THE LETTER





My father’s mortal remains had been consigned to the tomb; and we, with

sad faces and sombre garments, sat lingering over the frugal

breakfast-table, revolving plans for our future life. My mother’s

strong mind had not given way beneath even this affliction: her spirit,

though crushed, was not broken. Mary’s wish was that I should go back

to Horton Lodge, and that our mother should come and live with her and

Mr. Richardson at the vicarage: she affirmed that he wished it no less

than herself, and that such an arrangement could not fail to benefit

all parties; for my mother’s society and experience would be of

inestimable value to them, and they would do all they could to make her

happy. But no arguments or entreaties could prevail: my mother was

determined not to go. Not that she questioned, for a moment, the kind

wishes and intentions of her daughter; but she affirmed that so long as

God spared her health and strength, she would make use of them to earn

her own livelihood, and be chargeable to no one; whether her dependence

would be felt as a burden or not. If she could afford to reside as a

lodger in —— vicarage, she would choose that house before all others as

the place of her abode; but not being so circumstanced, she would never

come under its roof, except as an occasional visitor: unless sickness

or calamity should render her assistance really needful, or until age

or infirmity made her incapable of maintaining herself.



“No, Mary,” said she, “if Richardson and you have anything to spare,

you must lay it aside for your family; and Agnes and I must gather

honey for ourselves. Thanks to my having had daughters to educate, I

have not forgotten my accomplishments. God willing, I will check this

vain repining,” she said, while the tears coursed one another down her

cheeks in spite of her efforts; but she wiped them away, and resolutely

shaking back her head, continued, “I will exert myself, and look out

for a small house, commodiously situated in some populous but healthy

district, where we will take a few young ladies to board and educate—if

we can get them—and as many day pupils as will come, or as we can

manage to instruct. Your father’s relations and old friends will be

able to send us some pupils, or to assist us with their

recommendations, no doubt: I shall not apply to my own. What say you to

it, Agnes? will you be willing to leave your present situation and

try?”



“Quite willing, mamma; and the money I have saved will do to furnish

the house. It shall be taken from the bank directly.”



“When it is wanted: we must get the house, and settle on preliminaries

first.”



Mary offered to lend the little she possessed; but my mother declined

it, saying that we must begin on an economical plan; and she hoped that

the whole or part of mine, added to what we could get by the sale of

the furniture, and what little our dear papa had contrived to lay aside

for her since the debts were paid, would be sufficient to last us till

Christmas; when, it was hoped, something would accrue from our united

labours. It was finally settled that this should be our plan; and that

inquiries and preparations should immediately be set on foot; and while

my mother busied herself with these, I should return to Horton Lodge at

the close of my four weeks’ vacation, and give notice for my final

departure when things were in train for the speedy commencement of our

school.



We were discussing these affairs on the morning I have mentioned, about

a fortnight after my father’s death, when a letter was brought in for

my mother, on beholding which the colour mounted to her face—lately

pale enough with anxious watchings and excessive sorrow. “From my

father!” murmured she, as she hastily tore off the cover. It was many

years since she had heard from any of her own relations before.

Naturally wondering what the letter might contain, I watched her

countenance while she read it, and was somewhat surprised to see her

bite her lip and knit her brows as if in anger. When she had done, she

somewhat irreverently cast it on the table, saying with a scornful

smile,—



“Your grandpapa has been so kind as to write to me. He says he has no

doubt I have long repented of my ‘unfortunate marriage,’ and if I will

only acknowledge this, and confess I was wrong in neglecting his

advice, and that I have justly suffered for it, he will make a lady of

me once again—if that be possible after my long degradation—and

remember my girls in his will. Get my desk, Agnes, and send these

things away: I will answer the letter directly. But first, as I may be

depriving you both of a legacy, it is just that I should tell you what

I mean to say. I shall say that he is mistaken in supposing that I can

regret the birth of my daughters (who have been the pride of my life,

and are likely to be the comfort of my old age), or the thirty years I

have passed in the company of my best and dearest friend;—that, had our

misfortunes been three times as great as they were (unless they had

been of my bringing on), I should still the more rejoice to have shared

them with your father, and administered what consolation I was able;

and, had his sufferings in illness been ten times what they were, I

could not regret having watched over and laboured to relieve

them;—that, if he had married a richer wife, misfortunes and trials

would no doubt have come upon him still; while I am egotist enough to

imagine that no other woman could have cheered him through them so

well: not that I am superior to the rest, but I was made for him, and

he for me; and I can no more repent the hours, days, years of happiness

we have spent together, and which neither could have had without the

other, than I can the privilege of having been his nurse in sickness,

and his comfort in affliction.



“Will this do, children?—or shall I say we are all very sorry for what

has happened during the last thirty years, and my daughters wish they

had never been born; but since they have had that misfortune, they will

be thankful for any trifle their grandpapa will be kind enough to

bestow?”



Of course, we both applauded our mother’s resolution; Mary cleared away

the breakfast things; I brought the desk; the letter was quickly

written and despatched; and, from that day, we heard no more of our

grandfather, till we saw his death announced in the newspaper a

considerable time after—all his worldly possessions, of course, being

left to our wealthy unknown cousins.