A HOUSE in A-, the fashionable
watering-place, was hired for
our seminary; and a promise of
two or three pupils was obtained
to commence with. I returned
to Horton Lodge about the middle
of July, leaving my mother to
conclude the bargain for the
house, to obtain more pupils,
to sell off the furniture of
our old abode, and to fit out
the new one.
We often pity the poor, because
they have no leisure to mourn
their departed relatives, and
necessity obliges them to labour
through their severest afflictions:
but is not active employment
the best remedy for overwhelming
sorrow - the surest antidote
for despair? It may be a rough
comforter: it may seem hard to
be harassed with the cares of
life when we have no relish for
its enjoyments; to be goaded
to labour when the heart is ready
to break, and the vexed spirit
implores for rest only to weep
in silence: but is not labour
better than the rest we covet?
and are not those petty, tormenting
cares less hurtful than a continual
brooding over the great affliction
that oppresses us? Besides, we
cannot have cares, and anxieties,
and toil, without hope - if it
be but the hope of fulfilling
our joyless task, accomplishing
some needful project, or escaping
some further annoyance. At any
rate, I was glad my mother had
so much employment for every
faculty of her action-loving
frame. Our kind neighbours lamented
that she, once so exalted in
wealth and station, should be
reduced to such extremity in
her time of sorrow; but I am
persuaded that she would have
suffered thrice as much had she
been left in affluence, with
liberty to remain in that house,
the scene of her early happiness
and late affliction, and no stern
necessity to prevent her from
incessantly brooding over and
lamenting her bereavement.
I will not dilate upon the
feelings with which I left the
old house, the well-known garden,
the little village church - then
doubly dear to me, because my
father, who, for thirty years,
had taught and prayed within
its walls, lay slumbering now
beneath its flags - and the old
bare hills, delightful in their
very desolation, with the narrow
vales between, smiling in green
wood and sparkling water - the
house where I was born, the scene
of all my early associations,
the place where throughout life
my earthly affections had been
centred; - and left them to return
no more! True, I was going back
to Horton Lodge, where, amid
many evils, one source of pleasure
yet remained: but it was pleasure
mingled with excessive pain;
and my stay, alas! was limited
to six weeks. And even of that
precious time, day after day
slipped by and I did not see
him: except at church, I never
saw him for a fortnight after
my return. It seemed a long time
to me: and, as I was often out
with my rambling pupil, of course
hopes would keep rising, and
disappointments would ensue;
and then, I would say to my own
heart, 'Here is a convincing
proof - if you would but have
the sense to see it, or the candour
to acknowledge it - that he does
not care for you. If he only
thought HALF as much about you
as you do about him, he would
have contrived to meet you many
times ere this: you must know
that, by consulting your own
feelings. Therefore, have done
with this nonsense: you have
no ground for hope: dismiss,
at once, these hurtful thoughts
and foolish wishes from your
mind, and turn to your own duty,
and the dull blank life that
lies before you. You might have
known such happiness was not
for you.'
But I saw him at last. He came
suddenly upon me as I was crossing
a field in returning from a visit
to Nancy Brown, which I had taken
the opportunity of paying while
Matilda Murray was riding her
matchless mare. He must have
heard of the heavy loss I had
sustained: he expressed no sympathy,
offered no condolence: but almost
the first words he uttered were,
- 'How is your mother?' And this
was no matter-of -course question,
for I never told him that I had
a mother: he must have learned
the fact from others, if he knew
it at all; and, besides, there
was sincere goodwill, and even
deep, touching, unobtrusive sympathy
in the tone and manner of the
inquiry. I thanked him with due
civility, and told him she was
as well as could be expected.
'What will she do?' was the next
question. Many would have deemed
it an impertinent one, and given
an evasive reply; but such an
idea never entered my head, and
I gave a brief but plain statement
of my mother's plans and prospects.
'Then you will leave this place
shortly?' said he.
'Yes, in a month.'
He paused a minute, as if in
thought. When he spoke again,
I hoped it would be to express
his concern at my departure;
but it was only to say, - 'I
should think you will be willing
enough to go?'
'Yes - for some things,' I
replied.
'For SOME things only - I wonder
what should make you regret it?'
I was annoyed at this in some
degree; because it embarrassed
me: I had only one reason for
regretting it; and that was a
profound secret, which he had
no business to trouble me about.
'Why,' said I - 'why should
you suppose that I dislike the
place?'
'You told me so yourself,'
was the decisive reply. 'You
said, at least, that you could
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 dislike it.'
'But if you remember rightly,
I said, or meant to say, I could
not live contentedly without
a friend in the world: I was
not so unreasonable as to require
one always near me. I think I
could be happy in a house full
of enemies, if - ' but no; that
sentence must not be continued
- I paused, and hastily added,
- 'And, besides, we cannot well
leave a place where we have lived
for two or three years, without
some feeling of regret.'
'Will you regret to part with
Miss Murray, your sole remaining
pupil and companion?'
'I dare say I shall in some
degree: it was not without sorrow
I parted with her sister.'
'I can imagine that.'
'Well, Miss Matilda is quite
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 confessed she's
a little artful.'
'ARTFUL is she? - I saw she
was giddy and vain - and now,'
he added, after a pause, 'I can
well believe she was artful too;
but so excessively so as to assume
an aspect of extreme simplicity
and unguarded openness. Yes,'
continued he, musingly, 'that
accounts for some little things
that puzzled me a trifle before.'
After that, he turned the conversation
to more general subjects. He
did not leave me till we had
nearly reached the park-gates:
he had certainly stepped a little
out of his way to accompany me
so far, for he now went back
and disappeared down Moss Lane,
the entrance of which we had
passed some time before. Assuredly
I did not regret this circumstance:
if sorrow 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 short interval of delightful
intercourse was at an end. He
had not breathed a word of love,
or dropped one hint of tenderness
or affection, and yet I had been
supremely happy. To be near him,
to hear him talk as he did talk,
and to feel that he thought me
worthy to be so spoken to - capable
of understanding and duly appreciating
such discourse - was enough.
'Yes, Edward Weston, I could
indeed be happy in a house full
of enemies, if I had but one
friend, who truly, deeply, and
faithfully loved me; and if that
friend were you - though we might
be far apart - seldom to hear
from each other, still more seldom
to meet - though toil, and trouble,
and vexation might surround me,
still - it would be too much
happiness for me to dream of!
Yet who can tell,' said I within
myself, as I proceeded up the
park, - 'who can tell what this
one month may bring forth? I
have lived nearly three-and-twenty
years, and I have suffered much,
and tasted little pleasure yet;
is it likely my life all through
will be so clouded? Is it not
possible that God may hear my
prayers, disperse these gloomy
shadows, and grant me some beams
of heaven's sunshine yet? Will
He entirely deny to me those
blessings which are so freely
given to others, who neither
ask them nor acknowledge them
when received? May I not still
hope and trust? I did hope and
trust for a while: but, alas,
alas! the time ebbed away: one
week followed another, and, excepting
one distant glimpse and two transient
meetings - during which scarcely
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 tears during the sermon
- the last I was to hear from
him: the best I should hear from
anyone, I was well assured. It
was over - the congregation were
departing; and I must follow.
I had then seen him, and heard
his voice, too, probably for
the last time. In the churchyard,
Matilda was pounced upon by the
two Misses Green. They had many
inquiries to make about her sister,
and I know not what besides.
I only wished they would have
done, that we might hasten back
to Horton Lodge: I longed to
seek the retirement of my own
room, or some sequestered nook
in the grounds, that I might
deliver myself up to my feelings
- to weep my last farewell, and
lament my false hopes and vain
delusions. Only this once, and
then adieu to fruitless dreaming
- thenceforth, only sober, solid,
sad reality should occupy my
mind. But while I thus resolved,
a low voice close beside me said
- 'I suppose you are going this
week, Miss Grey?' 'Yes,' I replied.
I was very much startled; and
had I been at all hysterically
inclined, I certainly should
have committed myself in some
way then. Thank God, I was not.
'Well,' said Mr. Weston, 'I
want to bid you good-bye - it
is not likely I shall see you
again before you go.'
'Good-bye, Mr. Weston,' I said.
Oh, how I struggled to say it
calmly! I gave him my hand. He
retained it a few seconds in
his.
'It is possible we may meet
again,' said he; 'will it be
of any consequence to you whether
we do or not?'
'Yes, I should be very glad
to see you again.'
I COULD say no less. He kindly
pressed my hand, and went. Now,
I was happy again - though more
inclined to burst into tears
than ever. If I had been forced
to speak at that moment, a succession
of sobs would have inevitably
ensued; and as it was, I could
not keep the water out of my
eyes. I walked along with Miss
Murray, turning aside my face,
and neglecting to notice several
successive remarks, till she
bawled out that I was either
deaf or stupid; and then (having
recovered my self-possession),
as one awakened from a fit of
abstraction, I suddenly looked
up and asked what she had been
saying.
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