Agatha's Husband. Dinah Maria Mulock Craik

kind of you to take such an interest in me!” cried Agatha, her wonder absorbed in pleasure.

      “It was natural,” Anne said, rather hastily. “A woman left orphan from the cradle as I was, can feel for another orphan. And though my acquaintance with your father was too slender to warrant my intruding upon you—still I never lost sight of you. Poor child, yours has been a desolate position for so young a girl.”

      “Ay, very desolate,” said Agatha; and suddenly the recollection crossed her mind of how doubly she should feel that desolation when her betrothed husband was gone, for how long, no one could tell! A regret arose, half tenderness, half selfishness; but she deemed it wholly the latter, and so crushed it down.

      “How long have you been engaged to Nathanael?” asked Miss Valery, in a manner so sweet as entirely to soften the abruptness of the question, and win the unhesitating answer.

      “A very short time—only a few days. Yet I seem to have known him for years. Oh, how good he is! how it grieves me to see him so unhappy!” whispered Agatha, watching his restless movements up and down.

      “It will be a hard trial for him, this parting with you. Men like Nathanael never love lightly; even sudden passions—and his must have been rather sudden—in them take root as with the strength of years. I am very sorry for the boy.”

      And Miss Valery's eyes glistened as they rested on him whom probably from old habit she thus called.

      “Well, have you done your little mysteries?” said he, coming up to the sofa, with an effort to be gay. “Have you taken my character to pieces, Anne Valery? Remember, if so, I have little enough time to recover it. A fortnight will be gone directly.”

      No one answered.

      “Come, make room; I will have my place. I will sit beside you, Agatha.”

      There was a sort of desperation in his “I will” that indicated a great change in the reserved, timid youth. Agatha yielded as to an irresistible influence, and he placed himself by her side, putting his arm firmly round her waist, quite regardless of the presence of a third person—though about Anne there was an abiding spirit of love which seemed to take under its shadow all lovers, ay, even though she herself were an old maid. But perhaps that was the very reason.

      “I was doing you no harm, Nathanael,” said she, smiling. “And I was thinking, like you, how soon a fortnight will be gone, and how hard it is for you to part from this little girl that loves you.”

      The inference, so natural, so holy, which Miss Valery had unconsciously drawn, Agatha had not the heart to deny. She knew it was but right that she should love, and be supposed to love, her betrothed husband. And looking at him, his suffering, his strong self-denial, she almost felt that she did really love him, as a wife ought.

      “If,” said the soft voice of the good angel—“if you had not known each other so short a time, and been so newly betrothed, I should have said—judging such things by what they were when I was young,”—here she momentarily paused—“I should have said, Nathanael, that there was only one course which, as regarded both her and yourself, was wisest, kindest, best.”

      “What is that?” cried he, eagerly.

      “To do a little sooner what must necessarily have been done soon—to take one another's hands—thus.”

      Agatha felt strong, wild fingers grasping her own; a dizziness came over her—she shrank back, crying, “No, no!” and hid her face on Miss Valery's shoulder. Nathanael rose up and walked away.

      When he returned, it was with his “good” aspect, tender and calm.

      “No, Anne, I was wrong even to think of such a thing. Assure her I will never urge it. She is quite right in saying 'No'—What man could expect such a sacrifice?”

      “And what woman would deem it such?” whispered Miss Valery. “But I know I am a very foolish, romantic old maid, and view these things in a different light to most people. So, my dear, be quite at rest,” she continued, soothing the young creature, who still clung to her. “No one will urge you in any way; he will not, he is too generous; and I had no right even to say what I did, except from my affection for him.”

      She looked fondly at the young man, as if he had been still a little child, and she saw him in the light of ancient days. These impelled her to speak on earnestly.

      “Another reason I had; because I am old, and you two are young. Often, it seems as if the whole world—fate, trial, circumstance—were set against all lovers to make them part. It is a bitter thing when they part of their own free will. Accidents of all kinds—change, sorrow, even death—may come between, and they may never meet again. Agatha, Nathanael—believe one who has seen more of life than you—rarely do those that truly love ever attain the happiness of marrying one another. One half the world—the best and noblest half—thirst all their lives for that bliss which you throw away. What, Agatha, crying?”

      And she tried to lift up the drooping head, but could not.

      “Nay, dear, I was wrong to grieve you so. Please God, you two may meet again, and marry and be happy, even in this world. Come, Nathanael, you can say all this much better than I. Tell her you will be quite content, and wait any number of years. And, as to this parting, it is a right and noble sacrifice of yours; let her see how nobly you will bear it.”

      “Ay, Agatha, I will,” said the young lover firmly, as he stood before her, half stooping, half kneeling—though not quite kneeling, even then. But his whole manner showed the crumbling away of that clear but icy surface with which nature or habit had enveloped the whole man.

      Agatha lifted her head, and looked at him long and earnestly.

      “I will,” he repeated; “I promise you I will. Only be content—and in token that you are so, give me your hand.”

      She gave him both, and then leaned back again on Miss Valery's shoulder.

      “Tell him—I will go with him—anywhere—at any time—if it will only make him happy.”

      The same night, when Nathanael and Anne Valery had left her, Agatha sat thinking, almost in a dream, yet without either sorrow or dread—that all uncertainty was now over—that this day week would be her wedding-day.