Chap­ter XXI — The School marks a qui­et but mean­ing­ful shift in Agnes’s life as she set­tles into a new rhythm along­side her moth­er in the town of A-. Their shared project—a mod­est school for girls—begins with only a few stu­dents, but its sig­nif­i­cance lies not in num­bers, rather in the inde­pen­dence and dig­ni­ty it offers. Unlike her ear­li­er roles where her efforts were often under­val­ued, Agnes now has the free­dom to edu­cate with kind­ness, patience, and integri­ty. Her days are busy but ful­fill­ing, and the sat­is­fac­tion of mean­ing­ful work restores some of her emo­tion­al equi­lib­ri­um. Though the rou­tine is mod­est, it is hon­est and pur­pose­ful, pro­vid­ing both women with com­fort and a sense of achieve­ment.

Beneath this calm sur­face, how­ev­er, Agnes car­ries a qui­et heartache tied to her feel­ings for Mr. West­on. She tries to push these thoughts aside, believ­ing they are unfound­ed and unwor­thy, espe­cial­ly when con­sid­er­ing her plain appear­ance and lack of charm. Still, small moments—a knock at the door, a let­ter’s arrival—ignite brief flick­ers of hope that she strug­gles to con­trol. Each time real­i­ty falls short of her expec­ta­tions, she chas­tis­es her­self for allow­ing her imag­i­na­tion to wan­der. The let­ter that arrives from Mary, not Mr. West­on, and the mis­tak­en iden­ti­ty of a vis­i­tor as him, serve as gen­tle reminders of how her feel­ings remain unspo­ken and unre­solved.

Agnes’s inter­nal strug­gle inten­si­fies as the weeks pass in silence. No word from Mr. West­on arrives, and grad­u­al­ly, she begins to accept that their con­nec­tion may belong only to the past. Yet she does not allow this dis­ap­point­ment to con­sume her. Instead, she redi­rects her ener­gy toward her respon­si­bil­i­ties, deter­mined to focus on her duties rather than her desires. Her moth­er, per­cep­tive as ever, notices a change in Agnes’s health and demeanor. Con­cerned, she encour­ages Agnes to take care of her­self not just in body but in spir­it, rec­og­niz­ing that the young woman car­ries more with­in her than she read­i­ly shares.

This gen­tle inter­ven­tion prompts Agnes to reassess her pri­or­i­ties. She renews her com­mit­ment to teach­ing and to find­ing mean­ing in ser­vice rather than sen­ti­ment. Her reflec­tions are not bit­ter but thought­ful, and she draws strength from her belief in qui­et per­se­ver­ance and moral integri­ty. The school becomes not just a work­place but a sanctuary—one where she can shape young minds while also find­ing steady pur­pose. Despite the sim­plic­i­ty of her envi­ron­ment, Agnes learns that val­ue can be found in the small­est moments of progress and under­stand­ing with her pupils. Her world, while lim­it­ed in scope, feels ground­ed and true.

The chap­ter shifts again with the arrival of a let­ter from Lady Ash­by. Rosalie’s invi­ta­tion sur­pris­es Agnes, par­tic­u­lar­ly in its flip­pant tone and self-impor­tance. Still, she views the request not as an oblig­a­tion but as an opportunity—perhaps to recon­nect, per­haps to help, or per­haps sim­ply to observe the out­come of choic­es she once wit­nessed being made. Agnes under­stands that Rosalie’s life, though adorned with wealth and sta­tus, may lack the sub­stance that brings true con­tent­ment. This chance to return to Ash­by Park does not stir envy, but rather curios­i­ty and a tem­pered hope that she might still be use­ful in some way.

Agnes’s accep­tance of the invi­ta­tion is qui­et, thought­ful, and delib­er­ate. No longer dri­ven by fan­ta­sy or fear, she steps into the next phase of her jour­ney with matu­ri­ty and grace. Her path is not defined by dra­mat­ic twists but by small, res­olute steps shaped by duty, love, and resilience. In return­ing to a place that once sym­bol­ized super­fi­cial glam­our, Agnes car­ries with her the insight and strength forged through expe­ri­ence. She may not know what lies ahead, but she is no longer the timid gov­erness she once was. The school, the silence, and her own growth have pre­pared her to face what­ev­er comes next—with clar­i­ty, com­pas­sion, and qui­et courage.