"Upon my word, I believe that Montague is writing an account of his felicity to every officer in the British army.... He darted out of the room this morning before I had half finished what I had to say to him.... He hardly spoke three words while dinner lasted, and off he was again as soon as the cloth was removed, and each time something about writing letters was the only intelligible words I got from him.... I wish you would go, Sir Edward, and see if he is writing letters now, ... and I will ring for tea.... I mean to make Montague sing to-night with Agnes. Emily has taken care that you should have a good piano, my dear ... and you must take care that, while I stay here, I have music enough to make up for the loss of my menagerie, ... for I don't think I shall begin collecting again just yet."
Sir Edward obeyed the old lady's wishes, and when the tea was half over, returned with his brother-in-law. This was the first time that Colonel Hubert had been seen by Miss Compton, and the moment was not a favourable one for removing the idea which she had originally conceived, of his being too old for the lover and husband of her beautiful niece. He was looking pale, harassed, and fatigued; but while Agnes feared only that he might be unwell, her aunt, though she could not deny that he was a gentleman of a most noble presence, (it was thus she expressed herself in speaking of him to Mrs. Peters,) thought that it was strange so young a girl should have fixed her fancy upon him, in preference to all the world beside. In fact, Miss Compton's notions of a lover being drawn solely from the imaginary models she had made acquaintance with among her bees and flowers, she would have been better pleased to see a bright-eyed youth of twenty-one as the hero of her own romance, than the dignified but melancholy man who now stood before her. Having received his salutation, and returned it with that tone and look of intelligent cheerfulness which redeemed all she said from any imputation of want of polish, or deficiency of high-bred elegance, she turned her eyes on the face of Agnes, and there she read such speaking testimony of love and admiration, that all her romantic wishes for her perfect bliss were satisfied; and following the direction of those speaking eyes, and once more examining the features and person of Hubert, she satisfied herself by the conviction, that if not young, he was supremely elegant; and that if his complexion had lost its bloom, his manners had attained a degree of dignity superior, as she thought, to anything described among the young gentlemen whose images were familiar to her imagination.
It was slowly that Colonel Hubert approached Agnes, and mournfully that he gazed upon her; but there was to her feelings a pleasure in his presence, which for a long time prevented her being fully conscious that he, on his part, was not so happy as she had hoped it was in her power to make him. By degrees, however, the conviction of this sad truth made its way to her heart, and from that moment her joy and gladness faded, drooped, and died away, like a flower into which a gnawing worm has found its way, and nestled in the very core. This did not happen on this first evening of their meeting under the roof of Lady Elizabeth, for Agnes indulged her with every song she desired to hear. Lady Stephenson sang too, nor could Colonel Hubert refuse to join them, so that to the unsuspicious Agnes that evening seemed delightful; but a silent, melancholy walk on the following morning, made her ask herself where was the ardent love for which he had pleaded in Half-Moon Street?... Had she mistaken him when he said that his happiness depended wholly on her?... And if not, what was it had turned him thus to stone?
Poor Agnes!... she could have no confident in this new sorrow. Her aunt Compton and her friend Mary had both spoken of him as too old to be a lover; and did she breathe to either a fear that his affection had already grown cold, might they not tell her that it was but natural?... Such words she thought would break her heart, for every hour he became dearer to her than before, as she saw he was unhappy; and, thinking more of him than of herself, mourned more for his sorrow, of which she knew nothing, than for her own, though it was rapidly undermining her health and destroying her bloom.
The real heroine of this love story has been left too long, and it is necessary we should return to see in what way her generous friendship for Mr. O'Donagough was likely to end. Having kept her promise, and paid the debt for which he had been detained, as well as comforted him by the farther loan of 2l.10s.4d., she stated to him her intention of remaining for a month longer at her lodgings in Half Moon-street, adding, with a degree ofnaïvetéthat O'Donagough felt to be extremely touching—
"Let this be a month of probation, my dear friend, for us both. We met under circumstances too much calculated to soften the heart for either of us, perhaps, to be able fairly to judge how we may feel when those circumstances are past. Let me see as much of you as your occupations will permit.... I shall dine at five o'clock, because the evenings are drawing in, and I don't love candle-light before dinner.... You will always find a steak or a chop, and a little brandy and water, or something of that sort.... And now adieu!... This is a disagreeable place to pay or receive visits in, and I flatter myself that I now leave it for ever."
Let the most glowing gratitude that heart can feel be set forth in words of fluent eloquence such as befit the class to which Mr. O'Donagough belonged, and the answer which he gave to this speech will be the product.
Nevertheless, Mr. O'Donagough knew what it meant perfectly well. It meant that the Widow Barnaby, although she had made up her mind to give herself and whatever she might happen to possess to a husband, and although she was exceedingly well inclined to let that husband be Mr. Patrick O'Donagough, she did not intend to go thus far in manifesting her favour towards him, without knowing a little more than she did at present respecting the state of his affairs. In a word, he perceived, as he repeated to himself, with an approving smile—
That though onmarriageshe was bent,She had a prudent mind.
That though onmarriageshe was bent,She had a prudent mind.
Nor was he, notwithstanding the little irregularities into which he had heretofore fallen, unworthy of becoming an object of tender attention to Mrs. Barnaby. Much as he admired her, he had steeled his soul to the virtuous resolution of putting a sudden stop to all farther intercourse between them, should he find upon inquiry that prudence did not justify its continuance.
Whatever deficiency of wisdom, therefore, the conduct of either had before shown, it was evident that both were now actuated by a praiseworthy spirit of forethought that ought to have ensured the felicity of their future years.
It will be evident to all who study the state of the widow's mind at this period, that she had considerably lowered the tone of her hopes and expectations from the moment she became aware of the defection of Lord Mucklebury. The shock which her hopes had received by the disagreeabledenouementof her engagement with Major Allen had been perfectly cured, at least for a time, by the devotion of the noble Viscount; and so well satisfied was she herself at an escape which had left her free to aim at a quarry so infinitely higher, that what had been a mortification turned to a triumph, and she enjoyed the idea, that when "she seemed to slip," she had so gloriously recovered herself as to leave Mrs. Peters, and other envious wonderers, cause to exclaim, "She rises higher half her length!"... But from the time this coroneted bubble burst, her courage fell. Her arrest was another blow.... Mr. Morrison's desertion one heavier still; and, little as she cared for Agnes, or, in truth, for anybody living but herself, the manner of her departure vexed and humbled her.
"That crooked hag," thinks she, "has made me truckle to her!" she exclaimed, as her aunt and her niece drove off, on the night that Agnes first took up her abode with Miss Compton.... "She thinks that because she spent some of her beggar's money to hire a carriage in order to bully me, I shall count myself despised and forsaken. But the spiteful old maid shall hear of my being married again, and that will be wormwood, I'll answer for it."
It was in this spirit that she set about inquiring into the private character and prospects of young Mr. O'Donagough, and her first step in the business showed at once her judgment and her zeal.
In the history he had given of himself, he had spoken of a certain most respectable book-seller, who, (as he modestly hinted,) knowing his worth, and the exemplary manner in which he had turned from horse-racing to preaching, had exerted himself in the kindest manner to obtain some situation for him that should atone for the severity of his father. It was to him he had owed the engagement as domestic chaplain in the family of the nobleman formerly mentioned, and it was to him Mrs. Barnaby addressed herself for information that might lead to an engagement of still greater importance.
It was not, however, her purpose that her real object should be known, and she, therefore, framed her inquiries in such a manner as to lead Mr. Newbirth to suppose that her object was to obtain either a teacher or a preacher for her family circle.
Having made it known that she wished a few minutes private conversation with the principal, she was shown into a parlour by one of the clerks, and civilly requested to sit down for a few minutes till Mr. Newbirth could wait upon her. It must be the fault of every individual so placed, if such few minutes have not turned to good account; for the table of this exemplary publisher was covered elbow-deep in tracts, sermons, missionary reports, mystical magazines, and the like; but as Mrs. Barnaby was not habitually a reader, she did not profit so much as she might have done by her situation, and, before Mr. Newbirth's arrival, had begun to think the "few minutes" mentioned by his clerk were unusually long ones.
At length, however, he appeared, and then it was impossible to think she had waited too long for him, for the gentle suavity of his demeanour made even a moment of his presence invaluable.
"You have business with me, madam?" he said, with his heels gracefully fixed together, and his person bent forward in humble salutation, as far as was consistent with the safety of his nose.... "Pray do not rise. I have now five minutes that I can spare, without neglecting any serious duty;" and so saying, he placed himself opposite to the lady in act to listen.
"I have taken the liberty of waiting upon you, sir," replied Mrs. Barnaby, a little alarmed at the hint that her business must be completed in the space of five minutes, "in order to make some inquiries respecting a Mr. O'Donagough, who is, I believe, known to you."
"Mr. O'Donagough? The Reverend Mr. O'Donagough, madam?"
The widow, though well disposed to enlarge her knowledge, and extend the limits of her principles, was not yet fully initiated into the mysteries of regenerated ordinations, and therefore replied, as the daughter of an English clergyman might well be excused for doing—"No, sir ... the gentleman I mean is Mr. Patrick O'Donagough; he was not brought up to the church."
But there was something in the phrase, "brought upto the church," that grated against the feelings of Mr. Newbirth, and his brow contracted, and his voice became exceedingly solemn, as he said, "I know Mr. Patrick O'Donagough, who, like many other shining lights, was notbrought up to the church; but has, nevertheless, received the title of reverend from the congregation which has the best right to bestow it, even that to which he has been called to preach."
Mrs. Barnaby was not slow in perceiving her mistake, and proceeded with her inquiries in such a manner as to prove that she was not unworthy to intercommune either with Mr. Newbirth himself, or any of those to whom he extended his patronage. The result of the interview was highly satisfactory; for though it seemed clear that Mr. Newbirth was aware of the vexatious accident which had for some months checked the young preacher's career, it was equally evident, that the circumstance made no unfavourable impression, and Mrs. Barnaby returned to her lodgings with the pleasing conviction that now, at least, there could be no danger in giving way to the tender feeling which had so repeatedly beguiled her. "The reverend Mr. O'Donagough" would look very well in the paragraph which she was determined should record her marriage in the Exeter paper; and being quite determined that the three hundred and twenty-seven pounds per annum, which still remained of her income, should be firmly settled on herself, she received her handsome friend, when he arrived at the hour of dinner, in a manner which showed he had lost nothing in her esteem since they parted.
It had so happened, that within half an hour of the widow's quitting the shop of Mr. Newbirth, Mr. O'Donagough entered it. His patron received him very graciously, and failed not to mention the visit he had received, which, though not elucidated by the lady's leaving any name, was perfectly well understood by the person principally concerned.
There are some men who might have felt offended by learning that such a means of improving acquaintance had been resorted to; but its effect on Mr. O'Donagough was exactly the reverse. His respect and estimation for the widow were infinitely increased thereby; for though still a young man, he had considerable experience, and he felt assured, that if Mrs. Barnaby had not something to bestow besides her fair fat hand, she would have been less cautious in letting it follow where it was so certain her heart had gone before.
The conviction thus logically obtained, assisted the progress of the affair very essentially. Having learnt from Mr. Newbirth that the place he had lost by the ill-timed arrest was filled by another who was not likely to give it up again, he once more contrived to make his way to the presence of his father, and gave him very clearly to understand, that the very best thing he could do would be once more to furnish the means for his departure from Europe.
"That you may spend it again at the gaming-table, you audacious scamp!" responded his noble but incensed progenitor.
"Not so, sir," replied the soft-voiced young preacher; "you are not yet aware of the change in my principles, or you would have no such injurious suspicion."
"As to your principles, Pat," replied his lordship, beguiled into a smile by the sanctified solemnity of his versatile son, "I do not comprehend how you could change them, seeing that you never had any."
"Then, instead of principles, sir, let me speak of practice: it is now several months since I exchanged the race-course, the billiard-table, and the dice-box, for the course of an extemporary preacher. I am afraid, my lord, that your taste rather leads you to performances of a different kind, or I would ask you to attend the meeting at which I am to expound next Wednesday evening, after which you could hardly doubt, I imagine, the sincerity of my conversion."
"It would be putting your eloquence to rather a severe test, Master Patrick. But if you have really got a church to preach in at home, why, in the devil's name, should you bother me again about going abroad?"
"Because, my lord, I have no fixed stipend, or any other honest and safe means of getting my bread, and also because there are many other reasons which make it desirable that I should leave this country."
"That at least is likely enough, to be sure, Mr. O'Donagough. But have the kindness to tell me what security you would give me for taking yourself off, if I were again to furnish the means for it."
This was exactly the point to which the reformed son wished to bring the yielding father; for it was not difficult to show many reasons for believing that he was in earnest in his intention to depart with as little delay as possible. It was with great caution, however, that he hinted at the possibility of his taking a lady with him as his wife, whose fortune was sufficient to prevent the necessity of his returning again to beg for bread, even at the risk of liberty or life; for he feared that if he confessed the prosperous state of his matrimonial hopes, they might be held sufficient for his necessities. But here he was mistaken; for no sooner did his father discover that his case was not quite desperate, than he manifested a considerable softening, and before a fortnight had expired, Mr. O'Donagough was able to convince the enamoured widow that, in uniting her destiny to his, she would be yielding to no sinful weakness, but securing both her temporal and eternal felicity on the firmest footing possible. And now every thing went on in so prosperous a manner, as almost to disprove the truth of the oft-quoted assertion of the poet,
"The course of true love never did run smooth;"
"The course of true love never did run smooth;"
for the loves of Mr. O'Donagough and Mrs. Barnaby met with not even a pebble of opposition as they ran evenly on towards matrimony.
This peaceful and pleasant progress was not a little assisted by a visit which the prudent peer deemed it advisable to make to the intended bride. Nothing could be more agreeable to the feelings of the lady than this attention, nothing more advantageous to the interests of both parties than the result. His lordship ascertained to a certainty that the widow had wherewithal to feed his son, and most obligingly took care that it should be so secured as to place her fortune beyond the reach of any relapse on his part, while the fair lady herself, amidst all the gentle sweetness with which she seemed to let his lordship manage every thing, took excellent care of herself.
One thing only now remained to be settled before the marriage took place, and this was the obtaining an appointment as missionary to a congregation newly established in a beautiful part of Australia, where there was every reason to suppose that a large and brilliant society would soon give as muchéclatto the successful efforts of an eloquent preacher as could be hoped for in the most fashionableréunionof saints in the mother country. The appointment was, in effect, left in the hands of one or two, whose constant exertions, and never-let-any-thing-escape-them habits, made them of personal importance in every decision of the kind. This little committee agreed to meet at Mr. Newbirth's on a certain evening, for the purpose of being introduced to Mrs. Barnaby, and it was understood among them, that if they found reason to be satisfied with her principles, and probable usefulness in a new congregation, the appointment should be given to Mr. O'Donagough, whose approaching marriage with her was well known to them all.
Mrs. Newbirth, who was quite a model of a wife, and who, therefore, shared all her husband's peculiar notions respecting things in heaven and earth, very obligingly lent her assistance at this important session, both to prevent Mrs. Barnaby's feeling herself awkward, as being the only lady present, and because it was reasonably supposed that she might be useful in giving the conversation such a turn as should elicit some of the more hidden, but not, therefore, the least important traits of female character.
It was not intended that either Mr. O'Donogough or his intended bride should be aware of the importance attached to this tea-drinking in Mr. Newbirth's drawing-room; but the expectant missionary had not lived thirty years in this wicked world for nothing; and though the invitation was given in the most impromptu style possible, he instantly suspected that the leaders of the congregation, who were about to send out the mission, intended to make this an opportunity for discovering what manner of woman the future Mrs. O'Donagough might be. Considerable anxiety was the consequence of this idea in the mind of Mr. O'Donagough. He liked the thoughts of preaching and lecturing to the ladies and gentlemen of Modeltown, and therefore determined to spare no pains in preparing the widow for the trial that awaited her. He found her by no means unapt at receiving the hints he gave respecting several important articles of faith, which, although new to her, she seemed willing enough to adopt without much inquiry, but he had a hard struggle before he could obtain the straightening of a single ringlet, or the paling, in the slightest degree, the tint of her glowing rouge. At length, however, the contest ended by his declaring that, without her compliance on this point, he should feel it his duty, passionately as he adored her, to delay their marriage till she could be induced, for his sake, to conform herself a little more to the customs and manners of the sect to which he belonged. Mrs. Barnaby's heart was not proof against such a remonstrance as this; her resolution melted into tears, and she promised that if he never would utter such cruel words again, he should dress her hair himself in any manner he would choose. "As to my rouge," she added, "I have only worn it, my dear O'Donagough, because I consider it as the appendage of a woman of fashion ... but I will wear much less, that is to say, almost none at all, for the fashion, if such shall be your wish."
"Thank you my dear, ... that's all right, and I'll never plague you about it, after I once get the appointment; only do what I bid you to-night, and we'll snap our fingers at them afterwards."
The party assembled at Mr. Newbirth's consisted of himself and his lady, and four gentlemen belonging to "the congregation" which was to be propitiated. After the tea and coffee had disappeared, Mr. Newbirth, who was the only gentleman in the company (except her own O'Donagough) with whom Mrs. Barnaby was personally acquainted, opened the conversation, by asking if the change of residence which she contemplated, from one side of the world to the other, was an agreeable prospect to her.
"Very much so indeed!" was the reply.
"I suppose you are aware, ma'am," observed Mr. Littleton, who was senior clerk in a banking house, and the principal lay orator of the congregation—"I suppose you are aware that you are going among a set of people who, though decidedly the most interesting portion of the human race in the eyes of all true Christians, are nevertheless persons accustomed heretofore to habits of irregular, not to say licentious living.... How do you think, ma'am, that you shall like to fall into habits of friendship and intimacy with such?"
Mr. O'Donagough listened with a good deal of anxiety for the answer: but it was a point on which he had given his affianced bride very ample instructions, and she did not disgrace her teacher.
"My notions upon that point, sir," she replied, "are rather particular, I believe; for so far from thinking the worse of my fellow creatures because they have done wrong, I always think that is the very reason why I should seek their company, and exert myself in all ways to do them good, and to make them take their place among the first and greatest in the kingdom of heaven."
A murmur of applause ran round the little circle as Mrs. Barnaby concluded her speech, and Mr. Littleton, in particular, expressed his approbation of her sentiments in a manner that inspired the happy O'Donagough with the most sanguine hopes of success.
"I never heard better sense, or sounder principles, or more christian feelings, in the whole course of my life, than what this lady has now expressed; and I will take upon me to say, gentlemen, without making any new difficulty about the matter, that any minister going out to Sydney in the holy and reverend character of a missionary, sent by an independent congregation of devotional men, with such a wife in his hand as this good lady will be sure to make, will do more good in his generation, than all the bishops and archbishops that ever were consecrated after the manner of the worn-out superstitions of by-gone ages. Gentlemen!..." he continued, rising from his chair, "I do, therefore, forthwith propose the immediate election of the reverend Patrick O'Donagough to the office of missionary from the independent congregation of Anti-work Christians of London, to the independent congregation of Anti-work Christians at Sydney, with the privilege and undivided monopoly of tract and hymn selling to the said congregation, together with a patent right (not royal patent, my brethren, but holy patent,) to all fees, donations, contributions, and payments of whatsoever kind, made by the said independent congregation of Anti-work Christians at Sydney, for and on account of the salvation of their souls.... This, gentlemen, is the resolution I would propose, and I trust that some among you will readily be found to second it."
"That, sir, will I, and most joyfully," said Mr. Dellant, rising; "for I neither do nor can feel the shadow of a doubt, that our beneficent objects in despatching this mission will be more forwarded by this appointment than by any other, it is probable—gentlemen, I might sayPOSSIBLE—we could make—for where, I would ask, shall we find another Mrs Barnaby? May we not say, in the language of scripture, that she is a help meet for him, even for the Reverend Patrick O'Donagough, whom we have chosen."
Mr. Newbirth followed on the same side, giving many unanswerable reasons for believing that nothing which the stiff-necked, unconverted, obsolete ministers of the Church of England could do for the predestined army of saints at present located at Sidney, could approach in utility and saving efficacy of absolving grace, to what might be hoped from the ministry of Mr. O'Donagough, assisted by the lady he was so happy as to have engaged to be his wife.
"It gives me the most heart-felt pleasure, gentlemen," he continued, "that my little humble drawing-room should have been made the scene of this happy election. How many souls, now most probably grovelling in the lowest depths of vice, will have places secured them upon the highest seats of heaven, by your work, gentlemen; begun, continued, and ended within this one propitious hour!... I would now propose that we do all stand up and sing a hymn to the glory of sinners made perfect.... Next, that we do all kneel down to hear and join in an awakening prayer from our new missionary; and, finally, that we walk into Mrs. Newbirth's back drawing-room, there to partake of such creature comforts as she in her care shall have provided."
This speech was also received with great applause. Some few pleasant and holy remarks and observations were made by the other gentlemen present, and all things proceeded to the happy finale suggested by their host, in the most amicable and satisfactory manner, so that before Mr. O'Donagough rose to escort Mrs. Barnaby to the coach which was to convey her to Half Moon Street, he was given to understand, on the indefeasible authority of Mr. Littleton, that he might consider himself already as the anti-work missionary elect, and might set about the preparations for his marriage and subsequent departure without farther uncertainty or delay.
Mrs. Barnaby's troubles now seemed really at an end; nothing could move onward with a smoother, surer pace, than did the business which she and her chosen companion had before them. The bridegroom's noble father became liberal and kind, under the certainty of his clever son's certain departure.... The lawyers behaved exceedingly well about the settlements; influenced, perhaps, in some degree, by the wishes of the peer, who, as it seemed, was almost nervously anxious for the departure of the happy pair.... The dressmakers worked briskly, and a very respectable subscription was raised among the ladies of the independent congregation for the purchase of several elegant little presents for the bride, which they thought might prove useful during her voyage.
In this happy state we will leave our heroine, in order to see how matters were proceeding at Clifton.
At this period of their history the star of Agnes appeared much less propitious than that of her aunt Barnaby. Not all her inclination to construe every look and word of Colonel Hubert into something wiser and better, more noble and more kind than the looks and words of any other mortal man, could long prevent her from feeling that he was profoundly unhappy, and that, despite some occasional flashes of an emotion which her own heart taught her to know proceeded from love, he evidently avoided being with her, as much as it was possible for him to do without attracting the attention of others.
Her aunt and his aunt went steadily on arranging between themselves a variety of preliminaries to the happy union they contemplated, while no hint that such an union was possible ever passed the lips of the intended bridegroom during any moment that circumstances placed him near his promised bride. More than once she saw him change colour when he approached her; and sometimes, but not often, she had caught his melancholy eyes fixed earnestly upon her, and it was at such moments that she felt persuaded he still loved her ... but wherefore he, who had boldly wooed her when so many things conspired to make his doing it objectionable, should seem to shun her now that everything was made so smooth and easy for him, she vainly laboured to understand.
"For time nor place," she exclaimed with something like bitterness, "did then adhere, and yet he would make both....
'They have made themselves, and that their fitness nowDoth unmake him!'"
'They have made themselves, and that their fitness nowDoth unmake him!'"
By melancholy degrees everything that had most contributed to her happiness, became her torment. The conversation of Miss Peters was inexpressibly irksome to her, particularly when they found themselves in confidentialtête-à-tête, for then she could not help suspecting that her friend was longing to ask her some questions respecting the singularity of her lover's manner ... the flattering notice of the well-pleased Lady Elizabeth, the sisterly affection manifested by the amiable Lady Stephenson, and, more than all the rest, the happy, bustling, business-like manner of her aunt Compton, who never for a moment seemed to forget that they were all preparing for a wedding.
So complete was this pre-occupation, that it was many days before the old lady perceived that her Agnes, in the midst of all this joyful preparation, looked neither well nor happy; nay, even when at last the sad eye and pale cheek of her darling attracted her attention, she persuaded herself for many days more that love-making was too sentimental a process to permit those engaged in it to be gay. She knew that the sighing of lovers was proverbial, and though she did not remember to have read any thing upon the subject exactly resembling what she remarked in Agnes, and, to say truth, in Colonel Hubert also, she did not, for she could not, doubt that everything was going on just as it should do, though her own want of practical experience rendered her incapable of fully understanding it.
But if Agnes was wretched, Colonel Hubert was infinitely more so; for all the misery that she darkly feared, without knowing either its nature or for how long it was likely to continue, came to him with the tremendous certainty of a misfortune that had already fallen upon him, and from which escape seemed less possible from day to day. She knew not what to think of him, and great, no doubt, was the unhappiness produced by such uncertainty, but greater still was the suffering produced by looking in her innocent face, and knowing, as well as Colonel Hubert did, why it grew daily paler. Not seldom, indeed, was he tortured by the apprehension that the line of conduct he had pursued in recalling Frederick Stephenson, was by no means so unquestionably right in its self-sacrificing severity as he had intended it should be. Had he not endangered the tranquillity of Agnes, while guarding with jealous care his own proud sense of honour? If an unhappy concurrence of circumstances had involved him in difficulties that rendered his conduct liable to suspicion, ought he not to have endured the worst degree of contempt that this could bring upon him, rather than have suffered her peace to be the sacrifice?
Night and day these doubts tormented him. For hours he wandered through the roads on the opposite side of the river, where, comparatively speaking, he was sure no Clifton idlers could encounter him, and reviewing his own conduct in a thousand ways, found none that would make him satisfied with himself. At length, in the mere restlessness of misery, he determined to tell Agnes all.
"She shall know his love—his generous uncalculating love, while I stood by, and reasoned on the inconvenience her aunt Barnaby's vulgarity might bring. She shall know all ... though it will make her hate me!"
Such was the resolution with which he crossed the ferry after wandering a whole morning in Leigh Wood; and climbing the step-path too rapidly to give himself leisure to meditate temperately on the measure he had determined to pursue, he hurried forward to the dwelling of Miss Compton, and was already in her drawing-room before he had at all decided in what manner he should contrive to get Agnes alone.
In this, however, fortune favoured him; for Miss Compton having some point on which she desired to communicate with Lady Elizabeth, had ordered the carriage, and invited Agnes to pay a visit to Lady Stephenson; but the poor girl had no heart to sustain a conversation with a friend from whom she most earnestly desired to conceal all her thoughts—so she declined the invitation, alleging her wish to write a letter to Empton.
As much alone, and, if possible, more melancholy still, than when, a few short weeks before, he made his memorable visit in Half Moon Street, Colonel Hubert found Agnes listlessly lying upon a sofa, her eyes closed, but their lashes too recently wetted by tears to make him fancy her asleep. She was in an inner room, to which he entered through the open door that led from the larger drawing-room, and he was close beside her before she was aware of his approach.
It was with a dreadful pang that he contemplated the change anxiety had wrought on her delicate features since the evening she first appeared to him in all the bright light-hearted joy of her new happiness under the protection of her aunt. Love, honour, gratitude, tenderness, and remorse, all rushed to his bosom, and so completely overpowered the philosophy by which he had hitherto restrained his feelings, that he dropped on his knees beside her, and seizing the hand that languidly hung by her side, covered it with passionate kisses.
An iron chain is not a stronger restraint than timid delicacy to such a nature as that of Agnes, and therefore she didNOTthrow herself on the bosom of Colonel Hubert, and thus obliterate by one moment of unrestrained feeling all the doubts and fears that had so long tormented them both ... she only opened her beautiful eyes upon him, which seemed to say, "Is then the dark cloud passed that has divided us?... Hubert, may I be happy again?"
The unhappy Hubert, however, dared not answer this appeal, though he read it, and felt it at the very bottom of his heart; and what under happier circumstances would have tempted him to kneel beside her for ever, now made him spring to his feet as if terrified at the danger that he ran.
"Agnes!" he said, "you must no longer be left ignorant of my misery ... you may, you must have seen something of it, but not all ... you have not seen, you have not guessed what, the struggle has been between a passion as fervent as ever warmed the heart of man and a sense of honour ... too late awakened perhaps ... which has made it a duty to suspend all pleadings for an avowed return till ... till...."
"Till!..." repeated Agnes, agitated but full of hope, that the moment was indeed come when the dark and mysterious cloud which had dimmed all her prospects should be dispelled.
"Hear my confession, Agnes, and pity me at least, if you find it impossible to excuse me.... Do you remember the first time that I ever saw you?... It was at a shop at Clifton."
Agnes bowed.
"Do you remember the friend who was with me?"
Agnes bowed again, and this time she coloured too. Colonel Hubert sighed profoundly, but presently went on with the confession he had braced his nerves to make.
"That friend, Agnes, the generous, noble-hearted Frederick Stephenson, saw, even in that brief interview, the beauty, the grace, the delicacy which it took me days to develop ... in short, he loved you, Agnes, before, almost before I had ever looked at you.... I was his dearest friend. He hid no thought from me, and with all the frankness of his delightful character he confessed his honourable attachment.... And how was it, think you, that I answered him?"
Agnes raised her eyes to his face with a very anxious look, but spoke not a word, and Colonel Hubert, with a heightened colour that mounted to his temples, went on.
"I told him, Miss Willoughby, that a young lady chaperoned by a person with the manners and appearance of your aunt Barnaby was not a fitting wife for him...."
The eyes of Agnes fell, and her cheeks too were now dyed with crimson. Colonel Hubert saw it and felt it all, but he went on.
"The subject was repeatedly revived between us, and as his attachment increased, so did also my opposition to it. I placed before him, in the strongest manner I was capable of doing, all the objections to the connexion as they then appeared to me, and I did it, as I thought, purely from a sense of duty to himself and his family, which had recently become so closely connected with my own. But alas! Agnes ... my peace has been and is destroyed by the dreadful doubt whether some selfish feelings, unknown to myself, might not at length have mingled with these strong remonstrances. Knowing as I do the character of Sir Edward and his two sisters, no remorse was awakened in my mind so long as you remained with Mrs. Barnaby ... and the last time I conversed with my poor friend, I used language so strong upon the subject, that he left me in great anger. But it appears that, notwithstanding his just resentment, these remonstrances had weight, for he immediately left the kingdom, and has, I believe, remained in Paris ever since. Think then, Miss Willoughby ... judge for me if you can, with what feelings I contemplate the unlooked-for change in your position.... Oh! Agnes ... would that your excellent Miss Compton had preserved her coldness to you till you had been my wife.... Even then, I might have felt a pang for Stephenson—but the knowledge that his friends would not, like mine, have forgotten Mrs. Barnaby in their admiration for her niece, would have furnished a justification of the events which followed his departure, too reasonable to be set aside. But what must I feel now when I think of the banished Frederick?... Banished by me, that I might take his place."
Excepting to Mary Peters, who had been aware of the attachment of Frederick Stephenson long before herself, Agnes had never breathed a hint to any human being of the proposal she had received from him, and it had not most assuredly been her intention ever to have named it to Colonel Hubert. She had, indeed, but rarely remembered it herself, and hoped and believed that, before they met again, the gay young man would quite have forgotten it; but now she could preserve his secret no longer, and, eager to speak what she thought would entirely relieve his self-reproaches to hear, she said, with glowing cheeks and an averted eye,
"Let me, then, confess to you, Colonel Hubert...."
These unlucky words, however, intended as a preface to the only intelligence that could effectively have soothed his agitation, unfortunately increased it tenfold, and raising his hand to arrest what she was about to say, he replied with an impetuosity with which she could not at that moment contend—"Confess nothing, Miss Willoughby, to me.... I see that I have awakened feelings which I ought to have foreseen would inevitably be called into existence by such a disclosure.... Suffer me to say a few words more, and I have done.... A week ago, I did what I ought to have done, as soon as your present position was known to me.... I wrote to Mr. Stephenson, and told him that every obstacle was removed ... and that"...
"You wrote to him, Colonel Hubert!" exclaimed Agnes, greatly disturbed.... "Oh! why did you not tell me all this before?"
"It is not yet too late, Miss Willoughby," he replied, bitterly; "another letter shall follow my first ... more explicit, more strongly urging his return."
"But you will not hear me, Colonel Hubert," said Agnes, bursting into tears. "Have patience for a moment, and you will understand it all."
At this moment a carriage stopped at the door, and the knocker and the bell together gave notice of Miss Compton's return.
"It is my aunt!" cried Agnes. "Indeed she must not see me thus, for how could I explain to her what must appear so strange as her finding me in tears, and you beside me. Let me see you again, Colonel Hubert—I pray you to let me see you again, when I may be able to speak to you ... but now I must go;" and so saying, she escaped from the room just in time to avoid meeting Miss Compton at the door.
From a very early period of their short acquaintance, Miss Compton had made up her mind to consider Colonel Hubert as a very superior personage, but of a remarkably grave and silent character; so much so, indeed, that while she admired and approved her Agnes the more for loving and being loved by so dignified an individual, she could not help wondering a little, occasionally, that so it should be. But this feeling she carefully concealed, and made it a point, whenever a shade of gravity more profound than usual was perceptible on his features, (a circumstance not unfrequent,) to avoid interfering with his reserve by any loquacious civility. This line of conduct had often been a great relief to him, but never more so than on the present occasion, when, if any lengthened greetings had occurred to stop his retreat, it would have been impossible for him to have preserved the outward semblance of cold composure in which he had hitherto found shelter from observation.
"You are going, Colonel Hubert?" she said. "Well, I will not detain you, for I am going to be busy myself—good morning." And so he escaped.
On reaching home, he found a letter waiting for him, which by no means tended to calm his spirits. It was from Frederick Stephenson, and ran thus:—
"My dear Hubert,"Your letter puzzles me; but not many hours after this reaches you, I hope we shall mutually understand each other better than we do at present. I am on my road to England, and as all explanation must be impossible till we meet, I will only add, that I am yours ever,"Frederick Stephenson."
"My dear Hubert,
"Your letter puzzles me; but not many hours after this reaches you, I hope we shall mutually understand each other better than we do at present. I am on my road to England, and as all explanation must be impossible till we meet, I will only add, that I am yours ever,
"Frederick Stephenson."
A few hours, then, and all doubt, all uncertainty, would be over! A full explanation must take place; and rather than endure a continuance of what he had lately suffered, Colonel Hubert felt inclined to welcome the result, be it what it might.
The day next but one after this letter reached him, Miss Compton and Agnes were engaged to dine with Lady Elizabeth. Colonel Hubert had not ventured to present himself in the Mall during the interval, for though, on cooler meditation, he did not believe that the unfortunate words, "Let me, then, confess to you, Colonel Hubert," were meant to usher a confession of love to his rival, he doubted not that they would have been followed by an avowal of her agreeing with himself in deeming his own conduct most reprehensible; and just then, he felt he could not receive this, notwithstanding its justice, in such a manner as to assist in obtaining pardon for the fault. To Sir Edward he had mentioned the probability of his brother's early return, but without hinting at the chance of their seeing him at Clifton on his arrival in England.
The ladies of the party, namely, Lady Elizabeth, Lady Stephenson, Miss Compton, and Agnes, were assembled in the drawing-room, the two gentlemen not having yet quitted the dining-parlour, when a knock at the door announced company.
"Who can that be?" said Lady Stephenson. "Have you invited evening company?"
"Not a soul, my dear," replied her aunt; "I mean to have a treat again.... I think I am growing sick of curiosities."
"Tant mieux, dear aunt!" replied Lady Stephenson. "But invited or not, you have visiters coming now: I hear them on the stairs."
Lady Stephenson was right; the old butler opened the drawing-room door almost as she spoke, and announced "Mr. Stephenson!"
"Frederick!" exclaimed his fair sister-in-law, looking as if she meant to receive him very kindly.
"Young Stephenson!" said Lady Elizabeth, "I did not know that he was coming to Clifton."
"Sir Edward's brother, I suppose?..." said Miss Compton, ... but Agnes said nothing, though had any one laid a hand upon her heart, they would have discovered that his arrival was not a matter of indifference. To receive him with the appearance of it was, however, absolutely necessary, and she very resolutely assumed an aspect of tranquillity; it was not necessary that she should look towards the door to greet him as he entered, and therefore she did not do it; but, notwithstanding the attention she devoted to the pattern of the hearth-rug, she became aware, within a moment after this electrifying name had been announced, that not one only but three people were in the room, and that one of them was a lady.
Agnes then looked up, and the first figure which distinctly met her eye was not that of Frederick Stephenson, but of a gentleman bearing the stamp of some forty years, perhaps, upon his handsome but delicate features. He was not tall, but slightly and elegantly formed, which was perceptible, though wrapped in a travelling frock trimmed with fur, and his whole appearance was decidedly that of a gentleman.
But who these might be who were with him, or how they were received by Lady Elizabeth, the eye of Agnes had no power to inquire, for it was fascinated, as it were, by the earnest gaze of this stranger, who, having already stepped forward a pace or two nearer to her than the rest, stood looking at her with very evident emotion.
The first words she heard spoken were in the voice of young Stephenson, which she immediately recognised, though the purport of them was unintelligible.
"Yes, my dear sir, ... you are quite right," he said; "that is our Agnes."
But though these words were somewhat startling, they drew her attention less than the expression of the large blue eyes that were fixed upon her; there was admiration, tenderness, and a strange sort of embarrassment, all legibly mingled in that earnest look ... but why was it fixed on her?
What effect this mute scene produced on the other persons present, Agnes could not know, for she did not withdraw her eyes from those of the mysterious stranger, till at length he turned from her, and stepping back, took the hand of a very young, but very beautiful girl, whom he led towards the sofa she occupied, and placing her on it, said,
"Agnes Willoughby!... receive your sister ... and let her plead for her father and yours.... You have been long, long neglected, my poor child, but there has been some excuse for it.... Can you forgive me, Agnes?"
"Good God!... My father!" she exclaimed, starting up, and stretching out her hands towards him. "Is it possible, sir, that you are indeed my father?"
"You speak as if you wished it were so, Agnes," he replied, taking her in his arms, and impressing a kiss upon her forehead, "and I will echo your words.... Is it possible?"
"Possible!... O! yes, sir, it is possible.... I have so longed to know that I had a father!... And is this sweet creature my sister?" she continued, turning her tearful eyes upon the beautiful girl, who upon this appeal sprang forward, and enclosing both her father and Agnes in her arms, replied to it by saying,
"Yes, dearest Agnes, I am your sister, indeed I am, and I know you very well, and all about you, though you know so little about me ... but you will not refuse to own me, will you?"
For all reply Agnes bent forward and kissed her fondly.
Miss Compton who, as may be supposed, had watched this discovery scene with no little interest, now stepped towards them, while young Stephenson was engaged in explaining it to Lady Elizabeth and his sister-in-law; and looking from one sister to the other, and from them both to their father, she said—"You will, perhaps, hardly remember that we ever met, Mr. Willoughby ... but my name is Compton, and I recal your features perfectly. You once passed an hour at my brother's house when I was there ... and that these girls are sisters, no one that sees them together will be likely to deny.... God bless them both, pretty creatures!... I hope they will each be a blessing to the other.... But, to be sure, it seems to be a most romantic story ... and wonderfully like those I used to read in my bower, Agnes."
"There is a good deal that is very sad in my part of it, Miss Compton," replied Mr. Willoughby, "but at this moment I can hardly regret it, as herein I hope to show some excuse for my long negligence respecting my poor girl. Take this on trust, my good lady, will you?" he added, holding out his hand to her, "that no displeasure towards me may destroy the happiness of this meeting."
Miss Compton gave him her hand very frankly, saying,
"I have no right to be very severe upon you, Mr. Willoughby, for, without any misfortunes at all to plead as an excuse for it, our dear Agnes might tell you some naughty stories about me.... But she does not look as if she were much inclined to complain of anybody.... What a pair of happy, lovely looking creatures!... And how very strong the likeness to each other, and of both to you!"
Willoughby retired a step or two, and leaning against the chimney-piece, seemed disposed to enjoy the contemplation of the picture she pointed out, in silence. Lady Elizabeth claimed the attention of Miss Compton, that she might express her interest, satisfaction, surprise, and so forth. Lady Stephenson slipped out of the room to communicate the news to her husband and brother, and prepare them for the company they had to receive ... and then Frederick Stephenson approached the sisters, and drawing a chair towards them, very freely took a hand of each.
That of Agnes trembled. She felt that the happiness of her life would be for ever destroyed, if this young man was come back in consequence of Colonel Hubert's letter, with the persuasion that it was her purpose to accept him; and favourable as was the moment for a sort of universal philanthropy and unrestrainedépanchement de c[oe]ur, she could not resist the impulse which led her to withdraw her hand, and return his affectionate smile with a look of coldness and reserve.
Perfectly undaunted, however, the gay Frederick continued to look at her with an air of the most happy confidence; but suddenly, as it seemed, recollecting that it was possible, though they had all of them been at least ten minutes in the room together, no explanation might have yet reached her, he said, in a manner to show that he was too happy to be very grave, though quite sufficiently in earnest to deserve belief—"If you accept my Nora for a sister, Agnes, you must accept me for a brother too. She knows that till I saw her I thought you the most charming person in the world; and as she forgives me for this, I hope you will show as much resemblance to her in mind as in person, and forgive me for thinking, when I did see her, that she was still more charming than you?"
And then it was that Agnes for the first time in her life felt wholly, perfectly, and altogether happy. She saw in an instant, with the rapid glance of love, that all the misty cloud that had hung between her and Hubert was withdrawn for ever ... and then she felt how very delightful it was to have a father, and such an elegant, interesting-looking father ... and then she became fully aware what a blessing it was to have a sister, and that sister so beautiful, and so capable of inspiring love in every heart ... save one, guarded as Hubert's was guarded. Her joy, her new-born gladness of spirit, danced in her eyes, as she now freely returned the young man's laughing glance, and restoring to him the hand she had withdrawn, she exclaimed, "Oh! Frederick ... why did you not answer Hubert's letter, and tell him this?"
"It is so, then?... it is as I hoped, my sweet Agnes?... and you will be doubly our sister?... Why did I not answer Hubert's letter? Because it was the most mystical, unintelligible, dark, and diplomatic performance that ever was put forth. Did you see it, Agnes?"
"No, I did not," she replied, with a smile; "but I can imagine that it might have been a little in that style. Yet still you should have answered it."
"I did answer it—that is, I replied to it by a line or two written in a prodigious hurry; but you must perceive that I could not enclose Nora in a cover; and as she is, to all intents and purposes,my answer, I was obliged to let him wait till I could convey her properly, and place her before his eyes and his understanding."
"And so convince him," replied Agnes, with another smile, full of her new-born gaiety, "that the moment she is seen all other ladies must be forgotten ... prove that to Colonel Hubert, Mr. Stephenson, and I will prove to you" ...
"What?—you tremendous-looking sibyl, what?"
"A very fatal sister!" she replied; and then the door opened, and Lady Stephenson preceded the two gentlemen she had brought from the dining-parlour, into the room.
Agnes, no longer the fearful, shrinking Agnes, sprang forward to meet them, and taking Colonel Hubert by the hand, led him to her father, saying in an altered accent, that at once entered his heart, and told him that all was right—"Let me present you to my father, Hubert—to mydearfather, Colonel Hubert; he will indeed be doubly dear to us, for he has brought with him a sister for both of us, whom I feel sure we shall for ever love."
But hardly did Agnes, who seemed newly awakened from some heavy spell that had benumbed her heart—hardly did she give time for a courteous greeting between the gentlemen, ere she passed her arm beneath that of Colonel Hubert, and led him to the sofa. Frederick started forward to meet him, and laying a hand on each shoulder, said in his ear, yet not so low but that Agnes heard him too—"It was lucky I did not take you to France with me, Hubert, or I should certainly never have got a wife at all; as it is, however, permit me"—he added aloud—"to present you, Colonel Hubert, to Miss Nora Willoughby. Nora, dearest, this gentleman is the best friend I have in the world—my brother's wife is his sister, and your sister, my fair bride elect, will very soon be his wife, or I cannot read the stars ... so, as you may perceive, our catastrophe is exceedingly like that great model of all catastrophes, in which the happy hero says ... 'And these are all my near relations'—ecce signum, here is my own elder brother. Sir Edward Stephenson, Miss Nora Willoughby. Is she not charming, Edward? I hope I have pleased you at last, and their ladyships, my sisters, too, for I assure you everything is very elegant, well-born, and so forth.... But you are not to sit down by her though, for all that, unless you make room for me between you, for she has already given away more smiles than I can at all afford to spare; and, besides, I have a hundred things to say to her ... I want to ask her how she likes you all."
Colonel Hubert, as soon as his gay friend had reseated himself, gave one speaking look to Agnes, and then devoted himself entirely to Mr. Willoughby.
By degrees, the party began to talk together with less of agitation and more of comfort; but Frederick was not permitted wholly to engross his youngfianceé, for all the ladies crowded round her, and vied with each other in giving a cordial welcome to this young foreigner on the land of her fathers. She was in truth a very sweet young creature, and soon converted the kindness which circumstances called for, into very cordially liking. Distant hopes were talked of without reserve, and immediate arrangements canvassed. Miss Compton kindly invited the young stranger to share her sister's apartment, a servant was despatched to secure rooms for Mr. Willoughby and Frederick at the hotel, and the happiness their unexpected arrival had brought to two harassed hearts of the party seemed to diffuse itself very delightfully among them all.
At length, Miss Compton's carriage was announced, and while the cloaks of the fair sisters were wrapped round them by their vowed servants, Mr. Willoughby performed the same office for her, and took that opportunity of asking leave to wait upon her on the following morning, in order to relate to her such passages of the history of his long exile as might, in some degree, account for his having left her adopted child for so many years without a father.
While this appointment was making with the aunt, the niece contrived, unheard by all, to whisper a word or two which led to an appointment for her also.
Colonel Hubert had more than once that evening taught her to understand, by the eloquence of looks, the delightful change that had been wrought within him; but it was Agnes who first found the opportunity of giving expression to it in words. He stood behind her as he arranged her cloak, and when this was done, she turned suddenly round to him, and said, in an accent of playful reproach, "Hubert!... may I be happy now?"
His answer was, "Will you see me to-morrow?... and alone?" She blushed—perhaps at remembering how often she had before wished to converse with him in the manner he now for the first time proposed, but she nodded her assent; he handed her to the carriage, pressed her hand, and whispered "eleven o'clock" as he put her into it, and then mounted to his chamber without exchanging a word more with any living soul, that he might enjoy, for the first time since he had yielded up his heart, the luxury of meditating on Agnes and her promised love, without any mixture of self-reproach to poison the enjoyment.
Had not Nora Willoughby been an interesting and amiable creature, her introduction at this moment to all the freedom of a sister's rights would certainly have been less agreeable than surprising to Agnes; and perhaps, notwithstanding the sweet expression of her lovely face, the pretty tenderness of her manner, and the lively interest which one so near in blood could not fail to awaken, Agnes, as she entered her bed-room on that eventful night, would rather have entered it alone. Her heart seemed too full to permit her conversing freely with any one; and it was by an effort not made altogether without pain, that she turned her thoughts from Hubert and all that vast world of happiness which appeared opening before them, to welcome her fair sister to her bower, and to begin such a conversation with her, as sisters so placed might be expected to hold. But she was soon rewarded for the exertion, for it was quite impossible to pass an hour of intimate intercourse with Nora without loving her, for she was made up of frankness, warm affection, light-heartedness, and sweet temper.
As soon as Peggy had performed all the services required of her, and that the door was fairly closed behind her, Nora threw her arms round the neck of Agnes, and pressed her in a long and fond embrace.
"Dear, dear Agnes!" she exclaimed, "I wish you could share the pleasure that I enjoy at this moment—but it is impossible ... I come upon you suddenly, unexpectedly, unintelligibly, and must rather startle and astound, than give you the delight that you give me. For I have been preparing to love you for many weeks past, and have been longing till I was almost sick to get to you. And after such eager and sanguine expectations as mine, it is so delightful to find oneself not disappointed!"
"And is such the case with my sweet sister?" replied Agnes caressingly.
"Indeed, indeed it is!—Frederick told me you were very beautiful—but I did not expect to find you half so ... so elegant, so finished, so every way superior."
"I shall quarrel with you, Nora, if you say such very fine things to me.... Perhaps I think you very pretty, too, dear; but if I do, I must not say so, because they tell us that we are so much alike, it would be like admiring myself."
"Well!... and you cannot help admiring yourself, it is impossible.... But, sister Agnes, what a blessing it was that you did not happen to fall in love with Frederick! What would have become of me if you had?... for do you know, I loved almost as soon as I saw him. It was all so odd! It was at the Italian opera that we first met; and I could not help observing, that the handsomest man I had ever seen was looking at me almost incessantly. Papa never saw a bit about it, for when he is listening to music he never cares for anything. However, I do assure you, I tried to behave properly, though, if I had done quite the contrary, papa would never have found it out. I never looked at him at all above three or four times, and that was accidentally from happening to turn round my head. But whether I thought about it or not, there were his beautiful large eyes always sure to be fixed upon me; and when the opera was over, he must have run out of his box the moment we left ours, for I saw him as we got into the fiacre, standing close beside it. Well, I hardly know how it happened, but from that time I never stirred out without meeting him; he never spoke of course, but that did not prevent our knowing one another just as well as if we had been the oldest acquaintance. At last, however, he managed very cleverly to find out that papa was acquainted with M. Dupont, who gives such beautiful concerts, and receives all the English so hospitably, and he asked as a great favour to be invited to meet us; and so he was, and then we were introduced, and then everything went on beautifully, for he knew you, and the name of Willoughby, and the likeness, and all that, convinced him that we must be the same family; so he and papa very soon made it all out, and then he came to call upon us every day; and very, very, very soon afterwards I was engaged to be his wife as soon as possible, after we all got back to England."
"Thank you, dearest Nora!" replied Agnes, who, notwithstanding all her pre-occupation, had found no difficulty in listening very attentively to this narrative; "I cannot tell you all the pleasure your little history has given me.... There is nobody in the world I should like so well for a brother as Frederick Stephenson, and there is nobody in the world I should like so well for a sister as Frederick Stephenson's wife."
"That is delightful!" cried Nora, joyfully, "and we certainly are two of the luckiest girls in the world to have everything just as we would wish.... But, Agnes, there is one thing I shall never understand.... How could you help falling in love with Frederick when he fell in love with you?"
"Because I happened just then," replied Agnes, laughing, "to be falling in love with some one else."
"Well! certainly that was the most fortunate thing in the world ... and Frederick himself thinks so now. He told me that he had a great mind to shoot himself when you refused him, but that the very first moment he saw me, he felt certain that I should suit him a great deal better than you would have done."
"That I am sure is quite true, Nora," replied Agnes, very earnestly, "for I too feel certain that I never could have suited anybody but Colonel Hubert.... And now, my sweet sister, let us go to sleep, or we shall hardly be up early enough to meet the friends who, I think, will be wishing to see us again.... Good night, dearest!"
"Good night, darling Agnes!... Is not it pleasant to have a sister, Agnes?... It is so nice to be able to tell you everything.... I am sure I could never be able to do it to anybody else. Goodnight!"
"Bless you, sweet Nora!" replied Agnes; and then, each nestling upon her pillow, and giving some few happy dreamy thoughts to the object they loved best, they closed their fair young eyes, and slept till morning.
The waking was to both of them, perhaps, somewhat like the continuance of a dream; but Peggy came and threw the light of day upon them, while each fair girl seemed to look at her own picture as she contemplated her pretty bedfellow, and appeared to be exceedingly well pleased by the survey.
It was already late, and Agnes, rapidly as she was learning to love her companion, did not linger at her toilet, but leaving Nora, with a hasty kiss, to the care of Peggy, she hastened to the breakfast-table, and made aunt Betsy's heart glad, by telling her at last, that she expected Colonel Hubert would call about eleven o'clock, and that if she did not think it wrong, she should like to speak to him for a few minutes alone.
"Wrong, my child!" exclaimed Miss Compton; "why, I never in my life read a work painting the manners of the age, in which I did not find interviews, sometimes occurring three or four times in a day, entirelytête-à-tête, between the parties."
"Then I may go into the back drawing-room presently ... may I, aunt Betsy?... And perhaps you would tell William...."
"Yes, yes, my dear, I'll tell him everything.... But eat some breakfast, Agnes, or I am sure you will not be able to talk.... I suppose it is about your new sister, and your father, and all that, that you want to speak to him."
"There are many things, aunt Betsy.... But, good heavens! there is a knock.... Will it not look very odd for you to send him in to me?"
Without waiting to give an answer, the agile old lady intercepted William's approach to the door in time to give the order she wished; and in two minutes more Colonel Hubert was ushered into a room where the happy but blushing Agnes was alone.
His first few steps towards her were made at the pace at which drawing-room floors are usually traversed, but the last part of the distance was cleared by a movement considerably more rapid, for she had risen in nervous agitation as he approached, and for the first time that he had ever ventured a caress, he threw his arms around her, and pressed her to his heart. Agnes struggled not to disengage herself, but wept without restraint upon his bosom.
"You do then love me, Agnes?... At last, at last our hearts have met, and never can be severed more! But still you must tell me very often that you have forgiven me, dearest, for is it not difficult to believe? And does it not require frequent vouching?"
"What is it, Montague, that you would have forgiven?" said Agnes, looking up at him, and smiling through her tears.
This was the first time that her lips had pronounced his christian name to any ears but her own, and she blushed as she uttered it.
"Agnes! my own Agnes!" he exclaimed, "you have forgiven me, or you would not call me Montague!... How is it possible," he continued, looking fondly at her, "that a word so hackneyed and familiar from infancy as our own name can be made to thrill through the whole frame like a touch of electricity?"
He drew her to the sofa from which she had risen, and placing himself by her, said, "Now, then, Agnes, let us sit down soberly together, and take an unvarnished retrospect of all that has passed since we first met.... Yet why should I ask for this?... I hate to think of it ... for it is a fact, Agnes, which his subsequent attachment to your sister must not make you doubt, Frederick and his seven thousand a year would have been at your disposal, had not my dissuasions prevented it.... And had this been so, who knows...."
A shade of melancholy seemed once again settling on the noble countenance of Colonel Hubert; Agnes could not bear it, and looking earnestly at him, she said,
"Montague! answer me sincerely this one question, which is the strongest feeling in your mind at this moment—the pleasure derived from believing that your influence on Frederick was so great, or the pain of doubting how the offer you speak of would have been received?"
"I have no pleasure in believing I have influence on any one, save yourself," he answered gravely.
"I am glad of that, Montague," she said, "because you somewhat overrated your influence with my brother elect. Save for your foolish doubts, infidel!... you never should have known it, but ... Frederick Stephenson did propose to me, Hubert, before he went abroad."
"And you refused him, Agnes!"
"And I refused him, Hubert."
"Oh! had I known this earlier, what misery should I have been spared!" cried Colonel Hubert. "You know not, you could not know all I have suffered, Agnes ... yet surely, dearest! when last we spoke together, it was but yesterday, in this very room, you must then have guessed the cause of the dreadful restraint that kept us asunder."
"There was no need of guessing then," replied Agnes, smiling, "for you told me so distinctly."
"Then why not on the instant remove the load from my heart?... were you quite incapable of feeling how galling it must have been to me?"
"I'll tell you how that came to pass," said Agnes, rising.... "Do you sit still there, as I did yesterday, and say, 'Let me then confess to you, Colonel Hubert,' ... and then I will answer thus," ... and raising her hand, as if to stop his speech, she added, mimicking his impatient tone,
"'Confess nothing, Miss Willoughby, to me!'... And then you told me you had written to him, and when I exclaimed, with some degree of dismay at the idea of your having written to recall him, you again interrupted me by saying that you would do it again ... and then my aunt came, and so we parted.... Then whose fault was it that I did not tell you?"
"My own, Agnes, it was my own; and alas!... I did not suffer for it alone.... How wretched you must have been made by my vehemence!... But you have forgiven me, and all this must be forgotten for ever.... There is, however, one subject on which I would willingly ask a few more questions—these, I hope, you will answer, Agnes?"
"Yes!" she replied, gaily, "you may hope for an answer to all your questions ... provided, that just when I am about to speak, you do not raise your armthus, in order to prevent me."
"I will do my utmost to avoid it," he replied, "and for the greater security will place the offending armthus," ... throwing it round her; "and now tell me, Agnes, why it was that you would not accept Frederick Stephenson?"
"And will you be pleased to tell me, Colonel Hubert, why it was that you did not propose to ... to anybody else, but me?"
"Because I loved you, and you only."
"Because I loved you, and you only," repeated Agnes.
"Is that an echo?" said Colonel Hubert.
"No!" replied Agnes ... "it is only the answer to your question."
"Then, exactly when I was occupied in finding reasons incontrovertible why the niece of Mrs. Barnaby should never be loved by mortal man, the young, the lovely Agnes Willoughby was loving me?"
"Even so," said Agnes, somewhat mournfully; "false impressions have worked us so much woe, that it would not be wise to let a little feminine punctilio prevent you seeing things as they are.... Yet it is hardly fair, Hubert, to make me tell you this...."