On the day of the marriage Agnes Lockwood sat alone in the little drawing-room of her London lodgings, burning the letters which had been written to her by Montbarry in the bygone time.
The Countess's maliciously smart description of her, addressed to Doctor Wybrow, had not even hinted at the charm that most distinguished Agnes--the artless expression of goodness and purity which instantly attracted everyone who approached her.
She looked by many years younger than she really was. With her fair complexion and her shy manner, it seemed only natural to speak of her as 'a girl,' although she was now really advancing towards thirty years of age. She lived alone with an old nurse devoted to her, on a modest little income which was just enough to support the two.
There were none of the ordinary signs of grief in her face, as she slowly tore the letters of her false lover in two, and threw the pieces into the small fire which had been lit to consume them.
Unhappily for herself, she was one of those women who feel too deeply to find relief in tears. Pale and quiet, with cold trembling fingers, she destroyed the letters one by one without daring to read them again.
She had torn the last of the series, and was still shrinking from throwing it after the rest into the swiftly destroying flame, when the old nurse came in, and asked if she would see 'Master Henry,'--meaning that youngest member of the Westwick family, who had publicly declared his contempt for his brother in the smoking-room of the club.
Agnes hesitated. A faint tinge of colour stole over her face.
There had been a long past time when Henry Westwick had owned that he loved her. She had made her confession to him, acknowledging that her heart was given to his eldest brother.
He had submitted to his disappointment; and they had met thenceforth as cousins and friends. Never before had she associated the idea of him with embarrassing recollections.
But now, on the very day when his brother's marriage to another woman had consummated his brother's treason towards her, there was something vaguely repellent in the prospect of seeing him.
The old nurse (who remembered them both in their cradles)observed her hesitation; and sympathising of course with the man, put in a timely word for Henry. 'He says, he's going away, my dear;and he only wants to shake hands, and say good-bye.' This plain statement of the case had its effect. Agnes decided on receiving her cousin.
He entered the room so rapidly that he surprised her in the act of throwing the fragments of Montbarry's last letter into the fire.
She hurriedly spoke first.
'You are leaving London very suddenly, Henry. Is it business? or pleasure?'
Instead of answering her, he pointed to the flaming letter, and to some black ashes of burnt paper lying lightly in the lower part of the fireplace.
'Are you burning letters?'
'Yes.'
'His letters?'
'Yes.'
He took her hand gently. 'I had no idea I was intruding on you, at a time when you must wish to be alone. Forgive me, Agnes--I shall see you when I return.'
She signed to him, with a faint smile, to take a chair.
'We have known one another since we were children,' she said.
'Why should I feel a foolish pride about myself in your presence? why should I have any secrets from you? I sent back all your brother's gifts to me some time ago. I have been advised to do more, to keep nothing that can remind me of him--in short, to burn his letters.
I have taken the advice; but I own I shrank a little from destroying the last of the letters. No--not because it was the last, but because it had this in it.' She opened her hand, and showed him a lock of Montbarry's hair, tied with a morsel of golden cord.
'Well! well! let it go with the rest.'
She dropped it into the flame. For a while, she stood with her back to Henry, leaning on the mantel-piece, and looking into the fire.
He took the chair to which she had pointed, with a strange contradiction of expression in his face: the tears were in his eyes, while the brows above were knit close in an angry frown.
He muttered to himself, 'Damn him!'
She rallied her courage, and looked at him again when she spoke.
'Well, Henry, and why are you going away?'
'I am out of spirits, Agnes, and I want a change.'
She paused before she spoke again. His face told her plainly that he was thinking of her when he made that reply. She was grateful to him, but her mind was not with him: her mind was still with the man who had deserted her. She turned round again to the fire.
'Is it true,' she asked, after a long silence, 'that they have been married to-day?'
He answered ungraciously in the one necessary word:--'Yes.'
'Did you go to the church?'
He resented the question with an expression of indignant surprise.
'Go to the church?' he repeated. 'I would as soon go to--'
He checked himself there. 'How can you ask?' he added in lower tones.
'I have never spoken to Montbarry, I have not even seen him, since he treated you like the scoundrel and the fool that he is.'
She looked at him suddenly, without saying a word.
He understood her, and begged her pardon. But he was still angry.
'The reckoning comes to some men,' he said, 'even in this world.
He will live to rue the day when he married that woman!'
Agnes took a chair by his side, and looked at him with a gentle surprise.
'Is it quite reasonable to be so angry with her, because your brother preferred her to me?' she asked.
Henry turned on her sharply. 'Do you defend the Countess, of all the people in the world?'
'Why not?' Agnes answered. 'I know nothing against her.
On the only occasion when we met, she appeared to be a singularly timid, nervous person, looking dreadfully ill; and being indeed so ill that she fainted under the heat of my room. Why should we not do her justice?
We know that she was innocent of any intention to wrong me; we know that she was not aware of my engagement--'
Henry lifted his hand impatiently, and stopped her.
