Chapter XIX Agatha “Does Her Duty” and is Rewarded
“Shall a woman’s virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her well-deservings known
Make me quite forget my own?
If she slight me when I woo
I can scorn and let her go.”
—G. Wither.
Past Boadicea, reclining against a marble heater and conversing with Mephistopheles; past Joan of Arc, flirting vigorously with Torquemeda; past the Queen of the Fairies, chatting to a miscellaneous group of knights and demons; past every variety of hero and lady fair went the self-sacrificing Agatha, intent on her altruistic aim. “For,” as she muttered to herself, “if he has proposed to her, already, it isn’t very likely that he will change for a little while, anyway, and I want to be married before any of the other girls. Besides it wouldn’t be half so nice to marry a man who had been refused by your own cousin; though every one would think you had cut her out and Lynn is so funny that she would probably just giggle and say nothing, so it wouldn’t matter much. But, as matters stand, I think it would be really wicked to let Lynn actually refuse him, particularly when I can get so many others: and, once they are married, she will be grateful to me as well as he and they will have a nice home and entertain a lot and I can be their bridesmaid and everyone will say how much prettier I am than the bride and”—At this moment she caught sight of her quarry.
Lynn had been dancing and had just come out to the hall in search of a vacant chair or stair when she saw a vision of pink tulle gazing at her with such an unusual amount of feeling and expressiveness that, with a hasty excuse, she dropped her partner’s arm and hurried to her small cousin’s side.
“Agatha,” she exclaimed, wonderingly. “What is it? Is anything the matter? Do you want me?”
“Indeed I do,” responded Agatha, solemnly.
“Then just let me speak to Mr. Barnes a moment and explain why I am going: then we can run upstairs to Del’s little sitting-room and talk quietly.”
This programme was carried out; and, when they were safely ensconced behind closed doors, Lynn turned eagerly to her cousin.
“Now, Agatha!” she said.
Agatha turned and looked at her.
“Lynn,” she said with portentous solemnity, “I don’t know what you will think of me and I don’t care. Some one has got to talk to you.”
Lynn stared in amazement, wondering if her thrice-engaged cousin objected to her dancing twice with the same man: she could think of no other enormity of which she had been guilty that evening.
“I have been sitting out a couple of dances with Mr. Lighton, and he became unusually confidential,” went on Agatha, turning almost pale: “and he tells me,” pausing impressively, “he tells me that you—have—refused—him.”
“He tells the truth,” responded Lynn, looking annoyed, “and all I can say is, Agatha, that if you have torn me away from the dance”—
“Wait a moment,” said Agatha, earnestly. “This is very important to me, Lynn. It isn’t only that I feel sorry that you, being my cousin, should be so foolish as to refuse him, once; but what I want to know is,—did you mean it?”
“Assuredly I did,” said Lynn, staring.
“You meant,” said Agatha, pathetically, “you really meant, Lynn, to refuse that nice house and”—
“Yes, and that nice horse, too,” exclaimed Lynn, turning red. “Upon my word this is too much! I can stand Aunt Lucy and Del, but when it comes to you, Agatha—understand once for all that I meant to refuse that nice house and that good-sized yard at the back and that commodious stable with all that it contains—not even excepting the horse which every one seemed to think that I would accept with tears of rapture, despite the fact that it was encumbered with a master whom I should have to accept, likewise, as they are inseparable.”
“Oh, Lynn, dear! such a lot of long words and such a temper and all because I tried to advise you for your own good.”
“Agatha, I give you fair warning that I shall gently but firmly assassinate the very next person who tries to advise me for my own good.”
Agatha sat for a moment, absorbed in thought.
“Lynn,” she said, presently, “does anyone know that you have refused Mr. Lighten?”
“Not unless he has chosen to tell anyone. I am not in the habit of publishing every offer I receive in the daily papers, which is one reason why some people suppose that I never get any.”
“Then,” said Agatha, thinking deeply, “I suppose, Lynn, you will not mind if I advise you not to—not to tell anyone? Do you remember what you said to me about those things—proposals and engagements and things, you know!—well, at the time I did say I thought it was foolish not to tell when people proposed to you because then lots of people, as you say, think you never get any—but since then I have changed my mind; I really think it is more sensible not to—particularly in your case where it would be so embarrassing for Mr. Lighton if he were attentive to some girl.”
Lynn burst out laughing.
“I never in my life told on any man who was misguided enough to ask me to marry him. I have always felt that the pain of feeling that he had so lowered himself was punishment enough for any crime.”
“Why, Lynn, I don’t quite see what you mean,” said Agatha, patient but bewildered.
“This is all I mean,” said Lynn, gravely. “If you have any idea of going in for Lighton—and certainly his house is all that could be desired—why, don’t feel as you walk up the aisle in veil and orange blossoms that I am whispering to my nearest acquaintance, ‘I could have had that man if I had wanted him.’”
“But,” said Agatha, timidly, “suppose such a thing did happen—it would not be very nice for you, Lynn, to think that people were saying that I had cut you out. That is the first thing that Mrs. Langham-Greene would think.”
“I can think of nothing at the moment less likely to worry me than Mrs. Langham-Greene’s thoughts concerning me.”
“Oh, how queer you are!” said Agatha, opening her eyes widely. “Then, Lynn, if you should hear—well, anything! you won’t mind. For there is still time for you to change your mind, you know; and really he’s very fond of you, and his house”—
“Has only one drawback! Now don’t dare to tell him I said that, Agatha, or”—
“Why, I don’t know what you did say,” responded Agatha, patiently. “You say such queer things, Lynn, that half the time I don’t know what you’re driving at. At all events, however, as I understand, you are quite determined not to accept Mr. Lighton.”
“Quite.”
“Then,” said Agatha, dimpling bewitchingly and adjusting her rose wreath with an air of satisfaction, “then, Lynn, I must just go and tell him so, I suppose.”
She found the Rejected sitting where she had left him, and gazing disconsolately into space. He brightened a little as she sat down beside him.
“You had no luck, I suppose?” he remarked, tentatively.
“Mr. Lighton,” cooed Agatha, softly, “she is not worthy of you. She is my own cousin, but I can’t help saying so.”
Mr. Lighton turned a rich, ripe tan colour, the nearest approach to a flush of rage that his skin was capable of attaining.
“Made fun of me, I suppose?” he queried in tones of stifled fury. “Oh, you needn’t try to smooth it over, Miss Ladilaw! I know that tongue of hers too well.”
“Well,” said Agatha, commiseratingly, “I must say, Mr. Lighton, that she might have been nicer. It’s one thing to refuse a man and another to make jokes about it. Not that she said much, you know, but there was one speech about your house having only one drawback”—
“That,” exclaimed Mr. Lighton in a burst of horrible enlightenment, “was Me!”
“I am afraid so,” said Agatha, softly. “But please don’t tell any one I repeated it, Mr. Lighton. I really shouldn’t have, you know. But I felt so disturbed and angry at the idea of any one belonging to me being so heartless”—
Six months later when Miss Agatha Ladilaw, “the prettiest debutante of the former season,” made “the match of the year,” Lynn felt rather hurt at the demeanour of both bride and groom toward her.
“I was disagreeable,” she reflected, “but he brought it on himself and I can’t understand why the mention of my name should invariably produce a chill in the Ladilaw household. Agatha, at least, has nothing to blame me for.”
Agatha and Agatha’s husband, however, agreed in seeing as little as possible of Agatha’s cousin and in acting as coldly as was consistent with politeness whenever they did meet her. This, Society thought, was owing to the fact that poor Miss Thayer had cherished useless aspirations in the direction of the Lighton house, herself. Poor Miss Thayer!