Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

“No, I did not,” she replied, with a smile; “but I can imagine that it might have been a little in that style. Yet still you should have answered it.”

  “I did answer it — that is, I replied to it by a line or two written in a prodigious hurry; but you must perceive that I could not enclose Nora in a cover; and as she is, to all intents and purposes, my answer, I was obliged to let him wait till I could convey her properly, and place her before his eyes and his understanding.”

  “And so convince him,” replied Agnes, with another smile, full of her new-born gaiety, “that the moment she is seen all other ladies must be forgotten ... prove that to Colonel Hubert, Mr. Stephenson, and I will prove to you” ...

  “What? — you tremendous-looking sibyl, what?”

  “A very fatal sister!” she replied; and then the door opened, and Lady Stephenson preceded the two gentlemen she had brought from the dining-parlour, into the room.

  Agnes, no longer the fearful, shrinking Agnes, sprang forward to meet them, and taking Colonel Hubert by the hand, led him to her father, saying in an altered accent, that at once entered his heart, and told him that all was right— “Let me present you to my father, Hubert — to my dear father, Colonel Hubert; he will indeed be doubly dear to us, for he has brought with him a sister for both of us, whom I feel sure we shall for ever love.”

  But hardly did Agnes, who seemed newly awakened from some heavy spell that had benumbed her heart — hardly did she give time for a courteous greeting between the gentlemen, ere she passed her arm beneath that of Colonel Hubert, and led him to the sofa. Frederick started forward to meet him, and laying a hand on each shoulder, said in his ear, yet not so low but that Agnes heard him too— “It was lucky I did not take you to France with me, Hubert, or I should certainly never have got a wife at all; as it is, however, permit me” — he added aloud— “to present you, Colonel Hubert, to Miss Nora Willoughby. Nora, dearest, this gentleman is the best friend I have in the world — my brother’s wife is his sister, and your sister, my fair bride elect, will very soon be his wife, or I cannot read the stars ... so, as you may perceive, our catastrophe is exceedingly like that great model of all catastrophes, in which the happy hero says ... ‘And these are all my near relations’ — ecce signum, here is my own elder brother. Sir Edward Stephenson, Miss Nora Willoughby. Is she not charming, Edward? I hope I have pleased you at last, and their ladyships, my sisters, too, for I assure you everything is very elegant, well-born, and so forth.... But you are not to sit down by her though, for all that, unless you make room for me between you, for she has already given away more smiles than I can at all afford to spare; and, besides, I have a hundred things to say to her ... I want to ask her how she likes you all.”

  Colonel Hubert, as soon as his gay friend had reseated himself, gave one speaking look to Agnes, and then devoted himself entirely to Mr. Willoughby.

  By degrees, the party began to talk together with less of agitation and more of comfort; but Frederick was not permitted wholly to engross his young fianceé, for all the ladies crowded round her, and vied with each other in giving a cordial welcome to this young foreigner on the land of her fathers. She was in truth a very sweet young creature, and soon converted the kindness which circumstances called for, into very cordially liking. Distant hopes were talked of without reserve, and immediate arrangements canvassed. Miss Compton kindly invited the young stranger to share her sister’s apartment, a servant was despatched to secure rooms for Mr. Willoughby and Frederick at the hotel, and the happiness their unexpected arrival had brought to two harassed hearts of the party seemed to diffuse itself very delightfully among them all.

  At length, Miss Compton’s carriage was announced, and while the cloaks of the fair sisters were wrapped round them by their vowed servants, Mr. Willoughby performed the same office for her, and took that opportunity of asking leave to wait upon her on the following morning, in order to relate to her such passages of the history of his long exile as might, in some degree, account for his having left her adopted child for so many years without a father.

  While this appointment was making with the aunt, the niece contrived, unheard by all, to whisper a word or two which led to an appointment for her also.

  Colonel Hubert had more than once that evening taught her to understand, by the eloquence of looks, the delightful change that had been wrought within him; but it was Agnes who first found the opportunity of giving expression to it in words. He stood behind her as he arranged her cloak, and when this was done, she turned suddenly round to him, and said, in an accent of playful reproach, “Hubert!... may I be happy now?”

  His answer was, “Will you see me to-morrow?... and alone?” She blushed — perhaps at remembering how often she had before wished to converse with him in the manner he now for the first time proposed, but she nodded her assent; he handed her to the carriage, pressed her hand, and whispered “eleven o’clock” as he put her into it, and then mounted to his chamber without exchanging a word more with any living soul, that he might enjoy, for the first time since he had yielded up his heart, the luxury of meditating on Agnes and her promised love, without any mixture of self-reproach to poison the enjoyment.

  CHAPTER XVII.

  GREAT CONTENTMENT.

  Had not Nora Willoughby been an interesting and amiable creature, her introduction at this moment to all the freedom of a sister’s rights would certainly have been less agreeable than surprising to Agnes; and perhaps, notwithstanding the sweet expression of her lovely face, the pretty tenderness of her manner, and the lively interest which one so near in blood could not fail to awaken, Agnes, as she entered her bed-room on that eventful night, would rather have entered it alone. Her heart seemed too full to permit her conversing freely with any one; and it was by an effort not made altogether without pain, that she turned her thoughts from Hubert and all that vast world of happiness which appeared opening before them, to welcome her fair sister to her bower, and to begin such a conversation with her, as sisters so placed might be expected to hold. But she was soon rewarded for the exertion, for it was quite impossible to pass an hour of intimate intercourse with Nora without loving her, for she was made up of frankness, warm affection, light-heartedness, and sweet temper.

  As soon as Peggy had performed all the services required of her, and that the door was fairly closed behind her, Nora threw her arms round the neck of Agnes, and pressed her in a long and fond embrace.

  “Dear, dear Agnes!” she exclaimed, “I wish you could share the pleasure that I enjoy at this moment — but it is impossible ... I come upon you suddenly, unexpectedly, unintelligibly, and must rather startle and astound, than give you the delight that you give me. For I have been preparing to love you for many weeks past, and have been longing till I was almost sick to get to you. And after such eager and sanguine expectations as mine, it is so delightful to find oneself not disappointed!”

  “And is such the case with my sweet sister?” replied Agnes caressingly.

  “Indeed, indeed it is! — Frederick told me you were very beautiful — but I did not expect to find you half so ... so elegant, so finished, so every way superior.”

  “I shall quarrel with you, Nora, if you say such very fine things to me.... Perhaps I think you very pretty, too, dear; but if I do, I must not say so, because they tell us that we are so much alike, it would be like admiring myself.”

  “Well!... and you cannot help admiring yourself, it is impossible.... But, sister Agnes, what a blessing it was that you did not happen to fall in love with Frederick! What would have become of me if you had?... for do you know, I loved almost as soon as I saw him. It was all so odd! It was at the Italian opera that we first met; and I could not help observing, that the handsomest man I had ever seen was looking at me almost incessantly. Papa never saw a bit about it, for when he is listening to music he never cares for anything. However, I do assure you, I tried to behave properly, though, if I had done quite the contrary, papa would never have found it out. I never looked a
t him at all above three or four times, and that was accidentally from happening to turn round my head. But whether I thought about it or not, there were his beautiful large eyes always sure to be fixed upon me; and when the opera was over, he must have run out of his box the moment we left ours, for I saw him as we got into the fiacre, standing close beside it. Well, I hardly know how it happened, but from that time I never stirred out without meeting him; he never spoke of course, but that did not prevent our knowing one another just as well as if we had been the oldest acquaintance. At last, however, he managed very cleverly to find out that papa was acquainted with M. Dupont, who gives such beautiful concerts, and receives all the English so hospitably, and he asked as a great favour to be invited to meet us; and so he was, and then we were introduced, and then everything went on beautifully, for he knew you, and the name of Willoughby, and the likeness, and all that, convinced him that we must be the same family; so he and papa very soon made it all out, and then he came to call upon us every day; and very, very, very soon afterwards I was engaged to be his wife as soon as possible, after we all got back to England.”

  “Thank you, dearest Nora!” replied Agnes, who, notwithstanding all her pre-occupation, had found no difficulty in listening very attentively to this narrative; “I cannot tell you all the pleasure your little history has given me.... There is nobody in the world I should like so well for a brother as Frederick Stephenson, and there is nobody in the world I should like so well for a sister as Frederick Stephenson’s wife.”

  “That is delightful!” cried Nora, joyfully, “and we certainly are two of the luckiest girls in the world to have everything just as we would wish.... But, Agnes, there is one thing I shall never understand.... How could you help falling in love with Frederick when he fell in love with you?”

  “Because I happened just then,” replied Agnes, laughing, “to be falling in love with some one else.”

  “Well! certainly that was the most fortunate thing in the world ... and Frederick himself thinks so now. He told me that he had a great mind to shoot himself when you refused him, but that the very first moment he saw me, he felt certain that I should suit him a great deal better than you would have done.”

  “That I am sure is quite true, Nora,” replied Agnes, very earnestly, “for I too feel certain that I never could have suited anybody but Colonel Hubert.... And now, my sweet sister, let us go to sleep, or we shall hardly be up early enough to meet the friends who, I think, will be wishing to see us again.... Good night, dearest!”

  “Good night, darling Agnes!... Is not it pleasant to have a sister, Agnes?... It is so nice to be able to tell you everything.... I am sure I could never be able to do it to anybody else. Goodnight!”

  “Bless you, sweet Nora!” replied Agnes; and then, each nestling upon her pillow, and giving some few happy dreamy thoughts to the object they loved best, they closed their fair young eyes, and slept till morning.

  The waking was to both of them, perhaps, somewhat like the continuance of a dream; but Peggy came and threw the light of day upon them, while each fair girl seemed to look at her own picture as she contemplated her pretty bedfellow, and appeared to be exceedingly well pleased by the survey.

  It was already late, and Agnes, rapidly as she was learning to love her companion, did not linger at her toilet, but leaving Nora, with a hasty kiss, to the care of Peggy, she hastened to the breakfast-table, and made aunt Betsy’s heart glad, by telling her at last, that she expected Colonel Hubert would call about eleven o’clock, and that if she did not think it wrong, she should like to speak to him for a few minutes alone.

  “Wrong, my child!” exclaimed Miss Compton; “why, I never in my life read a work painting the manners of the age, in which I did not find interviews, sometimes occurring three or four times in a day, entirely tête-à-tête, between the parties.”

  “Then I may go into the back drawing-room presently ... may I, aunt Betsy?... And perhaps you would tell William....”

  “Yes, yes, my dear, I’ll tell him everything.... But eat some breakfast, Agnes, or I am sure you will not be able to talk.... I suppose it is about your new sister, and your father, and all that, that you want to speak to him.”

  “There are many things, aunt Betsy.... But, good heavens! there is a knock.... Will it not look very odd for you to send him in to me?”

  Without waiting to give an answer, the agile old lady intercepted William’s approach to the door in time to give the order she wished; and in two minutes more Colonel Hubert was ushered into a room where the happy but blushing Agnes was alone.

  His first few steps towards her were made at the pace at which drawing-room floors are usually traversed, but the last part of the distance was cleared by a movement considerably more rapid, for she had risen in nervous agitation as he approached, and for the first time that he had ever ventured a caress, he threw his arms around her, and pressed her to his heart. Agnes struggled not to disengage herself, but wept without restraint upon his bosom.

  “You do then love me, Agnes?... At last, at last our hearts have met, and never can be severed more! But still you must tell me very often that you have forgiven me, dearest, for is it not difficult to believe? And does it not require frequent vouching?”

  “What is it, Montague, that you would have forgiven?” said Agnes, looking up at him, and smiling through her tears.

  This was the first time that her lips had pronounced his christian name to any ears but her own, and she blushed as she uttered it.

  “Agnes! my own Agnes!” he exclaimed, “you have forgiven me, or you would not call me Montague!... How is it possible,” he continued, looking fondly at her, “that a word so hackneyed and familiar from infancy as our own name can be made to thrill through the whole frame like a touch of electricity?”

  He drew her to the sofa from which she had risen, and placing himself by her, said, “Now, then, Agnes, let us sit down soberly together, and take an unvarnished retrospect of all that has passed since we first met.... Yet why should I ask for this?... I hate to think of it ... for it is a fact, Agnes, which his subsequent attachment to your sister must not make you doubt, Frederick and his seven thousand a year would have been at your disposal, had not my dissuasions prevented it.... And had this been so, who knows....”

  A shade of melancholy seemed once again settling on the noble countenance of Colonel Hubert; Agnes could not bear it, and looking earnestly at him, she said,

  “Montague! answer me sincerely this one question, which is the strongest feeling in your mind at this moment — the pleasure derived from believing that your influence on Frederick was so great, or the pain of doubting how the offer you speak of would have been received?”

  “I have no pleasure in believing I have influence on any one, save yourself,” he answered gravely.

  “I am glad of that, Montague,” she said, “because you somewhat overrated your influence with my brother elect. Save for your foolish doubts, infidel!... you never should have known it, but ... Frederick Stephenson did propose to me, Hubert, before he went abroad.”

  “And you refused him, Agnes!”

  “And I refused him, Hubert.”

  “Oh! had I known this earlier, what misery should I have been spared!” cried Colonel Hubert. “You know not, you could not know all I have suffered, Agnes ... yet surely, dearest! when last we spoke together, it was but yesterday, in this very room, you must then have guessed the cause of the dreadful restraint that kept us asunder.”

  “There was no need of guessing then,” replied Agnes, smiling, “for you told me so distinctly.”

  “Then why not on the instant remove the load from my heart?... were you quite incapable of feeling how galling it must have been to me?”

  “I’ll tell you how that came to pass,” said Agnes, rising.... “Do you sit still there, as I did yesterday, and say, ‘Let me then confess to you, Colonel Hubert,’ ... and then I will answer thus,” ... and raising her hand, as if to stop his speech, she added, mimic
king his impatient tone,

  “‘Confess nothing, Miss Willoughby, to me!’... And then you told me you had written to him, and when I exclaimed, with some degree of dismay at the idea of your having written to recall him, you again interrupted me by saying that you would do it again ... and then my aunt came, and so we parted.... Then whose fault was it that I did not tell you?”

  “My own, Agnes, it was my own; and alas!... I did not suffer for it alone.... How wretched you must have been made by my vehemence!... But you have forgiven me, and all this must be forgotten for ever.... There is, however, one subject on which I would willingly ask a few more questions — these, I hope, you will answer, Agnes?”

  “Yes!” she replied, gaily, “you may hope for an answer to all your questions ... provided, that just when I am about to speak, you do not raise your arm thus, in order to prevent me.”

  “I will do my utmost to avoid it,” he replied, “and for the greater security will place the offending arm thus,” ... throwing it round her; “and now tell me, Agnes, why it was that you would not accept Frederick Stephenson?”

  “And will you be pleased to tell me, Colonel Hubert, why it was that you did not propose to ... to anybody else, but me?”

  “Because I loved you, and you only.”

  “Because I loved you, and you only,” repeated Agnes.

  “Is that an echo?” said Colonel Hubert.

  “No!” replied Agnes ... “it is only the answer to your question.”

  “Then, exactly when I was occupied in finding reasons incontrovertible why the niece of Mrs. Barnaby should never be loved by mortal man, the young, the lovely Agnes Willoughby was loving me?”

  “Even so,” said Agnes, somewhat mournfully; “false impressions have worked us so much woe, that it would not be wise to let a little feminine punctilio prevent you seeing things as they are.... Yet it is hardly fair, Hubert, to make me tell you this....”

  “Oh, say not so!” he replied; “mistake not the source of this questioning, for, Agnes, be secure