“You don’t know what happiness lies before you yet,” said I: “you are now only in the commencement of your journey.”
“The best of happiness,” replied he, “is mine already—the power and the will to be useful.”
We now approached a stile communicating with a footpath that conducted to a farmhouse, where, I suppose, Mr. Weston purposed to make himself “useful;” for he presently took leave of me, crossed the stile, and traversed the path with his usual firm, elastic tread, leaving me to ponder his words as I continued my course alone. I had heard before that he had lost his mother not many months before he came. She then was the last and dearest of his early friends; and he had no home. I pitied him from my heart: I almost wept for sympathy. And this, I thought, accounted for the shade of premature thoughtfulness that so frequently clouded his brow, and obtained for him the reputation of a morose and sullen disposition with the charitable Miss Murray and all her kin. “But,” thought I, “he is not so miserable as I should be under such a deprivation: he leads an active life; and a wide field for useful exertion lies before him. He can make friends; and he can make a home too, if he pleases; and, doubtless, he will please some time. God grant the partner of that home may be worthy of his choice, and make it a happy one—such a home as he deserves to have! And how delightful it would be to—” But no matter what I thought.
I began this book with the intention of concealing nothing; that those who liked might have the benefit of perusing a fellow-creature’s heart: but we have some thoughts that all the angels in heaven are welcome to behold, but not our brother-men—not even the best and kindest amongst them.
By this time the Greens had taken themselves to their own abode, and the Murrays had turned down the private road, whither I hastened to follow them. I found the two girls warm in an animated discussion on the respective merits of the two young officers; but on seeing me Rosalie broke off in the middle of a sentence to exclaim, with malicious glee—
“Oh-ho, Miss Grey! you’re come at last, are you? No wonder you lingered so long behind; and no wonder you always stand up so vigorously for Mr. Weston when I abuse him. Ah-ha! I see it all now!”
“Now, come, Miss Murray, don’t be foolish,” said I, attempting a good-natured laugh; “you know such nonsense can make no impression on me.”
But she still went on talking such intolerable stuff—her sister helping her with appropriate fiction coined for the occasion—that I thought it necessary to say something in my own justification.
“What folly all this is!” I exclaimed. “If Mr. Weston’s road happened to be the same as mine for a few yards, and if he chose to exchange a word or two in passing, what is there so remarkable in that? I assure you, I never spoke to him before: except once.”
“Where? where? and when?” cried they eagerly.
“In Nancy’s cottage.”
“Ah-ha! you’ve met him there, have you?” exclaimed Rosalie, with exultant laughter. “Ah! now, Matilda, I’ve found out why she’s so fond of going to Nancy Brown’s! She goes there to flirt with Mr. Weston.”
“Really, that is not worth contradicting—I only saw him there once, I tell you—and how could I know he was coming?”
Irritated as I was at their foolish mirth and vexatious imputations, the uneasiness did not continue long: when they had had their laugh out, they returned again to the captain and lieutenant; and, while they disputed and commented upon them, my indignation rapidly cooled; the cause of it was quickly forgotten, and I turned my thoughts into a pleasanter channel.
Thus we proceeded up the park, and entered the hall; and as I ascended the stairs to my own chamber, I had but one thought within me: my heart was filled to overflowing with one single earnest wish. Having entered the room, and shut the door, I fell upon my knees and offered up a fervent but not impetuous prayer: “Thy will be done,” I strove to say throughout; but, “Father, all things are possible with Thee, and may it be Thy will,” was sure to follow. That wish—that prayer—both men and women would have scorned me for—“But, Father, Thou wilt not despise!” I said, and felt that it was true. It seemed to me that another’s welfare was at least as ardently implored for as my own; nay, even that was the principal object of my heart’s desire. I might have been deceiving myself; but that idea gave me confidence to ask, and power to hope I did not ask in vain.
As for the primroses, I kept two of them in a glass in my room until they were completely withered, and the housemaid threw them out; and the petals of the other I pressed between the leaves of my Bible—I have them still, and mean to keep them always.
XIV
The Rector
The following day was as fine as the preceding one. Soon after breakfast Miss Matilda, having galloped and blundered through a few unprofitable lessons, and vengeably thumped the piano for an hour, in a terrible humour with both me and it, because her mamma would not give her
