“Let me go away, Trotwood. I am not well. I am not myself. I will speak to you by and by—another time. I will write to you. Don’t speak to me now. Don’t! don’t!”
I sought to recollect what she had said, when I had spoken to her on that former night, of her affection needing no return. It seemed a very world that I must search through in a moment. “Agnes, I cannot bear to see you so, and think that I have been the cause. My dearest girl, dearer to me than anything in life, if you are unhappy, let me share your unhappiness. If you are in need of help or counsel, let me try to give it to you. If you have indeed a burden on your heart, let me try to lighten it. For whom do I live now, Agnes, if it is not for you!”
“Oh, spare me! I am not myself! Another time!” was all I could distinguish.
Was it a selfish error that was leading me away? Or, having once a clue to hope, was there something opening to me that I had not dared to think of?
“I must say more. I cannot let you leave me so! For Heaven’s sake, Agnes, let us not mistake each other after all these years, and all that has come and gone with them! I must speak plainly. If you have any lingering thought that I could envy the happiness you will confer; that I could not resign you to a dearer protector, of your own choosing; that I could not, from my removed place, be a contented witness of your joy; dismiss it, for I don’t deserve it! I have not suffered quite in vain. You have not taught me quite in vain. There is no alloy of self in what I feel for you.”
She was quiet now. In a little time, she turned her pale face towards me, and said in a low voice, broken here and there, but very clear:
“I owe it to your pure friendship for me, Trotwood—which, indeed, I do not doubt—to tell you, you are mistaken. I can do no more. If I have sometimes, in the course of years, wanted help and counsel, they have come to me. If I have sometimes been unhappy, the feeling has passed away. If I have ever had a burden on my heart, it has been lightened for me. If I have any secret, it is—no new one; and is—not what you suppose. I cannot reveal it, or divide it. It has long been mine, and must remain mine.”
“Agnes! Stay! A moment!”
She was going away, but I detained her. I clasped my arm about her waist. “In the course of years!” “It is not a new one!” New thoughts and hopes were whirling through my mind, and all the colours of my life were changing.
“Dearest Agnes! Whom I so respect and honour—whom I so devotedly love! When I came here today, I thought that nothing could have wrested this confession from me. I thought I could have kept it in my bosom all our lives, till we were old. But, Agnes, if I have indeed any newborn hope that I may ever call you something more than sister, widely different from sister!—”
Her tears fell fast; but they were not like those she had lately shed, and I saw my hope brighten in them.
“Agnes! Ever my guide, and best support! If you had been more mindful of yourself, and less of me, when we grew up here together, I think my heedless fancy never would have wandered from you. But you were so much better than I, so necessary to me in every boyish hope and disappointment, that to have you to confide in, and rely upon in everything, became a second nature, supplanting for the time the first and greater one of loving you as I do!”
Still weeping, but not sadly—joyfully! And clasped in my arms as she had never been, as I had thought she never was to be!
“When I loved Dora—fondly, Agnes, as you know—”
“Yes!” she cried, earnestly. “I am glad to know it!”
“When I loved her—even then, my love would have been incomplete, without your sympathy. I had it, and it was perfected. And when I lost her, Agnes, what should I have been without you, still!”
Closer in my arms, nearer to my heart, her trembling hand upon my shoulder, her sweet eyes shining through her tears, on mine!
“I went away, dear Agnes, loving you. I stayed away, loving you. I returned home, loving you!”
And now, I tried to tell her of the struggle I had had, and the conclusion I had come to. I tried to lay my mind before her, truly, and entirely. I tried to show her how I had hoped I had come into the better knowledge of myself and of her; how I had resigned myself to what that better knowledge brought; and how I had come there, even that day, in my fidelity to this. If she did so love me (I said) that she could take me for her husband, she could do so, on no deserving of mine, except upon the truth of my love for her, and the trouble in which it had ripened to be what it was; and hence it was that I revealed it. And O, Agnes, even out of thy true eyes, in that same time, the spirit of my child-wife looked upon me, saying it was well; and winning me, through thee, to tenderest recollections of the blossom that had withered in its bloom!
“I am so blest, Trotwood—my heart is so overcharged—but there is one thing I must say.”
“Dearest, what?”
She laid her gentle hands upon my shoulders, and looked calmly in my face.
“Do you know, yet, what it is?”
“I am afraid to speculate on what it is. Tell me, my dear.”
“I have loved you all my life!”
Oh, we were happy, we were happy! Our tears were
