“I fear I am taking you out of your way, Mr. Weston—I believe the road to F⸺ lies quite in another direction.”
“I’ll leave you at the end of the next street,” said he.
“And when will you come to see mamma?”
“Tomorrow—God willing.”
The end of the next street was nearly the conclusion of my journey. He stopped there, however, bid me good morning, and called Snap, who seemed a little doubtful whether to follow his old mistress or his new master, but trotted away upon being summoned by the latter.
“I won’t offer to restore him to you, Miss Grey,” said Mr. Weston, smiling, “because I like him.”
“Oh, I don’t want him,” replied I, “now that he has a good master; I’m quite satisfied.”
“You take it for granted that I am a good one, then?”
The man and the dog departed, and I returned home, full of gratitude to heaven for so much bliss, and praying that my hopes might not again be crushed.
XXV
Conclusion
“Well, Agnes, you must not take such long walks again before breakfast,” said my mother, observing that I drank an extra cup of coffee and ate nothing—pleading the heat of the weather, and the fatigue of my long walk as an excuse. I certainly did feel feverish and tired too.
“You always do things by extremes: now, if you had taken a short walk every morning, and would continue to do so, it would do you good.”
“Well, mamma, I will.”
“But this is worse than lying in bed or bending over your books: you have quite put yourself into a fever.”
“I won’t do it again,” said I.
I was racking my brains with thinking how to tell her about Mr. Weston, for she must know he was coming tomorrow. However, I waited till the breakfast things were removed, and I was more calm and cool; and then, having sat down to my drawing, I began—“I met an old friend on the sands today, mamma.”
“An old friend! Who could it be?”
“Two old friends, indeed. One was a dog;” and then I reminded her of Snap, whose history I had recounted before, and related the incident of his sudden appearance and remarkable recognition; “and the other,” continued I, “was Mr. Weston, the curate of Horton.”
“Mr. Weston! I never heard of him before.”
“Yes, you have: I’ve mentioned him several times, I believe: but you don’t remember.”
“I’ve heard you speak of Mr. Hatfield.”
“Mr. Hatfield was the rector, and Mr. Weston the curate: I used to mention him sometimes in contradistinction to Mr. Hatfield, as being a more efficient clergyman. However, he was on the sands this morning with the dog—he had bought it, I suppose, from the rat-catcher; and he knew me as well as it did—probably through its means: and I had a little conversation with him, in the course of which, as he asked about our school, I was led to say something about you, and your good management; and he said he should like to know you, and asked if I would introduce him to you, if he should take the liberty of calling tomorrow; so I said I would. Was I right?”
“Of course. What kind of a man is he?”
“A very respectable man, I think: but you will see him tomorrow. He is the new vicar of F⸺, and as he has only been there a few weeks, I suppose he has made no friends yet, and wants a little society.”
The morrow came. What a fever of anxiety and expectation I was in from breakfast till noon—at which time he made his appearance! Having introduced him to my mother, I took my work to the window, and sat down to await the result of the interview. They got on extremely well together—greatly to my satisfaction, for I had felt very anxious about what my mother would think of him. He did not stay long that time: but when he rose to take leave, she said she should be happy to see him, whenever he might find it convenient to call again; and when he was gone, I was gratified by hearing her say—“Well! I think he’s a very sensible man. But why did you sit back there, Agnes,” she added, “and talk so little?”
“Because you talked so well, mamma, I thought you required no assistance from me: and, besides, he was your visitor, not mine.”
After that, he often called upon us—several times in the course of a week. He generally addressed most of his conversation to my mother: and no wonder, for she could converse. I almost envied the unfettered, vigorous fluency of her discourse, and the strong sense evinced by everything she said—and yet, I did not; for, though I occasionally regretted my own deficiencies for his sake, it gave me very great pleasure to sit and hear the two beings I loved and honoured above everyone else in the world, discoursing together so amicably, so wisely, and so well. I was not always silent, however; nor was I at all neglected. I was quite as much noticed as I would wish to be: there was no lack of kind words and kinder looks, no end of delicate attentions, too fine and subtle to be grasped by words, and therefore indescribable—but deeply felt at heart.
Ceremony was quickly dropped between us: Mr. Weston came as an expected guest, welcome at all times, and never deranging the economy of our household affairs. He even called me “Agnes”: the name had been timidly spoken at first, but, finding it gave no offence in any quarter, he seemed greatly to prefer that appellation to “Miss Grey;” and so did I.
How tedious and gloomy were those days in
