in to Mr. Hatfield, as being a more clergyman. However, he was on the this with the dog—he had it, I suppose, from the rat-catcher; and he me as well as it did—probably through its means: and I had a little with him, in the of which, as he asked about our school, I was to say something about you, and your good management; and he said he should like to know you, and asked if I would him to you, if he should take the of calling to-morrow; so I said I would. Was I right?"
"Of course. What of a man is he?"
"A very man, I think: but you will see him to-morrow. He is the new of F——, and as he has only been there a weeks, I he has no friends yet, and wants a little society."
The came. What a of and I was in from till noon—at which time he his appearance! Having him to my mother, I took my work to the window, and sat to the result of the interview. They got on well together—greatly to my satisfaction, for I had very about what my mother would think of him. He did not long that time: but when he rose to take leave, she said she should be happy to see him, he might it to call again; and when he was gone, I was by her say, "Well! I think he's a very man. But why did you there, Agnes," she added, "and talk so little?"
"Because you talked so well, mamma, I you no from me: and, besides, he was your visitor, not mine."
After that, he often called upon us—several times in the of a week. He most of his to my mother: and no wonder, for she converse. I almost the unfettered, of her discourse, and the by she said—and yet, I did not; for, though I occasionally my own for his sake, it gave me very great to and the two beings I loved and above every one else in the world, together so amicably, so wisely, and so well. I was not always silent, however; was I at all neglected. I was as much noticed as I would wish to be: there was no of and looks, no end of attentions, too and to be by words, and therefore indescribable—but at heart.
Ceremony was us: Mr. Weston came as an guest, welcome at all times, and the economy of our affairs. He called me "Agnes:" the name had been spoken at first, but, it gave no in any quarter, he to that to "Miss Grey;" and so did I. How and were those days in which he did not come! And yet not miserable; for I had still the of the last visit and the of the next to me. But when two or three days passed without my him, I very anxious—absurdly, so; for, of course, he had his own and the of his to to. And I the close of the holidays, when my also would begin, and I should be sometimes unable to see him, and sometimes—when my mother was in the schoolroom—obliged to be with him alone: a position I did not at all desire, in the house; though to meet him out of doors, and walk him, had proved by no means disagreeable.
One evening, however, in the last week of the vacation, he arrived—unexpectedly: for a and thunder-shower the had almost my of him that day; but now the was over, and the sun was brightly.
"A evening, Mrs. Grey!" said he, as he entered. "Agnes, I want you to take a walk with me to " (he named a part of the coast—a hill on the land side, and the sea a precipice, from the of which a view is to be had). "The rain has the dust, and and the air, and the will be magnificent. Will you come?"
"Can I go, mamma?"
"Yes; to be sure."
I to ready, and was again in a minutes; though, of course, I took a little more pains with my than if I had been going out on some shopping alone. The thunder-shower had had a most upon the weather, and the was most delightful. Mr. Weston would have me to take his arm; he said little our passage through the streets, but walked very fast, and appeared and abstracted. I what was the matter, and an that something was on his mind; and surmises, what it might be, me not a little, and me and enough. But these upon the of the town; for as soon as we came of the old church, and the —— hill, with the it, I my was enough.
"I'm I've been walking too fast for you, Agnes," said he: "in my to be of the town, I to your convenience; but now we'll walk as slowly as you please. I see, by those light clouds in the west, there will be a sunset, and we shall be in time to its upon the sea, at the most of progression."
When we had got about half-way up the hill, we into again; which, as usual, he was the to break.
"My house is yet, Miss Grey," he observed, "and I am now with all the ladies in my parish, and in this town too; and many others I know by and by report; but not one of them will me for a companion; in fact, there is only one person in the world that will: and that is yourself; and I want to know your decision?"
"Are you in earnest, Mr. Weston?"
"In earnest! How you think I should on such a subject?"
He his hand on mine, that rested on his arm: he must have it tremble—but it was no great now.
"I I have not been too precipitate," he said, in a tone. "You must have that it was not my way to and talk soft nonsense, or to speak the that I felt; and that a single word or of mine meant more than the phrases and of most other men."
I said something about not to my mother, and doing nothing without her consent.
"I settled with Mrs. Grey, while you were on your bonnet," he. "She said I might have her consent, if I obtain yours; and I asked her, in case I should be so happy, to come and live with us—for I was sure you would like it better. But she refused, saying she now to an assistant, and would continue the till she purchase an to maintain her in lodgings; and, meantime, she would her alternately with us and your sister, and should be if you were happy. And so now I have your on her account. Have you any other?"
"No—none."
"You love me then?" said he, pressing my hand.
"Yes."
Here I pause. My Diary, from which I have these pages, goes but little further. I go on for years, but I will myself with adding, that I shall that evening, and always with that hill, and the of the where we together, the in the world of at our feet—with with to heaven, and happiness, and love—almost too full for speech.
A after that, when my mother had herself with an assistant, I the wife of Edward Weston; and have to it, and am that I shall. We have had trials, and we know that we must have them again; but we them well together, and to ourselves and each other against the final separation—that of all to the survivor. But, if we keep in mind the beyond, where may meet again, and and are unknown, surely that too may be borne; and, meantime, we to live to the of Him who has so many in our path.
Edward, by his exertions, has in his parish, and is and loved by its inhabitants—as he deserves; for his may be as a man (and no one is without), I to him as a pastor, a husband, or a father.
Our children, Edward, Agnes, and little Mary, promise well; their education, for the time being, is to me; and they shall want no good thing that a mother's can give. Our is for our requirements: and by the economy we learnt in times, and attempting to our neighbours, we manage not only to and ourselves, but to have every year something to by for our children, and something to give to those who need it.
And now I think I have said sufficient.
