Next morning Miss Bowen astonished every one, and excited once more Mrs.
Ianson's incredulous smile, by openly desiring the servant who waited to
take a message for her to Major Harper's. It was to the effect that she
wished immediately to see that gentleman, could he make it convenient to
visit her.
The message was given by her very distinctly, and with most creditable
calmness, considering that the destinies of her whole life hung on the
sentence.
Major Harper appeared, and was shown into Miss Bowen's drawing-room. She
was not there, and the Major waited rather uneasily for several minutes,
unaware that half of that time she had been standing without, her hand
on the lock of the door. But her tremulousness was that of natural
emotion, not of fluctuating purpose. No physiognomist studying Agatha's
mouth and chin would doubt the fact, that though rather slow to
will--when she had once willed, scarcely anything had power to shake her
resolution.
She went in at last, and bade Major Harper good morning. “I have sent
for you,” she said, “to talk over a little business.”
“Business!”--And the hesitation and discomfort which seemed to arise in
him at the mere mention of the word again were visible in Major Harper.
“Not trust business--something quite different,” said Agatha, scarcely
able to help smiling at the alarm of her guardian.
“Then anything you like, my dear Miss Bowen! I have nothing in the world
to do to-day. That stupid brother of mine is worse company than none
at all. He said he had letters to write to Kingcombe, and vanished
up-stairs! The rude fellow! But he is an excellent fellow too.”
“So you have always said. He appears to love his home, and be much
beloved there. Is it so?”
“Most certainly. Already they know him better than they do me, and care
for him more; though he has been away for fifteen years. But then he has
kept up a constant correspondence with them; while I, tossing about in
the world--ah! I have had a hard life, Miss Bowen!”
He looked so sad, that Agatha felt sorry for him. But his melancholy
moods had less power to touch her than of old. His gaiety so quickly
and invariably returned, that her belief in the reality of his grief was
somewhat shaken.
She paused a little, and then recurred again, indifferently as it were,
to Nathanael--the one person in his family of whom Major Harper always
spoke gladly and warmly.
“You seem to have a great love for your younger brother. Is he then so
noble a character?”
“What do you call a noble character, my dear young lady?”
The half-jesting, half-patronising manner irritated Agatha; but she
answered boldly:
“A man honest in his principles, faithful to his word; just, generous,
and honourable.”
“What a category of qualities! How interested young ladies are in a
pale, thin boy! Well then”--seeing that Agatha looked serious--“well
then, I declare to Heaven that, even according to your high-flown
definitions, he is as noble a lad as ever breathed. I can find no
fault in him, except that, as I said, he is such a mere boy. Are
you satisfied? Did you want to try if I were indeed a heartless,
unbrotherly, good-for-nothing fellow, as you appear to think me
sometimes?”
“No,” said Agatha briefly, noticing with something like scorn the
Major's instinctive assumption that her questions must have some near
or remote reference to himself, while he never once guessed their real
motive. That answered, she changed the conversation.
After half-an-hour's chat, Major Harper delicately alluded to the
supposed business on which she had wished to see him, though in a tone
that showed him to be rather doubtful whether it existed at all.
Agatha coloured, and her heart quailed a little, as any girl's would,
in having to speak so openly of things which usually reach young maidens
softly murmured amidst the confessions of first love, or revealed
by tender parents with blessings and tears. Life's earliest and best
romance came to her with all its bloom worn away--all its sacredness and
mystery set aside. For a moment she felt this hard.
“I wished to inform you of something nearly concerning me, which, as
the guardian appointed by my father, it is right you should know. I
have had”--here she tried to make her lips say the words without
faltering--“I have had an offer of marriage.”
“God bless my soul!” stammered out Major Harper, completely thrown off
his guard by surprise. A very awkward pause ensued, until, his natural
good feeling conquering any other, he said, not without emotion, “The
fact of your consulting me shows that this offer is--is not without
interest to you. May I ask--is it likely--that I shall have to
congratulate you?”
“Yes.”
He rose up slowly, and walked to the window. Whether his sensations were
merely those of wounded vanity, or whether he had liked her better than
he himself acknowledged, certain it was that Major Frederick Harper was
a good deal moved--so much so, that he succeeded in concealing it. He
came back, very kind, subdued, and tender, sat down by her side and took
her hand.
“You will not wonder that I am somewhat surprised--nay, affected--by
these sudden tidings, viewing you as I have always done in the light of
a--younger sister--or--or a daughter. Your happiness must naturally be
very dear to me.”
“Thank you,” murmured Agatha; and the tears came into her eyes. She felt
that she had been somewhat harsh to him; but she felt, too, with great
thankfulness, that, despite this softening compunction, her heart was
free and firm. She had great liking, but not a particle of love, for
Major Harper.
“I trust the--the gentleman you allude to is of a character likely to
make you happy?”
“Yes,” returned Agatha, for she could only speak in monosyllables.
“Is he--as your friend and guardian I may ask that question--is he
of good standing in the world, and in a position to maintain you
comfortably?”
“I do not know--I have never thought about that,” she cried, restlessly.
“All I know is that he--loves me--that I honour him--that he would take
me”--“out of this misery,” she was about to say, but stopped, feeling
that both the thought and the expression were unworthy Nathanael's
future wife, and unfit to be heard by Nathanael's brother.
“That he would take me,” repeated she firmly, “into a contented and
happy home, where I should be made a better woman than I am, and live a
life more worthy of myself and of him.”
“You must then esteem him very highly?”
“I do--more than any man I ever knew.”
The Major winced slightly, but quickly recovered himself. “That is, I
believe, the feeling with which every woman ought to marry. He who
wins and deserves such an attachment is”--and he sighed--“is a happy
man!--Happier, perhaps, than those who have remained single.”
Again there ensued a pause, until Major Harper broke it by saying:
“There is one more question--the last of all--which, after the
confidence you have shown me, I may venture to ask: do I know this
gentleman?”
Agatha replied by putting into his hands his brother's letter.
The moment she had done so she felt remorse for having betrayed her
lover's confidence by letting any eyes save her own rest on his tender
words. Had she loved him as he loved her, she could not possibly have
done so; and even now a painful sensation smote her. She would have
snatched the letter back, but it was too late.
Major Harper's eyes had merely skimmed down the page to the signature,
when he threw it from him, crying out vehemently:
“Impossible! Agatha marry Nathanael--Nathanael marry Agatha!--He is
a boy, a very child! What can he be thinking of? Send his letter
back--tell him it is utter nonsense! Upon my soul it is!”
Major Harper was very shortsighted and inconsiderate when he gave way to
this burst of vexation before any woman--still more before such a woman
as Agatha.
She let him go on without interruption, but she lifted the letter from
the floor, refolded it, and held it tenderly--more tenderly than she
had ever until now felt towards it or its writer. Something of the grave
sweetness belonging to the tie of an affianced wife began to cast its
shadow over her heart.
“Major Harper, when you have quite done speaking, perhaps you will sit
down and hear what I have to say.”
Struck by her manner, he obeyed, entreating her pardon likewise, for he
was a gentleman, and felt that he had acted very wrongly.
“Yet surely,” he began--until, looking at her, something convinced him
that his arguments were useless. He stretched out his hand again for the
letter, but with a slight gesture which expressed much, Agatha withheld
it. After a pause, he said, meekly enough, as if thoroughly overcome by
circumstances,--“So, it is quite true? You really love my brother?”
“I honour him, as I said, more than I do any man.”
“And love him--are you sure you love him?”
“No one,” she answered, deeply blushing--“No one but himself has a right
to receive the answer to that question.”
“True, true. Pardon me once more. But I am so startled, absolutely
amazed. My brother Nathanael--he that was a baby when I was a grown
man--he to marry--marrying you too--and I----Well; I suppose I am really
growing into a miserable, useless old bachelor. I have thrown away
my life: I shall be the last apple left on the tree--and a tolerably
withered one too. But no matter. The world shall see the sunny half of
me to the last.”
He laughed rather tunelessly at his own bitter jest, and after a brief
silence, recovered his accustomed manner.
“So so; such things must be, and I, though a bachelor myself, have no
right to forbid marriages. Allow me to congratulate you. Of course you
have answered this letter? My brother knows his happiness?”
“He knows nothing; but I wished that he should do so to-day, after I
had spoken to you. It was a respect I felt to be your due, to form no
engagement of this kind without your knowledge.”
“Thank you,” he said in a low voice.
“You have been good and kind to me,” continued Agatha, a little touched,
“and I wished to have your approval in all things--chiefly in this. Is
it so?”
He offered his hand, saying, “God bless you!” with a quivering lip. He
even muttered “child;” as though he felt how old he was growing, and
how he had let all life's happiness slip by, until it was just that he
should no longer claim it, but be content to see young people rejoicing
in their youth. After a pause, he added, “Now, shall I go and fetch my
brother?”
“No,” replied Agatha, “send for him, and do you stay here.”
“As you please,” said Major Harper, a good deal surprised at this very
original way of conducting a love affair. After courteously offering to
withdraw himself to the dining-room, which Agatha declined, he sat and
waited with her during the few minutes that elapsed before his brother
appeared.
Nathanael looked much agitated; his boyish face seemed to have grown
years older since the preceding night. He paused at the door, and
glanced with suspicion on his brother and Miss Bowen.
“You sent for me, Frederick?”
“It was I who sent for you,” said Agatha. And then steadfastly regarding
him whom she had tacitly accepted as her husband, the guide and ruler
of her whole life--her self-possession failed. A great timidity,
almost amounting to terror, came over her. Vaguely she felt the want of
something unknown--something which in the whirl of her destiny she could
grasp and hold by, sure that she held fast to the right. It was the one
emotion, neither regard, liking, honour, or esteem, yet including and
surpassing all--the _love_, strong, pure love, without which it is so
dangerous, often so fatal, for a woman to marry.
Agatha, never having known this feeling, could scarcely be said to have
sacrificed it; at least not consciously. But even while she believed she
was doing right in accepting the man who loved her, and whom she could
make so happy, she trembled.
Major Harper sat looking out of the window in an uncomfortable silence,
which he evidently knew not how to break. It was a very awkward and
somewhat ridiculous position for all three.
Nathanael was the first to rise out of it. Slowly his features settled
into composure, and his strong, earnest purpose gave him both dignity
and calmness, even though all hope had evidently died. He looked
steadily at his brother, avoiding Agatha.
“Frederick, I think I understand now. She has been telling you all.”
“It was right she should. Her father left her in my care. She wishes you
to learn her decision in my presence,” said Major Harper, unwittingly
taking a new and even respectful tone to the younger brother, whom he
was wont to call “that boy.”
Nathanael grasped with his slight, long fingers, the chair by which he
stood. “As she pleases. I am quite ready. Still--if--yesterday--without
telling you or any one--she had said to me--But I am quite ready to hear
what she decides.”
Despite his firmness, the words were uttered slowly and with a great
struggle.
“Tell him everything, Miss Bowen; it will come better from yourself,”
said Frederick Harper, rising.
Agatha rose likewise, walked across the room, and laid her hand in that
of him who loved her. The only words she said were so low that he alone
could hear them:
“I have been very desolate--be kind to me!”
Nathanael made no answer; indeed for the moment his look was that of a
man bewildered--but he never forgot those words.
Agatha felt her hand clasped--softly--but with a firm grasp that seemed
to bind it to his for ever. This was the only sign of betrothal that
passed between them. In another minute or two, unable to bear the scene
longer, she crept out of the room and walked up-stairs, feeling with
a dizzy sense, half of comfort, half of fear--yet, on the whole, the
comfort stronger than the fear--that the struggle was all over, and her
fate sealed for life.
When she descended, an hour after, the Harpers had gone; but she found a
little note awaiting her, just one line:
“If not forbidden, I may come this evening.”
Agatha knew she had no right to forbid, even had she wished it, now. So
she waited quietly through the long, dim, misty day--which seemed the
strangest day she had ever known; until, in the evening, her lover's
knock came to the door.
She was sitting with Jane Ianson, near whom, partly in shy fear, partly
from a vague desire for womanly sympathy, she had closely kept for the
last hour. As yet, the Iansons knew nothing. She wondered whether from
his manner or hers they would be likely to guess what had passed that
morning between herself and Mr. Harper.
It was an infinite relief to her when following, nay preceding,
Nathanael, there appeared his elder brother, with the old pleasant smile
and bow.
But amidst all his assumed manner, Major Harper took occasion to whisper
kindly to Agatha; “My brother made me come--I shall do admirably to talk
nonsense to the Iansons.”
And so he did, carrying off the restraint of the evening so ingeniously
that no one would have suspected any deeper elements of joy or pain
beneath the smooth surface of their cheerful group.
Nathanael sat almost as silent as ever; but even his very silence was
a beautiful, joyful repose. In his aspect a new soul seemed to have
dawned--the new soul, noble and strong, which comes into a man when he
feels that his life has another life added to it, to guard, cherish, and
keep as his own until death. And though Mr. Harper gave little outward
sign of what was in him, it was touching to see how his eyes followed
his betrothed everywhere, whether she were moving about the room, or
working, or trying to sing. Continually Agatha felt the shining of
these quiet, tender eyes, and she began to experience the
consciousness--perhaps the sweetest in the world--of being able to make
another human being entirely happy.
Only sometimes, when she looked at her future husband--hardly able
to believe he was really such--and thought how strangely things had
happened; how here she was, no longer a girl, but a woman engaged to
be married, sitting calmly by her lover's side, without any of the
tremblingly delicious emotions which she had once believed would
constitute the great mystery, Love--a strange pensiveness overtook her.
She felt all the solemnity of her position, and, as yet, little of its
sweetness. Perhaps that would come in time. She resolved to do her
duty towards him whom she so tenderly honoured, and who so deeply loved
herself; and all the evening the entire gentleness of her behaviour
was enough to charm the very soul of any one who held towards her the
relation now borne by Nathanael Harper.
At length even the good-natured elder brother's flow of conversation
seemed to fail, and he gave hints about leaving, to which the younger
tacitly consented. Agatha bade them both good-night in public, and crept
away, as she thought, unobserved, to her own sitting-room.
There she stood before the hearth, which looked cheerful enough this
wet July night,--the fire-light shining on her hands, as they hung down
listlessly folded together. She was thinking how strange everything
seemed about her, and what a change had come in a few days, nay, hours.
Suddenly a light touch was laid on her hand. It startled her, but she
did not attempt to shake it off. She knew quite well whose hand it was,
and that it had a right to be there.
“Agatha!”
She half turned, and said once more “Good-night.”
“Good-night, _my_ Agatha.”
And for a minute he stood, holding her hand by the fire-light, until
some one below called out loudly for “Mr. Harper.” Then a kiss, soft and
timid as a woman's, trembled over Agatha's mouth, and he was gone.
This was the first time she had ever been kissed by any man. The feeling
it left was very new, tremulous, and strange.