An iron chain is not a stronger restraint than timid delicacy to such a nature as that of Agnes, and therefore she did NOT throw herself on the bosom of Colonel Hubert, and thus obliterate by one moment of unrestrained feeling all the doubts and fears that had so long tormented them both ... she only opened her beautiful eyes upon him, which seemed to say, “Is then the dark cloud passed that has divided us?... Hubert, may I be happy again?”
The unhappy Hubert, however, dared not answer this appeal, though he read it, and felt it at the very bottom of his heart; and what under happier circumstances would have tempted him to kneel beside her for ever, now made him spring to his feet as if terrified at the danger that he ran.
“Agnes!” he said, “you must no longer be left ignorant of my misery ... you may, you must have seen something of it, but not all ... you have not seen, you have not guessed what, the struggle has been between a passion as fervent as ever warmed the heart of man and a sense of honour ... too late awakened perhaps ... which has made it a duty to suspend all pleadings for an avowed return till ... till....”
“Till!...” repeated Agnes, agitated but full of hope, that the moment was indeed come when the dark and mysterious cloud which had dimmed all her prospects should be dispelled.
“Hear my confession, Agnes, and pity me at least, if you find it impossible to excuse me.... Do you remember the first time that I ever saw you?... It was at a shop at Clifton.”
Agnes bowed.
“Do you remember the friend who was with me?”
Agnes bowed again, and this time she coloured too. Colonel Hubert sighed profoundly, but presently went on with the confession he had braced his nerves to make.
“That friend, Agnes, the generous, noble-hearted Frederick Stephenson, saw, even in that brief interview, the beauty, the grace, the delicacy which it took me days to develop ... in short, he loved you, Agnes, before, almost before I had ever looked at you.... I was his dearest friend. He hid no thought from me, and with all the frankness of his delightful character he confessed his honourable attachment.... And how was it, think you, that I answered him?”
Agnes raised her eyes to his face with a very anxious look, but spoke not a word, and Colonel Hubert, with a heightened colour that mounted to his temples, went on.
“I told him, Miss Willoughby, that a young lady chaperoned by a person with the manners and appearance of your aunt Barnaby was not a fitting wife for him....”
The eyes of Agnes fell, and her cheeks too were now dyed with crimson. Colonel Hubert saw it and felt it all, but he went on.
“The subject was repeatedly revived between us, and as his attachment increased, so did also my opposition to it. I placed before him, in the strongest manner I was capable of doing, all the objections to the connexion as they then appeared to me, and I did it, as I thought, purely from a sense of duty to himself and his family, which had recently become so closely connected with my own. But alas! Agnes ... my peace has been and is destroyed by the dreadful doubt whether some selfish feelings, unknown to myself, might not at length have mingled with these strong remonstrances. Knowing as I do the character of Sir Edward and his two sisters, no remorse was awakened in my mind so long as you remained with Mrs. Barnaby ... and the last time I conversed with my poor friend, I used language so strong upon the subject, that he left me in great anger. But it appears that, notwithstanding his just resentment, these remonstrances had weight, for he immediately left the kingdom, and has, I believe, remained in Paris ever since. Think then, Miss Willoughby ... judge for me if you can, with what feelings I contemplate the unlooked-for change in your position.... Oh! Agnes ... would that your excellent Miss Compton had preserved her coldness to you till you had been my wife.... Even then, I might have felt a pang for Stephenson — but the knowledge that his friends would not, like mine, have forgotten Mrs. Barnaby in their admiration for her niece, would have furnished a justification of the events which followed his departure, too reasonable to be set aside. But what must I feel now when I think of the banished Frederick?... Banished by me, that I might take his place.”
Excepting to Mary Peters, who had been aware of the attachment of Frederick Stephenson long before herself, Agnes had never breathed a hint to any human being of the proposal she had received from him, and it had not most assuredly been her intention ever to have named it to Colonel Hubert. She had, indeed, but rarely remembered it herself, and hoped and believed that, before they met again, the gay young man would quite have forgotten it; but now she could preserve his secret no longer, and, eager to speak what she thought would entirely relieve his self-reproaches to hear, she said, with glowing cheeks and an averted eye,
“Let me, then, confess to you, Colonel Hubert....”
These unlucky words, however, intended as a preface to the only intelligence that could effectively have soothed his agitation, unfortunately increased it tenfold, and raising his hand to arrest what she was about to say, he replied with an impetuosity with which she could not at that moment contend— “Confess nothing, Miss Willoughby, to me.... I see that I have awakened feelings which I ought to have foreseen would inevitably be called into existence by such a disclosure.... Suffer me to say a few words more, and I have done.... A week ago, I did what I ought to have done, as soon as your present position was known to me.... I wrote to Mr. Stephenson, and told him that every obstacle was removed ... and that”...
“You wrote to him, Colonel Hubert!” exclaimed Agnes, greatly disturbed.... “Oh! why did you not tell me all this before?”
“It is not yet too late, Miss Willoughby,” he replied, bitterly; “another letter shall follow my first ... more explicit, more strongly urging his return.”
“But you will not hear me, Colonel Hubert,” said Agnes, bursting into tears. “Have patience for a moment, and you will understand it all.”
At this moment a carriage stopped at the door, and the knocker and the bell together gave notice of Miss Compton’s return.
“It is my aunt!” cried Agnes. “Indeed she must not see me thus, for how could I explain to her what must appear so strange as her finding me in tears, and you beside me. Let me see you again, Colonel Hubert — I pray you to let me see you again, when I may be able to speak to you ... but now I must go;” and so saying, she escaped from the room just in time to avoid meeting Miss Compton at the door.
From a very early period of their short acquaintance, Miss Compton had made up her mind to consider Colonel Hubert as a very superior personage, but of a remarkably grave and silent character; so much so, indeed, that while she admired and approved her Agnes the more for loving and being loved by so dignified an individual, she could not help wondering a little, occasionally, that so it should be. But this feeling she carefully concealed, and made it a point, whenever a shade of gravity more profound than usual was perceptible on his features, (a circumstance not unfrequent,) to avoid interfering with his reserve by any loquacious civility. This line of conduct had often been a great relief to him, but never more so than on the present occasion, when, if any lengthened greetings had occurred to stop his retreat, it would have been impossible for him to have preserved the outward semblance of cold composure in which he had hitherto found shelter from observation.
“You are going, Colonel Hubert?” she said. “Well, I will not detain you, for I am going to be busy myself — good morning.” And so he escaped.
On reaching home, he found a letter waiting for him, which by no means tended to calm his spirits. It was from Frederick Stephenson, and ran thus: —
“My dear Hubert,
“Your letter puzzles me; but not many hours after this reaches you, I hope we shall mutually understand each other better than we do at present. I am on my road to England, and as all explanation must be impossible till we meet, I will only add, that I am yours ever,
“Frederick Stephenson.”
A few hours, then, and all doubt, all uncertainty, would be over! A full explanation must take place; and rather than endure
a continuance of what he had lately suffered, Colonel Hubert felt inclined to welcome the result, be it what it might.
CHAPTER XVI.
A DISCOVERY SCENE — PRODUCTIVE OF MANY NEW RELATIONS, AND VARIOUS OTHER CONSEQUENCES.
The day next but one after this letter reached him, Miss Compton and Agnes were engaged to dine with Lady Elizabeth. Colonel Hubert had not ventured to present himself in the Mall during the interval, for though, on cooler meditation, he did not believe that the unfortunate words, “Let me, then, confess to you, Colonel Hubert,” were meant to usher a confession of love to his rival, he doubted not that they would have been followed by an avowal of her agreeing with himself in deeming his own conduct most reprehensible; and just then, he felt he could not receive this, notwithstanding its justice, in such a manner as to assist in obtaining pardon for the fault. To Sir Edward he had mentioned the probability of his brother’s early return, but without hinting at the chance of their seeing him at Clifton on his arrival in England.
The ladies of the party, namely, Lady Elizabeth, Lady Stephenson, Miss Compton, and Agnes, were assembled in the drawing-room, the two gentlemen not having yet quitted the dining-parlour, when a knock at the door announced company.
“Who can that be?” said Lady Stephenson. “Have you invited evening company?”
“Not a soul, my dear,” replied her aunt; “I mean to have a treat again.... I think I am growing sick of curiosities.”
“Tant mieux, dear aunt!” replied Lady Stephenson. “But invited or not, you have visiters coming now: I hear them on the stairs.”
Lady Stephenson was right; the old butler opened the drawing-room door almost as she spoke, and announced “Mr. Stephenson!”
“Frederick!” exclaimed his fair sister-in-law, looking as if she meant to receive him very kindly.
“Young Stephenson!” said Lady Elizabeth, “I did not know that he was coming to Clifton.”
“Sir Edward’s brother, I suppose?...” said Miss Compton, ... but Agnes said nothing, though had any one laid a hand upon her heart, they would have discovered that his arrival was not a matter of indifference. To receive him with the appearance of it was, however, absolutely necessary, and she very resolutely assumed an aspect of tranquillity; it was not necessary that she should look towards the door to greet him as he entered, and therefore she did not do it; but, notwithstanding the attention she devoted to the pattern of the hearth-rug, she became aware, within a moment after this electrifying name had been announced, that not one only but three people were in the room, and that one of them was a lady.
Agnes then looked up, and the first figure which distinctly met her eye was not that of Frederick Stephenson, but of a gentleman bearing the stamp of some forty years, perhaps, upon his handsome but delicate features. He was not tall, but slightly and elegantly formed, which was perceptible, though wrapped in a travelling frock trimmed with fur, and his whole appearance was decidedly that of a gentleman.
But who these might be who were with him, or how they were received by Lady Elizabeth, the eye of Agnes had no power to inquire, for it was fascinated, as it were, by the earnest gaze of this stranger, who, having already stepped forward a pace or two nearer to her than the rest, stood looking at her with very evident emotion.
The first words she heard spoken were in the voice of young Stephenson, which she immediately recognised, though the purport of them was unintelligible.
“Yes, my dear sir, ... you are quite right,” he said; “that is our Agnes.”
But though these words were somewhat startling, they drew her attention less than the expression of the large blue eyes that were fixed upon her; there was admiration, tenderness, and a strange sort of embarrassment, all legibly mingled in that earnest look ... but why was it fixed on her?
What effect this mute scene produced on the other persons present, Agnes could not know, for she did not withdraw her eyes from those of the mysterious stranger, till at length he turned from her, and stepping back, took the hand of a very young, but very beautiful girl, whom he led towards the sofa she occupied, and placing her on it, said,
“Agnes Willoughby!... receive your sister ... and let her plead for her father and yours.... You have been long, long neglected, my poor child, but there has been some excuse for it.... Can you forgive me, Agnes?”
“Good God!... My father!” she exclaimed, starting up, and stretching out her hands towards him. “Is it possible, sir, that you are indeed my father?”
“You speak as if you wished it were so, Agnes,” he replied, taking her in his arms, and impressing a kiss upon her forehead, “and I will echo your words.... Is it possible?”
“Possible!... O! yes, sir, it is possible.... I have so longed to know that I had a father!... And is this sweet creature my sister?” she continued, turning her tearful eyes upon the beautiful girl, who upon this appeal sprang forward, and enclosing both her father and Agnes in her arms, replied to it by saying,
“Yes, dearest Agnes, I am your sister, indeed I am, and I know you very well, and all about you, though you know so little about me ... but you will not refuse to own me, will you?”
For all reply Agnes bent forward and kissed her fondly.
Miss Compton who, as may be supposed, had watched this discovery scene with no little interest, now stepped towards them, while young Stephenson was engaged in explaining it to Lady Elizabeth and his sister-in-law; and looking from one sister to the other, and from them both to their father, she said— “You will, perhaps, hardly remember that we ever met, Mr. Willoughby ... but my name is Compton, and I recal your features perfectly. You once passed an hour at my brother’s house when I was there ... and that these girls are sisters, no one that sees them together will be likely to deny.... God bless them both, pretty creatures!... I hope they will each be a blessing to the other.... But, to be sure, it seems to be a most romantic story ... and wonderfully like those I used to read in my bower, Agnes.”
“There is a good deal that is very sad in my part of it, Miss Compton,” replied Mr. Willoughby, “but at this moment I can hardly regret it, as herein I hope to show some excuse for my long negligence respecting my poor girl. Take this on trust, my good lady, will you?” he added, holding out his hand to her, “that no displeasure towards me may destroy the happiness of this meeting.”
Miss Compton gave him her hand very frankly, saying,
“I have no right to be very severe upon you, Mr. Willoughby, for, without any misfortunes at all to plead as an excuse for it, our dear Agnes might tell you some naughty stories about me.... But she does not look as if she were much inclined to complain of anybody.... What a pair of happy, lovely looking creatures!... And how very strong the likeness to each other, and of both to you!”
Willoughby retired a step or two, and leaning against the chimney-piece, seemed disposed to enjoy the contemplation of the picture she pointed out, in silence. Lady Elizabeth claimed the attention of Miss Compton, that she might express her interest, satisfaction, surprise, and so forth. Lady Stephenson slipped out of the room to communicate the news to her husband and brother, and prepare them for the company they had to receive ... and then Frederick Stephenson approached the sisters, and drawing a chair towards them, very freely took a hand of each.
That of Agnes trembled. She felt that the happiness of her life would be for ever destroyed, if this young man was come back in consequence of Colonel Hubert’s letter, with the persuasion that it was her purpose to accept him; and favourable as was the moment for a sort of universal philanthropy and unrestrained épanchement de c[oe]ur, she could not resist the impulse which led her to withdraw her hand, and return his affectionate smile with a look of coldness and reserve.
Perfectly undaunted, however, the gay Frederick continued to look at her with an air of the most happy confidence; but suddenly, as it seemed, recollecting that it was possible, though they had all of them been at least ten minutes in the room together, no explanation might have yet reached her, he said, i
n a manner to show that he was too happy to be very grave, though quite sufficiently in earnest to deserve belief— “If you accept my Nora for a sister, Agnes, you must accept me for a brother too. She knows that till I saw her I thought you the most charming person in the world; and as she forgives me for this, I hope you will show as much resemblance to her in mind as in person, and forgive me for thinking, when I did see her, that she was still more charming than you?”
And then it was that Agnes for the first time in her life felt wholly, perfectly, and altogether happy. She saw in an instant, with the rapid glance of love, that all the misty cloud that had hung between her and Hubert was withdrawn for ever ... and then she felt how very delightful it was to have a father, and such an elegant, interesting-looking father ... and then she became fully aware what a blessing it was to have a sister, and that sister so beautiful, and so capable of inspiring love in every heart ... save one, guarded as Hubert’s was guarded. Her joy, her new-born gladness of spirit, danced in her eyes, as she now freely returned the young man’s laughing glance, and restoring to him the hand she had withdrawn, she exclaimed, “Oh! Frederick ... why did you not answer Hubert’s letter, and tell him this?”
“It is so, then?... it is as I hoped, my sweet Agnes?... and you will be doubly our sister?... Why did I not answer Hubert’s letter? Because it was the most mystical, unintelligible, dark, and diplomatic performance that ever was put forth. Did you see it, Agnes?”
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 159