A YOUNG LADY'S PLOT.--A CONSULTATION, AND THE HAPPY RESULT OF IT.--A
TERRIBLE INTERRUPTION, AND A DANGEROUS EXPEDITION.--CONFIDENTIAL
INTERCOURSE.
Mary Peters left Agnes considerably earlier than she had intended, in
order to communicate to her mother a project which had entered her head
during the short time they spent together. Though the project, however,
was formed during their interview, the idea upon which it was founded
had repeatedly occurred to her before, short as the time had been that
was given for its ripening. This idea was suggested to her by the
evident admiration of Mr. Stephenson for her friend; on which she had
meditated as they drove from the Mall to Rodney Place, as she brushed
and papilloted her nut-brown curls before her glass, and as she
strolled the next morning from her own home to that of Agnes; it might
plainly have been expressed thus ... Frederick Stephenson is over head
and ears in love with Agnes Willoughby.
Such was the idea; but the project was concerning a much more serious
matter,--namely, that a marriage between the parties might easily be
brought about; and, moreover, that the effecting this would be one of
the very best actions to which it could be possible to dedicate her
endeavours.
To do Miss Peters justice, she was in general neither a busy body nor a
match-maker; but she was deeply touched by the melancholy feeling Agnes
had expressed respecting her own position; she felt, too, both the
justness of it, and the utter helplessness of the poor girl herself
either to change or amend it.
"Nothing but her marrying can do it," thought Mary; "and why should she
not marry this young man, who is so evidently smitten with her?... Poor
Agnes!... What a change--what a contrast it would be!... And if mamma
will help me, I am sure we may bring it about. He is perfectly
independent, and violently in love already, ... and she is a creature
that appears more beautiful and more fascinating every time one sees
her."
It was exactly when her meditations reached this point that she
discovered it to be necessary that she should go home directly, and home
she accordingly went, luckily finding her mother alone in her
dressing-room.
"I am delighted to find you by yourself, mamma," began Mary, "I have a
great deal to say to you," and then followed a rapid repetition of all
Agnes had just said to her.
"Is it not a dreadful situation, mamma?" she added.
"So dreadful, Mary," replied Mrs. Peters, "that were not the youngest of
you about three years older than herself, I really think I should
propose taking her as a finishing governess. Poor little thing!... what
can we do for her?"
"Now listen, mamma," answered Mary, raising her hand gravely, as if to
bespeak both silence and attention, "and do not, I implore you, mar the
usefulness of what I am going to say by turning it into jest, ... it is
no jest, mother. Mr. Stephenson, the young man we saw last night, is
most certainly captivated by the beauty of Agnes in no common degree. I
was near enough to her all the evening to see plainly how things were
going on; and were she less miserable in her present condition, I might
think it a fair subject for a jest, or a bet perhaps on the chances for
and against his proposing to her. But as it is,--thinking of her as I
do, feeling for her as I do,--I think, mamma, that it is my duty to
endeavour, by every means in my power, to turn these chances in her
favour. Dearest mother, will you help me?"
"But what means have you, my dear girl?" replied Mrs. Peters gravely. "I
believe I share both your admiration and your pity for Agnes as fully as
you could desire; but I really see not what there is that we can with
propriety do to obtain the object you propose ... though I am quite
aware of its value."
"I will ask you to do nothing, my dearest mother, in which you shall
find a shadow of impropriety. Would there be any in inviting this young
man to your house, should you chance to become better acquainted with
him?"
"No; but I think we must take some strangely forward steps to lead to
this better acquaintance."
"That will depend altogether upon his degree of inclination for it.
Should he prove _ritroso_, I consent to draw off my forces instantly;
but if, as I anticipate, he should push himself upon us as an
acquaintance, I want you to promise that you will not on your part
defeat his wishes,--nay, a little more perhaps ... I would wish you,
dear mother, to feel with me, that it would be right and righteous to
promote them."
"I rather think it would, Mary, as you put the case. Agnes Willoughby is
by no means lowly born: her father was a gentleman decidedly; and I
understood from my brother that the Comptons, though for some centuries,
I believe, rather an impoverished race, derive their small property from
ancestors of very great antiquity; so there is nothing objectionable on
that tender point.... And for herself, pretty creature, she would
certainly be an ornament and a grace as head and chieftainess of the
most aristocratic establishment in the world; so, as a matter of
conscience, I have really no scruples at all; but, as matter of
_convenance_, I can only promise not to check, by any want of civility
on my part, whatever advances the gentleman may choose to make. Will
this content you, my little plotter?"
"Yes ... pretty well; for I am not without hope that you will warm in
the cause, if it goes on at all, and then, perhaps, I shall squeeze an
invitation out of you, and so on. And, by the way, mamma, when are we to
have our little musical _soiree_? I believe young De Lacy is not going
to stay much longer, and if he goes, what are we to do for our bass?"
"We shall be puzzled, certainly. You may write the cards directly, Mary,
if you will."
Mary rose at once to set about it; but on opening a certain drawer in
the commode, and examining its contents, she said, "We must send to the
library, mamma; there are not half enough cards here,... besides ... I
want you to walk with us, and I want Agnes to join the party. May I
send her a note desiring her to come to take her luncheon here?"
"I comprehend your tactics, my dear.... Agnes is to walk with us just
about three o'clock, when all the world are out and about.... We want
invitation cards, and may just as well, when we _are_ out, go to the
library for them ourselves.... There we shall be sure of seeing Mr.
Stephenson ... he will be very likely to join us ... etc. etc. etc....
Is not that your plan?"
"And if it is, mamma," replied Mary, laughing, "I see not that it
contains anything beyond what has been agreed to by our compact."
"Very well, Mademoiselle Talleyrand ... write your note."
This was promptly done, and promptly dispatched, and reached Agnes about
two minutes after Major Allen had taken his departure. She was aware of
his visit; for Betty Jacks had obligingly opened her closet-door to
inform her of it; and she now stood with the welcome note in her hand,
meditating on the best manner of forwarding the petition to her aunt,
not quite liking to send in the note itself, doubtful of Betty's
delivering a message on the subject so as to avoid giving offence, but
dreading, beyond all else, the idea of presenting herself before the
Major.
"Major Allen is still there, Jerningham, is he not?... I have seen
nothing of my aunt."
"No, miss, he is this moment gone ... and a beautiful, sweet man he is,
too."
Agnes hesitated no longer, but, with Mary's note in her hand, entered
the drawing-room to ask leave to obey the summons it contained. She
found Mrs. Barnaby in a state of considerable, but very delightful
agitation. The album was open before her, her two elbows rested on the
table, and her hands shaded her eyes, which were fixed on the
interesting name of Isabella d'Almafonte in a fit of deep abstraction.
Agnes uttered her request, but was obliged to repeat it twice before the
faculties of the widow were sufficiently recalled to things present for
her to be able to return a coherent answer. When at length, however, she
understood what was asked, she granted her permission with quite as much
pleasure as Agnes received it. At that moment she could endure nothing
but solitude, or Major Allen, and eagerly answered ... "Oh yes, my dear!
go, go; I do not want you at all."
A liberated bird is not more quick in reaching the shelter of the
desired wood, than was Agnes in making her way from Sion Row to Rodney
Place; and so great was her joy at finding herself there, that for the
moment she forgot all her sorrows, and talked of the ball as if she had
not felt infinitely more pain than pleasure there. As soon as the
luncheon was ended, Mrs. Peters and Elizabeth, Mary and Agnes, set off
upon their walk, not "over the hills, and far away," as heretofore, but
along the well-paved ways that led most certainly to the resorts of
their fellow mortals. Lucy and James, having heard that the evening for
their music party was fixed at the distance only of one fortnight,
declared that it was absolutely necessary to devote the interval to
"practice," and therefore they remained at home.
If the plan of Mary Peters was such as her mother had described it,
nothing could have been more successful; for even before they reached
the library, they met Mr. Stephenson and Colonel Hubert. The moment the
former perceived them, he stepped forward, quitting the arm of his
friend, who certainly rather relaxed than accelerated his pace, and
having paid his compliments with the cordial air of an old acquaintance
to Mrs. Peters and Elizabeth, passed them and took his station beside
Agnes. Both she and her friend received his eager salutation with
smiles: Mary, as we know, had her own motives for this; and Agnes had by
no means forgotten how seasonably he had led her off on the preceding
evening from her aunt, Major Allen, and the forsaken tea-table. Her
bright smile, however, soon faded as she marked the stiff bow by which
Colonel Hubert returned Mrs. Peters's civil recognition of him. He too
passed the first pair of ladies, and joined himself to the second; but
though he bowed to both of them, it seemed that he turned and again took
the arm of Stephenson, solely for the purpose of saying to him, "Are you
going to give up your walk to the Wells, Frederick?"
"Most decidedly, _mon cher_," was the cavalier reply.
"Then I must wish you good morning, I believe," said Colonel Hubert,
attempting to withdraw his arm.
"No, don't," cried the gay young man good-humouredly, and retaining his
arm with some show of violence; "I will not let you go without me: you
will find nothing there, depend upon it, to reward you on this occasion
for your pertinacity of purpose."
Colonel Hubert yielded himself to this wilfulness, and passively, as it
seemed, accompanied the party into the library. Nothing could be more
agreeable than the animated conversation of young Stephenson: he talked
to all the ladies in turn, contrived to discover a multitude of articles
of so interesting a kind, that it was necessary they should examine and
talk about them; and finally, bringing forward the book of names, fairly
beguiled Mrs. Peters and her daughters into something very like a little
gossip concerning some among them.
It was while they were thus employed that Colonel Hubert approached
Agnes, who, of course, could take no part in it, and said,... "Are you
going to remain long at Clifton, Miss Willoughby?"
Agnes blushed deeply as he drew near, and his simple question was
answered in a voice so tremulous, that he pitied the agitation
(resulting, as he supposed, from their meeting in the morning) which she
evinced; and feeling perhaps that she was not to blame because his
headstrong friend was determined to fall in love with her, he spoke
again, and in a gentler voice said, "I hope you have forgiven me for the
blunt advice I ventured to give you this morning."
"Forgiven!" repeated Agnes, looking up at him, and before her glance
fell again it was dimmed by a tear. "I can never forget your kindness!"
she added, but so nearly in a whisper, that he instantly became aware
that her friends had not been made acquainted with the adventure, and
that it was not her wish they should be. He therefore said no more on
the subject; but, led by some impulse that seemed not, certainly, to
proceed from either unkindness or contempt, he continued to converse
with her for several minutes, and long enough indeed to make her very
nearly forget the party of friends whose heads continued to be
congregated round the librarian's register of the Clifton beau monde.
Frederick Stephenson meanwhile was very ably prosecuting the object he
had in view, namely, to establish himself decidedly as an acquaintance
of Mrs. Peters; and so perfectly _comme il faut_ in all respects was the
tone of herself and her daughters, that he was rapidly forgetting such a
being as Mrs. Barnaby existed, and solacing his spirit by the persuasion
that the only girl he had ever seen whom he could _really_ love was
surrounded by connexions as elegant and agreeable as his _exigeante_
family could possibly require. Nor, to say truth, was his friend greatly
behind-hand in the degree of oblivion which he permitted to fall upon
his faculties respecting this object of his horror and detestation. It
was not very easy, indeed, to remember Mrs. Barnaby, while Agnes,
awakened by a question as to what part of England it was in which she
had enjoyed the rural liberty of which he had heard her speak, poured
forth all her ardent praise on the tranquil beauty of Empton.
"It is not," said she, beguiled, by the attention with which he listened
to her, into forgetfulness of the awe he had hitherto inspired,--"it is
not so majestic in its beauty as Clifton; we have no mighty rocks at
Empton--no winding river that, quietly as it flows, seems to have cut
its own path amongst them; but the parsonage is the very perfection of a
soft, tranquil, flowery retreat, where neither sorrow nor sin have any
business whatever."
"And was Empton parsonage your home, Miss Willoughby?"
"Yes ... for five dear happy years," replied Agnes, in an accent from
which all gaiety had fled.
"You were not born at Empton, then?"
"No; I was only educated there; but it was there at least that my heart
and mind were born, and I do not believe that I shall ever feel quite at
home anywhere else."
"It is rather early for you to say that, is it not?" said Colonel
Hubert with a smile more calculated to increase her confidence than to
renew her awe.... "May I ask how old you are?"
"I shall be seventeen in August," replied Agnes, blushing at being
obliged to confess herself so very young.
"She might be my daughter," thought Colonel Hubert, while a shade of
melancholy passed over his countenance which it puzzled Agnes to
interpret. But he asked her no more questions; and the conversation
seemed languishing, when Frederick Stephenson, beginning to think that
it was his turn now to talk to Agnes, and pretty well satisfied,
perhaps, that he had made a favourable impression upon the Peters
family, left the counter and the subscription-book, and crossed to the
place where she had seated herself. Colonel Hubert was still standing by
her side, but he instantly made way for his friend; and had he at that
moment spoken aloud the thoughts of his heart, he might have been heard
to say,--"There is nothing here to justify the rejection of any
family ... she is perfect alike in person and in mind ... things must
take their course: I will urge his departure no further."
Scarcely, however, had these thoughts made their rapid way across his
brain, before his ears were assailed by the sound of a laugh, which he
recognised in an instant to be that of Mrs. Barnaby. A flush of
heightened colour mounted to his very eyes, and he felt
conscience-struck, as if whatever might hereafter happen to Stephenson,
he should hold himself responsible for it, because he had mentally given
his consent to his remaining where the danger lay. And well might the
sound and sight of Mrs. Barnaby overturn all such yielding thoughts. She
came more rouged, more ringleted, more bedizened with feathers and
flowers, and more loud in voice than ever.... She came, too, accompanied
by Major Allen.
No thunder-cloud, sending forth its flashings before it, ever threw a
more destructive shadow over the tranquil brightness of a smiling
landscape, than did this entree of the facetious pair over the happy
vivacity of the party already in possession of the shop. Mrs. Peters
turned very red; Miss Willoughby turned very pale; Mary stopped short
in the middle of a sentence, and remained as mute as if she had been
shot; even the good-natured Elizabeth looked prim; and the two
gentlemen, though in different ways, betrayed an equally strong
consciousness of the change that had come over them. Mr. Stephenson put
on the hat which he had laid beside him on the counter; and though he
drew still nearer to Agnes than before, it was without addressing a word
to her. Colonel Hubert immediately passed by them, and left the shop.
This last circumstance was the only one which could at that moment have
afforded any relief to Agnes; it at once restored her composure and
presence of mind, though it did not quite bring back the happy smiles
with which she had been conversing five short minutes before.
"Ah! my sister Peters and the children here!" cried Mrs. Barnaby,
flouncing gaily towards them.... "I thought we should meet you.... What
beautiful weather, isn't it? How d'ye do, sir? (to Mr. Stephenson). I
think you were among our young ladies' partners last night?... Charming
ball, wasn't it?... Dear Major Allen, do look at these Bristol stones!
ain't they as bright as diamonds?... Well, Agnes, you have had your
luncheon, I suppose, with the dear girls, and now you will be ready to
go shopping with me. We are going into Bristol, and I will take you with
us."
Agnes listened to her doom in silence, and no more thought of appealing
from it than the poor criminal who listens to his sentence from the
bench; but Mr. Stephenson turned an imploring look on Mrs. Peters, which
spoke so well what he wished to express, that, she exerted herself so
far as to say, "We had hoped, Mrs. Barnaby, that you meant to have
spared Agnes to us for the rest of the day, and we shall be much obliged
if you will leave her with us."
"You are always very kind, dear Margaret," returned the widow, "but I
really want Agnes just now.... She shall come to you, however, some
other time.... Good-b'ye! good-b'ye!--we have no time to lose.... Come,
Agnes, let's be off."
A silent look was all the leave-taking that passed between Agnes and her
greatly annoyed friends. Mrs. Barnaby took her arm under her own, and
as soon as they quitted the shop bestowed the other on Major Allen; she
was in high spirits, which found vent in a loud laugh as soon as they
had turned the corner.
"What a stuck-up fellow that great tall Colonel is, Major Allen," said
she. "Do you know anything of him?... If I am not greatly mistaken, he
is as proud as Lucifer."
"I assure you, if he is proud, my dear madam, it must be a pride of the
very lowest and vilest kind, merely derived from the paltry
considerations of family and fortune; for, _entre nous_, he is very far
from having been a distinguished officer. The Duke of Wellington,
indeed, has always been most ridiculously partial to him; but you,"
lowering his voice, "you are a pretty tolerable judge of what _his_ good
opinion is worth."
"Yes, yes, Major.... I shall never be taken in there again.... Why,
Agnes, how you drag, child! I shall be tired to death before I get to
Bristol if you walk so."
"Will the young lady take my other arm?" said the Major.
"Thank you, dear Major!... You are very kind. Go round, Agnes, and take
the Major's arm."
"No, I thank you, aunt; I do not want any arm. I will walk beside you,
if you please, without taking hold of you at all."
"Nonsense, child!... That will look too particular, Major," ... said the
widow, turning to him; upon which, without waiting further parley, Major
Allen dropped the arm he held, and gaily placed himself between the two
ladies, saying, "Now then, fair ladies, I have an arm for each."
Agnes felt the greatest possible longing to run away; but whether it
would have strengthened into a positive resolution to do so, upon once
more feeling the touch of the Major's hand, which upon her retreating he
very vigorously extended towards her, it is impossible to say, for at
that moment the sound of a rapidly-advancing pair of boots was heard on
the pavement behind them, and in the next Mr. Stephenson was at her
side. He touched his hat to Mrs. Barnaby, and then addressing Agnes
said, "If you are going to walk to Bristol, I hope you will permit me
to accompany you, ... for I am going there too."
Agnes very frankly replied, "Thank you!" and without a moment's
hesitation accepted the arm he offered.
"I am sure you are very obliging, Mr. Stephenson," said Mrs. Barnaby,
"and we shall certainly be able to walk with much greater convenience. I
think you two had better go before, and then we can see that you don't
run off, you know."
This lively sally was followed by a gay little tittering on the part
both of the Major and the lady, as they stood still for Mr. Stephenson
and the suffering Agnes to pass them.
The young man seemed to have lost all his vivacity: he spoke very
little, and even that little had the air of being uttered because he
felt obliged to say something. Poor Agnes was certainly in no humour for
conversation, and would have rejoiced in his silence, had it not made
her feel that whatever might be the motive for his thus befriending her,
he derived no pleasure from it. Ere they had walked a mile, however, an
accident occurred which effectually roused him from the dejection that
appeared to have fallen upon his spirits. A herd of bullocks met them on
the road, one of which, over-driven and irritated by a cur that worried
him, darted suddenly from the road up to the path, and made towards them
with its horns down, and its tail in the air. On seeing this, the young
man seized Agnes in his arms, and sprang with her down the bank into the
road. The animal, whose object was rather to leave an enemy behind him,
than to do battle with any other, passed on towards the Major and his
fair companion, who were at a considerable distance behind, leaving
Agnes trembling indeed, and somewhat confused, but quite unhurt, and
full of gratitude for the prompt activity that had probably saved her.
As soon as she had in some degree recovered her composure, she turned
back to ascertain how her aunt had fared, Mr. Stephenson assiduously
attending her, and they presently came within sight of a spectacle that,
had any mirth been in them, must have drawn it forth.
Major Allen, by no means approving the style in which the animal
appeared inclined to charge them, had instantly perceived, as Mr.
Stephenson had done before, that the only means of getting effectually
out of its way was by jumping down the bank, which at that point was
considerably higher than it was a few hundred yards farther on;
nevertheless, though neither very light nor very active, he might have
achieved the descent well enough had he been alone. But what was he to
do with Mrs. Barnaby? She uttered a piercing cry, and threw herself
directly upon his bosom, exclaiming, "Save me, Major!--save me!"
In this dilemma the Major proved himself an old soldier. To shake off
the lady, he felt (in every sense of the word) was quite impossible; but
there was no reason that she should stifle him; and therefore grasping
her with great ardour, he half carried, half pushed her towards the
little precipice, and skilfully placing himself so that, if they fell,
she should fall first, he cried out manfully, "Now spring!" And spring
they did, but in such a sort, that the lady measured her length in the
dust, a circumstance that greatly broke the Major's fall; for, although
he made a considerable effort to roll beyond her, he finally pitched
with his knees full upon her, thus lessening his descent very
materially.
When the young people reached them, they had both recovered their
equilibrium, but not their composure. Major Allen was placed with one
knee in the dust, and on the other supporting Mrs. Barnaby, who, with
her head reclining on his shoulder, seemed to have a very strong
inclination to indulge herself with a fainting fit. Her gay dress was
lamentably covered with dust, her feathers broken and hanging
distressingly over her eyes, and her whole appearance, as well as that
of the hero who supported her, forlorn and dejected in the extreme.
"Are you hurt, aunt?" said Agnes, approaching her.
"Hurt!... am I hurt?... Gracious Heaven! what a question! If my life be
spared, I shall consider it little short of a miracle.... Oh! Major
Allen," she continued with a burst of sobbing, "where should I have now
been ... but for you?..."
"Trampled or tossed, Mrs. Barnaby ... trampled or tossed to death
decidedly," replied the Major, not wishing to lessen her sense of
obligation, yet restrained by the presence of witnesses from expressing
his feelings with all the ardour he might otherwise have shown.
"Most true!--most true!" she replied. "Never shall I be able to express
the gratitude I feel!"
"Can you not stand up, aunt?" said Agnes, whose cheeks were crimsoned at
the absurdity of the scene. "How will you be able to get home if you
cannot stand?"
"God knows, child!... God only knows what is yet to become of me.... Oh!
Major, I trust myself wholly to you."
Poor Agnes uttered a sound not much unlike a groan, upon which
Stephenson, on whom it fell like a spur, urging him to save her from an
exhibition so painfully ridiculous, (for it was quite evident that Mrs.
Barnaby was not really hurt,) proposed that he should escort Miss
Willoughby with all possible speed back to Clifton, and dispatch thence
a carriage to bring Mrs. Barnaby home.
Major Allen, who desired nothing more ardently than to get rid of him,
seconded the proposal vehemently.
"You are quite right, sir; it is the only thing to be done," he said;
"and if you will hasten to perform this, I will endeavour so to place
Mrs. Barnaby as to prevent her suffering any great inconvenience while
waiting till the carriage shall arrive."
"Ought I not to remain with my aunt?" said Agnes to Mr. Stephenson, but
in a whisper that was heard only by himself.
"In my opinion, you certainly ought not," he replied in the same tone.
"Believe me," he added, "I have many reasons for saying so."
Nothing but her earnest desire to do that, whatever it might be, which
was the least improper, (for that, as she truly felt, was all that was
left her,) could have induced Agnes to propose inflicting so terrible a
penance on herself; but strangely as she was obliged to choose her
counsellor, there was a grave seriousness in his manner which convinced
her he had not answered her lightly; and therefore, as her aunt said not
a word to detain her, she set off on her return with as much speed as
she could use, saying as she departed, "Depend upon it, aunt, there
shall be no delay."
Mr. Stephenson again offered her his arm; but she now declined it, and
the young man for some time walked silently by her side, wishing to
speak to her, yet honestly doubting his own power of doing so with the
composure he desired.
At length, however, the silence became embarrassing, and he broke it by
saying, with something of abruptness,--
"Will you forgive me, Miss Willoughby, if I venture to forget for a
moment how short a time it is since I have had the happiness of knowing
you, ... will you forgive me if I speak to you like a friend?"
"Indeed I will, and be very thankful too," replied Agnes composedly, ...
for his manner had taught her to feel assured that she had no cause to
fear him.
"You are very kind," he resumed, with some little embarrassment; "but I
feel that it is taking an almost unwarrantable liberty; and were it not
that this walk offers an opportunity which I think I ought not to lose,
I might perhaps endeavour to say what I wish to Mrs. Peters.... I allude
to Major Allen, Miss Willoughby! I wish you could lead your aunt to
understand that he is not a person fit for your society. Though he is
probably a stranger here, he is well known elsewhere as a needy gambler,
and, in short, a most unprincipled character in every way."
"Good Heaven!" exclaimed Agnes, "what shall I do?"
"Can you not venture to hint this to your aunt?" said he.
"She would probably be very angry," replied Agnes with spontaneous
frankness; "but what is worse than that, she would, I know, insist upon
my telling her where I heard it."
"Say that you heard it from me, Miss Willoughby," replied the young
man.
New as Agnes was to the world and its ways, she felt that there was
something very honourable and frank in this proceeding, and it produced
so great a degree of confidence in return, that she answered in a tone
of the most unembarrassed friendliness.
"Will you give me leave, Mr. Stephenson, to repeat this to Mrs. Peters
and Mary?... They will know so much better than I do what use to make of
it."
"Indeed I think you are right," he replied eagerly, "and then the anger
that you speak of will not fall on you."
"It will not in that case, I think, fall on any one," said Agnes. "My
aunt has fortunately a great respect for Mrs. Peters; and if anybody can
have influence over her mind, she may."
Can it be wondered at if, after this, the conversation went on improving
in its tone of ease and confidence? It had begun, on the side of the
young man, with a very sincere resolution not to suffer his admiration
for his lovely companion to betray him into a serious attachment to one
so unfortunately connected; but, before they reached Sion Row, he had
arrived at so perfect a conviction that he could nowhere find so
pure-minded and right-thinking a being to share his fortune, and to
bless his future life, that he only refrained from telling her so from a
genuine feeling of respect, which perhaps the proudest peeress in the
land might have failed to inspire.
"No," thought he, "it is not now, while she is compelled by accident to
walk beside me, that I will pour out my heart and all its love before
her, but the time shall come...."
Agnes, ere they parted again, appealed to him for his opinion whether
she _ought_ to go in the carriage sent to meet her aunt.
"No, indeed, I think not," he replied. "Has she no maid, Miss
Willoughby, who could go for her?"
"Oh yes!" exclaimed Agnes, greatly relieved; "I can send Jerningham."
"Sweet creature!" whispered the enamoured Frederick to his heart, "what
a delicious task to advise, to guide, to cherish such a being as that!"
His respectful bow at parting, the earnest, silent, lingering look he
fixed upon her fair face ere he turned from the door that was opened to
receive her, might have said much to a heart on the _qui vive_ to meet
his, half way; but Agnes did not observe it; she was looking up towards
the windmill, and thinking of her early morning walk and its
termination.