Agnes Grey (Completed)

Chapter XXI - The School

I left Horton Lodge, and went to join my mother in our new abode at A---.  I found her well in health, resigned in spirit, and even cheerful, though subdued and sober, in her general demeanour.  We had only three boarders and half a dozen day-pupils to commence with; but by due care and diligence we hoped ere long to increase the number of both.

I set myself with befitting energy to discharge the duties of this new mode of life.  I call it new, for there was, indeed, a considerable difference between working with my mother in a school of our own, and working as a hireling among strangers, despised and trampled upon by old and young; and for the first few weeks I was by no means unhappy.  'It is possible we may meet again,' and 'will it be of any consequence to you whether we do or not?'—Those words still rang in my ear and rested on my heart: they were my secret solace and support.  'I shall see him again.—He will come; or he will write.'  No promise, in fact, was too bright or too extravagant for Hope to whisper in my ear.  I did not believe half of what she told me: I pretended to laugh at it all; but I was far more credulous than I myself supposed; otherwise, why did my heart leap up when a knock was heard at the front door, and the maid, who opened it, came to tell my mother a gentleman wished to see her? and why was I out of humour for the rest of the day, because it proved to be a music-master come to offer his services to our school? and what stopped my breath for a moment, when the postman having brought a couple of letters, my mother said, 'Here, Agnes, this is for you,' and threw one of them to me? and what made the hot blood rush into my face when I saw it was directed in a gentleman's hand? and why—oh! why did that cold, sickening sense of disappointment fall upon me, when I had torn open the cover and found it was only a letter from Mary, which, for some reason or other, her husband had directed for her?

Was it then come to this—that I should be disappointed to receive a letter from my only sister: and because it was not written by a comparative stranger?  Dear Mary! and she had written it so kindly—and thinking I should be so pleased to have it!—I was not worthy to read it!  And I believe, in my indignation against myself, I should have put it aside till I had schooled myself into a better frame of mind, and was become more deserving of the honour and privilege of its perusal: but there was my mother looking on, and wishful to know what news it contained; so I read it and delivered it to her, and then went into the schoolroom to attend to the pupils: but amidst the cares of copies and sums—in the intervals of correcting errors here, and reproving derelictions of duty there, I was inwardly taking myself to task with far sterner severity.  'What a fool you must be,' said my head to my heart, or my sterner to my softer self;—'how could you ever dream that he would write to you?  What grounds have you for such a hope—or that he will see you, or give himself any trouble about you—or even think of you again?'  'What grounds?'—and then Hope set before me that last, short interview, and repeated the words I had so faithfully treasured in my memory.  'Well, and what was there in that?—Who ever hung his hopes upon so frail a twig?  What was there in those words that any common acquaintance 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 imply any intention of seeing you—and then, as to the question that followed, anyone might ask that: and how did you answer?—Merely with a stupid, commonplace reply, such as you would have given to Master Murray, or anyone else you had been on tolerably civil terms with.'  'But, then,' persisted Hope, 'the tone 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 passing by, and he was obliged to stand close beside you, and to speak very low, unless he wished everybody to hear what he said, which—though it was nothing at all particular—of course, he would rather not.'  But then, above all, that emphatic, yet gentle pressure of the hand, which seemed to say, 'Trust me;' and many other things besides—too delightful, almost too flattering, to be repeated even to one's self.  'Egregious folly—too absurd to require contradiction—mere inventions of the imagination, which you ought to be ashamed of.  If you would but consider your own unattractive exterior, your unamiable reserve, your foolish diffidence—which must make you appear cold, dull, awkward, and perhaps ill-tempered too;—if you had but rightly considered these from the beginning, you would never have harboured such presumptuous thoughts: and now that you have been so foolish, pray repent and amend, and let us have no more of it!'