Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  “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 tête-à-tête, 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 tête-à-tête, 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 bienséance 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 q
ualities, 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.

  CHAPTER XI.

  MRS. BARNABY FEELS CONSCIOUS OF IMPROVEMENT, AND REJOICES AT IT. — HOPES FOR THE FUTURE. — A CONVERSATION IN WHICH MUCH GENEROUS SINCERITY IS DISPLAYED. — A LETTER INTENDED TO BE EXPLANATORY, BUT FAILING TO BE SO.

  Mrs. Barnaby’s first feelings after the Major left her were agreeable enough. She had escaped with little injury from a great danger, and, while believing herself infinitely wiser than before, she was conscious of no reason that should either lower her estimate of herself, or check the ambitious projects with which she had set forth from her native town to push her fortune in the world. But her views were improved and enlarged, her experience was more practical and enlightened, and her judgment, as to those trifling fallacies by which people of great ability are enabled to delude people of little, though in no degree changed as to its morale, was greatly purified and sharpened as to the means to be employed. Thus, by way of example, it may be mentioned that, during the hour of mental examination which followed Major Allen’s adieux, Mrs. Barnaby determined never again to mention Silverton Park; and, if at any time led to talk of her favourite greys, that the pastures they fed in, and the roads they traversed, should on no account be particularly specified. Neither her courage nor her hopes were at all lowered by this her first adventure; on the contrary, by setting her to consider from whence arose the blunder, it led her to believe that her danger had been occasioned solely by her own too great humility in not having soared high enough to seek her quarry.