"She is," replied Agnes faintly.
"Good God!... You are here, then, entirely alone?"
"I am quite alone," was the answer, though it was almost lost in the sob that accompanied it.
"Oh! dearest Agnes!" cried Colonel Hubert, in a burst of uncontrolable emotion, "I cannot see you thus, and longer retain the secret that has been hidden in my heart almost from the first hour I saw you!... I love you, Agnes, beyond all else on earth!... Consent to be my wife, and danger and desertion shall never come near you more!"
What a moment was this to hear such an avowal!... Human life can scarcely offer extremes more strongly marked of weal and woe than those presented by the actual position of Agnes, and that proposed to her by the man she idolized. But let De la Rochefoucault say what he will, there are natures capable of feeling something nobler than the love of self; ... and after one moment of happy triumphant swelling of the heart that left no breath to speak, she heaved a long deep sigh that seemed to bring her back from her momentary glimpse of an earthly paradise to things as they are, and said slowly, but with great distinctness, "No! never will I be your wife!... never, by my consent, shall Colonel Hubert ally himself to disgrace!"
Had this been said to a younger man, it is probable that he would not have found in it anything calculated to give a mortal wound to his hopes and wishes; but it fell with appalling coldness on the heart of the brave soldier, who had long kept Cupid at defiance by the shield of Mars, and who had just made the first proposal of marriage that had ever passed his lips. It was her age and his own that rose before him as she uttered her melancholy "No, never!..." and Agnes became almost the first object to whom he had ever, even for a moment, been unjust. He gave her no credit ... no, not the least, for the noble struggle that was breaking her heart, and meant most sincerely what he said, when he replied,—
"Forgive me, Miss Willoughby.... Had I been a younger man, the offer of my hand, my heart, my life, would not have appeared to you, as it doubtless must do now,—the result of sober, staid benevolence, desirous of preserving youthful innocence from unmerited sorrow.... Such must my love seem.... So let it seem; ... but it shall never cost one hour's pain to you."... He was silent for a moment, and had to struggle, brave man as he was, against feelings whose strength, perhaps, only shewed his weakness.... "But even so," he added, making a strong effort to speak steadily, "even so; let me not be here in vain: listen to me as a friend and father."
Poor Agnes!... this was a hard trial. To save him, worshipped as he was, from a marriage that must be considered as degrading, she could have sacrificed herself with the triumphant courage of a proud martyr; but to leave him with the idea that she was too young to love him!... to let that glowing, generous heart sink back upon itself, because it found no answering warmth in her!... in her! who would have died only to purchase the light of owning that she never did, and never could, love any man but him!... It was too terrible, and the words "Hubert! beloved Hubert!" were on her lips; but they came no farther, for she had not strength to speak them. Another effort might have been more successful, and they, or something like them, might have found way, had not the gentleman recovered his voice first, and resumed the conversation in a tone so chillingly reserved, that the timid, broken-spirited girl, had no strength left "to prick the sides of her intent," and lay her innocent heart open before him.
"In the name of Lady Elizabeth Norris let me entreat you, Miss Willoughby, not to remain in a situation so every way objectionable," he said. "My aunt and sister both are full of painful anxiety on your account, and the letter I have brought contains their earnest entreaties that you should immediately take up your residence with my aunt. Do not refuse this from any fear of embarrassment ... of persecution from me.... I shall probably go abroad.... I shall probably join my friend Frederick at Paris. He did you great justice, Miss Willoughby; ... and, but for me, perhaps.... Forgive me!... I will no longer intrude on you!—forgive me!—tell me you forgive me, for all the pain I have caused you, and for more injury, perhaps, than you will ever know! I never knew how weak—I fear I should say how unworthy—my character might become, till I knew you; ... and to complete the hateful retrospect," he added, with bitterness, and rising to go, "to complete the picture of myself that I have henceforth to contemplate, I was coxcomb enough to fancy.... But I am acting in a way that I should scorn a youth for who numbered half my years.... Answer my aunt's letter, Miss Willoughby ... answer it as if her contemptible nephew did not exist ... he shall exist no longer where he can mar your fortune or disturb your peace!"
Agnes looked at him as if her heart would break at hearing words so harsh and angry, when, losing at once all sense of his own suffering, Colonel Hubert reseated himself, and, in the gentlest accent of friendship, alluded to the propriety of her immediately leaving London, and to the anxiety of her friends at Cheltenham to receive her.