I have been an awful fool, it is quite true, and you have punished me, not more than I deserve; but I think you might have remembered that you had not on earth a better friend – I mean a more earnest one – particularly you, Agnes, than I."
"I really don't know what I have done," pleaded she, with another little laugh.
"I was here, you know, as intimate almost as a brother. I don't say, of course, there are not many things I had no right to expect to hear anything about; but if I had, and been thought worthy of confidence, I would at all events have spoken honestly. But – may I speak quite frankly, Agnes? You won't be offended, will you?"
"No; I shan't – I'm quite sure."
"Well, it was only this – you are changed, Agnes, you know you are. Just this moment, for instance, you were going home, only because I came here, and you fancied I might join you in your walk; and this change began when Cleve Verney was down here staying at Ware, and used to walk with you on the Green."
Agnes stopped short at these words and drew back a step, looking at Sedley with an angry surprise.
"I don't understand you – I'm certain I don't. I can't conceive what you mean," she said.
Sedley paused in equal surprise.
"I – I beg pardon; I'm awfully sorry – you'll never know how sorry – if I have said anything to vex you; but I did think it was some influence or something connected with that time."
"I really don't pretend to understand you," said Agnes, coldly, with eyes, however, that gleamed resentfully. "I do recollect perfectly Mr. Cleve Verney's walking half-a-dozen times with Charity and me upon the Green, but what that can possibly have to do with your fancied wrongs, I cannot imagine. I fancied you were a friend of Mr. Verney's."
"So I was – so I am; but no such friend as I am of yours —your friend, Agnes. There's no use in saying it; but, Agnes, I'd die for you – I would indeed."
"I thought it very strange, your coming so very seldom to inquire for papa, when he was so poorly last year, when you were at Cardyllian. He did not seem to mind it; but considering, as you say, how much you once used to be here, it did strike me as very unkind – I may as well say what I really thought – not only unkind, but rude. So that if there has been any change, you need not look to other people for the cause of it."
"If you knew how I blame myself for that, I think, bad as it was, you'd forgive me."
"I think it showed that you did not very much care what became of us."
"Oh! Agnes, you did not think that – you never thought it. Unless you are happy, I can't be happy, nor even then unless I think you have forgiven me; and I think if I could be sure you liked me ever so little, even in the old way, I should be one of the happiest fellows in the world. I don't make any excuses – I was the stupidest fool on earth – I only throw myself on your mercy, and ask you to forgive me."
"I've nothing to forgive," said Agnes, with a cruel little laugh, but changing colour.
"Well – well, forget– oh, do! and shake hands like your old self. You've no idea how miserable I have been."
Lowering her eyes, with a very beautiful blush and a smile – a little shy, and so gratified – and a little silvery laugh, Agnes relented, and did give her hand to Tom Sedley.
"Oh, Agnes! Oh, Agnes! I'm so happy and so grateful! Oh, Agnes, you won't take it away – just for a moment."
She drew her hand to remove it, for Tom was exceeding his privilege, and kissing it.
"Now we are friends," said Agnes, laughing.
"Are we quite friends?"
"Yes, quite."
"You must not take your hand away – one moment more. Oh, Agnes! I can never tell you – never, how I love you. You are my darling, Agnes, and I can't live without you."
Agnes said something – was it reproof or repulse? He only knew that the tones were very sad and gentle, and that she was drawing her hand away.
"Oh, darling, I adore you! You would not make me miserable for life. There is nothing I won't do – nothing I won't try – if you'll only say you like me – ever so little. Do sit down here just for a moment" – there was a rustic seat beside them – "only for a moment."
She did sit down, and he beside her. That "moment" of Tom Sedley's grew as such moments will, like the bean that Jack sowed in his garden, till it reached – Titania knows whither! I know that Miss Charity on her return surprised it still growing.
"I made the tea, Agnes, fancying you were in your room. I've had such a search for you. I really think you might have told Edward where you were going. Will you drink tea with us, Thomas Sedley, this evening? though I am afraid you'll find it perfectly cold."
If Miss Charity had been either suspicious or romantic, she would have seen by a glance at the young people's faces what had happened; but being neither, and quite pre-occupied with her theory about Cleve Verney, and having never dreamed of Tom Sedley as possibly making his début at Hazelden in the character of a lover – she brought her prisoners home with only a vague sense now and then that there was either something a little odd in their manner or in her own perceptions, and she remarked, looking a little curiously at Tom, in reference to some query of hers, —
"I've asked you that question twice without an answer, and now you say something totally unmeaning."
CHAPTER VI.
TOM HAS A "TALK" WITH THE ADMIRAL
"Will you tell her?" whispered Sedley to Agnes.
"Oh, no. Do you," she entreated.
They both looked at Charity, who was preparing the little dog's supper of bread and milk in a saucer.
"I'll go in and see papa, and you shall speak to her," said Agnes.
Which Tom Sedley did, so much to her amazement that she set the saucer down on the table beside her, and listened, and conversed for half an hour; and the poodle's screams, and wild jumping and clawing at her elbow, at last reminded her that he had been quite forgotten.
So, while its mistress was apologising earnestly to poor Bijou, and superintending his attentions to the bread and milk, now placed upon the floor, in came Agnes, and up got Charity, and kissed her with a frank, beaming smile, and said, —
"I'm excessively glad, Agnes. I was always so fond of Thomas Sedley; and I wonder we never thought of it before."
They were all holding hands in a ring by this time.
"And what do you think Mr. Etherage will say?" inquired Tom.
"Papa! why of course he will be delighted," said Miss Charity. "He likes you extremely."
"But you know, Agnes might do so much better. She's such a treasure, there's no one that would not be proud of her, and no one could help falling in love with her, and the Ad – I mean Mr. Etherage, may think me so presumptuous; and, you know, he may think me quite too poor."
"If you mean to say that papa would object to you because you have only four hundred a year, you think most meanly of him. I know I should not like to be connected with anybody that I thought so meanly of, because that kind of thing I look upon as really wicked; and I should be sorry to think papa was wicked. I'll go in and tell him all that has happened this moment."
In an awful suspense, pretty Agnes and Tom Sedley, with her hand in both his, stood side by side, looking earnestly at the double door which separated them from this conference.
In a few minutes they heard Vane Etherage's voice raised to a pitch of testy bluster, and then Miss Charity's rejoinder with shrill emphasis.
"Oh! gracious goodness! he's very angry. What shall we do?" exclaimed poor little Agnes, in wild helplessness.
"I knew it – I knew it – I said how it would be – he can't endure the