It might be supposed, from the exertion used to reach the wide city in which she knew poor Agnes stood alone, that Miss Compton would drive directly to Half-Moon Street, and save her, as early as possible, from all farther anxiety; but such was not her plan.... There was something still wanting to prove her repentance and her love, before she could present herself before the forsaken Agnes. All her schemes, all her wishes, were explained to her efficient aide-de-camp; and while she and the wondering Peggy reposed themselves, he was sent in search of handsome private lodgings, which must be such as his master the member for Silverton might have approved for his own family.... And then he was to proceed to livery-stables where he was known, and hire for her, by the week, a carriage and horses fit for ladies to use. Such were Miss Compton's vague, but very judicious orders; and the result was, that by the time she had dined and taken an hour's nap upon the sofa, a very respectable equipage was at the door awaiting her orders. In and about this the light luggage she had brought with her was arranged, and ten minutes' drive brought her to handsome, airy lodgings, near the top of Wimpole Street, where William thought he should be able to breathe himself, and where his mistress and Peggy, new as they were to the smoke and dust, might have as good a chance of doing so too as in any other street he could think of.
Miss Compton was pleased, greatly pleased, with her new confidant's promptitude and ability. The carriage pleased her, the horses, the coachman, the house, the furniture, and the obsequious landlady too, all pleased her; and she felt a degree of happiness as she set her Peggy to make arrangements for the especial comfort and accommodation of Agnes, such as she had never known before. It cured all fatigue, it overpowered every feeling of strangeness in her new and most unwonted abode, and gave a gaiety to her spirits, and lightness to her heart, that made her look, as she stepped from room to room, like one of the little benignant old fairies of which we read in French story books.
By eight o'clock all her preparations were complete, the tea-things placed on the drawing-room table, Peggy given to understand that she was to consider herself more as Miss Willoughby's personal attendant than her own, and the carriage again at the door to convey her to the longed-for yet almost dreaded meeting in Half-Moon Street.
Agnes had written to Miss Compton on Monday, and calculated that she might receive an answer to her letter on Thursday morning. But Thursday morning was past, and no letter arrived; and when about half-past eight on that same evening she heard a carriage stop, and the knocker thunder, the only idea that suggested itself was, that her aunt Barnaby was returned, and that she should have to plead for a night's lodging under her roof.
Her spirits were weakened by disappointment ... she had heard nothing from Cheltenham since Colonel Hubert's visit; and this, together with the non-arrival of any Devonshire letter, had caused a degree of depression to which she very rarely gave way.
"What shall I say to her?... How shall I dare to meet her?" she exclaimed. "Oh! if she keeps her word, what, what will become of me?"
She heard steps approaching, and feeling convinced it was her aunt Barnaby, attempted in her terror to open the door that communicated with the other room, but found it locked; and trembling like a hunted fawn, obliged to turn to bay, she cast her eyes towards the dreaded door, and saw Miss Compton gently and timidly entering by it.
"Aunt Betsy!" she cried, springing towards her, and falling involuntarily upon her knees, "Oh! dear, dear aunt Betsy!... Is it indeed possible that you are come for me?"
The poor old lady's high-wrought energies almost failed her now; and had not a chair stood near, she would hardly have saved herself from falling on the floor beside her niece. "Agnes!... poor child!" she said, "you thought I was too hard and too cruel to come near you?... I have been much to blame ... oh! frightfully to blame!... Will you forgive me, dear one?... My poor pale girl!... You look ill, Agnes, very, very ill.... And is it not a fitting torment for me to see this fair bloodless cheek?... for did I not hate you for your rosy health?"
Agnes was indeed pale; and though not fainting, was so near it, that while her aunt uttered this passionate address, she had no power to articulate a word. But she laid her cheek on the old lady's hands; and there was something so caressing and so helpless in her attitude as she did this, that poor Miss Compton was entirely overcome and wept aloud.