MELANCHOLY MEDITATIONS.--AN EVENTFUL WALK.--A PLEASANT BREAKFAST.--A
COMFORTABLE CONVERSATION IN A CLOSET.
The slumbers of Agnes that night were not heavy, for she waked while the
birds were still singing their morning hymn to the sun, which poured its
beams full upon her face through her uncurtained window. She turned
restlessly upon her little bed, and tried to sleep again; but it would
not do; and as she listened to the twittering without, so strong a
desire seized her to leave the narrow boundary of her little closet, and
breathe the air of heaven, that after the hesitation and struggle of a
few moments she yielded, and noiselessly creeping out of bed, and
performing the business of her toilet with the greatest caution,
ventured to open the door communicating with her aunt's chamber, when
she had the great satisfaction of hearing her snore loud enough to mask
any sound she might herself make in passing through the room.
In like manner she successfully made her way down stairs and out of the
house, and her heart beat with something like pleasure as she felt the
sweet morning breeze blow from the downs upon her cheek. She walked
towards the beautiful point on which the windmill stands; but, alas! she
was no longer happy enough to feel that the landscape it commanded could
confer that sort of perfect felicity which she had before thought
belonged to it. She sat down again on the same spot where Mary, Lucy,
James, and herself had sat before, but with how different a feeling! and
yet it wanted one whole day of a week since that time. What new sorrow
was it that weighed thus upon her spirits?... The good-humoured liking
that her new acquaintance then testified towards her, had since ripened
into friendship ... at the ball of the preceding evening she had, in
fashionable phrase, met with the most brilliant success ... she had
danced every dance, and three of them with the partner that every lady
in the room would best have liked to dance with; and yet there was a
feeling of depression at her heart greater than she had ever been
conscious of before. How was this?... Could Agnes herself tell the cause
of it?... Yes, if she had asked herself, she could have answered, and
have answered truly, that it was because she now knew that the better,
the more estimable, the more amiable the society around her might be,
the more earnestly she ought to endeavour to withdraw from it.... This
conviction was enough to make her feel sad, and there was no need to
seek farther in order to discover other sources of sadness, if any such
there were, within her bosom.
And thus she sat, again pulling thyme from the hill-side; but it was no
longer so sweet as before, and she threw it from her, like a child who
has broken its toy, and just reached the sage conviction that its gaudy
colouring was good for nothing. While indulging in this most
unsatisfactory fit of musing, the sound of a horse's feet almost close
behind startled her; but instead of turning her head to see whom it
might be, she started up, and walked onward. The horseman, however, was
perhaps more curious than herself, for he immediately rode past her, nor
scrupled to turn his head as he did so, to ascertain who the early
wanderer might be.
But even before he had done so Agnes knew, by a moment's glance at his
figure as he passed her, that it was Colonel Hubert.
He checked his horse, and touched his hat, and for half an instant Agnes
thought he was going to speak to her: perhaps he thought so too; but if
he did, he changed his mind, for looking about in the distance, as if
reconnoitring his position, he pressed the sides of his horse and
galloped on, a groom presently following.
Agnes breathed more freely. "Thank God, he did not speak to me!" she
exclaimed. "If he had, I should have wanted power to answer him....
Never, no, never can I forget ... were I to see him every day to the end
of my life, I should never forget the expression of his face as my aunt
Barnaby ... and that dreadful man ... walked up the room towards the
tea-table!... no, nor the glance he gave, so full of vexation and
regret, when his kind-hearted, sweet-tempered friend, asked me again to
dance with him!... Proud, disdainful man! I hope and trust that I never
may behold him more!... It is he who first taught me to know and feel
how miserable is the future that awaits me!" This soliloquy, partly
muttered and partly thought, was here interrupted by her once more
hearing the sound of a horse's feet on the turf close behind her.
"He has turned back!" thought she, "though I did not see him pass me.
Oh! if he speaks to me, how shall I answer him!"
But again the horseman rode past, and another rapid glance showed her
that this time it was not Colonel Hubert, nor did she trouble herself to
think whom else it might be; and if she had, the labour would have been
thrown away, for in this case, as before, the rider looked back, and
displayed to her view the features of Major Allen.
He instantly stopped his horse, and jumped to the ground, then
skilfully wheeling the animal round, placed himself between it and the
terrified Agnes, and began walking beside her.
Her first impulse was to stand still, and ask him wherefore he thus
approached her; but when she turned towards him to speak, the expression
of his broad, audacious countenance, struck her with dismay, and she
suddenly turned round, and walked rapidly and in silence back towards
the windmill, and the buildings beyond it.
"Are you afraid of me, my charming young lady?" said the Major with a
chuckle, again wheeling his charger so as to place himself beside
Agnes.... "No reason, upon my soul.... How is your adorable aunt?...
Tell her I inquired for her, and tell her too, upon the honour of an
officer and a gentleman, that I consider her as by far the finest woman
I ever saw.... But why do you run on so swiftly, my pretty little fawn?
Your charming aunt will thank me, I am sure, for not letting you put
yourself in a fever;" and so saying his huge hand grasped the elbow of
Agnes, and he held her forcibly back.
A feeling of terror, greater than the occasion called for perhaps,
induced Agnes to utter a cry at again feeling this hateful gripe, which
seemed as if by magic to bring her relief, for at the same moment
Colonel Hubert was on the other side of her. Agnes looked up in his face
with an undisguised expression of delight, and on his offering his arm
she took it instantly, but without either of them having uttered a word.
There was something in the arrangement of the trio that Major Allen did
not appear to approve, for having taken about three steps in advance, he
suddenly stopped, and saying in a sort of blustering mutter, "You will
be pleased to give my best compliments to your aunt," he sprung upon his
horse so heedlessly as to render it probable both lady and gentleman
might get a kick from the animal, and making it bound forward, darted
off across the down.
Agnes gently withdrew her arm, and said, but in a voice not over steady,
"Indeed, sir, I am very much obliged to you!"
"I am glad to have been near you, Miss Willoughby, when that very
insolent person addressed you," said Colonel Hubert, but without making
any second offer of his arm. And a moment after he added, "Excuse me for
telling you that you are imprudent in walking thus early and alone.
Though Clifton on this side appears a rural sort of residence, it is not
without some of the disagreeable features of a watering-place."
"I have lived always in the country.... I had no idea there was any
danger," ... said Agnes, shocked to think how much her own childish
imprudence must have strengthened Colonel Hubert's worst opinion of her
and her connexions.
"Nor is there, perhaps, any actual danger," replied the Colonel; "but
there are many things that may not exactly warrant that name, which
nevertheless...."
"Would be very improper for me!... Oh! it was great ignorance--great
folly!" interrupted Agnes eagerly; "and never, never again will I put
myself in need of such kindness."
"Has your aunt always lived with you in the country?" was a question
which Colonel Hubert felt greatly disposed to ask, but, instead of it,
he said, turning down from the windmill hill, "You reside at Rodney
Place, I believe, and, if I mistake not, this is the way."
"No, sir ... we lodge in Sion Row.... It is here, close by.... Do not
let me delay your ride any more.... I am very much obliged to you;" ...
and without waiting for an answer, Agnes stepped rapidly down the steep
side of the hill, and was half-way towards Sion Row before the Colonel
felt quite sure of what he had intended to say in return.
"But it is no matter.... She is gone," thought he, and taking his reins
from the hand of his groom, he remounted, and resumed his morning ride.
* * * * *
Mrs. Barnaby had not quitted her bed when Agnes returned; but she was
awake, and hearing some one enter the drawing-room, called out, "Who's
there?"
"It is I, aunt," said Agnes, opening the door with flushed cheeks and
out of breath, partly, perhaps, from the agitation occasioned by her
adventure, and partly from the speed with which she had walked from the
windmill home.
"And where on earth have you been already, child? Mercy on me, what a
colour you have got!... The ball has done you good as well as me, I
think. There, get in and take your things off, and then come back and
talk to me while I dress myself."
Agnes went into her little room and shut the door. She really was very
much afraid of her aunt, and in general obeyed her commands with the
prompt obedience of a child who fears to be scolded if he make a
moment's delay. But at this moment a feeling stronger than fear kept her
within the blessed sanctuary of her solitary closet. She seemed gasping
for want of air ... her aunt's room felt close after coming from the
fresh breeze of the hill, and it was, therefore, as Agnes thought, that
the sitting down alone beside her own open window seemed a luxury for
which it was worth while to risk the sharpest reprimand that ever aunt
gave.... But why, while she enjoyed it, did big tears chase each other
down her cheeks?
Whatever the cause, the effect was salutary. She became composed, she
recovered her breath, and her complexion faded to its usual delicate
tint, or perhaps to a shade paler; and then she began to think that
it was not wise to do anything for which she knew she should be
reproached ... if she could help it ... and now she could help it; so
she smoothed her chestnut tresses, bathed her eyes in water, and giving
one deep sigh at leaving her own side of the door for that which
belonged to her aunt, she came forth determined to bear very patiently
whatever might be said to her.
Fortunately for Agnes Mrs. Barnaby had just approached that critical
moment of her toilet business, when it was her especial will and
pleasure to be alone; so, merely saying in a snappish accent, "What in
the world have you been about so long?" she added, "Now get along into
the drawing-room, and take care that the toast and my muffin are ready
for me, and kept hot before the fire;--it's almost too hot for fire, but
I must have my breakfast warm and comfortable, and we can let it out
afterwards."
Agnes most joyfully obeyed. It was a great relief, and she was meekly
thankful for it; but she very nearly forgot the muffins and the toast,
for the windows of the room were open, and looked out upon the windmill
and the down, a view so pleasant that it was several minutes before she
recollected the duties she had to perform. At last, however, she did
recollect them, and made such good use of the time that remained, that
when her aunt entered bright in carmine and lilac ribbons, everything
was as it should be; and she had only to sit and listen to her ecstatic
encomiums on the ball, warm each successive piece of muffin at the end
of a fork, and answer properly to the ten times repeated question,--
"Hav'n't you got a good aunt, Agnes, to take you to such a ball as
that?"
At length, however, the tedious meal was ended, and Mrs. Barnaby busied
herself considerably more than usual in setting the little apartment in
order. She made Jerningham carefully brush away the crumbs--a ceremony
sometimes neglected--set out her own best pink-lined work-box in state,
placed the table agreeably at one of the windows, with two or three
chairs round it, and then told Agnes, that if she had any of her
lesson-book work to do, she might sit in her own room, for she did not
want her.
Gladly was the mandate obeyed, and willingly did she aid Betty Jacks in
putting her tiny premises in order, for she was not without hope that
her friend Mary would pay her a visit there to talk over the events of
the evening; an occupation for which, to say the truth, she felt
considerably more inclined than for any "lesson-book work" whatever.
Nor was she disappointed ... hardly did she feel ready to receive her
before her friend arrived.
"And well, Carina, how fares it with you to-day? Do you not feel almost
too big for your little room after all the triumphs of last night?" was
the gay address of Miss Peters as she seated herself upon one of Agnes's
boxes. But it was not answered in the same tone; nay, there was much of
reproof as well as sadness in the accent with which Agnes uttered,--
"Triumphs!... Oh! Mary, what a word!"
"You are the only one, I believe, who would quarrel with it. Did ever a
little country girl under seventeen make a more successful debut?"
"Did ever country girl of any age have more reason to feel that she
never ought to make any debut at all?"
"My poor Agnes!..." said Miss Peters more gravely, "it will not do for
you to feel so deeply the follies that may, and, I fear, ever will be
committed by _your_ aunt and _my_ aunt Barnaby.... It is a sad, vexing
business, beyond all doubt, that you should have to go into company with
a woman determined to make herself so outrageously absurd; but it is not
fair to remember that, and nothing else ... you should at least
recollect also that the most distinguished man in the room paid you the
compliment of joining your party at tea."
"Paid _me_ the compliment!... Oh! Mary."
"And oh! Agnes, can you pretend to doubt that it was in compliment to
you?... And in compliment to whom was it that he danced with you?"
"He never danced with me, Mary," said Agnes, colouring.
"My dear child, what are you talking about? Why, he danced with you
three times."
"Oh yes ... Mr. Stephenson ... he is indeed the kindest, most
obliging...."
"And the handsomest partner that you ever danced with.... Is it not so?"
"That may easily be, Mary, if by partner you mean a gentleman partner,
for I never danced with any till last night; and it is only saying that
he is handsomer than your brother and Mr. Osborne, and I think he is."
"And I think so too, therefore on that point we shall not quarrel. But
tell me, how did you like the ball altogether?... Did it please you?...
Were you amused?... Shall you be longing to go to another?"
"Let me answer your last question first.... I hope _never, never,
never_ again to go to a ball with my aunt Barnaby.... But had it not
been for the pain, the shame, the agony she caused me, I should have
liked it very much indeed ... particularly the tea-time, Mary.... How
pleasant it was before she came with that horrid, horrid man! Shall you
ever forget the sight as they came up the room towards us?... Oh! how he
looked at her!"
Agnes shuddered, and pressed her hands to her eyes, as if to shut out an
object that she still saw.
"It was tremendous," replied her friend: "but don't worry yourself by
thinking Mr. Stephenson looked at her just then, for he really did not.
You know he was sitting at the corner of the table by me, and his back
was turned to her, thank heaven!... But I will tell you who did look at
her, if Stephenson did not ... that magnificent-looking Colonel stared
as if he had seen an apparition; but I did not mind that half so much,
nor you either, I suppose.... An old soldier like him must be used to
such a variety of quizzes, that nobody, I imagine, can appear so
preposterous to him as they might do to his young friend.... By the by,
I think he is a very fine-looking man for his age; don't you?"
"Who?" said Agnes innocently.
"Why, Colonel Hubert.... His sister, who is just married to Sir Edward
Stephenson, is nearly twenty years younger than he is, they say."
"Twenty years?" said Agnes.
"Yes.... Must it not be strange to see them together as brother and
sister?... he must seem so much more like her father."
"Her father!" said Agnes.
"Yes, I should think so. But you do not talk half as much about the ball
as I expected, Agnes: I think you were disappointed, and yet I do not
know how that could be. You dance beautifully, and seem very fond of it;
you had the best partners in the room, danced every dance, and were
declared on all sides to be the _belle par excellence_,... and yet you
do not seem to have enjoyed it."
"Oh! I did enjoy it all the time that she was out of the room playing
cards; I enjoyed it very, _very_ much indeed ... so much that I am
surprised at myself to feel how soon all my painful shyness was
forgotten.... But ... after all, Mary, though you call her _your_ aunt
Barnaby, as if to comfort me by sharing my sufferings, she is not really
your aunt, and still less is she your sole protector ... still less is
she the being on whom you depend for your daily bread. Alas! my dear
Mary, is there not more cause for surprise in my having enjoyed the ball
so much, than in my not having enjoyed it more?"
"My poor Agnes, this is sad indeed," said Mary, all her gaiety vanishing
at once, "for it is true. Do not think me indifferent to your most just
sorrow.... Would to Heaven I could do anything effectually to alleviate
it! But while you are here, at least, endeavour to think more of us, and
less of her. Wherever you are known, you will be respected for your own
sake; and that is worth all other respect, depend upon it. When you
leave us, indeed, I shall be very anxious for you. Tell me, dear Agnes,
something more about your aunt Compton. Is it quite impossible that you
should be placed under her protection?"
"Oh yes!... She would not hear of it. She paid for my education, and all
my other expenses, during five years; and my aunt Barnaby says, that
when she undertook to do this, she expressly said that it was all she
could ever do for me. They say that she has ruined her little fortune
by lavish and indiscriminate charity to the poor, and aunt Barnaby says
that she believes she has hardly enough left to keep herself alive. But
I sometimes think, Mary, that I could be very happy if she would let me
work for her, and help her, and perhaps give lessons in Silverton.... I
know some things already well enough, perhaps, to teach in such a remote
place as that, when better masters cannot be procured; and I should be
so happy in doing this ... if aunt Compton would but let me live with
her."
"Then why do you not tell her so, Agnes?"
"Because the last--the only time I have seen her for years, though she
kissed and embraced me for a moment, she pushed me from her afterwards,
and said I was only more artful than aunt Barnaby, and that I should
never be either graced or disgraced by her ... those were her words, I
shall never forget them ... and she has the reputation of being
immoveably obstinate in her resolves."
"That does not look very promising, I must confess. But wisdom tells us
that the possibility of future sorrow should never prevent our enjoying
present happiness. Now, I do think, dear Agnes, that just now you may
enjoy yourself, if you like us as well as we like you,... for we are all
determined to endure aunt Barnaby for your sake, and in return you must
resolve to be happy in spite of her for ours. And now adieu!... I want
to have some talk with mamma this morning; but I dare say you will hear
from me, or see me again, before the end of the day. Farewell!..." And
Miss Peters made a quiet exit from the closet and from the house; for
she had heard voices in the drawing-room as she came up the stairs, and
now heard voices in the drawing-room as she went down; and having
business in her head upon which she was exceedingly intent, she was
anxious to avoid being seen or heard by Mrs. Barnaby, lest she should be
detained.