A DISAGREEABLE BREAKFAST-TABLE.--MR. STEPHENSON GIVES HIS FRIEND COLONEL
HUBERT WARNING TO DEPART.--A PROPOSAL, AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.
Mrs. Barnaby and Major Allen were not the only persons to whom that
twenty-sixth of April proved an eventful day.
Colonel Hubert and his friend Stephenson met as usual at the
breakfast-table, and it would be difficult to say which of them was the
most pre-occupied, and the most unfit for ordinary conversation.
Stephenson, however, though vexed at not being already the betrothed
husband of his lovely Agnes, was full of hopeful anticipation, and his
unfitness for conversation arose rather from the fulness of his heart,
than the depression of his spirits.
Not so Colonel Hubert: it was hardly possible to suffer from a greater
feeling of melancholy dissatisfaction with all things than he did on the
morning after Mrs. Peters's concert.
That the despised Agnes, the niece of the hateful Mrs. Barnaby, had
risen in his estimation to be considered as the best, the first, the
loveliest of created beings, was not the worst misfortune that had
fallen upon him.
There was, indeed, a degree of perversity in the case that almost
justified his thinking himself the most unfortunate of mortals. After
having attained the sober age of thirty-seven years, if not untouched,
at least uninjured, by all the reiterated volleys which he had stood
from Cupid's quiver, it was certainly rather provoking to find himself
falling distractedly in love with a little obscure girl, young enough to
be his daughter, and perhaps, from the unhappy circumstance of her
dependence upon such a relative as Mrs. Barnaby, the very last person in
the world with whom he would have wished to connect himself. This was
bad enough; but even this was not all. With the airs of a senior and a
Mentor, he had taken upon himself to lecture his friend upon the
preposterous absurdity of giving way to such an attachment, thus
rendering it almost morally impossible for him under any imaginable
circumstances to ask the love of Agnes, even though something in his
inmost heart whispered to him that he should not ask in vain. Nor did
the catalogue of his embarrassments end here, for he was placed
_vis-a-vis_ to his open-hearted friend, who, he was quite certain, would
within five minutes begin again the oft-repeated confidential avowal of
his love; accompanied, probably, with renewed assurances of his
intentions to make proposals, which Colonel Hubert, from what he had
seen last night, fancied himself quite sure would never be accepted.
What a wretched, what a hopeless dilemma was he placed in! Was he to see
the man he professed to love expose himself to the misery of offering
his hand, in defiance of a thousand obstacles, to a woman who, he felt
almost sure, would reject him? Or could he interfere to prevent it, at
the very moment that his heart told him nothing but the pretensions of
Frederick could prevent his proposing to her himself.
Colonel Hubert sat stirring his coffee in moody silence, and dreading to
hear Frederick open his lips; but his worst fears as to what he might
utter, were soon realized by Stephenson's exclaiming,--
"Well, Hubert!... it is still to do. I was defeated last night, but it
shall not be my fault if I go to rest this, without receiving her
promise to become my wife. Her aunt is a horror--a monster--anything,
everything you may please to call her; but Agnes is an angel, and Agnes
must be mine!"
Colonel Hubert looked more gloomy still; but he continued to stir his
coffee, and said nothing.
"How can you treat me thus, Hubert?..." said the young man
reproachfully. "There is a proud superiority in this affected silence a
thousand times more mortifying than anything you could say. Begin again
to revile me as heretofore for my base endurance of a Barnaby ...
describe the vexation of my brother, the indignation of my sisters!...
this would be infinitely more endurable than such contemptuous silence."
"My dear, dear Frederick, I know not what to say," replied the agitated
Hubert.... "Had my words the power to make you leave this place within
the hour, I would use my last breath to speak them ... for certain am I,
Frederick,--I am most surely certain,--that this suit can bring you
nothing but misery and disappointment. Let me acknowledge that the young
lady herself is worthy of all love, admiration, and reverence; ... I
truly think so.... I believe it.... I am sure of it ... but" ... and
here Colonel Hubert stopped short, resumed his coffee-cup, and said no
more.
"This is intolerable, sir," said the vexed Frederick. "Go on, if you
please, say all you have to say, but stop not thus at unshaped
insinuations, more injurious, more insulting far, than anything your
eloquence could find the power to utter."
"Frederick, you mistake me.... I insinuate nothing.... I believe in my
inmost soul that Agnes Willoughby is one of the most faultless beings
upon earth.... But this will not prevent your suit to her from being a
most unhappy one.... Forget her, Frederick ... travel awhile, my dear
friend ... leave her, Stephenson, and your future years will be the
happier."
"Colonel Hubert, the difference in our ages is your only excuse for the
unnatural counsel you so coldly give. You are no longer a young man,
sir.... You no longer are capable of judging for one who is; and I
confess to you, that for the present I think our mutual enjoyment would
rather be increased than lessened were we to separate. If I remember
rightly, you purposed when we came here to stay only till your sister's
marriage was over. It is now a fortnight since that event took place,
and it is probably solely out of compliment to me that you remain here.
If so, let me release you.... In future times I hope we may meet with
pleasanter feelings than any we can share at present; and, besides, my
stay here,--which which for aught I know may be prolonged for
months,--will, under probable circumstances, throw me a good deal into
intimacy and intercourse with your detested Mrs. Barnaby, wherein I
certainly cannot wish or desire that you should follow me; and
therefore ... all things considered, you must hold me excused if I
say ... that I should hear of your departure from Clifton with pleasure."
Colonel Hubert rose from his seat and walked about the room. He felt
that his heart was softer at that moment than befitted the age with
which Frederick reproached him. He was desired to absent himself by one
for whose warm-hearted young love he had perhaps neglected the soberer
friendships of superior men, and that, too, at a moment when he felt
that he more than ever deserved a continuance of that love. Was he not
at that instant crushing with Spartan courage a passion within his own
breast which he believed ... secretly, silently, unacknowledged even to
his own heart, to be returned ... and this terrible sacrifice was made,
not because his pride opposed his yielding to it, but because he could
not have endured the idea of supplanting Frederick even when it should
be acknowledged that no shadow of hope remained for him. And for this
it was that he was thus insultingly desired to depart.
Generous Hubert!... A few moments' struggle decided him. He resolved to
go, and that immediately. He would not remain to witness the broken
spirit of his hot-headed friend after he should have received the
refusal which, as he so strongly suspected, awaited him, ... neither
would he expose himself to the danger of seeing Agnes afterwards.
Without as yet replying to Frederick, he rang the bell, and desired that
post-horses might immediately be ordered for his carriage, and his valet
told to prepare his trunks for travelling with as little delay as
possible. These directions given, the friends were once more
_tete-a-tete_, and then Colonel Hubert ventured to trust his voice, and
answer the harsh language he had received.
"Frederick," he said, "you have spoken as you would not have done had
you given yourself a little more time for consideration, ... for you
have spoken unkindly and unjustly. I would still prevail on you, if I
could, to turn away from this lovely girl without committing yourself
by making her an offer of marriage. I would strongly advise this--I
would strongly advise your remembering, while it is yet time, the pang
it may cost you should anything ... in short, believe me, you would
suffer less by leaving Clifton immediately with me, than by remaining
under circumstances which I am sure will turn out inimical to your
happiness.... Will you be advised, and let us depart together?"
"No, Colonel Hubert, I will not. I have no wish to detain you, ... I
have already said this with sufficient frankness; be equally wise on
your side, and do not attempt to drag me away in your train."
These were pretty nearly the last words which were exchanged between
them; Frederick Stephenson soon left the house to wander about till the
hour arrived for making his visit in Rodney Place; and in less than two
hours Colonel Hubert was driving rapidly through Bristol on his way to
London.
* * * * *
As soon as Mrs. Barnaby and the friendly Mr. Peters were fairly off the
premises, and on their road to look after the thief, Mary called a
consultation on the miserably jaded looks of poor Agnes; and having her
own particular reasons for not choosing that she should look half
dead ... inasmuch as she was persuaded the promised visit of Frederick
was not intended to be for nothing ... she peremptorily insisted upon her
taking sal volatile, bathing her eyes in cold water, and then either
lying on the sofa or taking a walk upon the down till luncheon-time,
that being the usual hour of Mr. Stephenson's morning visits.
Agnes submitted herself very meekly to all this discipline, save the
depositing herself on the sofa, to which she objected vehemently,
deciding for the walk on the down as the only thing at all likely to
cure her head-ache. It was on their way to this favourite magazine of
fresh air that Mr. Stephenson met them. To Agnes the rencontre was an
extreme annoyance, for she wanted to be quite quiet, and this was what
Frederick Stephenson never permitted her to be. But she could not run
away; and so she continued to walk on till, just after passing the
turnpike, she discovered that Mary and Elizabeth Peters were
considerably in their rear. This _tete-a-tete_, however, caused her not
the slightest embarrassment; and if she was to be talked to, instead of
being permitted to sink into the dark but downy depths of meditation,
which was now her greatest indulgence, it mattered very little to her
who was the talker. She stopped, however, from politeness to her
friends, and a sort of natural instinct of _bienseance_ towards herself,
saying, "I was not aware, Mr. Stephenson, that we had been walking so
fast; I think we had better turn back to them."
"May I entreat you, Miss Willoughby," said the young man, "to remain a
few moments longer alone with me.... It is not that you have walked
fast, but your friends have walked slowly, for they, at least, I plainly
perceive, have read my secret.... And is it possible that you, Agnes,
have not read it also?... Is it possible that you have yet to learn how
fervently I love you?"
No young girl hears such an avowal as this for the first time without
feeling considerable agitation and embarrassment; but many things
contributed to increase these feelings tenfold in the case of Agnes ...
for first, which is rarely the case, the declaration was wholly
unexpected; secondly, it was wholly unwelcome; and, thirdly, it inspired
a feeling of acute terror lest, flattering and advantageous as she knew
such a proposal to be, it might tempt her friends ... or set on her
terrible aunt ... to disturb her with solicitations which, by only
hearing them, would profane the sentiment to which she had secretly
devoted herself for ever.
Greatly, however, as she wished to answer him at once and definitively,
she was unable to articulate a single word.
"Will you not speak to me, Agnes?" resumed Frederick, after a painful
pause. "Will you not tell me what I may hope in return for the truest
affection that ever warmed the heart of man?... Will you not even look
at me?"
Agnes now stood still as if to recover breath. She knew that he had a
right to expect an answer from her, and she knew that sooner or later
she should be compelled to speak it; so, making an effort as great
perhaps in its self-command as many that have led a hero to eternal
fame, she said, but without raising her eyes from the ground, "Mr.
Stephenson, I am very sorry indeed that you love me, because it is
quite, _quite_ impossible I should ever love you in return."
"Good God! Miss Willoughby, ... is it thus you answer me?... Do you know
that the words you utter so lightly, so coldly, must, if persisted in,
doom me to a life of misery? Can you hear this, Agnes, and feel no touch
of pity?"
"Pray do not talk in that way, Mr. Stephenson!... It gives me so very
much pain."
"Then you will unsay those cruel words?... You will tell me that time
and faithful, constant love may do something for me.... Oh! tell me it
shall be so."
"But I _cannot_ tell you so, Mr. Stephenson," said Agnes with the most
earnest emphasis. "It would be most wicked to do so because it would be
untrue. You are very young and very gay, Mr. Stephenson; and I cannot
think that what I have said can vex you long, particularly if you will
believe it at once, and talk no more about it. And now I think that we
had better walk back to Mary, if you please."
Having said this she turned about, and began to walk rapidly towards
Clifton.
"Can this be possible?..." said the young man, greatly agitated; "so
young, and seemingly so gentle, and yet so harsh and so determined. Oh!
Agnes, why did you not let me guess this end to all my hopes before they
had grown so strong? You must have seen my love--my adoration.... You
must have known that every earthly hope for me depended upon you!"
"No, no, no," cried Agnes, greatly distressed. "I never knew it--I never
guessed it.... How should I guess what was so very unlikely?"
"Unlikely!... Are you laughing at me, Agnes?... Unlikely! Ask your
friends--ask Miss Peters if she thought it unlikely."
"I do not believe so strange a thought ever entered her head, Mr.
Stephenson; for if it had, I am sure she would have put me on my guard
against it."
"On your guard against it, Miss Willoughby! What is there in my
situation, fortune, or character, that should render it necessary for
your friend to put you on your guard against me?... Surely you use
strange language."
"Then do not make me talk any more about it, Mr. Stephenson. It is very
likely that I may express myself amiss, for I am so sorry and so vexed
that indeed I hardly know what I say; ... but pray forgive me, and do
not be unhappy about me any longer."
"Agnes!... you love another!" suddenly exclaimed Frederick, his face
becoming crimson.... "There is no other way of accounting for such cold
indifference, such hard insensibility."
Agnes coloured as violently in her turn, and bursting into tears, said
with great displeasure, "That is what nobody in the world has a right to
say to me, and I will never, if I can help it, permit you to say it
again."
She now increased her speed, and had nearly reached the Misses Peters,
notwithstanding all the beautiful summer flowers they had found by the
way's side; saying no more in reply, either to the remonstrances or the
passionate pleadings of Mr. Stephenson, when at length he laid his hand
upon her arm, and detained her while he said, "Agnes, if you accept my
love, and consent to become my wife, I will release you from the power
of your aunt, place you in a splendid home, and surround you with
friends as pure-minded and as elegant as yourself. Is this nothing?...
Answer me then one word, and one word only.... Is your refusal of my
hand and my affection final?"
"Yes, sir," said Agnes, still weeping; for his accusation of her having
another love, continued to ring in her ears, and make her heart swell
almost to bursting.
"Speak not in anger, Agnes!..." said he mildly. "What I have felt for
you does not deserve such a return."
"I know it, I know it," replied Agnes, weeping more violently still,
"and I am very wrong, as well as very unhappy. Pray, Mr. Stephenson,
forgive me," and she held out her hand to him.
He took it, and held it for a moment between both his. "Unhappy,
Agnes?..." he said, "why should you be unhappy? Oh! if my love, my
devotion, could render you otherwise!... But you will not trust me?...
You will not let me pass my life in labouring to make yours happy?"
"Nothing can make me happy, Mr. Stephenson; pray do not talk any more
about it, for indeed, indeed, I cannot be your wife."
He abruptly raised her hand to his lips, and then let it fall. "May
Heaven bless and make you happy in your own way, whatever that may be!"
he cried, and turning from her, reached the verge of the declivity that
overhung the river, then plunging down it with very heedless haste, he
was out of sight immediately.
This was a catastrophe wholly unexpected by Miss Peters, who now
hastened to meet the disconsolate-looking Agnes. "What in the world can
you have said to him, my dear, to send him off in that style? I trust
that you have not quarrelled."
Most unfeignedly distressed and embarrassed was Agnes at this appeal,
and the more so because her friend Mary was not alone.... To her
perhaps she might have been able to tell the terrible adventure which
had befallen her, but before Elizabeth it was impossible; and, pressing
Mary's arm, she said in a whisper, "Ask me no questions, dearest Mary,
now, for I cannot answer them ... wait only till we get home."
But to wait in a state of such tormenting uncertainty was beyond the
philosophy of Mary, so she suddenly stopped, saying, "Elizabeth! walk on
slowly for a few minutes, will you?... I have something that I
particularly wish to say to Agnes."... And the good-natured Elizabeth
walked on, without ever turning her head to look back at them.
"What has happened?... what has he said to you?... and what have you
said to him?" hastily inquired the impatient friend.
"Oh, Mary!... he has made me so very unhappy ... and the whole thing is
so extremely strange.... I cannot hide anything from you, Mary, ... but
it will kill me should you let my aunt hear of it.... He has made me an
offer, Mary!"
"Of course, Agnes, I know he has.... But how does that account for his
running off in that strange wild way? and how does it account for your
crying and looking so miserable? Why did he run away as if he were
afraid to see us, Agnes? and when are you going to see him again?"
"I shall never see him again, Mary," said Agnes gravely.
"Then you _have_ quarrelled!... Good Heaven, what folly! I suppose he
said something about your aunt that you fancied was not civil; ... but
all things considered, Agnes, ought you not to have forgiven it?"
"Indeed, Mary, he said nothing that was rude about my aunt, and I am
sure he did not mean to be uncivil in any way ... though certainly he
hurt and offended me very much ... but perhaps he did not intend it."
"Hurt and offended you, Agnes?... Let me beg you to tell me at once what
it was he did say to you."
"I will tell you everything but one, and that I own to you I had rather
not repeat ... and it does not signify, for that was not the reason he
ran off so."
"And what was the reason?"
"A very foolish one indeed, and I am sure you will laugh at it ... it
was only because I said I could not marry him."
"You said that, Agnes?... You said you could not marry him?"
"Yes, I did! I do not wish to marry him; indeed, I would not marry him
for the world."
"And this is the end of it all!" exclaimed Miss Peters with much
vexation. "I have much mistaken you, Agnes.... I thought you were
suffering greatly from being dependent on your aunt Barnaby."
"And do you doubt it now, Mary?"
"How can I continue to think this, when you have just refused an offer
of marriage from a young man, well born, nobly allied, with a splendid
fortune, extremely handsome, and possessed, as I truly believe, of more
excellent and amiable qualities than often fall to the share of any
mortal. How can I believe after this that you really feel unhappy from
the circumstances of your present situation?"
"All that you say is very true, and I cannot deny a word of it; ... but
what can one do, Mary, if one does not happen to love a man?... you
would not have one marry him, would you?"
"How like a child you talk!... Why should you not love him? with manners
so agreeable, such excellent qualities, and a fortune beyond that of
many noblemen."
"But you don't suppose I could love him the better for his being rich,
do you, Mary?"
"You are a little fool, Agnes, and I know not what to suppose. Perhaps,
my dear, you think him too old for you? Perhaps you will not choose to
fall in love till you meet an Adonis about your own age?"
"It is you who are talking nonsense now," replied Agnes with some
warmth. "So far from his being too old, I think ... that is to say I
don't think.... I mean that I suppose everybody would think people a
great deal older, might be a great deal.... But this is all nothing to
the purpose, Mary.... I would not marry Mr. Stephenson if.... But let us
say no more on the subject ... only, for pity's sake, do not let my aunt
know anything about it!"
"She shall not hear it from me, Agnes," replied Miss Peters.... "But I
cannot understand you,--you have disappointed me.... However, I have no
right to be angry, and so, as you say, we will talk no more about it.
Come, let us overtake Elizabeth; we must not let her go all the way to
Clifton in solitary state."
And so ended the very promising trial at match-making, upon which the
pretty Mary Peters had wasted so many useless meditations! It was a
useful lesson to her, for she has never been known to interfere in any
affair of the kind since.