AN EXPLANATION.
“But what am I to say?”
To this most difficult question Agnes could not find any satisfactory
answer. Marian, though so nearly concerned in it, gave her no assistance
whatever. Marian went wandering about the three little rooms, flitting
from one to another with unmistakable restlessness, humming inconsistent
snatches of song, sometimes a little disposed to cry, sometimes moved to
smiles, extremely variable, and full of a sweet and pleasant agitation.
Agnes followed her fairy movements with grave eyes, extremely watchful
and anxious--was she grieved?--was she pleased? was she really in love?
But Marian made no sign. She would not intrust her sister with any
message from herself. She was almost disposed to be out of temper when
Agnes questioned her. “You know very well what must be said,” said
Marian; “you have only to tell him who we are--and I suppose that will
be quite enough for Sir Langham. Do you not think so, Agnes?”
“I think it all depends upon how he feels--and how _you_ feel,” said the
anxious sister; but Marian turned away with a smile and made no reply.
To tell the truth, she could not at all have explained her own
sentiments. She was very considerably flattered by the homage of the
handsome guardsman, and fluttered no less by the magnificent and
marvellous idea of being a ladyship. There was nothing very much on her
part to prevent this beautiful Marian Atheling from becoming as pretty a
Lady Portland, and by-and-by, as affectionate a one, as even the
delighted imagination of Sir Langham could conceive. But Marian was
still entirely fancy free--not at all disinclined to be persuaded into
love with Sir Langham, but at present completely innocent of any serious
emotions--pleased, excited, in the sweetest flutter of girlish
expectation, amusement, and triumph--but nothing more.
And from that corner of the window from which they could gain a sidelong
glance at the lawn and partial view of the shrubbery, Sir Langham was
now to be descried wandering about as restlessly as Marian, pulling off
stray twigs and handfuls of leaves in the most ruthless fashion, and
scattering them on his path. Marian drew Agnes suddenly and silently to
the window, and pointed out the impatient figure loitering about among
the trees. Agnes looked at him with dismay. “Am I to go now--to go out
and seek him?--is it proper?” said Agnes, somewhat horrified at the
thought. Marian took up the open book from the table, and drew the low
chair into the sunshine. “In the evening everybody will be there,” said
Marian, as she began to read, or to pretend to read. Agnes paused for a
moment in the most painful doubt and perplexity. “I suppose, indeed, it
had better be done at once,” she said to herself, taking up her bonnet
with very unenviable feelings. Poor Agnes! her heart beat louder and
louder, as she tied the strings with trembling fingers, and prepared to
go. There was Marian bending down over the book on her knees, sitting in
the sunshine with the full summer light burning upon her hair, and one
cheek flushed with the pressure of her supporting hand. She glanced up
eagerly, but she said nothing; and Agnes, very pale and extremely
doubtful, went upon her strange errand. It was the most perplexing and
uncomfortable business in the world--and was it proper? But she
reassured herself a little as she went down stairs--if any one should
see her going out to seek Sir Langham! “I will tell Mrs Edgerley the
reason,” thought Agnes--she supposed at least no one could have any
difficulty in understanding _that_.
So she hastened along the garden paths, very shyly, looking quite pale,
and with a palpitating heart. Sir Langham knew nothing of her approach
till he turned round suddenly on hearing the shy hesitating rapid step
behind. He thought it was Marian for a moment, and made one eager step
forward; then he paused, half expecting, half indignant. Agnes,
breathless and hurried, gave him no time to address her--she burst into
her little speech with all the eager temerity of fear.
“If you please, Sir Langham, I have something to say to you,” said
Agnes. “You must have been deceived in us--you do not know who we are.
We do not belong to great people--we have never before been in a house
like Mrs Edgerley’s. I came to tell you at once, for we did not think it
honest that you should not know.”
“Know--know what?” cried Sir Langham. Never guardsman before was filled
with such illimitable amaze.
Agnes had recovered her self-possession to some extent. “I mean, sir,”
she said earnestly, her face flushing as she spoke, “that we wish you to
know who we belong to, and that we are not of your rank, nor like the
people here. My father is in the City, and we live at Islington, in
Bellevue. We are able to live as we desire to live,” said Agnes with a
little natural pride, standing very erect, and blushing more deeply
than ever, “but we are what people at the Willows would call _poor_.”
Her amazed companion stood gazing at her with a blank face of wonder.
“Eh?” said Sir Langham. He could not for his life make it out.
“I suppose you do not understand me,” said Agnes, who began now to be
more at her ease than Sir Langham was, “but what I have said is quite
true. My father is an honourable man, whom we have all a right to be
proud of, but he has only--only a very little income every year. I meant
to have told every one at first, for we did not want to deceive--but
there was no opportunity, and whenever Marian told me, we made up our
minds that you ought to know. I mean,” said Agnes proudly, with a
strange momentary impression that she was taller than Sir Langham, who
stood before her biting the head of his cane, with a look of the
blankest discomfiture--“I mean that we forget altogether what you said
to my sister, and understand that you have been deceived.”
She was somewhat premature, however, in her contempt. Sir Langham,
overpowered with the most complete amazement, had _yet_, at all events,
no desire whatever that Marian should forget what he had said to her.
“Stop,” said the guardsman, with his voice somewhat husky; “do you mean
that your father is not a friend of Lord Winterbourne’s? He is a squire
in Banburyshire--I know all about it--or how could you be here?”
“He is not a squire in Banburyshire; he is in an office in the City--and
they asked us here because I had written a book,” said Agnes, with a
little sadness and great humility. “My father is not a friend of Lord
Winterbourne’s; but yet I think he knew him long ago.”
At these last words Sir Langham brightened a little. “Miss Atheling, I
don’t want to believe you,” said the honest guardsman; “I’ll ask Lord
Winterbourne.”
“Lord Winterbourne knows nothing of us,” said Agnes, with an involuntary
shudder of dislike; “and now I have told you, Sir Langham, and there is
nothing more to say.”
As she turned to leave him, the dismayed lover awoke out of his blank
astonishment. “Nothing more--not a word--not a message; what did she
say?” cried Sir Langham, reddening to his hair, and casting a wistful
look at the house where Marian was. He followed her sister with an
appealing gesture, yet paused in the midst of it. The unfortunate
guardsman had never been in circumstances so utterly perplexing; he
could not, would not, give up his love--and yet!
“Marian said nothing--nothing more than I have been obliged to say,”
said Agnes. She turned away now, and left him with a proud and rapid
step, inspired with injured pride and involuntary resentment. Agnes did
not quite know what she had expected of Sir Langham, but it surely was
something different from this.