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The Widow Barnaby. Vol. 2 (of 3)

by Frances Milton Trollope · English · Gutenberg #36562 · 409,135 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Widow Barnaby. Vol. 2 (of 3)

Author: Frances Milton Trollope


        
Release date: June 30, 2011 [eBook #36562]
                Most recently updated: January 7, 2021

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WIDOW BARNABY. VOL. 2 (OF 3) ***




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                       THE WIDOW BARNABY.

                      BY FRANCES TROLLOPE,

AUTHOR OF "THE VICAR OF WREXHILL," "A ROMANCE OF VIENNA," ETC.


    IN THREE VOLUMES.
    VOL. II.

    LONDON:
    RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.

    1839.

    LONDON:
    PRINTED BY SAMUEL BENTLEY,
    Dorset Street, Fleet Street.




THE WIDOW BARNABY.




CHAPTER I.

DIFFICULTIES ATTENDING A YOUNG LADY'S APPEARANCE AT A BALL.--A WET
SUNDAY.--DIFFERENCE OF TASTE.


Though it was two minutes and a half past the time named for dinner when
Agnes made her appearance, she found her aunt's temper very slightly
acerbated by the delay, for the delightful recollections of her morning
expedition still endured, and she was more inclined to boast than to
scold.

"Well, Agnes, I hope at last I have some news that will please you," she
said. "What think you of my having subscribed for us both for six
weeks?"

"Subscribed for what, aunt? ... to the library?"

"Yes; I have subscribed there, too, for a month ... and we must go
every day, rain or shine, to make it answer. But I have done a good deal
more than that for you, my dear; I have subscribed to the balls entirely
for your sake, Agnes: and whatever becomes of you in future life, I
trust you will never forget all I have done for you now."

"But I am afraid, aunt, it will cost you a great deal of money to take
me with you to the balls; and as I have never been yet, I cannot know
anything about it, you know; and I do assure you that I shall not at all
mind being left at home."

"And a pretty story that would make, wouldn't it?... I tell you, child,
I _have_ paid the money already ... and here are the cutlets; so sit
down, and be thankful for all my kindness to you.... Is my beer come,
Jerningham?"

Agnes sat down, and began eating her cutlet; but it was thoughtfully,
for there were cares that rested heavily upon her heart; and though they
were certainly of a minor species, she must be forgiven if at sixteen
and a half they were sufficient to perplex her sorely. She had neither
shoes nor gloves fit to appear at a ball. She dared not ask for them,
she dared not go without them, and she dared not refuse to go at all.

"This certainly is the most beautiful place I ever saw in my life!" said
the widow, while renewing her attack upon the dish of cutlets; "such
shops!... such a milliner! and, as for the library, its perfectly like
going into public! What an advantage it is every morning of one's life
to be able to go to such a place as that! Elizabeth Peters seemed to
know everybody; and I heard them talking of people of the highest
fashion, as some of those we are sure to meet at the ball. What an
immense advantage it is for you, Agnes, to be introduced in such a
manner at such a place as this!"

"It is indeed a most beautiful place, aunt, and the Peterses are most
kind and charming people."

"Then for once in your life, child, you are pleased!... that's a
comfort.... And I have got something to shew you, Agnes, such a
scarf!... real French blonde: ... its monstrous expensive, I'm afraid;
but everybody says that the respectability of a girl depends entirely
upon the style of her chaperon. I'm sure I would no more let my poor
dear sister's child go out with me, if I was shabbily dressed, than I
would fly. I wonder Mrs. Duval does not send home my things; but perhaps
she waits for me to send my turban. She's going to put my feathers in
for me, Agnes,--quite a favour I assure you; ... but she was so
respectful in her manner to Elizabeth Peters. I am sure, if I had had
any notion what sort of people they were, I should have made Barnaby
leave his business to Mr. Dobbs for a little while, that he might have
brought me to see them long ago."

"It is indeed a pleasure to meet with such friends," said Agnes; "and
perhaps..."

"Perhaps what, child?"

"If either of the three girls stay away from the ball, perhaps, aunt,
you would be so kind as to let me stay away too, and we should pass the
evening so delightfully together."

"God give me patience, Agnes, for I'm sure you are enough to drive one
wild. Here have I been subscribing to the balls, and actually paying
down ready money beforehand for your tickets; and now, ungrateful
creature that you are, you tell me you won't go!... I only wish the
Peterses could hear you, and then they'd know what you are."

"My only objection to going to the ball, aunt," said Agnes with
desperate courage, "is, the fear that you would be obliged to get gloves
and shoes for me."

"Gloves and shoes!... why, that's just the advantage of mourning.
You'll have my black silk stockings, you know, all except a pair or two
of the best,--and with black stockings I don't suppose you would choose
to put on white shoes. That would be rather too much in the magpie
style, I suppose, wouldn't it?... And for gloves, I don't see how, in
such _very_ deep mourning, you would wear anything but black gloves too;
and there are two pair of mine that you may have. I could lend you an
old pair of my black satin shoes too, only your feet and your hands are
so frightfully out of proportion to your height.... I was always
reckoned to be most perfectly in proportion, every part of my figure;
but your hands and feet are absolutely ridiculous from their smallness:
you take after your father in that, and a great misfortune it is, for it
will prevent your ever profiting by my shoes or my gloves either, unless
you are clever enough to take them in,--and that I don't believe you
are--not fingers and all...."

"May I wear long sleeves then, aunt?" said Agnes with considerable
animation, from having suddenly conceived a project, by means of which
she thought she might render herself and her sables presentable.

"Because you have got no long gloves, I suppose? Why yes, child, I see
no objection, in such very deep mourning as yours. It is a strange whim
you have taken, Agnes; but it is certainly very convenient."

"And will you give me leave, aunt, to use all the black you have been so
kind as to give me?"

"Use it?... use all of it?... Yes; I don't want to have any of it
again: the great desire of my life is to be liberal and generous to you
in all ways, Agnes. But I don't know what you mean about using it
all,--you can't mean all the things at once?"

"No, aunt," replied Agnes, laughing, "I don't mean that; but if I may
use the crape that covers nearly the whole of your best gown, I think I
could make my own frock look very well, for I would make it the same as
one I saw last year at Empton. May I?"

"Yes, if you will, child; but to say the truth, I have no great faith in
your mantua-making talents. However, I am glad to see that you have got
such a notion in your head; and if it turns out well, I may set you to
work for me perhaps one of these days. I have a great deal of taste in
that way; but with my fortune it would be ridiculous if I did much
beside ornamental work.... There.... Take away, Jerningham, and bring
the two cheesecakes.... Agnes, do you wish for one?"

"No, thank you, aunt."

"What an odd girl you are!... You never seem to care about what you
eat.... I must say that I am a little more dainty, and know what is
nice, and like it too. But poor dear Barnaby spoilt me in that way; and
if ever you should be lucky enough to be the idol of a husband, as I
was, you will learn to like nice eating too, Agnes ... for it is a thing
that grows upon one, I believe. But I dare say at the out-of-the-way
place your aunt Betsy put you to, there was no great chance of your
being over-indulged that way.... That will do, Jerningham, give me that
drop of beer; and now eat up your own dinner as fast as you can, and ask
little Kitty to shew you the way to Mrs. Duval's, the milliner; and take
with you, very carefully mind, the hat-box that you will find ready tied
up on my bed, and bring back with you my new scarf and gloves.... I long
to shew you my scarf, Agnes.... You shall not be ashamed of your
chaperon,--that's a point I'm resolved upon."

It was Saturday night, and the important ball was to be on the following
Tuesday; so Agnes, as soon as the dinner was ended, hastened to set
about her work, a general idea of which she had very clearly in her
little head, but felt some misgivings about her skill in the detail.

Hardly, however, had she brought forth "her needle and her shears," when
her aunt exclaimed,--

"Good gracious, child!... you are not going to set to work now?... Why,
it is the pleasantest part of the day, and I mean to take you out to
walk with me under the windows where we saw all the smart people last
night.--Just look out, and you will see they are beginning to come
already. Put on your things, my dear; and put your bonnet a little back,
and try to look as smart as you can. You are certainly very pretty, but
you are a terrible dowdy in your way of putting on your things. You have
nothing jaunty and taking about you, as I used to have at your age,
Agnes; and I'm sure I don't know what to do to improve you.... I suspect
that your aunt will get more eyes upon her now than you will with all
your youth,--and that's a shame.... But I always was famous for putting
on my things well."

Agnes retired to her little room; but her quiet bonnet was put on much
as usual when she came out from it; and Mrs. Barnaby might have been
discouraged at seeing the very undashing appearance of her companion,
had she not been conscious that the manner in which she had repaired
her own charms, and the general style of her dress and person, were such
as might well atone for it.

Nor was she disappointed as to the degree of attention she expected to
draw; not a party passed them without giving her a decided stare, and
many indulged their curiosity by a very pertinacious look over the
shoulder after them.

This was very delightful, but it was not all: ere they had taken half a
dozen turns, the widely-roaming eyes of Mrs. Barnaby descried two
additional gentlemen, decidedly the most distinguished-looking
personages she had seen, approaching from the further end of the walk.

"That tall one is the man we watched last night, Agnes: I should know
him amongst a thousand."

Agnes looked up, and felt equally convinced of the fact.

The two gentlemen approached; and Mrs. Barnaby herself could not have
wished for a look of more marked examination than the tall individual
bestowed upon her as he went by: but satisfactory as this was, and
greatly as it occupied her attention, she was aware also that his
companion looked with equal attention at Agnes.

"For goodness' sake, Agnes, throw back that abominable veil; it is
getting quite dark already, and I'm sure you cannot see."

"I can see very well, thank you, aunt," replied Agnes.

"Fool!..." muttered Mrs. Barnaby; but she would not spoil her features
by a frown, and continued to enjoy for three turns more the repeated
gaze of the tall gentleman.

       *       *       *       *       *

The following day being Sunday was one of great importance to strangers
about to be initiated into the society of the place; and Mrs. Barnaby
had fondly flattered herself that Mrs. Peters, or at least the young
ladies, would upon such an occasion have extended their patronage, both
to help them to a seat, and to tell them "who was who." But in this she
was disappointed: in fact, a compact had been entered into between Mrs.
Peters and her son and daughters, by which it was agreed that, on
condition of her permitting them to join her party at the balls, she
was always to be allowed to go to church in peace. This was so
reasonable that even the petted Mary submitted to it without a murmur;
and the consequence was that Mrs. Barnaby found herself left to her own
devices as to the manner in which she should make the most of the
Sabbath-day.

Fortunately for the tranquillity of Mrs. Peters, the landlady of the
lodgings, on being questioned, gave it as her opinion that the chapel at
the Hot Wells, which was within a very pleasant walk, would be more
likely to offer accommodation to strangers than the parish church, that
being always crowded by the resident families; so to the chapel at the
Hot Wells Mrs. Barnaby resolved to go, and the tea-urn was ordered half
an hour earlier than usual, that time enough might be allowed to "get
ready."

"Now do make the best of yourself, Agnes, to-day, will you? I am sure
those men are not Bristol people.... So different they looked--didn't
they?--from all the rest. Of course, you will put on your best crape
bonnet, and one of my nicest broad-hemmed white crape collars ... there
is one I have quite clean ... I have no doubt in the world we shall see
them."

Having finished her breakfast, and reiterated these orders, Mrs. Barnaby
turned her attention to her own toilet, and a most elaborate one it was,
taking so long a time as to leave scarcely sufficient for the walk; but
proving at length so perfectly satisfactory as to make her indifferent
to that, or almost any other _contretems_.

On this occasion she came forth in a new dress of light grey
gros-de-Naples, with a gay bonnet of _paille de riz_, decorated with
poppy blossoms both within and without, a "lady-like" profusion of her
own embroidery on cuffs, collar, and pocket-handkerchief, her well-oiled
ringlets half hiding her large, coarse, handsome face, her eyes set off
by a suffusion of carmine, and her whole person redolent of musk.

This was the figure beside which Agnes was doomed to make her first
appearance at the crowded chapel of the Hot Wells. Had she thought about
herself, the contrast its expansive splendour offered to her own slight
figure, her delicate fair face seen but by stealth through her thick
veil, and the sad decorum of her sable robe, might have struck her as
being favourable; instead of that, however, it was another contrast that
occurred to her; for, as she looked at Mrs. Barnaby, she suddenly
recollected the general look and air of her aunt Compton, just at the
moment when the widow attacked her so violently on the meanness of her
apparel during their terrible encounter at the village school, and she
could not quite restrain a sigh as she thought how greatly she should
have preferred entering a crowded and fashionable chapel with her.

But no sighing could effect the change, and they set forth together, as
strangely a matched pair in appearance as can well be imagined. They
entered the crowded building just as the Psalms concluded, and were
stared at and scrutinised with quite as much attention as was consistent
with the solemnity of the place: moreover, seats were after some time
offered to them, and there was no reason in the world to believe that
they were in any way overlooked. Nevertheless Mrs. Barnaby was
disappointed. Neither the tall gentleman nor his companion were there;
nor did Major Allen, or any one like him, appear to reward her labour
and her skill.

Long and wearisome did the steep up-hill walk back to her lodgings
appear after this unpropitious act of devotion, and sadly passed the
remainder of the day, for it rained hard ... no strollers, not even an
idle _endimanche_, came to awaken the musical echo she loved to listen
to from the pavement under the windows. In short, it was a day of
existence lost, save that she found out one or two new defects in Agnes,
and ended at last by very nearly convincing herself that it was in some
way or other her fault that it rained.

But happily nothing lasts for ever in this world, and Agnes found
herself quietly in bed at last.

The next morning rose bright in sunshine, and the widow rose too, and
"blessed the useful light," which she determined should see her exactly
at the fashionable hour take her way to the library, and the
pastry-cook's, or wherever else she was most likely to be seen; but,
fortunately for the _refacimento_ upon which Agnes desired to employ
herself, this fashionable hour was not early, and her sable draperies
had made great progress before her aunt gave notice that she must get
ready to go out with her. To have a voice upon any question of this kind
had fortunately never yet occurred to Agnes as a thing possible, and
once more, like a Bella Donna beside a Hollyhock, she appeared, with all
the effect of the strongest contrast, in the gayest part of Clifton.

This day seemed sent by fate to make up for the misfortunes of the last.
On entering the library, Mrs. Barnaby immediately placed herself before
the authographic volume in which she took such particular interest, and
hardly had she done so, when the tall and the short gentlemen entered
the shop. Again it was decidedly evident that the tall one fixed his
eyes on the widow, and the shorter one on her companion. The widow's
heart beat. Never had she forgotten the evident admiration her own face
and manner produced on her fellow traveller from Silverton, or the
chilling effect that followed the display of the calm features of her
delicate niece. She knew that Agnes was younger, and perhaps even
handsomer, than herself; but this only tended to confirm her conviction
that an animated expression of countenance, and great vivacity of
manner, would do more towards turning a young man's head than all the
mere beauty in the world.

What would she have given at that moment for some one with whom she
might have conversed with laughing gaiety ... to whom she might have
displayed her large white teeth ... and on whom she might have turned
the flashings of her lustrous eyes!

It was in vain to look to Agnes at such a moment as this, for she well
knew that nothing she could utter would elicit any better excuse for
laughter than might be found in "Yes, aunt," or "No, aunt." So nothing
was to be done but to raise a glass recently purchased to her eye, in
order to recognize the unknown passers-by; but in doing this she
contrived to make "le petit doigt" show off her rings, and now and then
cast such a glance at the strangers as none but a Mrs. Barnaby can give.

After this dumb show had lasted for some minutes, the two gentlemen
each threw down the newspaper they had affected to read, and departed.
Mrs. Barnaby's interest in the subscription-book departed likewise; and
after looking at the backs of one or two volumes that lay scattered
about the counter, she, too, left the shop, and proceeded with a
dignified and leisurely step along the pavement. The next moment was one
of the happiest of her life, for on turning her head to reconnoitre a
richly-trimmed mantilla that had passed her, she perceived the same pair
of gentlemen at the distance of two paces behind them.

This indeed was an adventure, and to the widow's unspeakable delight it
was made more piquant still by what followed. Near the end of the street
was the well-frequented shop of a fashionable pastry-cook,--an
establishment, by the way, which Mrs. Barnaby had not yet lived long
enough to pass with indifference, for the two-fold reason, that it ever
recalled the dear rencontres of her youth, when the disbursement of one
penny was sure to secure a whole half hour of regimental flirting, and
also because her genuine love for cakes and tarts was unextinguishable.
There was now again a double reason for entering this inviting museum;
for, in the first place, it would prevent the necessity of turning round
as soon as they had walked up the street, in order to walk down it
again, thereby proving that they had no engagements at all; and,
secondly, it would give the two uncommonly handsome men an opportunity
of following them in, if they liked it.

And it so happened that they did like it. Happy Mrs. Barnaby!... No
sooner had she seated herself beside the counter, with a plate of queen
cakes and Bath buns beside her, than the light from the door ceased to
pour its unbroken splendour upon her elegant dress, and on looking up,
her eye again met the gaze first of the one, and then of the other
stranger, as they entered the shop together.

Agnes was standing behind her, with her face rather unmeaningly turned
towards the counter, for when a plate with various specimens of pastry
delicacies was offered to her by one of the shop-women, she declined to
take anything by a silent bow.

The two gentlemen passed her, and established themselves at a little
table just beyond, desiring that ices might be brought to them.

"You have ices, have you?" said Mrs. Barnaby, delighted at an
opportunity of speaking; ... "bring me one, if you please." And then,
trusting to her niece's well known discretion, she turned her chair, so
as to front both Agnes and the two gentlemen, and said with great
kindness of accent ... "Agnes, love!... will you have an ice?"

"No, thank you, aunt," ... the anticipated reply, followed.

"Then sit down, dearest, will you?... while I take mine."

The younger of the two gentlemen instantly sprang from his chair, and
presented it to her. Agnes bowed civilly, but passed on to a bench which
flanked the narrow shop on the other side; but Mrs. Barnaby smiled upon
him most graciously, and said, bowing low as she sat,--

"Thank you, sir, very much ... you are extremely obliging."

The young man bowed again, reseated himself, and finished his ice in
silence, when his companion having done the same, each laid a sixpence
on the counter, and walked off.

"Who are those gentlemen, pray?... do you know their names?" said Mrs.
Barnaby eagerly to the shop-girl.

"The tall gentleman is Colonel Hubert, ma'am; and the other, young Mr.
Stephenson."

"Stephenson," ... musingly repeated the widow,--"Stephenson and
Hubert?... I am sure I have heard the names before."

"Sir Edward Stephenson was married on Saturday to Colonel Hubert's
sister, ma'am," said the girl, "and it is most likely that you heard of
it."

"Oh, to be sure I did!... I remember now all about it.... They said he
was the handsomest man in the world--Colonel Hubert I mean ... and so he
certainly is ... handsomer certainly than even Major Allen: don't you
think so, Agnes?"

"I don't know Major Allen, aunt."

"Not know Major Allen, child?... Oh! I remember ... no more you do, my
dear ... come, get up; I have done.... The young man, Agnes," she said,
turning to her niece as they left the shop, "seemed, I thought, a good
deal struck by you. I wish to goodness, child, you would not always keep
that thick veil over your face so.... It is a very handsome veil I know,
and certainly makes your mourning look very elegant; but it is only in
some particular lights that one can see your face under it at all."

"I don't think that signifies much, aunt, and it makes me feel so much
more comfortable."

"Comfortable!... very well, child, poke along, and be comfortable your
own way ... but you certainly have a little spice of the mule in you."

The widow was perhaps rather disappointed at seeing no more of the two
strangers; they had turned off just beyond the pastry-cook's shop, and
were no longer visible; but, while she follows in gentle musings her
walk home, we will pursue the two gentlemen who had so captivated her
attention.

The only resemblance between them was in the decided air of bon ton that
distinguished both; in every other respect they were perfectly
dissimilar. Mr. Stephenson, the shorter and younger of the two, had by
far the more regular set of features, and was indeed remarkably
handsome. Colonel Hubert, his companion, appeared to be at least ten
years his senior, and looked bronzed by the effect of various climates.
He had perhaps no peculiar beauty of feature except his fine teeth, and
the noble expression of his forehead, from which, however, the hair had
already somewhat retired, though it still clustered in close brown curls
round his well-turned head. But his form and stature were magnificent,
and his general appearance so completely that of a soldier and a
gentleman, that it was impossible, let him appear where he would, that
he should pass unnoticed ... which perhaps to the gentle-minded may be
considered as some excuse for Mrs. Barnaby's enthusiastic admiration.

"For Heaven's sake, Hubert!" said the junior to the senior, as they
paced onwards, "do give me leave to know a pretty girl when I see
one.... In my life I never beheld so beautiful a creature!... Her form,
her feet, her movement,--and what a voice!"

"Assuredly," said Colonel Hubert in reply to this tirade, "the sweet
variety of tone, and the charming change of her ever musical cadences,
must naturally excite your admiration. '_No, thank you, aunt_,' ... it
was inimitable! You are quite right, Frederick; such words could not be
listened to with indifference."

"You are an odious, carping, old, fusty, musty bachelor, and I hate you
with all my heart and soul!" exclaimed the young man. "Upon my honour,
Hubert, I shudder to think that some ten or a dozen years hence I may be
as hard, cold, and insensible as you are now.... Tell me honestly, can
you at all recollect what your feelings were at two-and-twenty on seeing
such a being as that sable angel from whom you have just dragged me?"

"Perhaps not exactly; and besides, black angels were never the objects
of my idolatry. But don't stamp your foot at me, and I will answer you
seriously. I do not think that from the blissful time when I was
sixteen, up to my present solemn five-and-thirty, I could ever have been
tempted to look a second time at any miss under the chaperonship of
such a dame as that feather and furbelow lady."

"Then why, in the name of common sense, did you gaze so earnestly at the
furbelow lady herself?"

"To answer that truly, Frederick, would involve the confession of a
peculiar family weakness."

"A family weakness?... Pray, be confidential; I will promise to be
discreet; and, indeed, as my brother has just made, as the newspapers
say, a 'lovely bride' of your sister, I have some right to a
participation in the family secrets. Come, disclose!... What family
reason have you for choosing to gaze upon a great vulgar woman, verging
towards forty, and refusing to look at a young creature, as beautiful as
a houri, who happens to be in her company?"

"I suspect it is because I am near of kin to my mother's sister.... Did
you never hear of the peculiarity that attaches to my respected aunt,
Lady Elizabeth Norris? She scruples not to avow that she prefers the
society of people who amuse her by their absurdities to every other."

"Oh yes!... I have heard all that from Edward, who has, I can tell you,
been occasionally somewhat horrified at what the queer old lady calls
her _soirees antithestiques_. But you don't mean to tell me, Hubert,
that you ever take the fancy of surrounding yourself with all the
greatest quizzes you can find in compliment to your old aunt?"

"Why, no.... I do not go so far as that yet, and perhaps I sometimes
wish that she did not either, for occasionally she carries the whim
rather too far; yet I believe truly that I am more likely to gaze with
attention at a particularly ridiculous-looking woman than at any young
nymph under her protection ... or possessing the awful privilege of
calling her AUNT!"

"A young nymph!... what a hateful phrase! Elegant, delicate
creature!... I swear to you, Colonel Hubert, that you have lowered
yourself very materially in my estimation by your want of tact in not
immediately perceiving that, although a nepotine connexion unhappily
exists between them, by marriage probably, or by the half blood, there
must still be something very peculiar in the circumstances which have
brought so incongruous a pair together."

"Well, Frederick, you may be right ... and perhaps, my friend, my eyes
begin to fail me; for, to tell you the truth, your adorable's crape veil
was too thick for me to see anything through it."

"To be sure it was!" cried Stephenson, quite delighted at the _amende_;
"I thought it was impossible you could underrate such a face as that."

"It is a great blessing to have young eyes," rejoined the Colonel,
relapsing into his bantering tone.

"What!... At it again, thou crusty old Mars?... Then I leave you."

"_Au revoir_, my Corydon!..." and so they parted.




CHAPTER II.

THE BALL.


The evening of the ball, so much dreaded by the niece, and so much
longed for by the aunt, arrived at last; and by a chance not over common
in the affairs of mortals, while the hopes of the one lady were more
than realised, the fears of the other were proved to be altogether
groundless. Many favourable accidents, indeed, concurred to lessen the
difficulties anticipated by Agnes. In the first place, her almost
funereal robes (for which, if the truth be spoken, it must be avowed she
had not the slightest partiality,) assumed an appearance, under her
tasteful fancy, which surprised even herself; for though, when she set
about it, she had a sort of _beau ideal_ of a black crape robe floating
in her imagination, her hopes of giving it form and substance by her own
ingenuity were not very sanguine. Mrs. Barnaby, either from the depth of
her sorrow, or the height of her elegance, had commanded, when she
ordered her widow's mourning, that one dress should touch the heart of
every beholder by having a basement of sable crape one yard in breadth
around it. This doleful dress was costly, and had been rarely worn at
Silverton, that it might come forth in greater splendour at Exeter. But
at Exeter, as we have seen, the widow's feelings so completely
overpowered her, that she could not wear it at all; and thus it came
under the fingers of Agnes in very respectable condition. Of these
circumambulatory ells of crape, the young artificer contrived to
fabricate a dress that was anything but unbecoming. The enormous crape
_gigots_ (for those were the days of gigots), which made part of her
black treasure, hung from her delicate fair arms like transparent clouds
upon the silvery brightness of the moon ... so, at least, would
Frederick Stephenson have described it ... while the simple corsage,
drawn, _a la vierge_, rather higher than fashion demanded round her
beautiful bust, gave a delicate and sober dignity to her appearance,
that even those who would have deemed it "a pity to be so covered up"
themselves, could not but allow was exceedingly becoming.

As soon as her labour was ended, she prudently made an experiment of its
effect; and then, in "trembling hope" of her aunt's approval, made her
appearance before her. Her success here perfectly astonished her.

"Mercy on me, child!--What an elegant dress!--Where on earth did you get
it from?"

"From your gown, aunt."

"Oh, to be sure!--I understand. It is not many people that would give
away such a dress as that, Agnes--perfectly new, and so extremely
elegant. I hope it won't turn your brain, my dear, and that you will
never forget who gave it to you. Certainly I never thought you so
handsome before; and if you will but study my manner a little, and
smile, and show your fine teeth, I do really think I may be able to get
a husband for you, which would certainly be more creditable than going
out as a governess.... So you _can_ work, Agnes, I see ... and a good
thing too, considering your poverty. It does not look amiss upon the
whole, I must say; though I don't see any reason for your covering
yourself up so; I am sure your neck is white enough to be seen, and it
would be odd if it wasn't, considering who your mother was; for both she
and I were noted, far and near, for that beauty; but I can't say I ever
hid myself up in that way.... And what shoes, child, have you got to
wear with it?"

"These, aunt," said Agnes, putting out her little foot incased in
leather, with a sole of very respectable thickness.

"Well, upon my word, that's a pity ... it spoils all ... and I don't
think you could dance in them if you did get a partner.... What would
you say, Agnes, if I bought you a thin pair of prunella pumps on
purpose?"

"I should be very much obliged to you, aunt."

"Well, then, for once I must be extravagant, I believe; so, get on your
other gown, child, as quick as you can, and your bonnet and shawl, and
let us go to the shop round the corner. I did not mean to stir out
to-day ... there is wind enough to make one's eyes perfectly
blood-shot.... However, the shop's close by.... Only, if you do marry
well, I hope you will never forget what you owe me."

       *       *       *       *       *

Agnes had been too hard at work to take any long walk, though invited to
do it; but her friend Mary called upon her both Monday and Tuesday; and
having found her way into the closet, seemed to think, as she pulled
over Agnes's books, and chatted with her concerning their contents, that
they might often enjoy themselves _tete-a-tete_ there.

"Shall you like it, Agnes?" she added, after sketching such a scheme to
her.

"I think, Mary, you could make me like anything ... but can I really
make _you_ like sitting in this cupboard, instead of your own elegant
drawing-room?"

"If you will sit with me here, my new friend," answered Miss Peters with
an air of great sincerity.

"Then must I not be wicked if I ever think myself unhappy again ... at
least, as long as we stay at Clifton."

"Dear girl!... you should not be so if I could help it.... But I must
go ... nine o'clock this evening, remember, and wait for us in the outer
room, if you do not find us already there."

These instructions Agnes repeated to her aunt; but that lady's ardent
temper induced her to order a fly to be at her door at half-past eight
precisely; and when it arrived, she was for at least the fourth time
putting the last finishing touch to her blonde, and her feathers, and
her ringlets, and her rouge, and therefore it took her not more than
five minutes for a last general survey, before she declared herself
"ready!" and Jerningham received orders to precede her down the stairs
with a candle.

If the former descriptions of the widow's appearance have not been
wholly in vain, the reader will easily conceive the increased splendour
of her charms when elaborately attired for a ball, without my entering
into any minutiae concerning them. Suffice it to say, that if the
corsage of the delicate Agnes might have been deemed by some too high,
that of Mrs. Barnaby might have been thought by others too low; and
that, taken all together, she looked exceedingly like one of the
supplementary dames brought forth to do honour to the banquet scene in
Macbeth.

Arriving half an hour before the time appointed, they, of course, did
not find the Peters family; nor did this latter party make their
appearance before the patience of Mrs. Barnaby had given way, and she
had insisted, much to the vexation of Agnes, upon going on to the
ball-room without them.

There the atmosphere was already in some degree congenial to her. The
lustres were blazing, the orchestra tuning, and a few individuals, as
impatient as herself, walking up and down the room, and appearing
greatly delighted at having something new to stare at.

This parade was beginning to realize all the worst fears of Agnes, (for
the room was filling fast, and Mrs. Barnaby would not hear of sitting
down,) when she descried Mrs. Peters, her son, her three daughters, and
two other gentlemen, enter the room.

Mrs. Barnaby saw them too, and instantly began to stride towards them;
but timidity now made Agnes bold, and she held back, still courageously
retaining her aunt's arm, and exclaiming eagerly,--

"Oh, let them come to us, aunt!"

"Nonsense, child!... Don't hold me so, Agnes; it will be exceedingly
rude if we do not join them immediately, according to our engagement."

The pain of violently seizing upon Mrs. Peters was, however, spared her
by the watchful kindness of Mary, who caught sight of them immediately,
and, together with Elizabeth, hastened forward to meet them.

Miss Peters gave a glance of approbation and pleasure at the appearance
of Agnes, who did not look the less beautiful, perhaps, from the deep
blush that dyed her cheeks as she marked the expression of Mrs. Peters'
countenance, as she approached with her eyes fixed upon her aunt. That
lady, however, let her have felt what she might at sight of her
remarkable-looking sister-in-law, very honourably performed her part of
the compact entered into with her daughters, smiling very graciously in
return for her affectionate relative's raptures at seeing her, and
shewing no symptom of anything she felt on the occasion, excepting
immediately retiring to the remotest corner of the room, where she very
nearly hid herself behind a pillar.

Mrs. Barnaby of course followed her, with the young ladies, to the seat
she had chosen; but her active genius was instantly set to work to
discover how she might escape from it, for the feelings produced by such
an eclipse were perfectly intolerable.

"I must pretend that I see some person whom I know," thought she, "and
so make one of the girls walk across the room with me;" but at the
instant she was about to put this project into execution, James Peters
came up to the party, and very civilly addressed her. This was
something, for the young man was handsome and well-dressed; but better
still was what happened next, for she immediately felt at once that she
was about to become the heroine of an adventure. Major Allen, whose
appearance altogether, including moustaches, favouris, collier grec,
embroidered waistcoat, and all, was very nearly as remarkable as her
own, entered the room, looked round it, fixed his eyes upon her spangled
turban, and very decisively turned off from the throng in order to pay
his compliments to the Peters' party, distinguishing her by a bow that
spake the profoundest admiration and respect.

Elizabeth was the last of the row, her mother (with Mrs. Barnaby next
her) being at the other end of it; and close to Elizabeth the dashing
Major placed himself, immediately entering into a whispered conversation
with her, which obliged her to turn herself round from the rest, in such
a manner that not even Lucy, who came next in order, could overhear much
of what passed.... Nevertheless, the widow felt as certain as if she
could have followed every word of it, that this earnest conversation was
about her.

Nor was she mistaken, for thus it ran:

"Good evening, Miss Elizabeth.... You are just arrived, I presume.... An
excellent ball, is it not?... I told you it would be.... What an
exceedingly fine woman your aunt is, Miss Peters!... It is your aunt, I
think?"

"Yes ... our aunt, certainly ... the widow of my mother's brother, Major
Allen."

"Ay.... I understood she was your aunt.... She is a woman of large
fortune, I hear?"

"Yes, very large fortune."

"But she is in lodgings, is she not?... She does not seem to have taken
the whole house."

"Oh, no ... only quite small lodgings: but she does not spend the third
of her income, nor near it."

"Really?... then, I suppose, handsome as she is, that she is a little
in the skin-flint line, eh?..." and here the Major shewed his
horse-like teeth by a laugh.

"Not that at all, I assure you," replied the young lady, amiably anxious
to exonerate her aunt from so vile an aspersion; "indeed, I should say
quite the contrary; for she has very generous and noble ideas about
money, and the use a widow ought to make of a fortune left by her
husband, in case she does not happen to marry again. I am sure I hope
people won't be so ill-natured as to say she is stingy because she does
not choose to spend all her income;--it will be abominable if they do,
because her motives are so very noble."

"I am sure she has a most charming advocate in you.... And what, then,
may I ask ... for what is noble should never be concealed ... what can
be the reason of economy so unnecessary?"

"She does not think it is unnecessary, Major Allen; for she has an
orphan niece who is left quite dependent upon her, and what she is
saving will be for her."

"Amiable indeed!... Then her property is only income, I presume? Really
that is a pity, considering how remarkably well such a disposition would
employ the capital."

"Oh! no, that is not so neither; my uncle Barnaby left everything
entirely at her own disposal; only she thinks," ... and here the silly
and loquacious Elizabeth stopped short, for the idea suddenly occurred
to her that it was not right to talk so much of her aunt's concerns to
so slight an acquaintance as Major Allen; and not exactly knowing how
to end her sentence, she permitted a sudden thought to strike her, and
exclaimed, "I wonder when they will begin dancing?"

But the Major had heard enough.

He resumed the conversation, however, but very discreetly, by saying,
"That young lady in mourning is her niece, I suppose? and a beautiful
creature she is.... But how comes she to be in such deep mourning, when
that of her aunt is so slight?"

Had the simple Elizabeth understood the principle of vicarial mourning
upon which these habiliments had been transferred from the widow to her
niece, she would doubtless, from the talkative frankness of her nature,
have disclosed it; but as her confidential conversation with her new
relative had left her ignorant of this, she answered, with rather a
confused recollection of Mrs. Barnaby's explanation, "I believe it is
because she wears it out of romantic sorrow for her own papa, though he
has been dead for years and years."

"Will you ask your brother, Miss Peters, to introduce me to Mrs.
Barnaby?"

"Certainly, Major Allen, if you wish it.... James," added the young
lady, stretching out her fan to draw his attention from Agnes, with whom
he was talking, "James, step here ... Major Allen wishes you to
introduce him to Mrs. Barnaby."

The Major rose at the moment, and strengthened the request by adding,
"Will you do me that honour, Mr. Peters?"

The young man bowed slightly, and without answering moved to the front
of the happy widow, followed by the obsequious Major, and said, "Major
Allen wishes to be introduced to you, Mrs. Barnaby.... Major Allen, Mrs.
Barnaby."

It was not without an effort that this consummation of her dearest hopes
was received with some tolerable appearance of external composure by the
lady; but she felt that the moment was an important one, and called up
all her energy to support her under it. Perhaps she blushed, but that,
for obvious reasons, was not perceptible; but she cast down her eyes
upon her fan, and then raised them again to the face of the bending
Major with a look that really said a great deal.

The established questions and answers in use on such occasions were
going on with great zeal and animation on both sides, when a fresh
source of gratification presented itself to the widow in the approach of
Mr. Frederick Stephenson to Agnes, in a manner as flatteringly decided
as that of the Major to herself; but, being quite a stranger to the
Peters family, he was preceded by the master of the ceremonies, who
whispered his name and family to Mrs. Peters, asking permission to
present him to the young lady in mourning, who appeared to be of her
party.

This was of course readily accorded; when the introduction took place,
and was followed by a petition from the young man for the honour of
dancing with her.

Agnes looked a vast deal more beautiful than he had ever dared to
believe possible through her veil as she answered, "I am engaged."

"Then the next?" said Mr. Stephenson eagerly.

Agnes bowed her blushing assent, and the young man continued to stand
before her, going through pretty nearly the same process as the Major.

This lasted till the quadrilles began to form, when James Peters claimed
her hand for the dance.

Two of the Miss Peters soon followed, when Major Allen said, "As the
young ladies are forsaking you, madam, may you not be induced to make a
party at whist?"

"I should have no objection whatever, Major," replied Mrs. Barnaby,
"provided there was room at a table where they did not play high."

"Of course, if I have the honour of making a table for you, my dear
madam, the stakes will be of your own naming.... Will you permit me to
go and see what can be done?"

"You are excessively kind.... I shall be greatly obliged."

The active Mars departed instantly, with a step, if not as light, at
least as zealous in its speed, as that of Mercury when bent upon one of
his most roguish errands, and in a wonderfully short space of time he
returned with the intelligence that a table was waiting for her. He then
presented his arm, which she took with condescending dignity, and led
her off.

    "Ah! sure a pair were never seen,
    So justly formed to meet by nature!"

exclaimed Mrs. Peters to Lucy, as they walked away; and greatly
relieved, she rose and taking her daughter by the arm, joined a party of
her friends in a more busy part of the room.

Meanwhile the quadrilles proceeded, and Agnes, notwithstanding the
heart-beating shyness inevitably attending a first appearance, did not
lose her look of sweet composure, or her graceful ease. James Peters was
an attentive and encouraging partner, and she would probably soon have
forgotten that this was the first time she had ever danced, except at
school, had she not, when the dance was about half over, perceived
herself to be an object of more attention to one of the standers-by than
any girl, so very new, can be conscious of, without embarrassment. The
eyes which thus annoyed her were those of Colonel Hubert. His remarkable
height made him conspicuous among the throng, which was rendered more
dense than usual by a wish, every moment increasing, to look at the
"beautiful girl in deep mourning;" and perhaps her happening to know
who he was, made her fancy that it was more embarrassing to be looked at
by him than by any one else. The annoyance, however, did not last long,
for he disappeared.

Colonel Hubert left the place where he had stood, and the study in which
he had certainly found some interest, for the purpose of looking for his
friend Stephenson. He found him in the doorway.

"Frederick, I want you," said the Colonel. "Come with me, my good
fellow, and I will prove to you that, notwithstanding my age and
infirmities, I still retain my faculties sufficiently to find out what
is truly and really lovely as ably as yourself. Come on, suffer yourself
to be led, and I will show you what I call a beautiful girl."

Stephenson quietly suffered himself to be led captive, and half a dozen
paces placed him immediately opposite to Agnes Willoughby.

"Look at that girl," said Colonel Hubert in a whisper, "and tell me what
you think of her."

"The angel in black?"

"Yes, Frederick."

"This is glorious, by Heaven!... Why, Hubert, it is my own black angel!"

"You do not mean to tell me that the girl we saw with that horribly
vulgar woman, and this epitome of all elegance, are the same?"

"But, upon my soul, I do, sir.... And now what do you say to the
advantage of being able to see through a thick veil?"

"I cannot believe it, Stephenson," ... replied Colonel Hubert, again
fixing his eyes in an earnest gaze upon Agnes.

"Then die in your unbelief, and much good may it do you. Why, I have
been introduced to her, man ... her name is Willoughby, and I am to
dance the next quadrille with her."

"If this be so ... peccavi!..." said the Colonel, turning abruptly
away.

"I think so," replied his friend following, and relinquishing even the
pleasure of looking at Agnes for that of enjoying his triumph over
Hubert. "Won't this make a good story?... And don't you think, Colonel,
that for a few years longer, at least, it may be as well to postpone
the adoption of your lady aunt's system, and when you see two females
together, look at both, to ascertain whether one of them may not be the
loveliest creature in the universe, before you give up your whole soul
to the amiable occupation of quizzing the other?"

"You think this is a very good jest, Frederick ... but to me, I assure
you, it seems very much the contrary."

"Because it is so melancholy for a man of five-and-thirty to lose his
eye-sight?"

"Because, Stephenson, it is so melancholy to know that such a being as
that fair girl is in the hands of a woman whose appearance speaks her to
be so utterly vulgar, to say the very least of it."

"Take care, my venerable philosopher, that you do not blunder about the
old lady as egregiously as you before did about the young one. When I
got the master of the ceremonies to perform for me the precious service
of an introduction, I inquired about the party that she and the
furbelow aunt were with, and learned that they were among the most
respectable resident inhabitants of Clifton."

"I am heartily glad of it, Frederick ... and yet, if their party
consisted of the noblest in the land, I should still feel this _aunt_ to
be a greater spot upon her beauty than any wart or mole that ever
disfigured a fair cheek ... at least, it would, I think, be quite
sufficient to keep my heart safe, if I thought this uncommon-looking
creature still more beautiful than I do ... which, I confess, would not
be easy."

"I wish your heart joy of its security," returned Stephenson. "And now
be off, and leave me to my happiness; for see, the set breaks up, and I
may follow her to her place, and again present myself.... Come, tell me
honestly, do you not envy me?"

"I never dance, you know."

"So much the worse for you, _mon cher_," and the gay young man turned
off, to follow the way that he saw Agnes lead. This was to the quarter
where she had left her aunt and Mrs. Peters, but she found neither.

"Don't be frightened," said her good-natured partner; "we shall find my
mother in a moment."... And when they did find her, she received Agnes
with a smiling welcome, which contrasted pretty strongly with the
stately and almost forbidding aspect with which she ever regarded Mrs.
Barnaby.

Young Stephenson saw this reception, and saw also the _empressement_
with which the pretty, elegant Mary Peters seemed to cling to her. More
than ever persuaded that he was right, and his friend wrong, he suddenly
determined on a measure that he thought might ensure a more permanent
acquaintance than merely being a partner of a dance; and before
presenting himself to claim her hand, he again addressed the master of
the ceremonies with a request that he would present him to Mrs. Peters.

That obliging functionary made not the least objection; indeed he knew
that there was not a lady in the room, either young or old, who would
not thank him for an introduction to Sir Edward Stephenson's handsome
brother, himself a Cornet in the Blues, and the inheritor of his
mother's noble estate in Worcestershire, which made him considerably a
richer man than his elder brother. All this was known to everybody, for
the beautiful Miss Hubert and her lover Sir Edward had been for a week
or two the lions of Clifton; and though they had mixed very little in
its society, there was nobody who could be considered as anybody, who
would not have been well pleased at making the acquaintance of Frederick
Stephenson. The young man, too, knew well how to make the most of the
ten minutes that preceded the second dance; and Mrs. Peters smiled to
think, as she watched him leading Agnes to join the set, how justly her
keeping faith had been rewarded by this introduction of the most
_desire_ partner in the room.

       *       *       *       *       *

Meanwhile Mrs. Barnaby was led to the card-room by Major Allen; but he
led her slowly, and more than once found himself obliged to stop for a
minute or two, that she might not be incommoded by pressing too quickly
through the crowd. And thus it was they talked, as they gently won their
way.

"And what may be the stake Mrs. Barnaby permits herself?" said the
Major, bending forward to look into the widow's eyes.

"Very low, I assure you, Major!" replied the lady, with a wave of the
head that sent her plumes to brush the hirsute magnificence of his face.

"Shorts and crown points, perhaps," rejoined the Major, agreeably
refreshed by the delicate fanning he had received.

"Oh fie! Major ... how can you suspect me of such extravagance?... No,
believe me, I know too well how to use the blessings of wealth, to abuse
them by playing so high as that ... but I believe gentlemen think that
nothing?"

"Why no, my dear madam, I cannot say that men ... that is, men of a
certain fashion and fortune, think much of crown points.... For my own
part, I detest gambling, though I love whist, and never care how low I
play ... though occasionally, when I get into a certain set, I am
obliged to give way a little ... but I never exceed five pound points,
and twenty on the rubber; and that you know, unless the cards run
extravagantly high, cannot amount to anything very alarming ...
especially as I play tolerably well, and, in fact, never play so high if
I can help it...."

"But, Major," said the lady, stopping short in their progress, "I really
am afraid that I must decline playing at your table ... the amount of
what I could lose might not perhaps be a great object to me, any more
than to you ... but it is a matter of principle with me, and when that
is the case I never swerve ... so take me back again, will you, to my
sister Peters and my party."

This was said with a sort of clinging helplessness, and delicate
timidity, that was very touching.

"Good heavens!" exclaimed the Major with great animation, "how very
little you know me!... I would take you, charming Mrs. Barnaby, to the
world's end, if you would consent to go with me; ... but think not that
I would sit down at one table, though I might sweep from it stakes
amounting to thousands, when I could play with you for straws at
another!"

Remember, reader, that she to whom this was said had been Miss Martha
Compton of Silverton but six short years before, and then judge with
what feelings she listened to it. They were such, that for a moment no
power of speech was left to her ... but she abandoned her purpose of
retreat; and when at length they stood before the table at which two
sporting-looking gentlemen were waiting to receive them, she gently
seated herself, murmuring at the same time in the Major's ear, "Not
higher than half-crowns, if you please."

He pressed her hand as he resigned the arm with which she had favoured
him, and as he did so replied, "Depend upon me."

Before the arrangements for playing were finally settled, the friendly
Major Allen took the two gentlemen a pace or two apart, and communicated
in a few words what brought them back to the table, perfectly contented
with the half-crown, and gallantly anxious to have the honour of cutting
highest, that they might have the happiness of winning the lady as a
partner, if they won nothing else.

But this happiness fell to the Major, as well as most others during the
three or four rubbers that followed; for he and his fair partner played
with great luck, which helped to produce between them that amicable
state of spirits which tends to make every word appear a pleasantry, and
every look a charm.

In the midst of this very agreeable game, in the course of which both
the eyes and the voice of the widow proclaimed how very greatly she
enjoyed it, Colonel Hubert wandered into the room, and having given a
glance at one or two other tables as he passed them, stationed himself
on a sofa, from whence he commanded a full view of that at which Mrs.
Barnaby was engaged. His recent examination of her niece gave him a
feeling of interest in this aunt, that nearly superseded the amusement
he might otherwise have derived from her appearance and manner. That
both were likely to be affected by the intense interest and pleasure she
took in her occupation, as well as in the partner who shared it with
her, may be easily conceived, when it is stated that not even the
entrance of the magnificent Colonel was perceived by her.

Her vivacity, her _enjouement_, became more striking every moment; her
words were full of piquant and agreeable meaning, which her eyes
scrupled not to second; while the Major assumed more and more the air
and manner of a man enchanted and enamoured beyond the power of
concealment. But it was not the spirit of quizzing that sat upon Colonel
Hubert's brow as he contemplated this scene; on the contrary, his fine
countenance spoke first disgust, and then a degree of melancholy that
might have seemed ill befitting the occasion, and in a few minutes he
walked away and re-entered the ball-room.

Whether intentionally or not may be doubted; but he soon again found
himself opposite to the place which Agnes occupied in the quadrille, and
being there, watched her with a degree of attention that seemed equally
made up of curiosity and admiration. "It is strange," thought he, "that
the most repulsive and the most attractive women I ever remember to
have seen, should be so closely linked together."

In a few minutes the quadrille ended, when Mr. Stephenson, who had
danced it with the eldest Miss Peters, said to his friend as he passed
him, "We are now going to tea, and if you will come with us, I will
introduce you."

Colonel Hubert followed almost mechanically, yet not without a feeling
somewhat allied to self-reproach at permitting himself to join the party
of a Mrs. Barnaby.

This obnoxious individual was, however, nearly or rather wholly
forgotten within a very few minutes after the introduction took place.
Mrs. Peters's manners were, as we know, particularly lady-like and
pleasing, her daughters all pretty-looking, and one of them, at least,
singularly animated and agreeable, her son and the other gentlemen of
her party perfectly _comme il faut_, and Agnes ... what was Agnes in the
estimation of the fastidious, high-minded, and high-born Colonel Hubert?
He would have been totally unable to answer this question satisfactorily
himself, nor would it be just that a precise answer to it should be
expected from the historian. This interval of conversation and repose
lasted rather longer than usual; for the whole party (each for some
reason or other of their own) enjoyed it, or at any rate betrayed no
wish to bring it to a conclusion. Had Colonel Hubert, indeed, been told
that he enjoyed it, he would strenuously and sincerely have denied the
statement. He looked at Agnes with wonder and compassion strongly
blended,--he listened to the gay and artless tone of her conversation
with Mary Peters and young Stephenson, without being able to deny that,
whether she had fallen from the stars, or been raised and wholly
educated by that terrible incarnation of all he most detested, her
vulgar aunt, every word she uttered bore the stamp of well-bred
association, right feeling, and bright intelligence ... he allowed all
this, and he allowed too that never, through all the varieties of his
campaigning life, had he seen in any rank, or in any clime, a loveliness
so perfect; yet he almost trembled as he watched the passionate devotion
with which his friend gazed at and listened to her.

Colonel Hubert knew the character of Stephenson well; it was generous,
ardent, and affectionate in the highest degree; but passionate withal,
self-willed, and only amenable to control when it came in the shape of
influence exercised by friendship, unmixed with authority of any kind.

He was just three-and-twenty, and had been in possession of a noble
property from the day he attained the age of twenty-one. Singularly free
from vice of any kind, his friends, in seeing him take the management of
his estates into his own hands, had but one fear for him. It was not
racing, gambling, debauchery, or extravagance, they dreaded: had he
already passed fifty years of sober life exempt from all these, they
would scarcely have felt more secure of his being safe from them; but it
was in the important affair of marriage that they dreaded his
precipitancy. More than once already his distinguished and highly
connected family had been terrified by the idea that some irremediable
misfortune in this respect was about to fall upon them; and earnestly
did they wish that he should speedily form such a connexion as they
could approve, and had a right to expect. Unfortunately this wish had
been too evident; and the idea of being disposed of in marriage by his
brother and sisters had become a bugbear from which the young man shrank
with equal indignation and contempt. The marriage of his elder brother
with Miss Hubert had naturally led to great intimacy between the
families; and of all the acquaintance he had ever made, Colonel Hubert
was the one for whom Frederick Stephenson felt the warmest admiration
and esteem; and certainly he was more proud of the affectionate
partiality that distinguished individual had shewn him than of any other
advantage he possessed. Sir Edward Stephenson observed this, and had
told his betrothed Emma that he drew the best possible augury from it
for his brother's safety. "He is so proud of Montague's friendship,"
said he, "that it must be a most outrageous love-fit which would make
him hazard it by forming a connexion unworthy in any way. So jealously
does he deprecate the interference of his own family on this subject,
that I have long determined never more to let him see how near it is to
my heart ... and I will not even mention the subject to your brother,
lest, _par impossible_, he might ever discover that I had done so; but I
wish you, love, would say a word to him before we leave Clifton.... Tell
him that Frederick has still a great propensity to fall in love at first
sight, and that we shall all bless him everlastingly, if he will
prescribe change of air whenever he may happen to see the fit seize
him."

The fair Emma promised and kept her word; and such was the theme on
which their discourse turned the night before the wedding, when, Sir
Edward being engaged with the lawyer, who had just arrived from London
with the settlements, the brother and sister took that stroll upon the
pavement of Sion Row, which had first exhibited the stately figure of
Colonel Hubert to Mrs. Barnaby's admiration. Little did Agnes think,
when her head was made to obtrude itself through the window upon that
occasion, that her ears caught some words of a conversation destined to
prove so important to her future happiness.

That the "falling in love at first sight" had already taken place,
Colonel Hubert could not doubt, as he watched his enthusiastic friend's
look and manner, while conversing with Agnes, and gravely and
sorrowfully did he ponder on the words of his sister in their last
tete-a-tete.

"Save him, dearest Montague, if you can," said she, "from any folly of
this sort; for I really think Sir Edward would never be happy again if
Frederick formed any disgraceful marriage."

"And a disgraceful marriage it would and must be," thought he; "neither
her surpassing beauty ... nor her modest elegance either, can make it
otherwise."

As if sent by fate to confirm him in this conviction, the widow at this
moment approached the party, leaning on the arm of the Major. Having
finished her fifth rubber, and pocketed her sixteen half-crowns, Major
Allen's two friends pleaded an engagement elsewhere, and Mrs. Barnaby
accepted his offered escort to the tea-table.

A look of happiness is very becoming to many faces, it will often indeed
lend a charm to features that in sorrow can boast of none; but there
are others on which this genial and expansive emotion produces a
different effect, and Mrs. Barnaby was one of them. Her eyes did not
only sparkle, they perfectly glared with triumph and delight. She shook
her curls and her feathers with the vivacity of a Bacchante when tossing
her cymbals in the air; and her joyous laugh and her conscious whisper,
as each in turn attracted attention from all around, were exactly
calculated to produce just such an effect as the luckless Agnes would
have lived in silence and solitude for ever to avoid witnessing.

The _habile_ Major descried the party the instant he entered the room,
and led the lady directly to it. But the table was fully occupied, and
for a moment no one stirred but Agnes, who, pale and positively
trembling with distress, stood up, though without saying a word.

Mrs. Peters coloured, and for a second looked doubtful what to do; but
when she saw Major Allen address himself with the manner of an old
acquaintance to Elizabeth, she rose, and slightly saying, "I am sorry
you are too late for tea, Mrs. Barnaby," moved off, followed, of course,
by her daughters, and the gentlemen attending on them.

"I dare say we shall find a cup that will do ... never mind us....
Agnes, don't you go, but try that pot, will you, at the bottom of the
table; this is as dry as hay."

The Major was immediately on the alert, and seizing on the tea-pot
seized the hand of Agnes with it. Neck, cheeks, and brow were crimson in
an instant; and as she withdrew her hand from his audacious touch, her
eye caught that of Colonel Hubert fixed upon her. Shame, vexation, and
something almost approaching to terror, brought tears into that
beautiful eye, and for a moment the gallant soldier forgot everything in
an ardent longing to seize by the collar and fling from the chamber the
man who had thus dared to offend her. But Frederick Stephenson, who also
saw the action, quitted the side of his partner, contrary to all the
laws of etiquette, and quickly placing himself beside Agnes, bestowed
such a glance on the Major as immediately turned the attention of that
judicious personage to the tea-pot and Mrs. Barnaby.

"You dance with me now, Miss Willoughby," said young Stephenson, which,
as he had enjoyed that honour twice before, he had been too discreet to
hint at till the arrival of the widow and the Major had rendered her
being immediately occupied so particularly desirable. Agnes perfectly
understood his motive, and though her cheeks again tingled as she
remembered how impossible it was for her to run effectually from the
annoyance that so cruelly beset her, she felt touched and grateful for
his kindness; and the smile with which she accepted it, would have
sufficed to subdue the heart of Frederick had an atom of it been
unsubdued before.




CHAPTER III.

MELANCHOLY MEDITATIONS.--AN EVENTFUL WALK.--A PLEASANT BREAKFAST.--A
COMFORTABLE CONVERSATION IN A CLOSET.


The slumbers of Agnes that night were not heavy, for she waked while the
birds were still singing their morning hymn to the sun, which poured its
beams full upon her face through her uncurtained window. She turned
restlessly upon her little bed, and tried to sleep again; but it would
not do; and as she listened to the twittering without, so strong a
desire seized her to leave the narrow boundary of her little closet, and
breathe the air of heaven, that after the hesitation and struggle of a
few moments she yielded, and noiselessly creeping out of bed, and
performing the business of her toilet with the greatest caution,
ventured to open the door communicating with her aunt's chamber, when
she had the great satisfaction of hearing her snore loud enough to mask
any sound she might herself make in passing through the room.

In like manner she successfully made her way down stairs and out of the
house, and her heart beat with something like pleasure as she felt the
sweet morning breeze blow from the downs upon her cheek. She walked
towards the beautiful point on which the windmill stands; but, alas! she
was no longer happy enough to feel that the landscape it commanded could
confer that sort of perfect felicity which she had before thought
belonged to it. She sat down again on the same spot where Mary, Lucy,
James, and herself had sat before, but with how different a feeling! and
yet it wanted one whole day of a week since that time. What new sorrow
was it that weighed thus upon her spirits?... The good-humoured liking
that her new acquaintance then testified towards her, had since ripened
into friendship ... at the ball of the preceding evening she had, in
fashionable phrase, met with the most brilliant success ... she had
danced every dance, and three of them with the partner that every lady
in the room would best have liked to dance with; and yet there was a
feeling of depression at her heart greater than she had ever been
conscious of before. How was this?... Could Agnes herself tell the cause
of it?... Yes, if she had asked herself, she could have answered, and
have answered truly, that it was because she now knew that the better,
the more estimable, the more amiable the society around her might be,
the more earnestly she ought to endeavour to withdraw from it.... This
conviction was enough to make her feel sad, and there was no need to
seek farther in order to discover other sources of sadness, if any such
there were, within her bosom.

And thus she sat, again pulling thyme from the hill-side; but it was no
longer so sweet as before, and she threw it from her, like a child who
has broken its toy, and just reached the sage conviction that its gaudy
colouring was good for nothing. While indulging in this most
unsatisfactory fit of musing, the sound of a horse's feet almost close
behind startled her; but instead of turning her head to see whom it
might be, she started up, and walked onward. The horseman, however, was
perhaps more curious than herself, for he immediately rode past her, nor
scrupled to turn his head as he did so, to ascertain who the early
wanderer might be.

But even before he had done so Agnes knew, by a moment's glance at his
figure as he passed her, that it was Colonel Hubert.

He checked his horse, and touched his hat, and for half an instant Agnes
thought he was going to speak to her: perhaps he thought so too; but if
he did, he changed his mind, for looking about in the distance, as if
reconnoitring his position, he pressed the sides of his horse and
galloped on, a groom presently following.

Agnes breathed more freely. "Thank God, he did not speak to me!" she
exclaimed. "If he had, I should have wanted power to answer him....
Never, no, never can I forget ... were I to see him every day to the end
of my life, I should never forget the expression of his face as my aunt
Barnaby ... and that dreadful man ... walked up the room towards the
tea-table!... no, nor the glance he gave, so full of vexation and
regret, when his kind-hearted, sweet-tempered friend, asked me again to
dance with him!... Proud, disdainful man! I hope and trust that I never
may behold him more!... It is he who first taught me to know and feel
how miserable is the future that awaits me!" This soliloquy, partly
muttered and partly thought, was here interrupted by her once more
hearing the sound of a horse's feet on the turf close behind her.

"He has turned back!" thought she, "though I did not see him pass me.
Oh! if he speaks to me, how shall I answer him!"

But again the horseman rode past, and another rapid glance showed her
that this time it was not Colonel Hubert, nor did she trouble herself to
think whom else it might be; and if she had, the labour would have been
thrown away, for in this case, as before, the rider looked back, and
displayed to her view the features of Major Allen.

He instantly stopped his horse, and jumped to the ground, then
skilfully wheeling the animal round, placed himself between it and the
terrified Agnes, and began walking beside her.

Her first impulse was to stand still, and ask him wherefore he thus
approached her; but when she turned towards him to speak, the expression
of his broad, audacious countenance, struck her with dismay, and she
suddenly turned round, and walked rapidly and in silence back towards
the windmill, and the buildings beyond it.

"Are you afraid of me, my charming young lady?" said the Major with a
chuckle, again wheeling his charger so as to place himself beside
Agnes.... "No reason, upon my soul.... How is your adorable aunt?...
Tell her I inquired for her, and tell her too, upon the honour of an
officer and a gentleman, that I consider her as by far the finest woman
I ever saw.... But why do you run on so swiftly, my pretty little fawn?
Your charming aunt will thank me, I am sure, for not letting you put
yourself in a fever;" and so saying his huge hand grasped the elbow of
Agnes, and he held her forcibly back.

A feeling of terror, greater than the occasion called for perhaps,
induced Agnes to utter a cry at again feeling this hateful gripe, which
seemed as if by magic to bring her relief, for at the same moment
Colonel Hubert was on the other side of her. Agnes looked up in his face
with an undisguised expression of delight, and on his offering his arm
she took it instantly, but without either of them having uttered a word.

There was something in the arrangement of the trio that Major Allen did
not appear to approve, for having taken about three steps in advance, he
suddenly stopped, and saying in a sort of blustering mutter, "You will
be pleased to give my best compliments to your aunt," he sprung upon his
horse so heedlessly as to render it probable both lady and gentleman
might get a kick from the animal, and making it bound forward, darted
off across the down.

Agnes gently withdrew her arm, and said, but in a voice not over steady,
"Indeed, sir, I am very much obliged to you!"

"I am glad to have been near you, Miss Willoughby, when that very
insolent person addressed you," said Colonel Hubert, but without making
any second offer of his arm. And a moment after he added, "Excuse me for
telling you that you are imprudent in walking thus early and alone.
Though Clifton on this side appears a rural sort of residence, it is not
without some of the disagreeable features of a watering-place."

"I have lived always in the country.... I had no idea there was any
danger," ... said Agnes, shocked to think how much her own childish
imprudence must have strengthened Colonel Hubert's worst opinion of her
and her connexions.

"Nor is there, perhaps, any actual danger," replied the Colonel; "but
there are many things that may not exactly warrant that name, which
nevertheless...."

"Would be very improper for me!... Oh! it was great ignorance--great
folly!" interrupted Agnes eagerly; "and never, never again will I put
myself in need of such kindness."

"Has your aunt always lived with you in the country?" was a question
which Colonel Hubert felt greatly disposed to ask, but, instead of it,
he said, turning down from the windmill hill, "You reside at Rodney
Place, I believe, and, if I mistake not, this is the way."

"No, sir ... we lodge in Sion Row.... It is here, close by.... Do not
let me delay your ride any more.... I am very much obliged to you;" ...
and without waiting for an answer, Agnes stepped rapidly down the steep
side of the hill, and was half-way towards Sion Row before the Colonel
felt quite sure of what he had intended to say in return.

"But it is no matter.... She is gone," thought he, and taking his reins
from the hand of his groom, he remounted, and resumed his morning ride.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. Barnaby had not quitted her bed when Agnes returned; but she was
awake, and hearing some one enter the drawing-room, called out, "Who's
there?"

"It is I, aunt," said Agnes, opening the door with flushed cheeks and
out of breath, partly, perhaps, from the agitation occasioned by her
adventure, and partly from the speed with which she had walked from the
windmill home.

"And where on earth have you been already, child? Mercy on me, what a
colour you have got!... The ball has done you good as well as me, I
think. There, get in and take your things off, and then come back and
talk to me while I dress myself."

Agnes went into her little room and shut the door. She really was very
much afraid of her aunt, and in general obeyed her commands with the
prompt obedience of a child who fears to be scolded if he make a
moment's delay. But at this moment a feeling stronger than fear kept her
within the blessed sanctuary of her solitary closet. She seemed gasping
for want of air ... her aunt's room felt close after coming from the
fresh breeze of the hill, and it was, therefore, as Agnes thought, that
the sitting down alone beside her own open window seemed a luxury for
which it was worth while to risk the sharpest reprimand that ever aunt
gave.... But why, while she enjoyed it, did big tears chase each other
down her cheeks?

Whatever the cause, the effect was salutary. She became composed, she
recovered her breath, and her complexion faded to its usual delicate
tint, or perhaps to a shade paler; and then she began to think that
it was not wise to do anything for which she knew she should be
reproached ... if she could help it ... and now she could help it; so
she smoothed her chestnut tresses, bathed her eyes in water, and giving
one deep sigh at leaving her own side of the door for that which
belonged to her aunt, she came forth determined to bear very patiently
whatever might be said to her.

Fortunately for Agnes Mrs. Barnaby had just approached that critical
moment of her toilet business, when it was her especial will and
pleasure to be alone; so, merely saying in a snappish accent, "What in
the world have you been about so long?" she added, "Now get along into
the drawing-room, and take care that the toast and my muffin are ready
for me, and kept hot before the fire;--it's almost too hot for fire, but
I must have my breakfast warm and comfortable, and we can let it out
afterwards."

Agnes most joyfully obeyed. It was a great relief, and she was meekly
thankful for it; but she very nearly forgot the muffins and the toast,
for the windows of the room were open, and looked out upon the windmill
and the down, a view so pleasant that it was several minutes before she
recollected the duties she had to perform. At last, however, she did
recollect them, and made such good use of the time that remained, that
when her aunt entered bright in carmine and lilac ribbons, everything
was as it should be; and she had only to sit and listen to her ecstatic
encomiums on the ball, warm each successive piece of muffin at the end
of a fork, and answer properly to the ten times repeated question,--

"Hav'n't you got a good aunt, Agnes, to take you to such a ball as
that?"

At length, however, the tedious meal was ended, and Mrs. Barnaby busied
herself considerably more than usual in setting the little apartment in
order. She made Jerningham carefully brush away the crumbs--a ceremony
sometimes neglected--set out her own best pink-lined work-box in state,
placed the table agreeably at one of the windows, with two or three
chairs round it, and then told Agnes, that if she had any of her
lesson-book work to do, she might sit in her own room, for she did not
want her.

Gladly was the mandate obeyed, and willingly did she aid Betty Jacks in
putting her tiny premises in order, for she was not without hope that
her friend Mary would pay her a visit there to talk over the events of
the evening; an occupation for which, to say the truth, she felt
considerably more inclined than for any "lesson-book work" whatever.

Nor was she disappointed ... hardly did she feel ready to receive her
before her friend arrived.

"And well, Carina, how fares it with you to-day? Do you not feel almost
too big for your little room after all the triumphs of last night?" was
the gay address of Miss Peters as she seated herself upon one of Agnes's
boxes. But it was not answered in the same tone; nay, there was much of
reproof as well as sadness in the accent with which Agnes uttered,--

"Triumphs!... Oh! Mary, what a word!"

"You are the only one, I believe, who would quarrel with it. Did ever a
little country girl under seventeen make a more successful debut?"

"Did ever country girl of any age have more reason to feel that she
never ought to make any debut at all?"

"My poor Agnes!..." said Miss Peters more gravely, "it will not do for
you to feel so deeply the follies that may, and, I fear, ever will be
committed by _your_ aunt and _my_ aunt Barnaby.... It is a sad, vexing
business, beyond all doubt, that you should have to go into company with
a woman determined to make herself so outrageously absurd; but it is not
fair to remember that, and nothing else ... you should at least
recollect also that the most distinguished man in the room paid you the
compliment of joining your party at tea."

"Paid _me_ the compliment!... Oh! Mary."

"And oh! Agnes, can you pretend to doubt that it was in compliment to
you?... And in compliment to whom was it that he danced with you?"

"He never danced with me, Mary," said Agnes, colouring.

"My dear child, what are you talking about? Why, he danced with you
three times."

"Oh yes ... Mr. Stephenson ... he is indeed the kindest, most
obliging...."

"And the handsomest partner that you ever danced with.... Is it not so?"

"That may easily be, Mary, if by partner you mean a gentleman partner,
for I never danced with any till last night; and it is only saying that
he is handsomer than your brother and Mr. Osborne, and I think he is."

"And I think so too, therefore on that point we shall not quarrel. But
tell me, how did you like the ball altogether?... Did it please you?...
Were you amused?... Shall you be longing to go to another?"

"Let me answer your last question first.... I hope _never, never,
never_ again to go to a ball with my aunt Barnaby.... But had it not
been for the pain, the shame, the agony she caused me, I should have
liked it very much indeed ... particularly the tea-time, Mary.... How
pleasant it was before she came with that horrid, horrid man! Shall you
ever forget the sight as they came up the room towards us?... Oh! how he
looked at her!"

Agnes shuddered, and pressed her hands to her eyes, as if to shut out an
object that she still saw.

"It was tremendous," replied her friend: "but don't worry yourself by
thinking Mr. Stephenson looked at her just then, for he really did not.
You know he was sitting at the corner of the table by me, and his back
was turned to her, thank heaven!... But I will tell you who did look at
her, if Stephenson did not ... that magnificent-looking Colonel stared
as if he had seen an apparition; but I did not mind that half so much,
nor you either, I suppose.... An old soldier like him must be used to
such a variety of quizzes, that nobody, I imagine, can appear so
preposterous to him as they might do to his young friend.... By the by,
I think he is a very fine-looking man for his age; don't you?"

"Who?" said Agnes innocently.

"Why, Colonel Hubert.... His sister, who is just married to Sir Edward
Stephenson, is nearly twenty years younger than he is, they say."

"Twenty years?" said Agnes.

"Yes.... Must it not be strange to see them together as brother and
sister?... he must seem so much more like her father."

"Her father!" said Agnes.

"Yes, I should think so. But you do not talk half as much about the ball
as I expected, Agnes: I think you were disappointed, and yet I do not
know how that could be. You dance beautifully, and seem very fond of it;
you had the best partners in the room, danced every dance, and were
declared on all sides to be the _belle par excellence_,... and yet you
do not seem to have enjoyed it."

"Oh! I did enjoy it all the time that she was out of the room playing
cards; I enjoyed it very, _very_ much indeed ... so much that I am
surprised at myself to feel how soon all my painful shyness was
forgotten.... But ... after all, Mary, though you call her _your_ aunt
Barnaby, as if to comfort me by sharing my sufferings, she is not really
your aunt, and still less is she your sole protector ... still less is
she the being on whom you depend for your daily bread. Alas! my dear
Mary, is there not more cause for surprise in my having enjoyed the ball
so much, than in my not having enjoyed it more?"

"My poor Agnes, this is sad indeed," said Mary, all her gaiety vanishing
at once, "for it is true. Do not think me indifferent to your most just
sorrow.... Would to Heaven I could do anything effectually to alleviate
it! But while you are here, at least, endeavour to think more of us, and
less of her. Wherever you are known, you will be respected for your own
sake; and that is worth all other respect, depend upon it. When you
leave us, indeed, I shall be very anxious for you. Tell me, dear Agnes,
something more about your aunt Compton. Is it quite impossible that you
should be placed under her protection?"

"Oh yes!... She would not hear of it. She paid for my education, and all
my other expenses, during five years; and my aunt Barnaby says, that
when she undertook to do this, she expressly said that it was all she
could ever do for me. They say that she has ruined her little fortune
by lavish and indiscriminate charity to the poor, and aunt Barnaby says
that she believes she has hardly enough left to keep herself alive. But
I sometimes think, Mary, that I could be very happy if she would let me
work for her, and help her, and perhaps give lessons in Silverton.... I
know some things already well enough, perhaps, to teach in such a remote
place as that, when better masters cannot be procured; and I should be
so happy in doing this ... if aunt Compton would but let me live with
her."

"Then why do you not tell her so, Agnes?"

"Because the last--the only time I have seen her for years, though she
kissed and embraced me for a moment, she pushed me from her afterwards,
and said I was only more artful than aunt Barnaby, and that I should
never be either graced or disgraced by her ... those were her words, I
shall never forget them ... and she has the reputation of being
immoveably obstinate in her resolves."

"That does not look very promising, I must confess. But wisdom tells us
that the possibility of future sorrow should never prevent our enjoying
present happiness. Now, I do think, dear Agnes, that just now you may
enjoy yourself, if you like us as well as we like you,... for we are all
determined to endure aunt Barnaby for your sake, and in return you must
resolve to be happy in spite of her for ours. And now adieu!... I want
to have some talk with mamma this morning; but I dare say you will hear
from me, or see me again, before the end of the day. Farewell!..." And
Miss Peters made a quiet exit from the closet and from the house; for
she had heard voices in the drawing-room as she came up the stairs, and
now heard voices in the drawing-room as she went down; and having
business in her head upon which she was exceedingly intent, she was
anxious to avoid being seen or heard by Mrs. Barnaby, lest she should be
detained.




CHAPTER IV.

A TETE-A-TETE IN A DRAWING-ROOM.--AUTOBIOGRAPHY.--A REMARKABLE DISCOVERY
CONCERNING THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.


The voices which alarmed Miss Peters were those of Mrs. Barnaby and
Major Allen. The acquaintance between them had gone quite far enough on
the preceding evening to justify the gentleman's _aimable empressement_
to inquire for the lady's health; besides, he was somewhat curious to
know if the pretty, skittish young creature he had encountered in his
morning's ride, had recounted the adventure to her aunt. It was his
private opinion that she had not; and if so, he should know what to
think of the sudden appearance and protecting demeanour of her tall
friend. It was thus he reasoned as he walked towards Sion Row as soon
as he had finished his breakfast; and yet, though he had lost so little
time, he did not arrive till at least three minutes after the widow had
begun to expect him.

"I need not ask my charming Mrs. Barnaby how she rested after her
ball ... eyes do not sparkle thus, unless they have been blessed with
sleep;" ... and the lady's hand was taken, bowed upon, and the tips of
her fingers kissed, before she had quite recovered the soft
embarrassment his entrance had occasioned.

"You are very kind to call upon me, Major Allen.... Do sit down.... I
live as yet comparatively in great retirement; for during Mr. Barnaby's
lifetime we saw an immense deal of company,--that old-fashioned sort of
country visiting, you know, that never leaves one's house empty.... I
could not stand it when I was left alone ... and that was the reason I
left my beautiful place."

"Siverton or Silverton Park, was it not?... I think I have heard of it."

"Yes, Silverton.... And do you know, Major, that the remembrance of all
that racket and gaiety was so oppressive to my nerves during the first
months of my widowhood, that I threw off everything that reminded me of
it ... sold my carriages and horses, let my place, turned off all my
servants; and positively, when I set off for this place in order to see
my sister Peters and her family, I knew not if I should ever have
strength or spirits to enter into general society again."

"Thank God, dearest madam, that you have made the effort!... Though the
hardened and war-worn nature of man cannot melt with all the softness of
yours, there is yet within us a chord that may be made to vibrate in
sympathy when words of true feeling reach it! How well I understood your
feelings ... and how difficult it is not to envy, even in death, the
being who has left such a remembrance behind!... But we must not dwell
on this.... Tell me, dear Mrs. Barnaby, tell,--as to a friend who
understands and appreciates you,--do you regret the having left your
elegant retirement?... or do you feel, as I trust you do, that
Providence has not gifted you so singularly for nothing?... do you feel
that your fellow-creatures have a claim upon you, and that it ought not
to be in secret and in solitude that the hours of such a being should be
spent? Tell me, do you feel this?"

"Alas! Major Allen, there is so much weakness in the heart of a woman,
that she is hardly sure for many days together how she ought to feel....
We are all impulse, all soul, all sentiment, ... and our destiny must
ever depend upon the friends we meet in our passage through this thorny
world!"

"Beautiful idea!... Where is the poet that has more sweetly painted the
female heart?... And what a study it offers when such a heart is thrown
open to one! Good God! to see a creature so formed for enjoyment,--so
beaming with innocent cheerfulness,--so rich in the power of conferring
happiness wherever she deigns to smile, ... to see such a being turn
weeping and alone from her hospitable halls, and from all the pomp and
splendour that others cling to ... what a spectacle! Have you no
lingering regret, dearest lady, for having left your charming mansion?"

"Perhaps there are moments ... or rather, I should say, perhaps there
have been moments, when something of the kind has crossed me. But if I
had not disposed of my place, I should never have seen Clifton.... My
spirits wanted the change, and I feel already better in this delightful
air. But I confess I do regret having sold my beautiful greys, ... I
shall never meet any I like so well again."

"A set, were they?"

"Oh yes."

"Four greys ... and all well matched?"

"Perfectly.... Poor Mr. Barnaby took so much pains about it.... It was
his delight to please me.... I ought not to have sold them."

"It was a pity," ... said the kind Major with a sigh.

"Don't talk about it, Major Allen!..." and here one of the widow's most
curiously embroidered pocket-handkerchiefs, delightfully scented with
musk, was lightly and carefully applied to her eyes.

"Nay," said the Major, venturing gently to withdraw it, "you must not
yield to this dangerous softness.... I cannot bear to have those eyes
concealed!... it produces the chilling sensation of an eclipse at
noon-day.... I shall run away from you if you will not look at me."

"No, do not," ... said the widow, making an effort to smile, which was
rewarded by a look of gratitude, and a seemingly involuntary kiss
bestowed upon the hand that had withdrawn the envious handkerchief.

"And that pretty little girl, your niece, Mrs. Barnaby," ... said the
Major, as if considerately changing the conversation; "how is she this
morning?"

"Oh! quite well, poor child, and in my dressing-room, going over her
Italian and French lessons before she does them with me."

"Good Heaven!... Is it possible that you devote yourself thus?... Take
care, charming Mrs. Barnaby ... take care that you do not permit your
affectionate nature to form an attachment to that young person which may
destroy all your future prospects in life!... At your age, and with your
exquisite beauty, you ought to be looking forward to the renewal of
the tender tie that has already made your happiness;... And who is
there ... pardon me if I speak boldly ... who is there who would venture
to give his whole heart, his soul, his entire existence to one who has
no heart to give in return? Think you, Mrs. Barnaby, that it can be in
the power of any niece in the world to atone to a woman of your
exquisite sensibility for the loss of that ardent affection which can
only exist between a husband and wife?... Tell me, do you believe this?"

"It is a question," replied the widow, casting her eyes upon the ground,
"that I have never asked myself."

"Then neglect it no longer.... For God's sake--for the sake of your
future happiness, which must be so inexpressibly dear to all who know
you ... all who appreciate you justly ... for the sake of the young girl
herself, do not involve yourself by undertaking the duties of a mother
towards one who from her age could never have stood to you in the
relation of a child."

"Alas! no," ... said Mrs. Barnaby; "I lost my only babe a few weeks
before its father.... Had it lived, it would this spring have been three
years old!... You say true ... the age of Agnes must ever prevent my
feeling for her as a child of my own.... My poor sister was indeed so
much older than myself, that I always rather looked upon her as an aunt,
or as a mother, than as my sister."

"Of course you must have done so; and, interesting and inexpressibly
touching as it is to witness your beautiful tenderness towards her
child, it is impossible not to feel that this tenderness carried too far
will inevitably destroy the future happiness of your life. Forgive, I
implore you, a frankness that can only proceed from my deep interest in
your welfare.... Is this young person entirely dependent upon you?"

"At this moment she is; but she will be provided for at the death of her
great-aunt, Mrs. Elizabeth Compton of Compton Basett; ... and to say the
truth, Major Allen, as you so kindly interest yourself in what concerns
me, I neither do nor ever shall consider myself bound to retain Agnes
Willoughby in my family, under any circumstances that should render her
being so inconvenient."

"I delight in receiving such an assurance ... dear, excellent Mrs.
Barnaby!... What a heart!... what an understanding!... what beauty!...
what unequalled sweetness! No wonder the late Mr. Barnaby delighted, as
you say, to please you! 'Lives there the man,' as the immortal Byron
says--'Lives there the man with soul so dead,' as to be capable of doing
otherwise?... But to return to the subject of this poor little girl ...
she might be termed pretty, perhaps, in any society but yours.... Tell
me, is this Mrs. Compton, of Compton Basett, wealthy?... Is she also a
relation of yours?"

"Yes, she is immensely wealthy.... It is a magnificent estate. She is a
maiden sister of my father's."

"Then Miss Willoughby will eventually be a great fortune.... How old is
your aunt?"

"My aunt is near sixty, I believe, ... but the provision intended for
Agnes is only sufficient to maintain her like a gentlewoman. The bulk of
the property is settled on me and my heirs."

"I fear you will think me an unseasonable visitor," said the
fully-satisfied Major, rising, "and I will go now, lest you should
refuse to admit me again."

"Do not go yet," ... said the gentle widow, playfully refusing the hand
extended to take leave. "What in the world now have you got to do, that
should prevent your bestowing a little more time on me?"

"It would be difficult, Mrs. Barnaby," said the Major with an eloquent
look, "to find any occupation sufficiently attractive to take me from
you, so long as I dared flatter myself that it was your wish I should
remain."

"Well, then ... sit down again, Major Allen ... for do you know, I want
you to tell me all about yourself.... Where have you served?--what
dangers have you passed through? You have no idea how much interest I
should take in listening to the history of your past life."

"My sweet friend!... Never should I have entered upon such a subject
unbidden ... yet with such an auditor, how dear will the privilege
become of talking of myself!... But you must check me, if I push your
gentle patience too far. Tell me when you are weary of me ... or of my
little narrative."

"I will, I will ... depend upon it, ... only do not stop till I do,
Major."

"Adorable sweetness!... Thus, then, I am to be my own biographer, and to
a listener whose opinion would, in my estimation, outweigh that of all
the congregated world, if placed in judgment on my actions. It is
probable, my charming friend, that my name as Ensign Allen may not be
totally unknown to you.... It was while I still held that humble rank,
that I was first fortunate enough to distinguish myself. In an affair of
some importance in the Peninsula, I turned what might have been a very
disastrous defeat into a most complete victory, and was immediately
promoted to a company. Shortly after this I chanced to shew the same
sort of spirit, which was, I believe, born with me, in a transaction
nowise professional, but which, nevertheless, made me favourably
mentioned, and certainly contributed to bring me into the rather general
notice with which Europe at present honours me.... Yet it was merely an
affair with a party of brigands, in which I put seven fellows _hors de
combat_, and thereby enabled that celebrated grandee, the Duke
d'Almafonte d'Aragona d'Astrada, to escape, together with his beautiful
daughter, and all their jewels. The service might have been, I own, of
considerable importance to them, but the gratitude it produced in the
minds of both father and daughter, greatly exceeded what was called
for ... he offered me ... so widely separated as we now are, there can
be no indelicacy in my confiding the circumstance to you, my dear Mrs.
Barnaby, but ... the fact is, he offered me his only daughter in
marriage, with an immense fortune. But, alas! how capricious is the
human will!... my hour, my dear friend, was not yet come.... I felt,
beautiful as Isabella d'Almafonte was accounted by all the world, that I
could not give her my heart, and I performed the painful duty of
refusing her hand. Nothing, however, could be more noble than the
subsequent conduct of the duke, ... at the first painful moment he only
said ... 'Captain Allen, we must submit' ... of course he said it in
Spanish, but it would look like affectation, in such a narrative as
this, were I not to translate it ... 'Capitano Alleno, bisogno
submittajo nos,' were his words.... I am sure I shall never forget them,
for they touched me to the very heart.... I could not speak, my feelings
choked me, and I left his palace in silence. Five years had elapsed, and
I had perhaps too nearly forgotten the lovely but unfortunate Isabella
d'Almafonte, when I received a packet from a notary of Madrid, informing
me that her illustrious father was dead, and had gratefully bequeathed
me a legacy, amounting in English money to thirty thousand pounds
sterling. I was by that time already in possession of the estates of my
ancestors, and such a sum might have appeared a very useless bagatelle,
had not an accident rendered it at that time of really important
convenience."

"Good heaven! how interesting!" exclaimed Mrs. Barnaby. "And what, dear
Major, became of the unfortunate Isabella?"

"She took the veil, Mrs. Barnaby, in the convent de Los Ceurores
Dolentes, within a few months of her noble father's death.... Before
this event she had not the power of disposing of herself as she
wished; ... but her excellent father never tortured her by the proposal
of any other marriage...."

"Admirable man!" cried Mrs. Barnaby, greatly touched. "Dear Major
Allen!" she added, in a voice that seemed to deprecate opposition, "you
must, indeed you must, do me an immense favour. When Mrs. Peters took me
to Bristol in her coach the other day, I bought myself this album; it
has got nothing in it as yet but my own name; now, if you do not wish to
break my heart, you must write the name of Isabella d'Almafonte in this
first page ... it will be an autograph inexpressibly interesting!"

The Major took the book and the pen that were offered by the two hands
of Mrs. Barnaby, and said with a profound sigh,--

"Break your heart!... I should never have broken the heart of any woman,
if what she asked had been seconded by such eyes as those!"

A silence of some moments followed, a part of which was employed by the
Major in writing the name of Isabella d'Almafonte, and a part in gazing
on the downcast lids of the admired eyes opposite to him; but this too
trying interval ended at length by the lady's recovering herself enough
to say, "And that accident, Major Allen, that made the duke's little
legacy convenient to you?... what was it?... Do not have any reserve
with one whom you have honoured by the name of friend!"

"Reserve to you!... never!... While you continue to admit me to
your presence, all reserve on my part must be impossible. The
accident was this, my friend; and I am not sorry to name it, as it
gives me an opportunity of alluding to a subject that I would rather
you heard mentioned by me than by any other. After the battle of
Waterloo--(concerning which, by the by, I should like to tell you an
anecdote)--after the battle of Waterloo, I became, in common with nearly
all the officers of the army, an idle man; and like too many others, I
was tempted to seek a substitute for the excitement produced by the
military ardour in which I had lived, by indulging in the pernicious
agitations of the gaming-table. It is very likely, that if you speak of
me in general society, you will be told that I have played high.... My
dear Mrs. Barnaby, this is true. My large fortune gave me, as I
foolishly imagined, a sort of right to play high if it amused me, and
for a little while, I confess, it did amuse me; ... but I soon found
that a gentleman was no match for those who made gambling a profession,
and I lost largely,--so largely, indeed, that I must have saddled my
acres with a mortgage, had not the legacy of the Duke d'Almafonte
d'Aragona d'Estrada reached me just in time to prevent the necessity."

"I rejoice to hear it," replied the widow kindly; "and you have never
hazarded so largely since, dear Major, have you?"

"Oh! never.... In fact, I never enter a room now where anything like
high play is going on.... I cannot bear even to see it, and I believe I
have in this way offended many who still permit themselves this hateful
indulgence; offended them, indeed, to such a degree, that they perfectly
hate me, and utter the most virulent abuse every time they hear my name
mentioned; ... but for this I care little: I know I am right, Mrs.
Barnaby, and that what loses their friendship and esteem, may be the
means of gaining for me the regard of those, perhaps, on whom my whole
happiness may depend during my future life."

The same dangerous sort of silence as before seemed creeping on them;
but again the widow had the courage to break it, by recalling to the
memory of her musing and greatly pre-occupied companion the anecdote
respecting Waterloo which he had promised her.

"Waterloo!" said he, rousing himself.... "Ay, dearest Mrs. Barnaby, I
_will_ tell you that, though there are many reasons which render me very
averse to speak of it lightly. In the first place, by those who know me
not, it might be thought to look like boasting; and, moreover, if I
alluded to it in any society capable of the baseness of repeating what I
said, it might bring upon me very active, and indeed fatal, proofs of
the dislike--I may say hatred--already felt against me in a certain
quarter."

"Gracious heaven, Major!... be careful then, I implore you, before
whom you speak! There appear to be many strangers here, of whose
characters it is impossible to know anything.... If you have enemies,
they may be spies expressly sent to watch you."

"I sometimes think so, I assure you.... I catch such singular looks
occasionally, as nothing else can account for; and the enemy I allude to
is one who has power, as well as will, to punish by evil reports, if he
cannot positively crush and ruin, those who interfere with his
ambition."

"Is it possible? Thank heaven! at least you can have no doubt of me....
So, tell me, I beseech you to tell me, to whom is it that your alarming
words refer?"

The Major drew his chair close to Mrs. Barnaby, took one of her hands
between both of his, and having gazed for a moment very earnestly in her
face, whispered,--

"The Duke of Wellington!"

"Good God!..." exclaimed the widow, quite in an agony: "the Duke of
Wellington! Is the Duke of Wellington your enemy, Major Allen?"

"To the teeth, my fairest! to the teeth!" replied the Major, firmly
setting the instruments he mentioned, and muttering through them with an
appearance of concentrated rage, the outward demonstration of which was
increased by the firmness of the grasp in which he continued to hold her
hand.

"But how can this be so?" faltered Mrs. Barnaby.... "So brave a man as
you!... one, too, who had distinguished himself so early! How can he be
so base?"

"How can he be otherwise, my friend?" replied the Major with increasing
agitation, "when" ... and here he lowered his voice still more,
whispering almost in her very ear, "it is I--I,--Ferdinand Alexander
Allen, who ought by right to be the Duke of Wellington, instead of him
who now wears the title!"

"You astonish me more than I am able to express!"

"Of course I do.... Such, however, is the fact. The battle of Waterloo
would have been lost,--was lost, positively lost,--till I, disdaining in
such a moment to receive orders from one whom I perceived to be
incompetent, rushed forward, almost knocking the Duke off his horse as I
did so ... sent back the French army like a flock of sheep before an
advancing lion ... seized with my own hand on the cocked hat of
Napoleon ... drew it from his head, and actually flogged his horse with
it till horse and rider together seemed well enough inclined to make the
best of their way out of my reach.... God bless you, my dearest lady!
the Duke of Wellington had no more to do in gaining the battle of
Waterloo than you had.... I now leave you to judge what his feelings
towards me are likely to be."

"Full of envy and hatred, beyond all doubt!" solemnly replied Mrs.
Barnaby; "and I will not deny, Major Allen, that I think there is great
danger in your situation. A person of such influence may do great
injury, even to a man of your well-known noble character. But how
extraordinary it is that no hint of this has ever transpired."

"I beg your pardon, my dear madam; this is very far from being the case.
At your peaceful residence beneath the shades of Silverton Park, it is
highly probable that you may have remained ignorant of the fact; but, in
truth, the Duke's reputation among the people of England has suffered
greatly; though no one, indeed, has yet proposed that his sword should
be taken from him. The well-known circumstance of stones having been
thrown at his windows ... a fact which probably has never reached
you ... is quite sufficient to prove that the people must be aware that
what the English army did at Waterloo, was not done under his
generalship.... No, no, England knows too well what she owed to that
victory so to treat the general who achieved it; and had they not felt
doubts as to who that general was, no stones would have been levelled at
Apsley House. Many of the common soldiers--fine fellows!--have been bold
enough to name me, and it is this that has so enraged the Duke, that
there is nothing which he has not taught his emissaries to say against
me.... I have been called swindler, black-leg, radical, horse-jockey,
and I know not what beside; and I should not wonder, my charming friend,
if sooner or later your friendship were put to the proof, by having to
listen to similar calumnies against me; but now, you will be able to
understand them aright, and know the source from whence they come."

"Well, I never did hear anything so abominable in my life!" said Mrs.
Barnaby warmly.... "Not content with taking credit to himself for all
that was gained by your extraordinary bravery, he has the baseness to
attack your character!... It is too detestable!... and I only hope,
that when I get among my own connexions in town, I shall not have the
misfortune of meeting him often.... I am certain I should not be able to
resist saying something to shew what I thought. Oh! if he were really
the brave man that he has been fancied to be, how he must have adored
you for your undaunted courage!... And you really took Napoleon's hat
off his head?... How excessively brave!... I wish I could have seen it,
Major!... I am sure I should have worshipped you.... I do so doat upon
bravery!"

"Sweet creature!... That devoted love of courage is one of the loveliest
propensities of the female mind. Yes, I am brave--I do not scruple to
say so; and the idea that this quality is dear to you, will strengthen
it in me four-fold.... But, my dear, my lovely friend! I must bid you
adieu. I expect the steward of my property in Yorkshire to-day, and I
rather think he must be waiting for me now.... Soften, then, the pain of
this parting, by telling me that I may come again!"

"I should be sorry indeed to think this was our last meeting, Major
Allen," said the widow gently; "I am seldom out in the morning before
the hour at which you called to-day."

"Farewell then!" said he, kissing her hand with an air of mixed
tenderness and respect, "farewell!... and remember that all I have
breathed into your friendly ear must be sacred; ... but I know it would
be so without this injunction; Mrs. Barnaby's majestic beauty conceals
not the paltry spirit of a gossip!"

"Indeed you are right!... indeed you are right!... To my feelings the
communications of a friend are sweet, solemn pledges of regard, that it
would be sacrilege to violate. Farewell, Major!--farewell!"




CHAPTER V.

A YOUNG LADY'S PLOT.--A CONSULTATION, AND THE HAPPY RESULT OF IT.--A
TERRIBLE INTERRUPTION, AND A DANGEROUS EXPEDITION.--CONFIDENTIAL
INTERCOURSE.


Mary Peters left Agnes considerably earlier than she had intended, in
order to communicate to her mother a project which had entered her head
during the short time they spent together. Though the project, however,
was formed during their interview, the idea upon which it was founded
had repeatedly occurred to her before, short as the time had been that
was given for its ripening. This idea was suggested to her by the
evident admiration of Mr. Stephenson for her friend; on which she had
meditated as they drove from the Mall to Rodney Place, as she brushed
and papilloted her nut-brown curls before her glass, and as she
strolled the next morning from her own home to that of Agnes; it might
plainly have been expressed thus ... Frederick Stephenson is over head
and ears in love with Agnes Willoughby.

Such was the idea; but the project was concerning a much more serious
matter,--namely, that a marriage between the parties might easily be
brought about; and, moreover, that the effecting this would be one of
the very best actions to which it could be possible to dedicate her
endeavours.

To do Miss Peters justice, she was in general neither a busy body nor a
match-maker; but she was deeply touched by the melancholy feeling Agnes
had expressed respecting her own position; she felt, too, both the
justness of it, and the utter helplessness of the poor girl herself
either to change or amend it.

"Nothing but her marrying can do it," thought Mary; "and why should she
not marry this young man, who is so evidently smitten with her?... Poor
Agnes!... What a change--what a contrast it would be!... And if mamma
will help me, I am sure we may bring it about. He is perfectly
independent, and violently in love already, ... and she is a creature
that appears more beautiful and more fascinating every time one sees
her."

It was exactly when her meditations reached this point that she
discovered it to be necessary that she should go home directly, and home
she accordingly went, luckily finding her mother alone in her
dressing-room.

"I am delighted to find you by yourself, mamma," began Mary, "I have a
great deal to say to you," and then followed a rapid repetition of all
Agnes had just said to her.

"Is it not a dreadful situation, mamma?" she added.

"So dreadful, Mary," replied Mrs. Peters, "that were not the youngest of
you about three years older than herself, I really think I should
propose taking her as a finishing governess. Poor little thing!... what
can we do for her?"

"Now listen, mamma," answered Mary, raising her hand gravely, as if to
bespeak both silence and attention, "and do not, I implore you, mar the
usefulness of what I am going to say by turning it into jest, ... it is
no jest, mother. Mr. Stephenson, the young man we saw last night, is
most certainly captivated by the beauty of Agnes in no common degree. I
was near enough to her all the evening to see plainly how things were
going on; and were she less miserable in her present condition, I might
think it a fair subject for a jest, or a bet perhaps on the chances for
and against his proposing to her. But as it is,--thinking of her as I
do, feeling for her as I do,--I think, mamma, that it is my duty to
endeavour, by every means in my power, to turn these chances in her
favour. Dearest mother, will you help me?"

"But what means have you, my dear girl?" replied Mrs. Peters gravely. "I
believe I share both your admiration and your pity for Agnes as fully as
you could desire; but I really see not what there is that we can with
propriety do to obtain the object you propose ... though I am quite
aware of its value."

"I will ask you to do nothing, my dearest mother, in which you shall
find a shadow of impropriety. Would there be any in inviting this young
man to your house, should you chance to become better acquainted with
him?"

"No; but I think we must take some strangely forward steps to lead to
this better acquaintance."

"That will depend altogether upon his degree of inclination for it.
Should he prove _ritroso_, I consent to draw off my forces instantly;
but if, as I anticipate, he should push himself upon us as an
acquaintance, I want you to promise that you will not on your part
defeat his wishes,--nay, a little more perhaps ... I would wish you,
dear mother, to feel with me, that it would be right and righteous to
promote them."

"I rather think it would, Mary, as you put the case. Agnes Willoughby is
by no means lowly born: her father was a gentleman decidedly; and I
understood from my brother that the Comptons, though for some centuries,
I believe, rather an impoverished race, derive their small property from
ancestors of very great antiquity; so there is nothing objectionable on
that tender point.... And for herself, pretty creature, she would
certainly be an ornament and a grace as head and chieftainess of the
most aristocratic establishment in the world; so, as a matter of
conscience, I have really no scruples at all; but, as matter of
_convenance_, I can only promise not to check, by any want of civility
on my part, whatever advances the gentleman may choose to make. Will
this content you, my little plotter?"

"Yes ... pretty well; for I am not without hope that you will warm in
the cause, if it goes on at all, and then, perhaps, I shall squeeze an
invitation out of you, and so on. And, by the way, mamma, when are we to
have our little musical _soiree_? I believe young De Lacy is not going
to stay much longer, and if he goes, what are we to do for our bass?"

"We shall be puzzled, certainly. You may write the cards directly, Mary,
if you will."

Mary rose at once to set about it; but on opening a certain drawer in
the commode, and examining its contents, she said, "We must send to the
library, mamma; there are not half enough cards here,... besides ... I
want you to walk with us, and I want Agnes to join the party. May I
send her a note desiring her to come to take her luncheon here?"

"I comprehend your tactics, my dear.... Agnes is to walk with us just
about three o'clock, when all the world are out and about.... We want
invitation cards, and may just as well, when we _are_ out, go to the
library for them ourselves.... There we shall be sure of seeing Mr.
Stephenson ... he will be very likely to join us ... etc. etc. etc....
Is not that your plan?"

"And if it is, mamma," replied Mary, laughing, "I see not that it
contains anything beyond what has been agreed to by our compact."

"Very well, Mademoiselle Talleyrand ... write your note."

This was promptly done, and promptly dispatched, and reached Agnes about
two minutes after Major Allen had taken his departure. She was aware of
his visit; for Betty Jacks had obligingly opened her closet-door to
inform her of it; and she now stood with the welcome note in her hand,
meditating on the best manner of forwarding the petition to her aunt,
not quite liking to send in the note itself, doubtful of Betty's
delivering a message on the subject so as to avoid giving offence, but
dreading, beyond all else, the idea of presenting herself before the
Major.

"Major Allen is still there, Jerningham, is he not?... I have seen
nothing of my aunt."

"No, miss, he is this moment gone ... and a beautiful, sweet man he is,
too."

Agnes hesitated no longer, but, with Mary's note in her hand, entered
the drawing-room to ask leave to obey the summons it contained. She
found Mrs. Barnaby in a state of considerable, but very delightful
agitation. The album was open before her, her two elbows rested on the
table, and her hands shaded her eyes, which were fixed on the
interesting name of Isabella d'Almafonte in a fit of deep abstraction.

Agnes uttered her request, but was obliged to repeat it twice before the
faculties of the widow were sufficiently recalled to things present for
her to be able to return a coherent answer. When at length, however, she
understood what was asked, she granted her permission with quite as much
pleasure as Agnes received it. At that moment she could endure nothing
but solitude, or Major Allen, and eagerly answered ... "Oh yes, my dear!
go, go; I do not want you at all."

A liberated bird is not more quick in reaching the shelter of the
desired wood, than was Agnes in making her way from Sion Row to Rodney
Place; and so great was her joy at finding herself there, that for the
moment she forgot all her sorrows, and talked of the ball as if she had
not felt infinitely more pain than pleasure there. As soon as the
luncheon was ended, Mrs. Peters and Elizabeth, Mary and Agnes, set off
upon their walk, not "over the hills, and far away," as heretofore, but
along the well-paved ways that led most certainly to the resorts of
their fellow mortals. Lucy and James, having heard that the evening for
their music party was fixed at the distance only of one fortnight,
declared that it was absolutely necessary to devote the interval to
"practice," and therefore they remained at home.

If the plan of Mary Peters was such as her mother had described it,
nothing could have been more successful; for even before they reached
the library, they met Mr. Stephenson and Colonel Hubert. The moment the
former perceived them, he stepped forward, quitting the arm of his
friend, who certainly rather relaxed than accelerated his pace, and
having paid his compliments with the cordial air of an old acquaintance
to Mrs. Peters and Elizabeth, passed them and took his station beside
Agnes. Both she and her friend received his eager salutation with
smiles: Mary, as we know, had her own motives for this; and Agnes had by
no means forgotten how seasonably he had led her off on the preceding
evening from her aunt, Major Allen, and the forsaken tea-table. Her
bright smile, however, soon faded as she marked the stiff bow by which
Colonel Hubert returned Mrs. Peters's civil recognition of him. He too
passed the first pair of ladies, and joined himself to the second; but
though he bowed to both of them, it seemed that he turned and again took
the arm of Stephenson, solely for the purpose of saying to him, "Are you
going to give up your walk to the Wells, Frederick?"

"Most decidedly, _mon cher_," was the cavalier reply.

"Then I must wish you good morning, I believe," said Colonel Hubert,
attempting to withdraw his arm.

"No, don't," cried the gay young man good-humouredly, and retaining his
arm with some show of violence; "I will not let you go without me: you
will find nothing there, depend upon it, to reward you on this occasion
for your pertinacity of purpose."

Colonel Hubert yielded himself to this wilfulness, and passively, as it
seemed, accompanied the party into the library. Nothing could be more
agreeable than the animated conversation of young Stephenson: he talked
to all the ladies in turn, contrived to discover a multitude of articles
of so interesting a kind, that it was necessary they should examine and
talk about them; and finally, bringing forward the book of names, fairly
beguiled Mrs. Peters and her daughters into something very like a little
gossip concerning some among them.

It was while they were thus employed that Colonel Hubert approached
Agnes, who, of course, could take no part in it, and said,... "Are you
going to remain long at Clifton, Miss Willoughby?"

Agnes blushed deeply as he drew near, and his simple question was
answered in a voice so tremulous, that he pitied the agitation
(resulting, as he supposed, from their meeting in the morning) which she
evinced; and feeling perhaps that she was not to blame because his
headstrong friend was determined to fall in love with her, he spoke
again, and in a gentler voice said, "I hope you have forgiven me for the
blunt advice I ventured to give you this morning."

"Forgiven!" repeated Agnes, looking up at him, and before her glance
fell again it was dimmed by a tear. "I can never forget your kindness!"
she added, but so nearly in a whisper, that he instantly became aware
that her friends had not been made acquainted with the adventure, and
that it was not her wish they should be. He therefore said no more on
the subject; but, led by some impulse that seemed not, certainly, to
proceed from either unkindness or contempt, he continued to converse
with her for several minutes, and long enough indeed to make her very
nearly forget the party of friends whose heads continued to be
congregated round the librarian's register of the Clifton beau monde.

Frederick Stephenson meanwhile was very ably prosecuting the object he
had in view, namely, to establish himself decidedly as an acquaintance
of Mrs. Peters; and so perfectly _comme il faut_ in all respects was the
tone of herself and her daughters, that he was rapidly forgetting such a
being as Mrs. Barnaby existed, and solacing his spirit by the persuasion
that the only girl he had ever seen whom he could _really_ love was
surrounded by connexions as elegant and agreeable as his _exigeante_
family could possibly require. Nor, to say truth, was his friend greatly
behind-hand in the degree of oblivion which he permitted to fall upon
his faculties respecting this object of his horror and detestation. It
was not very easy, indeed, to remember Mrs. Barnaby, while Agnes,
awakened by a question as to what part of England it was in which she
had enjoyed the rural liberty of which he had heard her speak, poured
forth all her ardent praise on the tranquil beauty of Empton.

"It is not," said she, beguiled, by the attention with which he listened
to her, into forgetfulness of the awe he had hitherto inspired,--"it is
not so majestic in its beauty as Clifton; we have no mighty rocks at
Empton--no winding river that, quietly as it flows, seems to have cut
its own path amongst them; but the parsonage is the very perfection of a
soft, tranquil, flowery retreat, where neither sorrow nor sin have any
business whatever."

"And was Empton parsonage your home, Miss Willoughby?"

"Yes ... for five dear happy years," replied Agnes, in an accent from
which all gaiety had fled.

"You were not born at Empton, then?"

"No; I was only educated there; but it was there at least that my heart
and mind were born, and I do not believe that I shall ever feel quite at
home anywhere else."

"It is rather early for you to say that, is it not?" said Colonel
Hubert with a smile more calculated to increase her confidence than to
renew her awe.... "May I ask how old you are?"

"I shall be seventeen in August," replied Agnes, blushing at being
obliged to confess herself so very young.

"She might be my daughter," thought Colonel Hubert, while a shade of
melancholy passed over his countenance which it puzzled Agnes to
interpret. But he asked her no more questions; and the conversation
seemed languishing, when Frederick Stephenson, beginning to think that
it was his turn now to talk to Agnes, and pretty well satisfied,
perhaps, that he had made a favourable impression upon the Peters
family, left the counter and the subscription-book, and crossed to the
place where she had seated herself. Colonel Hubert was still standing by
her side, but he instantly made way for his friend; and had he at that
moment spoken aloud the thoughts of his heart, he might have been heard
to say,--"There is nothing here to justify the rejection of any
family ... she is perfect alike in person and in mind ... things must
take their course: I will urge his departure no further."

Scarcely, however, had these thoughts made their rapid way across his
brain, before his ears were assailed by the sound of a laugh, which he
recognised in an instant to be that of Mrs. Barnaby. A flush of
heightened colour mounted to his very eyes, and he felt
conscience-struck, as if whatever might hereafter happen to Stephenson,
he should hold himself responsible for it, because he had mentally given
his consent to his remaining where the danger lay. And well might the
sound and sight of Mrs. Barnaby overturn all such yielding thoughts. She
came more rouged, more ringleted, more bedizened with feathers and
flowers, and more loud in voice than ever.... She came, too, accompanied
by Major Allen.

No thunder-cloud, sending forth its flashings before it, ever threw a
more destructive shadow over the tranquil brightness of a smiling
landscape, than did this entree of the facetious pair over the happy
vivacity of the party already in possession of the shop. Mrs. Peters
turned very red; Miss Willoughby turned very pale; Mary stopped short
in the middle of a sentence, and remained as mute as if she had been
shot; even the good-natured Elizabeth looked prim; and the two
gentlemen, though in different ways, betrayed an equally strong
consciousness of the change that had come over them. Mr. Stephenson put
on the hat which he had laid beside him on the counter; and though he
drew still nearer to Agnes than before, it was without addressing a word
to her. Colonel Hubert immediately passed by them, and left the shop.

This last circumstance was the only one which could at that moment have
afforded any relief to Agnes; it at once restored her composure and
presence of mind, though it did not quite bring back the happy smiles
with which she had been conversing five short minutes before.

"Ah! my sister Peters and the children here!" cried Mrs. Barnaby,
flouncing gaily towards them.... "I thought we should meet you.... What
beautiful weather, isn't it? How d'ye do, sir? (to Mr. Stephenson). I
think you were among our young ladies' partners last night?... Charming
ball, wasn't it?... Dear Major Allen, do look at these Bristol stones!
ain't they as bright as diamonds?... Well, Agnes, you have had your
luncheon, I suppose, with the dear girls, and now you will be ready to
go shopping with me. We are going into Bristol, and I will take you with
us."

Agnes listened to her doom in silence, and no more thought of appealing
from it than the poor criminal who listens to his sentence from the
bench; but Mr. Stephenson turned an imploring look on Mrs. Peters, which
spoke so well what he wished to express, that, she exerted herself so
far as to say, "We had hoped, Mrs. Barnaby, that you meant to have
spared Agnes to us for the rest of the day, and we shall be much obliged
if you will leave her with us."

"You are always very kind, dear Margaret," returned the widow, "but I
really want Agnes just now.... She shall come to you, however, some
other time.... Good-b'ye! good-b'ye!--we have no time to lose.... Come,
Agnes, let's be off."

A silent look was all the leave-taking that passed between Agnes and her
greatly annoyed friends. Mrs. Barnaby took her arm under her own, and
as soon as they quitted the shop bestowed the other on Major Allen; she
was in high spirits, which found vent in a loud laugh as soon as they
had turned the corner.

"What a stuck-up fellow that great tall Colonel is, Major Allen," said
she. "Do you know anything of him?... If I am not greatly mistaken, he
is as proud as Lucifer."

"I assure you, if he is proud, my dear madam, it must be a pride of the
very lowest and vilest kind, merely derived from the paltry
considerations of family and fortune; for, _entre nous_, he is very far
from having been a distinguished officer. The Duke of Wellington,
indeed, has always been most ridiculously partial to him; but you,"
lowering his voice, "you are a pretty tolerable judge of what _his_ good
opinion is worth."

"Yes, yes, Major.... I shall never be taken in there again.... Why,
Agnes, how you drag, child! I shall be tired to death before I get to
Bristol if you walk so."

"Will the young lady take my other arm?" said the Major.

"Thank you, dear Major!... You are very kind. Go round, Agnes, and take
the Major's arm."

"No, I thank you, aunt; I do not want any arm. I will walk beside you,
if you please, without taking hold of you at all."

"Nonsense, child!... That will look too particular, Major," ... said the
widow, turning to him; upon which, without waiting further parley, Major
Allen dropped the arm he held, and gaily placed himself between the two
ladies, saying, "Now then, fair ladies, I have an arm for each."

Agnes felt the greatest possible longing to run away; but whether it
would have strengthened into a positive resolution to do so, upon once
more feeling the touch of the Major's hand, which upon her retreating he
very vigorously extended towards her, it is impossible to say, for at
that moment the sound of a rapidly-advancing pair of boots was heard on
the pavement behind them, and in the next Mr. Stephenson was at her
side. He touched his hat to Mrs. Barnaby, and then addressing Agnes
said, "If you are going to walk to Bristol, I hope you will permit me
to accompany you, ... for I am going there too."

Agnes very frankly replied, "Thank you!" and without a moment's
hesitation accepted the arm he offered.

"I am sure you are very obliging, Mr. Stephenson," said Mrs. Barnaby,
"and we shall certainly be able to walk with much greater convenience. I
think you two had better go before, and then we can see that you don't
run off, you know."

This lively sally was followed by a gay little tittering on the part
both of the Major and the lady, as they stood still for Mr. Stephenson
and the suffering Agnes to pass them.

The young man seemed to have lost all his vivacity: he spoke very
little, and even that little had the air of being uttered because he
felt obliged to say something. Poor Agnes was certainly in no humour for
conversation, and would have rejoiced in his silence, had it not made
her feel that whatever might be the motive for his thus befriending her,
he derived no pleasure from it. Ere they had walked a mile, however, an
accident occurred which effectually roused him from the dejection that
appeared to have fallen upon his spirits. A herd of bullocks met them on
the road, one of which, over-driven and irritated by a cur that worried
him, darted suddenly from the road up to the path, and made towards them
with its horns down, and its tail in the air. On seeing this, the young
man seized Agnes in his arms, and sprang with her down the bank into the
road. The animal, whose object was rather to leave an enemy behind him,
than to do battle with any other, passed on towards the Major and his
fair companion, who were at a considerable distance behind, leaving
Agnes trembling indeed, and somewhat confused, but quite unhurt, and
full of gratitude for the prompt activity that had probably saved her.
As soon as she had in some degree recovered her composure, she turned
back to ascertain how her aunt had fared, Mr. Stephenson assiduously
attending her, and they presently came within sight of a spectacle that,
had any mirth been in them, must have drawn it forth.

Major Allen, by no means approving the style in which the animal
appeared inclined to charge them, had instantly perceived, as Mr.
Stephenson had done before, that the only means of getting effectually
out of its way was by jumping down the bank, which at that point was
considerably higher than it was a few hundred yards farther on;
nevertheless, though neither very light nor very active, he might have
achieved the descent well enough had he been alone. But what was he to
do with Mrs. Barnaby? She uttered a piercing cry, and threw herself
directly upon his bosom, exclaiming, "Save me, Major!--save me!"

In this dilemma the Major proved himself an old soldier. To shake off
the lady, he felt (in every sense of the word) was quite impossible; but
there was no reason that she should stifle him; and therefore grasping
her with great ardour, he half carried, half pushed her towards the
little precipice, and skilfully placing himself so that, if they fell,
she should fall first, he cried out manfully, "Now spring!" And spring
they did, but in such a sort, that the lady measured her length in the
dust, a circumstance that greatly broke the Major's fall; for, although
he made a considerable effort to roll beyond her, he finally pitched
with his knees full upon her, thus lessening his descent very
materially.

When the young people reached them, they had both recovered their
equilibrium, but not their composure. Major Allen was placed with one
knee in the dust, and on the other supporting Mrs. Barnaby, who, with
her head reclining on his shoulder, seemed to have a very strong
inclination to indulge herself with a fainting fit. Her gay dress was
lamentably covered with dust, her feathers broken and hanging
distressingly over her eyes, and her whole appearance, as well as that
of the hero who supported her, forlorn and dejected in the extreme.

"Are you hurt, aunt?" said Agnes, approaching her.

"Hurt!... am I hurt?... Gracious Heaven! what a question! If my life be
spared, I shall consider it little short of a miracle.... Oh! Major
Allen," she continued with a burst of sobbing, "where should I have now
been ... but for you?..."

"Trampled or tossed, Mrs. Barnaby ... trampled or tossed to death
decidedly," replied the Major, not wishing to lessen her sense of
obligation, yet restrained by the presence of witnesses from expressing
his feelings with all the ardour he might otherwise have shown.

"Most true!--most true!" she replied. "Never shall I be able to express
the gratitude I feel!"

"Can you not stand up, aunt?" said Agnes, whose cheeks were crimsoned at
the absurdity of the scene. "How will you be able to get home if you
cannot stand?"

"God knows, child!... God only knows what is yet to become of me.... Oh!
Major, I trust myself wholly to you."

Poor Agnes uttered a sound not much unlike a groan, upon which
Stephenson, on whom it fell like a spur, urging him to save her from an
exhibition so painfully ridiculous, (for it was quite evident that Mrs.
Barnaby was not really hurt,) proposed that he should escort Miss
Willoughby with all possible speed back to Clifton, and dispatch thence
a carriage to bring Mrs. Barnaby home.

Major Allen, who desired nothing more ardently than to get rid of him,
seconded the proposal vehemently.

"You are quite right, sir; it is the only thing to be done," he said;
"and if you will hasten to perform this, I will endeavour so to place
Mrs. Barnaby as to prevent her suffering any great inconvenience while
waiting till the carriage shall arrive."

"Ought I not to remain with my aunt?" said Agnes to Mr. Stephenson, but
in a whisper that was heard only by himself.

"In my opinion, you certainly ought not," he replied in the same tone.
"Believe me," he added, "I have many reasons for saying so."

Nothing but her earnest desire to do that, whatever it might be, which
was the least improper, (for that, as she truly felt, was all that was
left her,) could have induced Agnes to propose inflicting so terrible a
penance on herself; but strangely as she was obliged to choose her
counsellor, there was a grave seriousness in his manner which convinced
her he had not answered her lightly; and therefore, as her aunt said not
a word to detain her, she set off on her return with as much speed as
she could use, saying as she departed, "Depend upon it, aunt, there
shall be no delay."

Mr. Stephenson again offered her his arm; but she now declined it, and
the young man for some time walked silently by her side, wishing to
speak to her, yet honestly doubting his own power of doing so with the
composure he desired.

At length, however, the silence became embarrassing, and he broke it by
saying, with something of abruptness,--

"Will you forgive me, Miss Willoughby, if I venture to forget for a
moment how short a time it is since I have had the happiness of knowing
you, ... will you forgive me if I speak to you like a friend?"

"Indeed I will, and be very thankful too," replied Agnes composedly, ...
for his manner had taught her to feel assured that she had no cause to
fear him.

"You are very kind," he resumed, with some little embarrassment; "but I
feel that it is taking an almost unwarrantable liberty; and were it not
that this walk offers an opportunity which I think I ought not to lose,
I might perhaps endeavour to say what I wish to Mrs. Peters.... I allude
to Major Allen, Miss Willoughby! I wish you could lead your aunt to
understand that he is not a person fit for your society. Though he is
probably a stranger here, he is well known elsewhere as a needy gambler,
and, in short, a most unprincipled character in every way."

"Good Heaven!" exclaimed Agnes, "what shall I do?"

"Can you not venture to hint this to your aunt?" said he.

"She would probably be very angry," replied Agnes with spontaneous
frankness; "but what is worse than that, she would, I know, insist upon
my telling her where I heard it."

"Say that you heard it from me, Miss Willoughby," replied the young
man.

New as Agnes was to the world and its ways, she felt that there was
something very honourable and frank in this proceeding, and it produced
so great a degree of confidence in return, that she answered in a tone
of the most unembarrassed friendliness.

"Will you give me leave, Mr. Stephenson, to repeat this to Mrs. Peters
and Mary?... They will know so much better than I do what use to make of
it."

"Indeed I think you are right," he replied eagerly, "and then the anger
that you speak of will not fall on you."

"It will not in that case, I think, fall on any one," said Agnes. "My
aunt has fortunately a great respect for Mrs. Peters; and if anybody can
have influence over her mind, she may."

Can it be wondered at if, after this, the conversation went on improving
in its tone of ease and confidence? It had begun, on the side of the
young man, with a very sincere resolution not to suffer his admiration
for his lovely companion to betray him into a serious attachment to one
so unfortunately connected; but, before they reached Sion Row, he had
arrived at so perfect a conviction that he could nowhere find so
pure-minded and right-thinking a being to share his fortune, and to
bless his future life, that he only refrained from telling her so from a
genuine feeling of respect, which perhaps the proudest peeress in the
land might have failed to inspire.

"No," thought he, "it is not now, while she is compelled by accident to
walk beside me, that I will pour out my heart and all its love before
her, but the time shall come...."

Agnes, ere they parted again, appealed to him for his opinion whether
she _ought_ to go in the carriage sent to meet her aunt.

"No, indeed, I think not," he replied. "Has she no maid, Miss
Willoughby, who could go for her?"

"Oh yes!" exclaimed Agnes, greatly relieved; "I can send Jerningham."

"Sweet creature!" whispered the enamoured Frederick to his heart, "what
a delicious task to advise, to guide, to cherish such a being as that!"

His respectful bow at parting, the earnest, silent, lingering look he
fixed upon her fair face ere he turned from the door that was opened to
receive her, might have said much to a heart on the _qui vive_ to meet
his, half way; but Agnes did not observe it; she was looking up towards
the windmill, and thinking of her early morning walk and its
termination.




CHAPTER VI.

THE READER IS LET INTO A SECRET, AND THE YOUNG LADY'S PLOT PROVED TO BE
OF NO AVAIL.--A JUDICIOUS MODE OF OBTAINING INFORMATION.--A HAPPY AND
VERY WELL-TIMED MEETING.


"Well, Mary!... I suppose you are wishing yourself joy on the success of
your plottings and plannings," said Mrs. Peters to her daughter about
ten days after this memorable walk on the Bristol road, for during that
interval much had occurred that seemed to promise success to her wishes.
In fact, Frederick Stephenson had quietly become a regular visitor at
Rodney Place, and the power of Agnes to accept the constant invitations
which brought her there likewise increased in exact proportion to the
widow's growing delight in the _tete-a-tete_ visits of the Major. The
friendly hint of Mr. Stephenson had produced no effect whatever,
excepting indeed that it tended greatly to increase the tone of
friendly intercourse between the Peters family and himself. He had
released Agnes from the task of mentioning the matter at all, and took
an early opportunity of confiding to Mrs. Peters his ideas on the
subject. She received the communication with the gratitude it really
deserved, but confessed that Mrs. Barnaby was a person so every way
disagreeable to her, that the task of attempting to guide her would be
extremely repugnant to her feelings.

"But Miss Willoughby!..." said Frederick; "it is for her sake that one
would wish to keep this odious woman from exposing herself to ruin and
disgrace, if possible."

"And for her sake I will do it," answered Mrs. Peters. "She is as
deserving of all care as her aunt is unworthy of it."

This reply convinced Mr. Stephenson that Mrs. Peters was one of the most
discerning as well as most amiable women in the world, but no other
advantage arose from the praiseworthy determination of the "dear
Margaret;" for when that lady said to her gravely, at the very first
opportunity she could find,--

"Pray, Mrs. Barnaby, do you know anything of that Major Allen's private
character?" The answer she received was,--"Yes, Mrs. Peters, a great
deal, ... and more, probably, than any other person whatever at
Clifton; ... and I know, too, that there are agents--paid, hired
agents--employed in circulating the most atrocious lies against him."

"I am not one of them, I assure you, madam," said Mrs. Peters, abruptly
leaving her seat, and determined never again to recur to the subject; a
comfortable resolution, to which she reconciled her conscience by
remembering the evident devotion of Mr. Stephenson to Agnes, the
symptoms of which were daily becoming less and less equivocal.

It was within a few hours after this short colloquy with the widow, that
Mrs. Peters thus addressed her daughter, "Well, Mary!... I suppose you
are wishing yourself joy on the success of your plottings and
plannings."

"Why, yes," ... replied Mary; "I think we are getting on pretty well,
and unless I greatly mistake, it will be the fault of Agnes, and of no
one else, if she suffers much more from being under the protection of
our precious aunt Barnaby."

Mrs. Peters and Mary were perfectly right in their premises, but utterly
wrong in their conclusion. Mr. Stephenson was indeed passionately in
love with Agnes, and had already fully made up his mind to propose to
her, so soon as their acquaintance had lasted long enough to render such
a step decently permissable, which, according to his calculations, would
be in about a fortnight after he had first danced with her. In short, he
was determined to find a favourable opportunity, on the evening of Mrs.
Peters's promised music party, to declare his passion to her; for he had
already learned to know that few occasions offer, in the ordinary
intercourse of society, more favourable for a _tete-a-tete_ than a
crowded concert-room.

Thus far, therefore, the observations and reasonings of Agnes's watchful
friends were perfectly correct. But, alas! they saw only the surface of
things. There was an under current running the other way of which they
never dreamed, and of which, even had it been laid open to their view,
they would neither have been able to comprehend or believe the power. As
to the heart of Agnes, by some strange fatality they had never taken it
into their consideration at all, or at any rate had conceived it so
beyond all doubt inclined the way they wished, that no single word or
thought amidst all their deliberations was ever bestowed upon it.... But
the heart of Agnes was fixedly, devotedly, and for ever given to
another.

No wonder, indeed, that such an idea had never suggested itself to her
friends, ... for who could that other be?... Could it be James, her
first partner, her first walking companion, and very nearly the first
young man she had ever spoken to in her life?... Assuredly not; for had
she been asked, she could not have told whether his eyes were blue or
black, hardly whether he were short or tall, and certainly not whether
she had seen him twenty times, or only twelve, since their first
meeting.

Who, then, could it be? There was but one other person whom the
accidents of the last important fortnight had thrown constantly in her
way; and Mrs. Peters and Mary would as soon have thought that the young
Agnes had conceived a passion for the Pope, as for the stately, proud,
reserved Colonel Hubert.

Yet "she could an if she would" have told her how far above all other
mortals his noble head rose proudly, ... she could have told that on his
lofty brow her soul read volumes, ... she could have told that in the
colour of his thoughtful eye, the hue of heaven seemed deepened into
black by the rich lash that shaded it.... All this she could have told;
and, moreover, could have counted, with most faithful arithmetic, not
only how many times she had seen him, but how many times his eyes had
turned towards her, how many times he had addressed a word to her, how
many smiles had been permitted to cheer her heart, how many frowns had
chilled her spirit as they passed over his countenance.... Little could
any one have guessed all this, but so it was; and Frederick Stephenson,
with all his wealth, his comeliness, and kind heart to boot, had no more
chance of being accepted as a husband by the poor, dependant Agnes
Willoughby than the lowest hind that ploughs the soil by the proudest
lady that owns it.

       *       *       *       *       *

Meanwhile my real heroine, the Widow Barnaby, thought little of Agnes,
or any other lady but herself, and less still perhaps of Mr. Stephenson,
or any other gentleman but the Major. The affair on the Bristol road,
though injurious to her dress, and rather dusty and in some degree
disagreeable at the time, had wonderfully forced on the tender intimacy
between them. Yet Mrs. Barnaby was not altogether so short-sighted as
by-standers might suppose; and though she freely permitted herself the
pleasure of being made love to, she determined to be very sure of the
Major's rent-roll before she bestowed herself and her fortune upon him;
for, notwithstanding her flirting propensities, the tender passion had
ever been secondary in her heart to a passion for wealth and finery; and
not the best-behaved and most discreet dowager that ever lived, was more
firmly determined to take care of herself, and make a good bargain, "_if
ever she married again_," than was our flighty, flirting Widow Barnaby.

She was fully aware that many difficulties lay in the way of her getting
the information she wanted. In the first place, she had no acquaintance
except the Peterses, who were his declared enemies; and she loved both
justice and the Major too well to let his happiness (which was now
avowedly dependant upon her accepting his hand) rest on such doubtful
testimony.... And secondly, there was considerable caution required in
the manner of asking questions _so special_ as those she wished to
propose, lest they might reach the ears of her lover; and it was
necessary, if the tender affair finally terminated in wedlock, that it
should be brought about without any appearance on her side of such
sordid views, lest a suspicion might arise on his that her own wealth
was not quite so great as she wished him to believe. Respecting
settlements, she had already decided upon what she should propose ...
she would make over the whole of her fortune unconditionally to him,
provided he would make her a settlement of one poor thousand a-year for
life in return.

Some days passed away after the Major had actually proposed and been
conditionally accepted ... in case a few weeks' longer acquaintance
confirmed their affection ... before Mrs. Barnaby had discovered any
method by which she might satisfy her anxious curiosity respecting the
actual state of Major Allen's affairs. During this time she was willing
to allow, even to herself, that her affections were very deeply engaged,
but yet she steadfastly adhered to her resolution of not bestowing upon
him the blessing of her hand, till she learned from some one besides
himself that he was a man of large fortune.

At length, when almost in despair of meeting with any one whom she could
trust on such a subject, it occurred to her that Betty Jacks, who had
not only continued to grow till she was nearly as tall as her mistress,
but had made such proficiency in the ways of the world since she left
Silverton, as rendered her exceedingly acute, might make acquaintance
with Major Allen's groom, and learn from him what was generally
considered to be the amount of his master's income. The idea had hardly
struck her before she determined to put it in execution; and having rung
the bell, Betty, after the usual interval that it took her to climb from
the kitchen, stood before her.

"Come in, Jerningham," said Mrs. Barnaby, "and shut the door. I have
something particular that I wish to say to you."

Betty anticipated a scolding, and looked sulky.

"I am very well satisfied with you, Jerningham," resumed the lady, "and
I called you up chiefly to say that you may have the cap with the pink
ribbons that I put off yesterday morning."

"Thank you, ma'am," said Betty, turning to go.

"Stay a moment, Jerningham: I have something I want to talk to you
about."

Betty advanced, and took hold of the back of a chair to support her
lengthy person, a habit which she had fallen into from the frequent long
confidential communications her lady was accustomed to hold with her.

"Pray, Jerningham, do you know Major Allen's groom?" inquired Mrs.
Barnaby in a gentle voice.

"Lor! no, ma'am; how should I come for to know his groom?"

"Nay, my good girl, there would be no harm in it if you did. I have
remarked that he is a particularly smart, respectable-looking servant,
and I must say I think it would be quite as well if such a good-looking
girl as you did make acquaintance with the servant of a gentleman like
Major Allen; it would give you a proper protector and companion,
Jerningham, in a Sunday evening walk, or anything of that kind; and
really it looks as if he did not think you worth noticing, considering
how intimate the two families are become."

"Oh! for that, ma'am, I don't believe the young man would have any
objection; and I don't mean to say as how I never spoke to him," replied
Betty.

"Very well, Jerningham, that is just what I wanted to know; because, if
you are sufficiently acquainted to speak, such a sharp clever girl as
you are, would find it easy enough to improve the intimacy, and that's
what I want you to do, Jerningham. And then I want you, some fine
evening, perhaps, after I have had my tea, to let him take a walk with
you; and when you are talking of one thing and the other, I want you to
find out whether his master is reckoned a rich gentleman or a poor
one.... Do you understand, Jerningham?"

Betty Jack's black eyes kindled into very keen intelligence at this
question, and she answered with very satisfactory vivacity, "Yes, ma'am,
I understands."

"Well, then, set about it as soon as you can; and remember, Jerningham,
if he asks any questions about me, that you make him understand my
fortune is a great deal larger than it appears to be, which it really
is, you know,--only just now I am travelling quietly by way of a change.
If you do all this cleverly and well, I will give you my old parasol,
which only wants a stitch or two to make it quite fit to use."

"Thankee, ma'am.... I could find him in a minute at the beer-shop, if
you like it."

"Well, then, do so, my good girl, and you may say, if you will, that
you could take a walk with him this evening."

The arrangement was probably made without great difficulty, for on the
following morning Betty was ready with her report. Any detailed account
of the interview between the Major's man and the widow's woman would be
unnecessary, as the girl's account of it was what principally affected
the interests of our widow, and that shall be faithfully given.

Betty Jacks made her appearance in the drawing-room as soon as Agnes had
left it after breakfast, with that look of smirking confidence which
usually enlivens the countenance of a _soubrette_ when she knows she has
something to say worth listening to.

Her anxious mistress instantly saw that the commission had not been in
vain.

"Well, Jerningham!" she cried with a deep respiration that was more like
panting than sighing, "what news do you bring me?"

"All that is best and honourablest for the Major, ma'am. His man William
says that he is a noble gentleman every way, with plenty of money to
spend, and plenty of spirit to spend it with; and that happy will the
lady be who wins his heart, and comes to the glory and honour of being
his wife."

"That is enough, Jerningham," said the happy Mrs. Barnaby.... "You seem
to have behaved extremely well, and with a great deal of cleverness; and
as I see I may trust to your good sense and prudent behaviour, I will
give you leave to go to the play at Bristol, and will give you a gallery
ticket any evening that the Major's worthy and faithful servant may like
to take you.... Indeed, I should not mind giving him a gallery ticket
too, and so you may tell him."

Betty Jacks turned her head to look out of the window, and a furtive
sort of smile kindled in her eye for a moment; but she thanked her
mistress for her kindness, and then made her exit with great decorum.

It was just two days after this that Mrs. Barnaby yielded to Major
Allen's request that she would taste the air of a delicious morning by
taking a little turn with him in the Mall. Twice had they enjoyed the
sunny length of the pavement, indulging in that sort of tender
conversation which their now fully avowed mutual attachment rendered
natural, when, in making their third progress, they were met by a
gentleman somewhat younger than the Major, but with much his style of
dress and whiskered fashion, who, the instant he saw Major Allen,
uttered a cry of joy, ran towards him, and caught his hand, which he not
only shook affectionately, but even pressed to his heart with an air of
the most touching friendship.

"My dearest Maintry!" exclaimed the Major, "what an unexpected pleasure
is this!... When did you reach England?... What brings you here?..."
Then, suddenly recollecting himself, he turned to Mrs. Barnaby, and
entreated her forgiveness for the liberty he had taken in thus stopping
her.

"But I well know," he added, "that your generous heart will find an
excuse for me in its own warm feelings, when I tell you that Captain
Maintry is the oldest friend I have in the world--the oldest and the
dearest.... We have served together, Mrs. Barnaby ... we have fought
side by side through many a well-contested field ... and since universal
peace has sheathed our swords, we have shared each other's hospitality,
hunted on each other's grounds, studied nature and mankind together,
and, in a word, have lived and loved as brothers, ... and yet we have
now been parted for two years. A large property has devolved to him from
his mother's family in Westphalia, and the necessity of attending to his
farms and his signioral privileges, has separated him thus long from his
friend.... You will forgive me, then, my beloved Martha!... Maintry ...
from thee I can hide nothing!... you have told me a thousand times that
I should never be brought to resign my freedom to mortal woman.... Look
here!... and tell me if you can wonder that such vaunting independence
can attach to me no longer?"

Nothing could be more kind than Mrs. Barnaby's reply to this, nothing
more gracious than Captain Maintry's flattering answer; and the next
minute they were all walking on together as if already united by the
tenderest ties. Many interesting questions and answers passed between
the two gentlemen concerning absent friends of high rank and great
distinction, as well as some good-natured friendly questions on the part
of Captain Maintry relative to many of the Major's principal tenants in
Yorkshire, as honourable to the kind feelings of the inquirer as to the
good conduct and respectability of the worthy individuals inquired for.

After all this had lasted most agreeably for some time, Captain Maintry
suddenly paused, and said to his friend,--

"My dear Allen, the pleasure of seeing you, and the unexpected
introduction to this honoured lady, have together turned my brain, I
believe, or I should have told you at once that I have brought letters
from Prince Hursteinberg for you which require an immediate answer. I
never heard one man speak of another as he does of you, Allen; he
declares you are the most noble character he ever met with in any
country, and that is no light thing for such a man as the Prince to say.
His letter is to ask whether you can spare him a hunting mare of your
own breeding, and three couple of those famous pointers for which your
principal estate is so celebrated. He made me promise that I would see
that you sent off an answer by the first post, for if you cannot oblige
him in this, he must apply elsewhere. You know his passion for _la
chasse_, and he must not be disappointed. Come, my dear fellow ... tear
yourself away from this attractive lady for one short hour, and then the
business will be done."

"Certainly not till I have seen Mrs. Barnaby safely home," replied the
Major gravely.

"Then you will be too late for the post.... We have told Mrs. Barnaby
that we are brothers ... let her see you treat me as such.... Trust her
to my care; I will escort her to her own home while you go for an hour
or so to yours. I have left the packet with your faithful William.... By
the by, I am glad to see that you still retain that capital good fellow
about you.... An honest servant is worth his weight in gold, Mrs.
Barnaby.... There, Allen, you see, I am in possession of the lady's
arm; so you may be off, and I will join you as soon as I have escorted
her to her quarters."

"Most cordially do I congratulate my friend, madam," said Captain
Maintry, as soon as Major Allen had taken his leave, "on the happy
prospects that have opened before him.... To see you, and not appreciate
his felicity, is impossible. Friendship may conquer envy, but it cannot
render us blind!... Nor is it Major Allen alone whom I must
congratulate; ... permit me to indulge my feelings towards that
long-tried and dearly-valued friend, by telling you, Mrs. Barnaby, that
you are a very happy woman indeed!... Such worth, such honour, are
rarely--alas! too rarely--met with in man. And then he has such a
multitude of minor good qualities, as I may call them, such an absence
of all ostentation ... nobody would believe from his manner of living
that he possessed one of the finest estates in Yorkshire ... yet such is
the fact.... His courage, too, is transcendently great, and his temper
the sweetest in the world!... Yet this man, Mrs. Barnaby, great and good
as he is, has not been able to escape enemies.... You have no idea of
the lies that have been put in circulation concerning him by those who
envy his reputation, and hate his noble qualities."

"I know it, Captain Maintry, but too well," replied Mrs. Barnaby; ...
"but a woman who could be influenced by such idle and malevolent
reports, would be unworthy to become his wife; and for myself, I can
assure you that, far from its producing the desired effect upon me, such
malignity only binds me to him more closely."

"There spoke a heart worthy of him!" fervently exclaimed the Captain....
"And I doubt not, my dearest madam, that these generous feelings will be
put to the proof, for ... I blush for my species as I say it ... there
are many who, when they hear of his approaching happiness, will put
every sort of wickedness in action to prevent it."

This conversation, with a few little amiable sentiments in addition from
both parties, brought them to the door of the widow's home, when Captain
Maintry resisted her invitation to enter upon the plea that he must
devote every moment he could command to his friend, as unhappily he was
obliged to return to Bath, on business of the greatest importance, with
as little delay as possible.

       *       *       *       *       *

After this it was quite in vain that even the amiable, soft-hearted
Elizabeth,--who had grown exceedingly ashamed, by the by, of her
speaking acquaintance with Major Allen,--it was in vain that even she
ventured to hint that she believed Major Allen was no longer invited
anywhere.... Mrs. Barnaby knew all about it, on better authority than
any one else; and she quietly made up her mind to leave Clifton and
proceed to Cheltenham as speedily as possible, in order that her
marriage, within seven months of her husband's death, might not take
place under the immediate observation of his nearest relations.




CHAPTER VII.

TRANSIENT HAPPINESS.--AN ACCIDENT, LEADING TO THE DISCOVERY OF AN
UNKNOWN TALENT IN MISS WILLOUGHBY, AND UNEXPECTED APPRECIATION OF IT IN
COLONEL HUBERT.--SOME REFLECTIONS ON THE PECULIARITIES OF THE FEMALE
MIND.


It must be remembered that all these interesting particulars respecting
the affairs of Mrs. Barnaby's heart were perfectly unknown both to Agnes
and her friends. It had, indeed, been quite as much as the posthumous
affection of Mrs. Peters for her brother could achieve, to endure with
some appearance of civility the advances of his widow towards intimacy;
but to pursue her with attentions when she seemed desirous of escaping
them, was quite beyond her strength and courage; so, rejoicing in the
effect without investigating the cause, she permitted her to keep
herself within the retirement of her own drawing-room without ever
seeking the reason of her so doing.

Treacherous as was this interval of calm, it was productive of most
exquisite happiness to poor Agnes while it lasted. Delightful walks,
abundance of books, lively conversation, and a thousand flattering marks
of kindness from everybody who came near her, formed a wonderful
contrast to the vulgar brow-beating of her selfish aunt, and even to the
best joys of her solitary closet.

But it was an interval delusive in every way. Mrs. Peters had no
suspicion that her brother's widow, within seven months after his death,
was on the eve of marriage with a pennyless swindler.

Agnes had no suspicion that she was herself desperately in love with
Colonel Hubert, or that Mr. Stephenson was desperately in love with her.

Colonel Hubert began to think, that, as he saw Agnes constantly with the
Peters family, and no longer saw Mrs. Barnaby at all, the connexion
between them was neither so permanent nor so injurious as he had
supposed, and therefore that he would act more prudently by letting
matters take their course, than by any further interference; convinced
that, if Frederick did choose a wife for himself, instead of permitting
his friends to choose for him, he would never find a woman more likely
to do him honour than Miss Willoughby. There were, moreover, some other
delusions under which he laboured, both as to his own feelings and those
of others; but for the present he was destined, like the rest of the
party among whom he lived, to remain enveloped in a mist of error and
misconception.

Poor Stephenson, more fatally deluded than all of them, guessed not that
he was standing on a pinnacle of hope from whence he was soon to be
dashed a thousand fathom deep into the whirlpool of despair.... In
short, preparations for the music party went on very prosperously, while

    "Malignant Fate sat by and smiled"

at all that was to happen before that music party was over.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. Peters confessed, after a little battling the point with her
family, that it would be impossible to avoid sending a card of
invitation to Mrs. Barnaby, and sent it was; when, as she said herself,
her virtue was rewarded by receiving through Agnes a message in return,
expressing much regret that a previous engagement must prevent its
being accepted.

On the morning of the day fixed for this party Agnes remained in her
closet at least one hour beyond the time at which it was now her daily
custom to set off from Rodney Place, some little preparation for her
evening appearance requiring her attention. When at length she arrived
there she found a note desiring her to sit down, and wait for the return
of the ladies, who, after remaining at home till beyond her usual time
of coming, had all driven to Bristol to execute sundry errands of
importance.

On reading this note, Agnes walked up stairs to the drawing-room, which
she found uncarpeted, in preparation for the music of the evening, and a
grand pianoforte standing in the middle of it. Now it so happened that,
notwithstanding the constant visits of Agnes in Rodney Place, and the
general love of music which reigned there, she had never been asked if
she could play or sing, and had never by any chance done either. There
are some houses, and very pleasant ones, too, in their way, in which
music is considered by the family as a sort of property belonging of
right to them, _en portage_ with professors indeed, but with which no
one else can interfere,--at least within their precincts, without
manifest impertinence. The house of Mrs. Peters was one of these. James,
who, as we have seen, was an exceedingly amiable young man, never did
anything from morning to night, if he could help it, but practise on the
violoncello, and sing duets with his sister Lucy. Miss Peters was the
only one who shared not in the talent or the monopoly, for Elizabeth
played the harp, and Lucy sang and accompanied herself on the piano
during by far the greater part of every day. Agnes was delighted by
their performance; and though she longed once more to touch the keys
herself, and perhaps to hear her own sweet voice again, she had never
found courage sufficient to enable her to ask permission to do so.

When, therefore, she found herself perfectly alone, with the tempting
instrument before her, and a large collection of music placed beside it,
she eagerly applied her hand to try if it were open: it yielded to her
touch, and in a moment her hands were running over the keys with that
species of ecstasy which a young enthusiast in the science always feels
after having been long deprived of the use of an instrument.

Agnes played correctly, and with great taste and feeling, but she could
by no means compete with Lucy Peters as an accomplished pianiste; she
had enjoyed neither equal practice nor equal instruction. But there was
one branch of the "gay science" in which she excelled her far beyond the
reach of comparison, for Agnes had a voice but rarely equalled in any
country. Of the pre-eminence of her power she was herself profoundly
ignorant, and if she preferred hearing her own glorious notes to those
of any other voice which had yet reached her, she truly believed it was
because there was such a very great pleasure in hearing one's-self
sing,--an opinion that had been considerably strengthened by her
observations on Lucy.

It was with very great delight, unquestionably, that Agnes now listened
to the sounds she made. The size of the room, the absence of the carpet,
the excellence and the isolation of the instrument, were all advantages
she had not enjoyed before, and her pleasure was almost childish in its
ecstasy. She let her rich voice run, like the lark's, into wanton
playfulness of ornament, and felt her own power with equal joy and
surprise.

But when this first out-pouring of her youthful spirit was over, she
more soberly turned to the volumes beside her; and hesitating a moment
between the gratification of exploring new regions of harmony with an
uncertain step, and that of going through, with all the advantages of
her present accessaries, what had so often enchanted her without them,
she chose the last; and fixing upon a volume of Handel, which had been
the chief source from which the old-fashioned but classic taste of Mr.
Wilmot had made her master draw her subjects of study, she more soberly
set about indulging herself with one of his best-loved airs. The notes
of "Angels ever bright and fair," then swelled gloriously through the
unpeopled room, and "Lord, remember David," followed. After this she
"changed her hand," and the sparkling music of Comus seemed to make the
air glad, as she carolled through its delicious melodies.

Amidst all this luxury of sound, it is not surprising that the knocker
or the bell should give signal either of the return of the family, or
the approach of some visiter, without the fair minstrel's being aware of
it. This in fact occurred, and with a result that, had she been in the
secret, would have converted the clear notes of her happy song into
inarticulate "suspirations of forced breath."

Colonel Hubert had promised his friend Frederick, when they parted at
the breakfast-table, to join him at Rodney Place, as he had often within
the last few days done before, for the purpose of joining the party in
their usual morning walk. But Frederick had arrived there so early, that
he had handed Mrs. Peters and her daughters into their carriage when
they set off for Bristol, and then turned from the door in despair of
seeing Agnes for some hours.

Having sought his friend Hubert, and missed him, he betook himself to a
gallop on the downs by way of beguiling the time till two o'clock, when
he intended to make another attempt to meet her, by joining the luncheon
party on Mrs. Peters's return. Colonel Hubert, meanwhile, knocked at
that lady's door exactly at the moment when the happy performer in the
drawing-room was giving full license to her magnificent voice in a
passage of which he had never before felt the power and majesty.

Colonel Hubert stopped short in the midst of the message he was leaving;
and the butler who opened the door to him, and who by this time knew him
as one of the most honoured guests of the mansion, stepped back smiling
into the hall,--a sort of invitation for him to enter, which he had no
inclination to refuse. He accordingly stepped in, and the door was
closed behind him.

"Pray, who is it that is singing?" inquired the Colonel, as soon as the
strain ended.

"I think, sir, it must be Miss Willoughby, for I have let in nobody else
since the ladies went," replied the man.

"Miss Willoughby!" repeated Colonel Hubert unconsciously; "Miss
Willoughby!... Impossible!"

"I think, sir, by the sound," rejoined the servant, "that one of the
drawing-room doors must be open; and if you would please to walk up,
Colonel, you might hear it quite plain without disturbing her."

If Colonel Hubert had a weakness, it was his unbounded love for music,
though even here he had proved his power of conquering inclination when
he thought it right to do so. When quite a young man he had been tempted
by this passion to give so much time to the study of the violin, as to
interfere materially with all other pursuits. A friend, greatly his
senior, and possessing his highest esteem, pointed out to him very
strongly the probable effect of this upon his future career. The next
time the beloved professor arrived to give Colonel Hubert a lesson, he
made him a present of his violin, and gave up the pursuit for ever ...
but not the love for it ... that Nature had implanted beyond the power
of will to eradicate.

In short, this invitation from Mrs. Peters's butler was too tempting to
be resisted, and nodding his approval of it to the man, he walked softly
up the stairs, and found, as that sagacious person had foreseen, that
the door of the back drawing-room was open. Colonel Hubert entered very
cautiously, for the folding-doors between the two apartments were partly
open also, but he was fortunate enough to glide unseen behind one of its
large _battants_, the rising hinges of which were in such a position as
to permit him, without any danger of being discovered, to see as well as
hear the unsuspicious Agnes.

Poor girl! could she have been conscious of this, her agitation would
have amounted to agony; and yet no imaginable combination of
circumstances could have been so favourable to the first, the dearest,
the most secret wish of her heart ... which was, that when she lost
sight of him, which she must soon do,--as she well believed, for
ever,--he might not think her too young, too trifling, too contemptible,
ever to recall her to his memory again.

There was, perhaps, no great danger of this before; but now it could
neither be hoped nor feared that Colonel Hubert should ever forget what
he, during these short moments, heard and saw. There is perhaps no
beautiful woman who sings well, who would not appear to greater
advantage, if thus furtively looked at and listened to, than when
performing, conscious of the observation of all around her. But to Agnes
this advantage was in the present instance great indeed, for never
before had he seen her beautiful countenance in the full play of bright
intelligence and unrestrained enthusiasm, ... and never had he imagined
that she could sing at all! She was lovely, radiant, inspired; and
Colonel Hubert was in a fair way of forgetting equally that she was the
chosen of his friend, the niece of Mrs. Barnaby, and that he was just
twenty years her senior, when the house-door was assailed by the
footman's authoritative rap, and the moment after the ladies' voices, as
they ran up the stairs, effectually awakened him to the realities of his
situation.

He now for the first time felt conscious that this situation had been
obtained by means not perfectly justifiable, and that an apology was
certainly called for, and must be made. He therefore retraced his steps,
but with less caution, through the still open door; and meeting Mrs.
Peters just as she reached the top of the stairs, said in a voice,
perhaps somewhat less steady than usual,--

"Will you forgive me, Mrs. Peters, and plead for my forgiveness
elsewhere, when I confess to you that I have stolen up stairs, and hid
myself for at least half an hour in your back drawing-room, for the
purpose of hearing Miss Willoughby sing?... She is herself quite
ignorant of this _delit_; ... and when you pronounce to her my guilt, I
hope, at the same time, you will recommend me to mercy."

"Miss Willoughby singing!" exclaimed Mrs. Peters; "surely you must be
mistaken, Colonel Hubert.... Agnes never sang in her life."

"Agnes singing!... Oh no!..." cried Lucy; "that is quite impossible, I
assure you."

"And what says the young lady herself?" replied Colonel Hubert, as Agnes
came forward to meet her friends.

But she was assailed with such a clamorous chorus of questions, that it
was some time before she in the least understood what had happened. To
the reiterated.... "Have you really been singing, Agnes?..." "Do you
really sing?..." "How is it possible we never found it out?..." and
the like; she answered quietly enough, ... "I sing a little, and I have
been trying to amuse myself while waiting for you." But when Mrs. Peters
laughingly added, "And do you know, my dear, that Colonel Hubert has
been listening to you from the back drawing-room all the time?" all
semblance of composure vanished. She first coloured violently, and then
turned deadly pale; and, totally unable to answer, sat down on the
nearest chair instinctively, to prevent herself from falling, but with
little or no consciousness of what she was about.

Colonel Hubert watched her with an eye which seemed bent upon reading
every secret of the heart that so involuntarily betrayed its own
agitation; but what he saw, or thought he saw there, seemed infectious,
for he, too, lost all presence of mind; and quickly approaching her with
heightened colour, and a voice trembling from irrepressible feeling, he
said,--

"Have I offended you?... Forgive me, oh! forgive me!"

There was a world of eloquence in the look with which she met his eyes;
innocent, unpractised, unconscious as it was, it raised a tumult in the
noble soldier's breast which it cost many a day's hard struggle
afterwards to bring to order. But nobody saw it--nobody guessed it. The
whole bevy of kind-hearted ladies were filled, from the "crown to the
toe," with the hope and belief that Frederick Stephenson and Agnes
Willoughby were born for each other, and they explained all the
agitation they now witnessed by saying,--

"Did any one ever see so shy a creature!"--"How foolish you are to be
frightened about it, Agnes;" and ... "Come, my dear child, get the
better of this foolish terror; and if you can sing, let us have the
pleasure of hearing you."

"That's right, mamma!" said Lucy laughing; "make her sing one song
before we go down to luncheon.... It is not at all fair that Colonel
Hubert should be the only person in the secret."

"Sing us a song at once--there's a dear girl!" said Mrs. Peters, seating
herself upon a sofa.

"Indeed, indeed, ma'am, I cannot sing!" replied Agnes, clasping her
hands as if begging for her life.

"Upon my word, this is a very pretty mystery," said Mary. "The gentleman
declares that he has been listening to her singing this half hour, and
the lady protests that she cannot sing at all. Permit me, mamma, to
examine the parties face to face. If I understand you rightly, Colonel
Hubert, you stated positively that you heard Miss Willoughby sing. Will
you give me leave to ask you in what sort of manner she sang?"

"In a manner, Miss Peters," replied Colonel Hubert, endeavouring to
recover his composure, "that I have seldom or never heard equalled in
any country.... She sings most admirably."

"Good, very good," said Mary; "a perfectly clear and decisive evidence.
And now, Miss Willoughby, give me leave to question you. If I mistake
not, you told us about five minutes ago that you possessed not the power
of singing in any manner at all?"

"Not at this moment, Mary, certainly," replied Agnes rallying, and
infinitely relieved by perceiving that the overwhelming emotion under
which she had very nearly fainted, had neither been understood nor even
remarked by any one.

"Then will you promise," said Lucy with _tant soit peu_ of new-born
rivalry, "will you promise to sing for us to-night?"

"You do not mean at your concert, do you, Lucy?" replied Agnes,
laughing.

"And why not?" said Lucy. "Colonel Hubert declares that you sing
admirably."

"Colonel Hubert is very kind to say so," answered Agnes, while rather
more than her usual delicate bloom returned to her cheeks; "but he would
probably change his opinion were he to hear me sing before a large
party."

"I am too hungry to battle the point now, Agnes," said Mrs. Peters, "so
let us come down to luncheon; but remember, my dear, if you really can
sing, if it be only some easy trifling ballad, I shall not take it well
of you if you refuse, for I am sorry to say there is a terrible falling
off among our performers. I find three excuses sent since I went out;
and I met Miss Roberts just now, our prima donna, after Lucy, who says
she is so hoarse that she doubts if she shall be able to sing a note."

This was said as the party descended the stairs, so that Agnes escaped
without being obliged to answer; at which she greatly rejoiced, as
refusal or acquiescence seemed alike impossible.

Colonel Hubert stopped at the door of the dining-room, wished the party
good morning, and persisted in making his retreat, though much urged by
Mrs. Peters to join their meal. But he was in no mood for it--he wanted
to be alone--he wanted in solitude to question, and, if possible, to
understand his own feelings; and with one short look at Agnes he left
them, slipped a crown into the hand of the butler who opened the door
for him, and set off for a long walk over Durdham Downs, taking, as it
happened, exactly the same path as that in which he had met Agnes a
fortnight before.

As soon as he was gone, another rather clamorous assault was made on
Agnes upon the subject of her having so long kept her power of singing
a secret from them all.

"I cannot forgive you for not having at least told me of it," said Mary.

"And what was there to tell, my dearest Mary? You that are used to such
playing as that of Elizabeth and Lucy, would have had fair cause to
laugh at me, had I volunteered to amuse you in their stead."

"I don't know how that may be," said Lucy; "what Colonel Hubert talked
about was your singing. Do you think you can sing as well as me?"

"It is a difficult question to answer, Lucy," replied Agnes with the
most ingenuous innocence; "but perhaps I might, one of these days, if I
were as well instructed as you are."

"Well, my dear, that is confessing something, at any rate," said Lucy,
slightly colouring. "I am sure I should be very happy to have you in a
duet with me, only I suppose you have not been taught to take a second."

"Oh yes!... I think I could sing second," replied Agnes with great
simplicity; "but I have not been much used to it, because in all our
duets Miss Wilmot always took the second part."

"And who is Miss Wilmot, my dear?" said Mrs. Peters.

"The daughter of the clergyman, mamma, where Agnes was educated,"
replied Mary.

"Here comes Mr. Stephenson," exclaimed Mrs. Peters gaily. "Now, Agnes,
you positively must go up stairs again, and let us hear what you can do.
I shall be quite delighted for Mr. Stephenson to hear you sing, if you
really have a voice, for I have repeatedly heard him speak with delight
of his sister, Lady Stephenson's, singing."

"Then I am sure that is a reason for never letting him hear mine," said
Agnes, who was beginning to feel very restless, and longing as ardently
for the solitude of her closet, in order to take a review of all the
events of the morning, as Colonel Hubert for the freedom of the Downs.
But the friends around her were much too kind and much too dear for any
whims or wishes of her own to interfere with what they desired; and
when, upon the entrance of Frederick, they all joined in beseeching her
to give them one song, she yielded, and followed meekly and obediently
to the pianoforte.

She certainly did not sing now as she had done before; the fervour, the
enthusiasm was passed; yet, nevertheless, the astonishment and delight
of her auditors were unbounded. Praises and reproaches were blended with
the thanks of her female friends, who, forgetting that they had never
invited her performance, seemed to think her having so long concealed
her talent a positive injury and injustice. But in the raptures of
Frederick Stephenson there was no mixture of reproach; he seemed rapt in
an ecstasy of admiration and love, the exact amount of which was pretty
fairly appreciated by every one who listened to him except herself. A
knavish speech sleeps not so surely in a foolish ear, as a passionate
rhapsody in one that is indifferent. Our Agnes was by no means dull of
apprehension on most occasions; but the incapacity she shewed for
understanding the real meaning of nineteen speeches out of every twenty
addressed to her by Frederick, was remarkable. It is probable, indeed,
that indifference alone would hardly have sufficed to constitute a
defence so effectual against all the efforts he made to render his
feelings both intelligible and acceptable; pre-occupation of heart and
intellect may account for it better. But whatever the cause of this
insensibility, it certainly existed, and in such a degree as to render
this enforced exhibition, and all the vehement praises that followed it,
most exceedingly irksome. A greater proof of this could hardly be given
than by her putting a stop to it at last by saying,--

"If you really wish me to sing a song to-night, my dear Mrs. Peters, you
must please to let me go now, or I think I shall be so hoarse as to make
it impossible."

This little stratagem answered perfectly, and at once brought her near
to the solitude for which she was pining.

"Wish you to sing to-night, _petite_?..." said Mrs. Peters, clapping
her little hands with delight ... "I rather think I shall.... I have
had the terror of Mrs. Armstrong before my eyes for the last fortnight,
and I think, Mary, that we have a novelty here that may save us from the
faint praise usually accorded by her connoisseur-ship...."

"I imagine we have, mamma," replied Mary, who was in every way delighted
by the discovery of this unknown talent in her favourite. "But Agnes is
right; she must really sing no more now.... You have had no walk to-day,
Agnes, have you?" kindly adding, "if you like it, I will put on my
bonnet again and take a stroll with you."

Agnes blushed when she replied,--"No, I have not time to walk to-day....
I must go home now;" much as she might have done if, instead of
intending to take a ramble with her thoughts, she had been about to
enjoy a _tete-a-tete_ promenade with the object of them.

"At least we will walk home with you," replied her friend; and
accordingly the two eldest girls and Mr. Stephenson accompanied her to
Sion Row.

Ungrateful Agnes!... It was with a feeling of joy that made her heart
leap that she watched the departure of her kind friends, and of him too
who would have shed his blood for her with gladness ... in order that in
silence and solitude she might live over again the moments she had
passed with Hubert--moments which, in her estimation, outweighed in
value whole years of life without him.

Dear and precious was her little closet now. There was nothing within it
that ever tempted her aunt to enter; her retreat, therefore, was secure,
and deeply did she enjoy the conviction that it was so. It was not
Petrarch, it was not Shakspeare, no, nor Spencer's fairy-land, in which,
when fancy-free, she used to roam for hours of most sweet forgetfulness,
that now chained her to her solitary chair, and kept her wholly
unconscious of the narrow walls that hemmed her in. But what a world of
new and strange thoughts it was amidst which she soon lost herself!...
Possibilities, conjectures, hopes, such as had never before entered her
head, arose within her as, with a singular mixture of distinctness of
memory and confusion of feeling, she lived again through every instant
of the period during which Colonel Hubert had been in her presence, and
of that, more thrilling still as she meditated upon it, when she
unconsciously had been in his. How anxiously she recalled her attitude,
the careless disorder of her hair, and the unmeasured burst of enjoyment
to which she had yielded herself!... How every song she had sung passed
in review before her!... Her graces, her _roulades_, her childish trials
of what she could effect, all seemed to rise in judgment against her,
and her cheeks tingled with the blushes they brought. Yet in the midst
of this, perhaps,

    ... a sense of self-approving _power_
    Mixed with her busy thought ...

and she felt that she was not sorry he had heard her sing.

Then came the glowing picture of the few short moments that followed the
discovery ... the look that she had seen fixed upon her ... the voice
that trembled as he asked to be forgiven ... his flushed cheek ... the
agitation--yes, the agitation of his manner, of the stately Hubert's
manner, as he approached, as he stood near, as he looked at, as he
spoke to her! It was so; she knew it, she had seen it, she had felt
it.... How strange is the constitution of the human mind!... and how
mutually dependent are its faculties and feelings on each other!.... The
same girl who was so "earthly dull" as to be unable to perceive the
undisguised adoration of Frederick Stephenson, was now rapt in a
delirium of happiness from having read, what probably no other mortal
eye could see, in the involuntary workings of Colonel Hubert's features
for a few short instants, while offering an apology which he could
hardly avoid making.




CHAPTER VIII.

SOME FARTHER PARTICULARS RESPECTING THE STATE OF MRS. BARNABY'S
HEART.--TENDER DOUBTS AND FEARS, ON THE PART OF THE MAJOR, ALL SET TO
REST BY THE GENTLE KINDNESS OF THE WIDOW.--SOME ACCOUNT OF MRS. PETERS'S
CONCERT, AND OF THE TERRIBLE EVENTS WHICH FOLLOWED IT.


We have left the Widow Barnaby too long, and must hasten back to her.
There was altogether a strange mixture of worldly wisdom and of female
folly in her character, for first one and then the other preponderated,
as circumstances occurred. Had a man, richer than she believed the
fascinating Major to be, proposed to her even at the very tenderest
climax of his courtship, there is no doubt in the world but she would
have accepted him, but when all her pecuniary anxieties were lulled
into a happy doze by the pleasing statements of Messrs. William and
Maintry, her love-making propensities awoke; she was again the Martha
Compton of Silverton; and became so exceedingly attached to the Major's
society, that neither Mrs. Peters's concert, nor any other engagement in
which he did not share, could have compensated for one of those
delightful _tete-a-tete_ evenings during which Agnes enjoyed the society
of her friends.

When Major Allen saw the invitation card from Rodney Place lying on the
table, he said,--

"Do you intend to go, dearest?"

"Have you a card, Major?" was the reply; and when the rejoinder produced
a negative, she added,--"Then most assuredly I shall not go;" a degree
of fidelity that was very satisfactory to the Major, who began to
discover that his newness in the society of Clifton was wearing off, and
that he was eyed askance whenever he ventured to appear where gentlemen
assembled.

A thousand fond follies, of course, diversified these frequent
_tete-a-tetes_; and upon one occasion the Major in a sudden burst of
jealous tenderness declared, that, notwithstanding the many proofs of
affection she had granted him, there was one without which he could not
be satisfied, as his dreams perpetually tormented him with visions of
rivals who succeeded in snatching her from him.

"Oh! Major, what folly!" exclaimed the lady. "Have you not yet learned
to read my heart?... But what is there ... foolish as you are ... what
is there that I could refuse to you ... that it was not inconsistent
with my honour to grant?..."

"Your honour!... Beautiful Juno! know you not that your honour is dearer
to me than my own?... What I would ask, my beloved Martha, can attach no
disgrace to you, ... but, in fact, I shall not know a moment's ease till
you have given me a promise of marriage. I know, my love, that you
have relations here who will leave no stone unturned to prevent our
union, ... and the idea that they may succeed distracts me!... Will you
forgive this weakness, and grant what I implore?"

"You know I will, foolish man!... but I will have your promise in
return, or you will think my love less fervent than your own," returned
the widow playfully.

To this the Major made no objection; and so, "in merry sport," these
promises were signed and exchanged amidst many lover-like jestings on
their own folly.

This happened just three days before the eventful concert; and in the
interval Major Allen received a letter from his friend Maintry, who was
still at Bath, requesting him to join him there in order to give him the
advantage of his valuable advice on a matter of great importance. It
was, of course, with extreme reluctance that he tore himself away; but
it was a sacrifice demanded by friendship, and he would make it, as he
told the widow, on condition that she would rescind her refusal to Mrs.
Peters, and pass the evening of his absence at her house. She agreed to
this, and he left her only in time to enable her to dress for the party.

The being accompanied by her aunt was a considerable drawback to any
pleasure Agnes had anticipated from the evening, and the stroke came
upon her by surprise, for Mrs. Barnaby did not deem it necessary to
stand on such ceremony with her sister as to ask leave to come after
having been once invited.

Mrs. Peters looked vexed and disconcerted when she entered; but,
perceiving the anxiety with which Agnes was watching to see how she bore
it, she recalled her smiles, placed her prodigiously fine sister-in-law
on a sofa with two other dowagers, desired Mr. Peters to go and talk to
her, and then seizing upon Agnes, led her among the party of amateurs
who were indulging in gossip and tea at a snug table in the second
drawing-room. She was immediately introduced as a young friend who would
prove a great acquisition, and two or three songs in her own
old-fashioned style were assigned, pretty nearly without waiting for her
consent, to her performance; but with an observation from Mrs. Peters
that she could not refuse, because they were the very songs she had sung
when Mr. Stephenson was there in the morning.

All this was said and done in a bustle and a hurry, and Agnes carried
off captive to the region where the business of the evening was already
beginning with the tuning of instruments and the arrangement of desks,
before she well knew what she intended to do or say. She would have felt
the embarrassment more had her mind been fully present to the scene; but
it was not. She knew that Mr. Stephenson and his friend were expected,
and no spot of earth had much interest for her at that moment except the
doorway.

Her suspense lasted not long, however, for they soon entered together,
and then her heart bounded, the colour varied on her cheek, and her
whole frame trembled. Mr. Stephenson was by her side in a moment; but
she was conscious of this only sufficiently to make her feel a pang
because Colonel Hubert had not followed him. Far from approaching her,
indeed, he seemed to place himself studiously at a distance, and
instantly a deep gloom appeared in the eyes of Agnes to have fallen upon
every object.... The lights were dim, every instrument out of tune, and
the civilities of Mr. Stephenson so extremely troublesome, that she
thought, if they continued, she must certainly leave the room.

The overture began, and she was desired to sit down in the place
assigned her; but this, as she found, left her open on one side to the
pertinacious whisperings of Mr. Stephenson, and with a movement of
irritation quite new to her, she got up again, with her cheeks burning,
to ask for a place in the very middle of a row of ladies who could not
comply with her request without real difficulty.

As soon as she had reached her new station she raised her eyes, and
looked towards the spot where she had seen Colonel Hubert place himself;
there he was still, and moreover his eyes were evidently fixed upon her.

"Why will he not speak to me?" mentally exclaimed poor Agnes; ... "or
why does he so look at me?"

It would not have been difficult for Colonel Hubert to have given an
answer. While they were taking coffee together half an hour before they
set off, Frederick Stephenson told his friend that his fate would that
night be decided, for he had made up his mind to propose to Miss
Willoughby.

Colonel Hubert started.... "Of course, Frederick, you do not decide upon
this without being pretty certain what the answer will be," was the
reply of Colonel Hubert.

"You know the definition Silvius gives of love," returned Frederick. "It
is to be all made of faith and service ... and so am I for Agnes....
Wherefore, as my service is, and shall be perfect, so also shall be my
faith, nor will I ever submit myself to the misery of doubting....
Either she is mine at once, or I fly where I can never see her more."

After this, Colonel Hubert very naturally preferred looking on from a
distance, to making any approach that might disturb the declared purpose
of his friend.

"By-standers see most," ... is an old proverb, and all such speak truly.
Frederick, notwithstanding his "perfect service," was not by many a
degree so near discovering the true state of Miss Willoughby's feelings
as his friend: not, indeed, that Colonel Hubert discovered anything
relating to himself, but he saw weariness and distaste in the movement
of Agnes's head, and the mournful expression of her face, even before
the decisive manoeuvre by which she escaped from him, who was only
waiting for an opportunity of confessing himself "to be all made of
adoration, duty, and observance."

An indescribable sensation of pleasure tingled through the veins of
Colonel Hubert as he observed this, but the next moment his heart
reproached him with a bitter pang. "Am I then a traitor to him who has
so frankly trusted me?" thought he. "No, by Heaven!... Poor
Frederick!... Angel as she is, he well deserves her, for from the very
first he has thought of her, and her only; ... while I ... the study of
her aunt's absurdities I deemed the more attractive speculation of the
two.... Agnes, you are avenged!"

The good-humoured Frederick

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