The Widow Barnaby. Vol. 3 (of 3)
by Frances Milton Trollope · English · Gutenberg #36563 · 397,018 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Widow Barnaby. Vol. 3 (of 3)
Author: Frances Milton Trollope
Release date: June 30, 2011 [eBook #36563]
Most recently updated: January 7, 2021
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WIDOW BARNABY. VOL. 3 (OF 3) ***
Produced by Delphine Lettau, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
THE WIDOW BARNABY.
BY FRANCES TROLLOPE,
AUTHOR OF "THE VICAR OF WREXHILL," "A ROMANCE OF VIENNA," ETC.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
1839.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY SAMUEL BENTLEY,
Dorset Street, Fleet Street.
THE WIDOW BARNABY.
CHAPTER I.
MRS. BARNABY LOSES HER SENSES, AND RECOVERS THEM.--SHE TAKES A DESPERATE
RESOLUTION.--MISS MORRISON PROVES HERSELF A FRIEND IN NEED.--AGNES FINDS
CONSOLATION IN SORROW.
Mrs. Barnaby's horror on recovering her senses (for she really did fall
into a swoon) was in very just proportion to the extent of the outlay
her noble vision had cost her. To Miss Morrison, who had listened to all
her hopes, she scrupled not to manifest her despair, not, however,
entering into the financial part of it, but leaving it to be understood
by her sympathizing friend, that her agony proceeded wholly from
disappointed love.
"What a Lovelace!... what a Lothario!... what a finished deceiver!...
_Keloreur!..._" exclaimed the pitying spinster.... "And how thankful
ought I to be that no man can ever again cause me such terrible
emotion.... _Nong jammy!_"
"Gracious Heaven! what is to become of me?" cried Mrs. Barnaby,
apparently but little consoled by this assurance of her friend's
exemption from a similar misfortune; "what ought I to do, Miss
Morrison?... If I set off instantly for London, do you think I could
reach it before he leaves it for Rome?"
Miss Morrison, having turned to the newspaper, examined its date, and
read the fatal paragraph again, replied, "You certainly could, my dear
Mrs. Barnaby, if this statement be correct; but I would not do it, if I
were you, without thinking very seriously about it.... It is true I
never had a lord for a lover myself, but I believe when they run
restive, they are exceedingly difficult to hold; and if you do go after
him, and fail at last to touch his cruel heart, you will be only worse
off than you are now.... _Say clare._"
"That may be all very true in one sense, Miss Morrison," replied the
unhappy widow; "but there is such a thing as pursuing a man lawfully for
breach of promise of marriage, and ... though money is no object to
me ... I should glory in getting damages from him, if only to prove to
the world that he is a scoundrel!"
"That is quite another thing, indeed," said the confidant, "_toot a
fay_; and, if you mean to bring an action against him, I am pretty sure
that I could be very useful to you; for my brother is an attorney in
London, and is reckoned particularly clever about everything of the
kind. But have you any proof, my dear lady?... that is what my brother
will be sure to say to you.... I know you have had lots of letters; and
if you have kept them all, it is most likely my brother may find out
something like proof.... _Eel ay see abeel!_"
"Proof?... To be sure I have proof enough, if that's all that's wanted;
and I'll go to your brother at once, Miss Morrison, for revenge I'll
have ... if nothing else."
"Then of course you'll take all his love letters with you, Mrs.
Barnaby; and I think, if you would let me look over them, I should be
able to tell you whether they would answer the purpose or not.--_Jay me
coney ung pew._"
"I should have no objection in the world to your seeing them every one,"
replied the outraged lady; ... "but I am thinking, Miss Morrison, that I
have an immense deal of business to do, and that I shall never get
through it without your friendly help ... I am thinking...."
And Mrs. Barnaby was thinking, and very much to the purpose too. She was
thinking, that though she had squandered about seventy or eighty pounds
in trifling purchases, by far the greater part of the expenses her noble
lover had induced her to run into, were still in the shape of debts, the
money with which she proposed to discharge them being as yet paying her
interest in the funds. Could she contrive to leave the heaviest of these
debts unpaid till she knew the result of her intended attack upon Lord
Mucklebury's purse, it would be very convenient. Perhaps some vague
notion that she, too, might visit the continent, and thus escape the
necessity of paying them at all, might mix itself with her meditations;
but at any rate she very speedily decided upon leaving Cheltenham the
following day without mentioning her intention to her milliner, mercer,
tailor, shoemaker, hosier, perfumer, livery-stable keeper, librarian, or
even to her hair-dresser. If she got damages, she should certainly
return and pay them all with great _eclat_; if not ... circumstances
must decide what it would be most advisable for her to do.
Great as was her esteem and affection for Miss Morrison, she did not
think it necessary to trouble her with all these trifling details, but
resumed the conversation by saying,--
"Yes, my dear Miss Morrison, I am thinking that the best thing I can do
will be to go to London for a day or two, see your brother, put all my
documents into his hands, and then return to Cheltenham for the
remainder of the season, for I am sure I should be more likely to
recover my spirits in your friendly society than anywhere else."
"Indeed I approve your resolution altogether," replied Miss Morrison;
"and I will write a line by you to my brother, telling him that whatever
he does to assist you, I shall take as a personal favour to myself."
"I cannot thank you enough!" said the widow, pressing her hand.... "We
shall be able to get everything ready to-night I hope; and when my
coachman comes as usual for orders at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning,
tell him, my dear friend, to drive you about wherever you like to go....
And you may mention, if you please, that I shall want him to take us a
long drive on Saturday to see the Roman Pavement.... I mean to return on
Friday night ... for what will be the use, you know, of my staying in
town?"
"None in the world ... but I think you had better name Monday for the
drive ... for fear you should be too tired on Saturday."
"Well, just as you please about that ... but you had better go and write
your letter, and I'll speak to Agnes and my maid about packing."
"Perhaps you will not like to take Miss Willoughby.... I will take the
greatest care of her, if you will leave her in my charge."
"How _very_ kind!... But I would rather take her.... I can't do without
somebody to lace my stays and fasten my dress, and I want my maid to
finish the work she is about.... She is an exquisite darner, and I have
set her to mend the rent that hateful Lord Mucklebury made in my India
muslin.... So I don't mean to take her."
* * * * *
Nothing of any kind occurred to interfere with the execution of this
hastily, but by no means unskilfully, imagined plan. The ready-money
expenditure of Mrs. Barnaby had been so lavish, that she had bought
golden opinions from master, mistress, men, and maids throughout the
establishment; and when she summoned Mr. ----, the landlord, to her
presence, and informed him that she was going to London for a couple of
days on business, but should not give up her rooms, as she should take
neither of her servants with her, he received the communication with
great satisfaction, and promised that no one but her own people should
enter her drawing-room till her return.
This preliminary business happily settled, Mrs. Barnaby mounted the
stairs to her bed-room, where, as usual, she found Agnes busily occupied
in her corner, the hour for an evening engagement made with Lady
Stephenson not having yet arrived.
For some reason or other Mrs. Barnaby never enjoyed any flirtation so
much in the presence of Agnes as without her; and it was for this reason
that at Cheltenham, as well as at Clifton, she had encouraged her making
acquaintance for herself; thus her constant intercourse with Lady
Elizabeth Norris and Lady Stephenson had never in any degree been
impeded by her aunt.
Mrs. Barnaby was aware that Agnes had engaged to pass this evening with
them; and when she looked at her tranquil face as she entered the room
she felt greatly disposed to plague her by saying that she must stay at
home to pack, and could not go.... But a moment's reflection suggested
to her that the less fuss she made about this packing the better, and
therefore only told her that she was obliged to set off by seven o'clock
the next morning for London, on business that would detain her for a day
or two ... that she meant to take her, and leave her maid; and that
before she set off upon her gossiping visit, it would be necessary to
pack her trunk.
Agnes laid down her book, and looked surprised.
"Don't stare so like a fool, Agnes.... Do what I bid you instantly."
"There will be no occasion for me to pack much, aunt, if we are only to
stay a day or two," said Agnes.
"When I tell you to pack your trunk, miss, I mean that your trunk shall
be packed, and I won't trouble you to give me any opinion on the
subject."
"Am I to put everything into it, aunt?"
"Plague of my life, yes!" replied Mrs. Barnaby, whose vexed spirit
seemed to find relief in speaking harshly.
Without further remonstrance Agnes set about obeying her; and the little
all that formed her mourning wardrobe was quickly transferred from the
two drawers allowed her to the identical trunk which aunt Betsy had
provided for her first journey from Silverton to Empton.
"And my books, aunt?..." said Agnes, fixing her eyes on the heated
countenance of the widow with some anxiety.
Mrs. Barnaby hesitated, and Agnes saw she did. It was not because the
little library of her niece formed the chief happiness of her life that
she scrupled at bidding her leave them behind, but because she suspected
that they, and their elegant little case, were of some marketable
value.... "You may take them if you will," she said at length.... "I
don't care a straw what you take, or what you leave ... only don't
plague me.... You must know, I suppose, if you are not quite an idiot,
that when people go to London on business, it is possible they may stay
longer than they expect."
Agnes asked no more questions, but quietly packed up everything that
belonged to her; and when the work, no very long one, was completed, she
said,--
"Can I be of any use to you, aunt, before I go out?"
"I should like to know what use you are ever likely to be of to
anybody," ... was the reply. "Take yourself off, in God's name!--the
sooner the better."
The very simple toilet of Agnes was soon arranged; and having left
everything in perfect order for departure, she uttered a civil but
unanswered "Good-b'ye, aunt," and went away.
It so chanced that a little volume of poems, lent to her by Lady
Stephenson, had been left in the drawing-room, and Agnes, wishing to
return it before leaving Cheltenham, entered the room to look for it. As
a good many circulating-library volumes were lying about, it was some
minutes before she found it; and just as she had succeeded, and was
leaving the apartment, Miss Morrison appeared at the door. She had a
letter in her hand, and a bustling, busy look and manner, which led
Agnes to suppose that she had something of consequence to say to her
aunt.
"Shall I run up stairs and desire my aunt to come to you, Miss
Morrison?" said she.
"No, thank you, my dear ... you are very kind, but I think I had better
go up to her; I only stepped in first to see if she was here.... She is
very busy packing, I suppose, and perhaps I can help her."
"Then you know, Miss Morrison, that she is going to London to-morrow?"
said Agnes.
"Oh! dear, yes: I believe it was I put it into her head first, ... and
this is the letter she is to take to my brother. I am sure I hope she'll
succeed with all my heart; and I should like to hear that Lord
Mucklebury had ten thousand pounds to pay her for damages."
"Damages!" repeated Agnes; "what for?"
"What for, my dear child?.... Why, for having used her so abominably
ill, to be sure ... there is nobody that saw them together as I did,
but must have supposed he intended to marry her."
"And if he has used her ill, Miss Morrison," said Agnes, looking greatly
alarmed, "will it not be exposing herself still more if she goes to law
about it? Indeed, Miss Morrison, you should not advise her to do
anything so very wrong and disagreeable."
"Don't blame me, my dear, I beg of you ... the idea was quite her own
_toot a fay_, I assure you, and all I have done to further it was just
writing this letter to my brother for her. He is a very clever lawyer,
and I'm sure she could not do better."
"It would be much better, Miss Morrison, if she did not do anything,"
said Agnes, while tears started to her eyes at the idea of this fresh
exposure.
"I don't think, my dear Miss Agnes, that you can be much of a judge,"
retorted the adviser. "However, as you do choose to give an opinion upon
the subject, and seem to be so very much afraid that she should expose
herself, I must just tell you that you owe it to me if she does not go
galloping after Lord Mucklebury all the way to Rome.... She had the
greatest possible inclination to do so, I assure you.... However, I
think that I have put it out of her head by talking to her of
damages.... But you are going down stairs, and I am going up ... so,
good-bye.... Don't frighten yourself more than is needful; it is as
likely as not that you will never be called into court.... _O revor!_"
Agnes, sick at heart, and trembling for the future, repaired to the
house of Lady Elizabeth. Lady Stephenson was at the pianoforte, and the
old lady reading near a window; but as soon as her young guest was
announced, she closed her volume, and said, "You are late, little
girl ... we have been expecting you this hour, and this is the last
evening we shall have quietly to ourselves; for Colonel Hubert writes us
word that he is coming to-morrow, and he is a much more stay-at-home
person than Sir Edward."
Colonel Hubert coming to Cheltenham the very day she was to leave it!...
These were not tidings to cheer her spirits, already agitated and
depressed, and when she attempted to speak, she burst into tears. Lady
Stephenson was at her side in a moment. "Agnes!..." she said, "what
ails you?... You are as white as a ghost.... Had you heard any agitating
news before you came here?"
Struck by the accent with which this was spoken, and perceiving in a
moment that Lady Stephenson thought the mention of Colonel Hubert's
arrival had caused her emotion, she hastened to reply, and did so
perhaps with more frankness than she might have shewn had she not been
particularly anxious to prove that there were other and very sufficient
reasons for her discomposure.
"News most painful and most sad to me, Lady Stephenson," she said.... "I
believe you have heard my aunt Barnaby's foolish flirtation with Lord
Mucklebury spoken of.... Lady Elizabeth was laughing about it the other
day."
"And who was not, my dear?... The saucy Viscount has made her, they say,
the subject of a ballad.... But is it for this you weep?... Or is it
because he is gone away, and that there's an end of it?"
"Alas! Lady Elizabeth, there is not an end of it, and it is for that I
weep ... though indeed I ought to beg your pardon for bringing such
useless sorrow here; ... but I find that my aunt fancies she has a claim
upon him--a legal claim, and that she is going to London to-morrow to
bring an action against him."
"Is it possible?" exclaimed the old lady, looking at poor Agnes with
very genuine compassion.... "God knows you may well weep, my poor
child.... I shall begin to think I gave but sorry advice, Agnes, when I
told you to stay with her. It may, after all, be better to run some risk
in leaving her, than brave certain disgrace and ridicule by remaining to
reside in her family."
"Is she going to take you to town with her, Agnes?" inquired Lady
Stephenson with a look of deep concern.
"Yes, Lady Stephenson, I am to go with her."
There was a very painful silence of a minute or two. Both the admiring
friends of Agnes would have done much to save her from being a sharer in
such an enterprize; but to interfere with the indisputable authority of
such a woman as Mrs. Barnaby in her arrangements concerning a niece, who
had no dependence but on her, was out of the question, and the
conviction that it was so kept them silent.
"How did you hear this strange story, my dear?" said Lady Elizabeth....
"Did your aunt explain to you her ridiculous purpose herself?"
"No, Lady Elizabeth ... she only bade me prepare my trunk for going to
London with her.... It was Miss Morrison, whom I met by chance as I came
out, who told me the object of the journey; ... and dreadful as this
going to law would be, it is not the worst thing I fear."
"What worse can there be, Agnes?" said Lady Stephenson.
"I am almost ashamed to tell you of such fears, ... but when I uttered
something like a reproach to Miss Morrison for having advised this
journey, and writing a letter about it to her brother, who is a lawyer
in London, she told me that I ought to be grateful to her for preventing
my aunt's following Lord Mucklebury all the way to Rome, for that such
was her first intention ... and" ... continued Agnes, bursting anew into
tears, "I greatly, greatly suspect that she has not given up this
intention yet."
The two ladies exchanged glances of pity and dismay, and Lady Elizabeth,
making her a sign to come close to her, took her kindly by the hand,
saying, in accents much more gentle than she usually bestowed on any
one, "My poor, dear girl, what makes you think this? Tell me, Agnes,
tell me all they have said to you."
Agnes knelt down on the old lady's foot-stool, and gently kissing the
venerable hand which held hers, said, "It is very, _very_ kind of you to
let me tell you all, ... and your judgment will be more to be trusted
than mine as to what it may mean; but my reason for thinking that my
aunt is going to do more than she confesses to Miss Morrison is, that
she has publicly declared her intended absence will be only for two
days; and yet, though she told me this too, she ordered me to pack up
everything I had, ... even the little collection of books I told you of,
Lady Stephenson, ... and, moreover, instead of letting her maid put up
her things, I left her doing it herself, and saw her before I came away
putting a vast variety of her most valuable things in a great travelling
trunk that she could never think of taking, if it were really her
intention to stay in London only two days, and then return to
Cheltenham."
"Very suspicious ... very much so indeed," said the old lady; "and all I
can say to you in reply, my poor child, is this. _You must not go abroad
with her!_ I am not rich enough to charge myself with providing for you,
nor must your friend Emily here frighten her new husband by talking of
taking possession of you, Agnes, ... but ... you must not go abroad with
that woman. Governess you must be, I suppose, if things go on in this
way; and instead of opposing it, I will try if I cannot find a
situation in which you may at least be safer than with this aunt
Barnaby. Whatever happens, you must let us hear from you; and remember,
the moment you discover that she really proposes to take you abroad, you
are to put yourself into a Cheltenham coach, and come directly to me."
What words were these for Agnes to listen to!... Colonel Hubert was to
take up his residence in that house on the morrow; and she was now told
in a voice of positive command, that if what she fully expected would
happen, did happen, she was at once to seek a shelter there! She dared
not trust her voice to say, "I thank you," but she ventured to raise her
eyes to the hard-featured but benignant countenance that bent over her,
and the kiss she received on her forehead proved that though her silence
might not be fully understood, her gratitude was not doubted.
The evening was not, like many others recently passed there, so happy,
that Mrs. Barnaby's footman often came to escort her home before she
thought the time for parting could be half arrived. They had no music,
no scraps of poetry in Italian or in English, as touch-stones of taste
and instruction, with which Lady Stephenson loved to test the powers of
her young favourite; but the conversation rested almost wholly upon the
gloomy and uncertain future. At length the moment came in which she was
to bid these valued friends adieu; they embraced and blessed her with
tenderness, nay, even with tears; but little did they guess the tumult
that swelled the breast of Agnes. It was Hubert's sister to whom she
clung ... it was Hubert's aunt--almost his mother--who hung over her,
looking as if she were her mother too!... and on the morrow he would be
with them, and he would hear her named; for notwithstanding their
unmeasured superiority to her in all ways, they could not forget her so
soon, ... he would hear of her sorrows, of the dangers that surrounded
her; and he would hear too, perhaps, of the shelter offered her in the
very house he dwelt in.
All these thoughts were busy in her head as she uttered the last
farewell, and turned again in passing through the door to look once
more on those who would so soon be looked at by him.
There was certainly a strange pleasure mixed with all this sadness, for
though she wept through half the night, she would not have exchanged the
consciousness of having been brought nearer to him, even by the act of
having mingled tears in parting with his nearest relations, for all the
enjoyment that a tranquil spirit and a calm night's rest could offer in
exchange for it.
CHAPTER II.
MRS. BARNABY EFFECTS HER RETREAT FROM CHELTENHAM.--SHE CARRIES WITH HER
A LETTER.--ITS EFFECT.--AN AMIABLE ATTORNEY.--SPECIMENS OF A NOBLE STYLE
OF LETTER-WRITING.--CONSOLATION.
Though the baggage of Mrs. Barnaby was strangely disproportionate to the
period she had named for her absence, it seemed not to excite suspicion,
which might, perhaps, be owing to the well known splendour of her
elaborate toilet, which she not unfrequently changed four times in a
day, requiring--as all who thought on the subject must be aware--an
extent of travelling equipment much exceeding the portion assigned to
ordinary ladies.
So she passed forth unchallenged, and unchallenged saw her treasures
deposited on roof and in rumble-tumble till all were stowed away; and
then, having affectionately squeezed the hand of Miss Morrison, who
accompanied her to the stage, she climbed into it, followed by the pale
and melancholy Agnes.
Our widow was now beginning to be an experienced traveller, and her
first care on reaching London was to secure rooms in a private
lodging-house. Notwithstanding the noble visions with which she had
recreated her fancy during the last month, she now with great good sense
sent them all to the moon, knowing she could easily call them back again
if all went well with her; but determined that they should in no way
interfere with her enjoyment of the more substantial goods that were
still within her reach; so, she commissioned the maid of the house to
procure her three dozen of oysters and a pot of porter, with which,
while Agnes wept herself to sleep, she repaid herself for her day's
fatigue, and wisely laid in a stock of strength for the morrow.
Her first object, of course, was to hold communication with the brother
of her friend, "Magnus Morrison, Esq. attorney-at-law, Red Lion
Square." Such was the address the letter entrusted to her bore; and at
breakfast the following morning she sat gazing at it for some minutes
before she could decide whether it would be better to convey it herself,
or prepare the lawyer to receive her by letting it precede her for a few
hours. She finally decided to send it before her;--the wisdom of which
determination will be evident upon the perusal of the letter, such an
introduction being well calculated to ensure all the zealous attention
she desired.
Miss Morrison's letter ran thus:--
"MY DEAR BROTHER,
"I never fail, as you well know, to catch all the fish for your
net that comes in my way ... _crowyee sellaw too jure_ ... and
I now send you a client whom I have little doubt you will find
answer in every way. She is a most charming woman, and my most
particular friend.... I don't know a more charming person
anywhere, not even in my dear Paris, ... so rich, so free in
all her expenses, so remarkably obliging, and so very handsome
for all those who admire tall, large beauties. But you are too
good a lawyer to listen to all this when business is in hand,
and so I must come _o fay_. And now, Magnus, be sure to attend
to every word. Mrs. Barnaby--this charming friend of mine--has
for the last month been receiving the most marked and the most
tender attentions from Lord Mucklebury. He is a viscount, my
dear Magnus, and--observe--as rich as a Jew. This nobleman has
given her, poor dear lady! every reason in the world to believe
that his dearest wish, hope, and intention was to marry her;
and she, good, tender-hearted creature! perfectly adored him,
devoting every hour of the day to the finding out where he was
to be seen, and the going there to see him. She had no secrets
whatever from me the whole time, and I knew everything that was
going on from the first moment he ever kissed her hand to the
most tender interviews that ever passed between them. And how
do you think it has all ended?... Oh! Magnus, it is impossible
to deny that the male sex--lords and all--are most dreadfully
deceitful and false-hearted. All this devoted love, going on,
as I tell you, for a whole month, has just ended in nothing. My
lord set off in his travelling carriage, with four horses and
an out-rider, as we subsequently ascertained, without even
taking any leave of the lady at all, or explaining himself the
least bit either one way or the other. You may easily guess her
feelings.... Her first idea, poor thing, was to follow him to
the world's end--for there is no doubt in the world that her
attachment was of the most sincere kind; but luckily she
confided this romantic thought to me, and it struck me
directly, Magnus, that the best thing in the world for her to
do would be to put the whole affair into your hands. She has
got quantities of his letters ... they are very little letters,
to be sure, folded up sometimes not much bigger than a
shilling; but still letters are letters, you know; and I can't
but think that, with your cleverness, something might be made
of an action for damages. Of course, it is natural to suppose
that I am a little partial to this sort of measure, because I
can't well have forgotten yet that the best part of my snug
little fortune came to me in the same way, thanks to the good
management of our dear good father, Magnus.... The dear lady
listened to reason in a minute, and consented to put herself in
your hands, for which reason she is going to set off for London
to-morrow morning. She will bring all Lord Mucklebury's letters
with her, and it will be for you to judge what use can be made
of them;--only it is but right to mention, that there is no
doubt in the world but that Mrs. Barnaby is quite rich enough
to pay handsomely, whether she gains the cause or loses it.
"I am, my dear Magnus,
"Your affectionate sister,
"SARAH MORRISON."
Mrs. Barnaby enclosed this letter in an envelope, in which she wrote,--
"Mrs. Barnaby presents her compliments to Mr. Magnus Morrison,
and will be happy to see him on the business to which the
enclosed letter refers at any hour he will name."
"No. 5, Half-moon Street, Piccadilly."
Having consigned her packet to the post, the widow declared to her
anxious companion that she did not mean to waste her time as long as she
remained in London; but should walk to every part of the town, and
should expect her to do the same.
"Will there not be danger of losing ourselves, aunt?" said Agnes.
"London, you know, is so much bigger than any place you ever saw."
"And what's the good of that piece of wisdom, Miss Solomon? Perhaps you
don't know that I have a tongue in my head, and that the Londoners speak
English?... Come, and put on your bonnet, if you please, and I'll
promise not to leave you in any of the gutters, but bring you safe home
again to _No. 5, Half-moon Street, Piccadilly_. There, you see, I shall
know what place to ask for. Won't that do for you?"
Agnes felt that all remonstrance would be in vain, and submitted; though
the idea of being dragged through the streets of London by her aunt
Barnaby, dressed in the identical green satin gown and pink feathers
which had first attracted Lord Mucklebury's attention, was by no means
an agreeable prospect.
The expedition, however, fatiguing and disagreeable as it proved, was
achieved without any very disastrous results. Mrs. Barnaby, indeed, was
twice very nearly knocked down by a cab, while staring too eagerly about
her when crossing the streets; and friendly as was the old black crape
veil of poor Agnes, it could not wholly save her from some tolerably
obvious efforts to find out whether the face it sheltered was worthy the
graceful symmetry of the person who wore it; ... but they nevertheless
reached their Half-moon Street without any positive injury to life or
limb.
At eight o'clock in the evening, while Mrs. Barnaby and her weary
companion were taking tea, the drawing-room door opened, and Mr. Magnus
Morrison was announced, and most cordially welcomed by the widow, who
not only saw in him the lawyer from whom she hoped to learn how to
replenish her waning finances, but also the brother of her dear Miss
Morrison, and the only acquaintance she could hope at this trying moment
to find or make in London.
But now, as heretofore, the presence of Agnes was inconvenient, which
she took care to signify by saying to the lawyer, "I am greatly indebted
to you, Mr. Morrison, for your early attention to my note; and I shall
be very glad to talk with you on the business that brings me to
London ... but not quite yet ... we really must be quite by ourselves,
for it will be necessary that I should have your whole attention. Will
you, in the mean time, permit me to offer you tea?"
Before Mr. Morrison could reply Agnes was on her feet, and asking her
aunt in a whisper if she would give her leave to go to bed. "Yes, if you
like it, my darling!..." replied Mrs. Barnaby, whose tenderness for her
niece was always awakened by the presence of strangers. "I am sure you
look tired to death.... But bring down first, my dear, my writing-desk;
and remember, my love, to take care that I have warm water when I come
up; ... and don't forget, Agnes, to put my bonnet and shawl, and all
that, nicely away ... and see that I have paper for curling my hair
ready on the dressing-table; ... and don't go to bed till you have put
out my lilac silk for to-morrow; and just put a stitch in the blonde of
my bonnet-cap, for I pulled it almost off."
All this was said by the widow in a coaxing sort of half whisper, with
an arm round her victim's waist, and a smile of the most fascinating
kindness on her own lips.
The desk was brought, and the consulting parties left alone; while
Agnes, as she performed the different tasks imposed on her, and which
her great fatigue rendered heavy, could not for an instant banish from
her mind the question that had incessantly haunted her from the hour she
left the drawing-room of Lady Elizabeth.... "Will she go abroad?...
Shall I be obliged to return to Cheltenham without her?... Shall I be
obliged to go to the house where he is living?"
* * * * *
Mr. Magnus Morrison was by no means an ill-looking man, and though a
bachelor of thirty-five, had as little of quizzical peculiarity about
him as a careful attorney of that age, unpolished by a wife, can be
expected to have. Mrs. Barnaby, though a little his senior, was still,
as we know, a lady _a pretention_, and never permitted any gentleman to
approach her without making an experiment upon him with her fine eyes.
Their success in the present instance was neither so violent as in the
case of Major Allen, nor so instantaneous as in that of the
false-hearted peer; nevertheless enough was achieved to throw an
agreeable sort of extraneous interest into the business before them, and
the widow disdained not as it proceeded to decorate her narrative and
herself with such graces as none but a Mrs. Barnaby can display.
Having given her own version, and with such flourishes as her nature
loved, of Lord Mucklebury's violent passion for her, she asked her
attentive and somewhat captivated auditor what species of testimony was
required to prove a promise of marriage in such a manner as to secure
large damages, "for without being quite certain of obtaining such, you
must be aware, my dear sir, that a woman of my station, connexions, and
fortune, could not think of appearing in court."
"Assuredly not," replied Mr. Magnus Morrison fervently. "Such a measure
is never to be resorted to unless the evidence is of a nature that no
cross-examination can set aside. My sister tells me, madam, that you
have letters...."
"Yes, Mr. Morrison, I have many ... though I am sorry to say that many
more have been destroyed. (This was a figure of poetry, and of a kind
that the widow often adopted to give strength to the narrative portion
of her conversation.)
"That is greatly to be regretted, Mrs. Barnaby ... though we must hope
that among those which remain sufficient proof of this very atrocious
case will be found to answer the purposes of justice. Was there any
principle of selection in the manner in which some were preserved and
others destroyed?"
"I can hardly say," replied the lady, "that it was done on any
principle, unless the feeling can be so called which leads a woman of
delicacy to blush and shrink from preserving the effusions of a passion
so vehement as that expressed in some of the letters of Lord
Mucklebury."
"They were, then, the most ardent declarations of his attachment that
you destroyed, Mrs. Barnaby?"
"Most certainly," said the widow, throwing her eyes upon the carpet.
"It is unfortunate, very unfortunate," observed the lawyer, "though it
shews a delicacy of mind that it is impossible not to admire. Will you
give me leave, madam, to peruse such of the letters as you have
preserved?"
"Undoubtedly," replied Mrs. Barnaby, unlocking her writing-desk, "and
though I know not how to regret the existence of such feelings, Mr.
Morrison, I will not deny that, for the sake of honour and justice, I am
sorry now that what I have to shew you is so much the least explicit
part of the correspondence."
She then drew forth the packet which contained (be it spoken in
confidence) every syllable ever addressed to her by the laughter-loving
Viscount; and greatly as Mr. Magnus Morrison began to feel interested in
the case, and much as he would have liked to bring so charming a client
into court, he very soon perceived that there was nothing in these
highly-scented, but diminutive _feuilles volantes_, at all likely to
produce any effect on a jury approaching to that elicited by the
evidence of the learned and celebrated Sergeant Buzfuz on an occasion
somewhat similar. He continued to read them all, however, and they were
numerous, with the most earnest attention and unwearied industry,
permitting little or no emotion of any kind to appear on his countenance
as he proceeded, and determined to utter no word approaching to an
opinion till he had carefully perused them all. Important as Mrs.
Barnaby flattered herself these little letters might eventually prove,
and interesting as her lawyer found every word of them, the whole
collection might perhaps be considered as somewhat wearisome, full of
repetition, and even trifling, by the general reader, for which reason a
few only shall be selected as specimens, taken at hazard, and without
any attention either to their dates or the particular events which led
to them.
* * * * *
No. 1.
"PRIMA DONNA DEL MUNDO![1]
"Walk you to-day?... At three be it ... at which hour my
station will be the library.
"M."
[Footnote 1: Lord Mucklebury had been assured, on the authority of Mrs.
Barnaby herself, that her favourite language was the Italian.]
No. 2.
"BELLISSIMA!
"Should I appear to-day (you may guess where) with a friend on
my arm, let it not change the sweet demeanour of my charming
widow. He is an excellent fellow, but one whom I always treat
as if he were not in existence;--for in truth, being almost as
dreadfully in love as myself, he neither sees nor hears.
"M."
No. 3.
"BELLA DONNA!
"It is three days since I have received a line from the fairest
lady in Cheltenham! Write me a whole page, I beseech you, ...
and let it be such a one as shall console me under the
necessity of dining and passing the whole evening with half a
dozen he-fellows, when the champagne will but ill atone for the
sparkling eyes whose light I shall lose by being among them.
But if I have one of your exquisite billets in my
waistcoat-pocket, I shall bear the loss better.
"M."
No. 4.
"VEDOVA MARAVIGLIOSA!
"Should I find the Barnaby disengaged in her saloon, were my
audacious feet to bear me across its threshold this evening?
"M."
Such, and such like, were the manuscripts submitted by Mrs. Barnaby to
the inspection of her lawyer. When he had carefully and deliberately
gone through the whole collection, he tied them all up again with a bit
of rose-coloured ribbon, as he had found them, and pushing them back to
her across the table, said with something like a sigh,--
"It is greatly to be lamented, madam, that some of these little notes
had not been consigned to the flames instead of the letters you have
described to me, ... for my judgment decidedly is, that although every
one of these documents tends to prove the admiration of their author for
the lady to whom they are addressed, there is not one of them which can
be said to contain a positive promise of marriage, or even, I fear, any
implied intention of making a proposal ... so that I am afraid we should
not get a verdict against my Lord Mucklebury on the strength of any
evidence contained therein; nevertheless, if you have witnesses to prove
that such proposal and such promise have been actually made to you by
his lordship, I think these letters might help us to make out a very
pretty case, and one which, if it did not eventually bring you a large
sum of money, would at least be exceedingly vexatious to his lordship--a
circumstance which might in some degree tend to soothe the naturally
outraged feelings of so charming a lady, so villanously treated."
Mr. Morrison said this with his eyes fixed steadily on the widow's face,
intending to ascertain what chance there might be of her wishing to
spend a few hundred pounds for the pleasure of plaguing her perfidious
deluder; but he could make out nothing from this scrutiny. Nevertheless,
the mind of Mrs. Barnaby was busily at work; so many schemes, however,
were battling together in her brain, that the not being able to discover
which preponderated, shewed no want of skill in the lawyer.
First, she had a very strong inclination for a personal interview with
Lord Mucklebury, in order to see how a little passionate grief might
affect him. Secondly, she greatly desired to profit by the present
occasion for seeing some of those London sights which country ladies
and gentlemen so love to talk about. Thirdly, she very ardently wished
to avoid the necessity of paying the debts which his lordship's base
delusions had induced her to contract at Cheltenham. Fourthly, and
lastly, the project of a journey to Rome was beginning to take a very
decided shape in her fancy; but amidst all this there remained not the
smallest wish or intention of trying to revenge her wrongs by the
assistance of the law.... She was beginning to be too well aware of the
melting nature of money in the funds, to wish that the villanous
Viscount should lead her to expend another shilling upon him.
After the silence of a few minutes, Mrs. Barnaby raised her eyes from
the ground, and fixing them with a soft, gentle, resigned smile upon Mr.
Morrison, said,--
"I thank you gratefully, Mr. Morrison, for your frank opinion, given
too in so gentleman-like a manner as to make me feel that I am indeed
rather in the hands of a friend than a lawyer; ... and in return I will
use the same frankness with you. I have loved Lord Mucklebury most
sincerely!... loved him with all the pure disinterested ardour of my
character; but the same warm heart, Mr. Morrison, which thus surrenders
itself without suspicion or restraint, is precisely of the nature most
prompt to reject and forget a being proved to be unworthy of it....
Therefore I may now truly say, that this poor bosom (pressing her two
hands upon it) suffers more from the void within it, than from tender
regret; and I am greatly inclined, since I cannot benefit by your able
services as a lawyer, to urge my friendship with your dear sister as a
claim upon your kindness as a gentleman. Will you assist to cure the
painful void I speak of by giving me your help in my endeavours to see
all that is best worth looking at in London?... I am sure it would do me
good; not to mention that it might give pleasure to the dear child whom
you saw with me when you entered. She is quite my idol, and I should
delight in procuring her an amusement which I know she would so
particularly enjoy."
Mr. Morrison, who was a shrewd, quick-sighted man, thought there was
considerable food for speculation in this speech, and, had leisure
served him, he might have reasoned upon it in a spirit not much unlike
that of Benedict.... "Will you assist to cure the painful void?...
which is as much as to say..." and so on.... He waited not, however, to
give this all the attention it merited, but remembering clearly his
sister's statement respecting the widow's fortune, replied with most
obliging readiness,--
"There is nothing, my dear madam, that I would not joyfully do to prove
my wish of serving a lady so highly esteemed by my sister; and one also,
permit me to add, so deserving the admiration of all the world," replied
the gallant attorney.
"Well, then, my dear sir," rejoined the widow, in accents of renewed
cheerfulness, "I throw myself entirely upon you, and shall be quite
ready to begin to-morrow to go here, there, and everywhere, exactly as
you command."
A scheme for St. Paul's and the Tower in the morning, and one of the
theatres at night, was then sketched out; and the gentleman departed, by
no means certain that this adventure might not terminate by being one of
the most important of his life.
CHAPTER III.
A BOLD MEASURE.--A TOUR DE FORCE ON THE PART OF MRS. BARNABY, AND OF
SAVOIR FAIRE ON THAT OF LORD MUCKLEBURY.--SIGHT-SEEING.--THE WIDOW
RESOLVES UPON ANOTHER JOURNEY.
Mr. Morrison, who really had a little business, though not very much,
had named two o'clock as the earliest hour at which he should be able to
come to Half-moon Street for the purpose of escorting the ladies in a
hackney-coach to the city; and it was during the hours that intervened
between her breakfast and this time, that the active-minded Mrs. Barnaby
determined upon making a private visit to Mivart's Hotel, in the hope of
seeing Lord Mucklebury.
She had quite made up her mind to the worst, as may be seen from the
projects already maturing themselves in her brain, as the consequence;
nevertheless she thought it was just possible that his lordship might
be unable to resist the expression of sorrow in eyes he had so
vehemently admired; and, at any rate, there was something so ... so
touching in the idea of this final interview, that she could not refuse
herself the satisfaction of making the experiment.
Telling Agnes that she had a little shopping to do before their
sight-seeing began, and that she would not take her, for fear she should
be as stupidly fatigued as on the night before, she mounted to her
bed-room, adorned herself in the most becoming costume she could devise,
and with somewhat less rouge than usual, that the traitor might see how
sorrow worked, set forth on her expedition.
Having reached Piccadilly, she called a coach, and in a few minutes was
safely deposited before Mivart's door.
"Is Lord Mucklebury here?..." she inquired in a voice of authority of
the first official she encountered.
"Yes, ma'am," was the answer. "His lordship is at breakfast."
"I must see him, if you please, directly!"
"Is it by appointment, ma'am?" questioned the discreet waiter, looking
at her keenly.... "His lordship is just going to set off, and is too
busy, I believe, to see anybody."
"He is not too busy to see me--I must see him directly!"
"Is it an appointment?" repeated the man, in an accent not the most
respectful.
"Yes, it is," ... replied the unblushing widow.
"Better call his own man, Joe," said another napkined functionary,
attracted by the appearance of the lady.
"You had better take this sovereign," said Mrs. Barnaby in a whisper.
Apparently the man thought this advice the best; for taking the coin
with such practised dexterity as hardly to make the action perceptible,
he gave the lady a look with his knowing eye that said, "Follow me!..."
and slid away among passages and stairs till he had marshalled her to
the door of Lord Mucklebury's apartments. Being probably somewhat
doubtful whether the office he had performed would be as gratefully
requited by the gentleman as by the lady, he waited not to open the
door, but saying, "There's his room," disappeared, leaving Mrs. Barnaby
to announce her ill-used self.
She was a little frightened, but still resolute; and, after pausing for
one moment to recover breath, threw open the door and entered.
The waiter's account was strictly true, for his lordship was at
breakfast, and his lordship was packing. _En robe de chambre_, with a
cup of coffee in one hand, and a bunch of keys in the other, he was
standing beside his valet, who knelt before a carriage-seat he was
endeavouring to close. Lord Mucklebury was facing the door, and raised
his eyes as it opened. The sight that greeted them was assuredly
unexpected, but the nerve with which he bore it did honour to his
practised philosophy.
"Mrs. Barnaby!" he exclaimed, with a smile, in which his valet seemed to
take a share, for the fellow turned his head away to conceal its effect
upon him.... "Mrs. Barnaby!... How very kind this is.... But I grieve
such obliging benevolence should be shewn at a moment when I have so
little leisure to express my gratitude.... My dear lady, I am this
instant starting for the continent."
"I know it, sir.... I know it but too well!" replied the widow,
considerably embarrassed by his easy tone.... "Permit me, however, to
speak to you for one moment before you set out."
"Assuredly!... Place yourself on this sofa, Mrs. Barnaby.... How deeply
I regret that moments so delightful.... Confound you, Rawlins, you'll
break those hinges to pieces if you force them so.... My dear lady!... I
am shocked to death; ... but, upon my soul, I have not a moment to
spare!"
"I wish to speak to you, my lord, without the presence of your servant."
"My dearest Mrs. Barnaby, you need not mind Rawlins any more than the
coffee-pot!... You have no idea what a capital fellow he is!... true as
steel ... silent as the grave.... That's it, Rawlins!... I'll set my
foot upon it while you turn the key ... here! it is this crooked one."
"Lord Mucklebury!... you must be aware," ... began the widow.
"Aware!... Good Heaven, yes!... To be sure, I am! But what can I do, my
dearest Mrs. Barnaby?... I must catch the packet, you see.... How is
dear, good Miss Morrison?... Now for the dressing-case, Rawlins!...
don't forget the soap--I've done with it!... For goodness' sake, don't
tell my excellent friend, Miss Morrison, how very untidy you have found
everything about me.... She is so very neat, you know!... I'm sure
she'd.... Mind the stoppers, Rawlins--put a bit of cotton upon each of
them!"
"Is it thus, Lord Mucklebury, that you receive one who...."
"I know what you would say, my charming friend!" interrupted his
lordship, handing her a plate of buttered toast, ... "that I am the
greatest bear in existence!... No! you will not eat with me?... But you
must excuse me, dear friend, for I have a long drive before me." And,
so saying, Lord Mucklebury seated himself at the table, replenished his
coffee-cup, broke the shell of an egg, and seriously set about eating an
excellent breakfast.
The widow was at a loss what to do or say next. Had he been rude or
angry, or even silent and sullen, or in any other mood in the world but
one of such very easy good humour, she could have managed better. But a
painful sort of conviction began to creep over her that Lord
Mucklebury's present conduct, as well as all that had passed before, was
merely the result of high-breeding and fashionable manners, and that
lords and ladies always did so to one another. If this were so, rather
than betray such rustic ignorance as to appear surprised at it, she
would have consented to live without a lover for weeks and weeks to
come; ... and the terrible idea followed, that by having ignorantly
hoped for too much she might have lost a most delightful opportunity of
forming an intimate friendship with a peer of the realm, that might have
been creditable and useful to her, either abroad or at home.
Fortunately Lord Mucklebury was really hungry, and he ate so heartily
for a minute or two, that the puzzled lady had time to settle her
purpose, and take the new tone that her ambition suggested to her, which
she did with a readiness that his lordship really admired.
"Well!... I see how it is, my lord," said she; "I come here to ask you
to do a commission for me at Rome, where the papers told me you were
going; but you are too busy and too hungry to spare a moment to an old
acquaintance."
"No! upon my soul!..." said Lord Mucklebury, throwing some of his
former homage into his eyes as he bowed to her. "There is no commission
in the world you could give me, from New York to Jerusalem, that I would
not execute with the fidelity of a western or an eastern slave. What are
your commands, bewitching Mrs. Barnaby?"
"Merely, my lord, that you would buy a set of shells for me--as nearly
like Lady Stephenson's as possible; and I dare say," she added, very
cleverly drawing out her purse, to avoid any misconception respecting
the object,--"I dare say your lordship, who has travelled so much, may
be able to tell me pretty nearly what the price will be.... About ten
pounds, I think."
And ten golden sovereigns were immediately thrown from the purse upon
the table.
Lord Mucklebury, perfectly delighted by this brilliant proof of the
versatility of her powers, gaily took her purse from her hand, and
replacing the money in it, said--
"It is not so that I execute the commissions of my fair friends, Mrs.
Barnaby.... I will note your orders in my pocket-book, thus.... 'A set
of the handsomest shells in Rome for the charming Mrs. Barnaby. See!...
I can hardly overlook it; and when I have the pleasure of presenting
them, we will settle about the price."
He replaced her purse in her hand, which he kissed with his best air of
Cheltenham gallantry; upon which she wisely rose, and saying, with
every appearance of being perfectly satisfied with her reception,
"Adieu, my lord! forgive my intrusion, and let me hope to have the
pleasure of seeing you when you return," she took her departure,
perfectly convinced that her new-born conjecture was right, and that
lords had privileges not accorded to other men.
This persuasion, however, as well as the interview which gave rise to
it, she determined to keep to her own breast; not sorry, perhaps, that
some of her friends might go to their graves with the persuasion that,
though deserted by him, she once had a nobleman for her lover, and
vastly well satisfied with herself for having found out her plebeian
blunder in time to prevent the loss of so very valuable a friend as she
still thought Lord Mucklebury might be.
She returned in good time to rest and refresh herself with a draught of
her favourite beverage (porter) before Mr. Morrison arrived.
If she had thought this gentleman worthy of some little _agaceries_
before her definitive interview with her noble friend, she certainly
did not think him less so afterwards, and the morning and the evening
passed away with great appearance of enjoyment to both the gentleman and
lady. Mrs. Barnaby began to think, as upon former occasions of the same
kind, that it would be vastly more agreeable if Agnes were not of the
party.
The same idea had occurred to the suffering girl herself more than once
in the course of the day. Whether her own wish was father to the
thought, or that her aunt had purposely permitted her feelings to be
seen, it matters not to inquire; but when, on the following morning,
Agnes complained of head-ache, and expressed a timid wish to be left at
home, Mrs. Barnaby, without hesitation, replied,--
"I think you are right, Agnes.... You have no strength for that sort of
thing ... so it is very lucky you brought your books, and you may unpack
them, if you will, and set to work."
This release was hailed with thankfulness.... Lady Stephenson and Miss
Peters were both written to during the leisure it afforded, and though
she could give no very satisfactory intelligence to either, there was a
pleasure in writing to them that no other occupation could give her.
After this time several days elapsed, during which Mrs. Barnaby was
scarcely at home at all, except for the purpose of eating her dinner,
which meal Mr. Morrison regularly partook with them.
More than a week passed in this manner; Mrs. Barnaby becoming every day
more convinced that, although every sensible woman ought to marry a
lord, if she can get one, yet, nevertheless, that an active,
intelligent, obliging friend, full of admiration, and obedient to
command, was an excellent substitute for everything else during an
interregnum between the more violent attachments by which the career of
all distinguished women must necessarily be marked. And Mr. Morrison, as
he on his side remarked how freely the lady hired her flies and her
hackney chariots,--how little she thought of the price of tickets for
plays, operas, and that realization of all her dreams of elegant
festivity, Vauxhall,--how liberally wine and even brandy flowed at the
savoury little dinners in her drawing-room,--as he remarked on all this,
he could not but reason with himself on the greatly superior felicity of
being the husband of such a lady, and living without any trouble at all
upon her fortune, to the remaining a bachelor in Red Lion Square, under
the necessity of working whenever work could be had in order to pay his
rent, settle his tailor's bill, and find wherewithal to furnish commons
for himself and his one domestic.
It is certain, however, that up to this time no serious idea of marrying
Mr. Magnus Morrison had entered the widow's head; on the contrary, she
was fully determined that, as soon as she had seen London "well," she
would see Paris too, and was not without a vague notion that there might
be something very elegant and desirable in becoming the wife of a French
grandee. But these ruminations interfered not at all with the amiable
amenity of her demeanour to her assiduous attendant.... Agnes was as
little in their way as it was possible she could be ... the weather was
remarkably fine ... and, on the whole, it may be doubted if any lady of
thirty-seven ever made her first debut in the metropolis of the united
kingdoms with more perfect satisfaction to herself.
Mrs. Barnaby reached London on a Thursday evening; the first Sunday
shewed her the Foundling, all the little children, and a popular
preacher, which together constituted one of Mr. Morrison's favourite
lions. The Sunday following, being the last, according to her own secret
determination, that she would pass in England, she was left during the
early part of the day to her own devices, Mr. Morrison having a deed to
draw, which could no longer be safely postponed; and she therefore
obligingly asked Agnes if she should not like to go to church with her.
Agnes willingly assented, and they went to the morning service at St.
James's. In returning thence our gaily-dressed widow, full of animation,
and the hope of finding Mr. Morrison ready to take luncheon with her
previous to their projected walk in Kensington Gardens, remarked, as she
gracefully paced along the crowded pavement, that one individual among
the many who eyed her appeared to follow her movements with particular
attention. Mrs. Barnaby was never stared at without feeling delighted by
the compliment she thought it implied, and simpered and frolicked with
her parasol in her best manner, till at length, having no one else to
whom she could point out the flattering circumstance, she said to Agnes,
as they turned down Half-moon Street ... into which the admiring
individual turned too.... "Do look at that man, Agnes.... He has never
ceased to follow and stare at me since we left the church.... There,
now, he is going to pass us again.... Is he not an impudent fellow?"
"Perhaps he knows you, aunt," said Agnes, raising her eyes as the man
passed them.... "I think I have seen him at Cheltenham."
This suggestion heightened Mrs. Barnaby's colour so considerably that it
was perceptible through all her rouge.
"You have seen him at Cheltenham?... Where, pray?"
"I do not well remember; in a shop, I think."
Mrs. Barnaby asked no more questions, but knocked rather hastily at the
door of her lodgings; but though the person had crossed the street, and
in doing so passed close to her, he made no attempt to speak to her, but
passed on his way, not, however, before he had so refreshed her memory
respecting her Cheltenham debts as to make her suddenly decide upon
leaving London on the morrow.
She found Mr. Magnus Morrison waiting for her, as well-looking and as
devoted as ever; so she did all but quite forget her recent alarm, its
only effect being, when Agnes, as usual, declined her invitation to go
out with them, to say in a whisper to her in the window recess farthest
removed from her waiting gentleman, "I think I shall leave London
to-morrow night, so you may employ yourself in getting everything ready
for packing, Agnes...." She then turned gaily to her escort, and they
set off together.
During the whole of this tedious week Agnes had used every means within
her very limited power to ascertain what her aunt's plans were for the
future; and this not only to satisfy her own natural curiosity on the
subject, but also that she might have sufficient information to justify
her writing another letter to Lady Stephenson. But all her inquiries had
been so vaguely answered, that she was quite as ignorant of what her
next movement might be as when she arrived, and was living in a very
torturing sort of suspense, between hope that fate by some means or
other would oblige her to return to Cheltenham, and fear lest the
mystery that veiled the future might only be elucidated when too late
for her to obey the command which, _in case of the worst_, was to send
her there.
So weary was she both of her present position and of the doubt which
concealed the termination of it, that she joyfully set herself to obey
the parting injunction of her aunt; and having rapidly gone through this
task, began her second letter to her Cheltenham friends, stating exactly
all she knew, and all she did not know, and at length leaving her letter
unfinished, that her postscript, as she said, might contain, according
to the imputed custom of all ladies, the essential part of her letter.
The fine bonnets and smart waistcoats of Kensington Gardens, together
with a bag-ful of queen-cakes, with which she had provided herself for
her own refreshment and that of her companion during a promised hour of
repose in one of the alcoves, so pleasantly beguiled the hours, that it
was near seven before they returned to dinner; when the widow confessed
herself too tired for anything more that day; and at an hour much
earlier than usual Mr. Morrison took his departure, well informed, as it
seemed, of the lady's intentions for the morrow, for Agnes heard him
say,--
"Well, then, Mrs. Barnaby ... one more delightful excursion
to-morrow--the Surrey Gardens will delight you!... and at two o'clock I
will be here.... Sorry am I to think for the last time ... at least for
the present." A cordial hand-shaking followed, and the door closed after
him.
"I have done what you bid me, aunt," said Agnes; "all your things are
got ready for you to place them as you like, and one of the boxes half
filled, just as you did before.... Shall I write the directions, aunt?"
"We can do that to-morrow.... I am tired to death. Ring the bell....
No--run down yourself, for the girl looks as cross as two sticks ... run
down, Agnes, and tell her to get my porter directly; and I think you
must bring it to me in bed, for I can't keep my eyes open."
"Will you tell me, aunt, where we are going?" said Agnes timidly, as she
took up one of the candles to light her steps down two flights of
stairs.
"Don't plague me now, Agnes," was the reply; "I have told you that I am
tired to death, and nobody but you would think of teazing one with such
a question now. You know well enough, though you have not had the grace
to thank me for it, that I never take you anywhere that it is not most
delightful to go to.... What other country-girl in the world is there at
your age that has had the advantages you have.... Exeter.... Clifton....
Cheltenham.... London; and if you don't provoke me too much, and make
me turn you out of house and home, I'll take you now ... but it's no
matter where--you'll know soon enough to be grateful, if there's such a
thing as gratitude in your heart.... But I am a fool to expect it, and
see you standing there when I've begged, as if my life depended upon it,
that you would _please_ to order me a little beer."
Agnes said no more; but went to bed that night with her fears most
reasonably strengthened that she should not learn Mrs. Barnaby's
destination till it was too late to avoid sharing it, let it be in what
direction it might.
CHAPTER IV.
AN ADVENTURE.--ANOTHER LETTER FROM MISS MORRISON PRODUCTIVE OF A
POWERFUL EFFECT UPON HER BROTHER.--HE FORSAKES HIS CLIENT AND HIS
FRIEND.--AGNES IS LEFT ALONE, AND EMPLOYS SOME OF HER LEISURE IN WRITING
A LETTER TO MISS COMPTON.
The following day was an eventful one. For the first time since they had
been in London, Agnes, on seeing her aunt preparing to go out, asked
permission to go with her, and "You may go if you will," was the answer;
but before her bonnet was tied on, Mrs. Barnaby changed her mind,
saying, "Put down your bonnet, Agnes ... upon second thoughts I don't
choose to take you.... Look at all these things of mine lying about
here!... I have told you that it is likely enough we may set off by a
night coach, and I have got, as you know, to go out with Mr. Morrison;
so I should be much obliged if you would please to tell me how all my
packing is to get done?"
"If you would let me go with you now, aunt, I shall have plenty of time
to do all that remains while you are out with Mr. Morrison," replied
Agnes.
"Agnes, you are, without exception, the most impertinent and the most
plaguing girl that ever a widowed aunt half ruined herself to provide
for.... But I won't be bullied in this way either.... Stay at home, if
you please, and do what I bid you, or before this time to-morrow you may
be crying in the streets of London for a breakfast.... I should like to
know who there is besides me in the wide world who would undertake the
charge of you?... Do you happen to know any such people, miss?... If you
do, be off to them if you please--the sooner the better; ... but if not,
stay at home for once without grumbling, and do what you're bid."
There was just sufficient truth mixed with the injustice of these harsh
words to go to the heart of poor Agnes. Her aunt Compton, in reply to a
letter of Mrs. Barnaby, written in a spirit of wanton impertinence, and
in which she made a formal demand of one hundred pounds a-year for the
expenses of Agnes, answered in great wrath, that she and Agnes both had
better take care not to change their residence so often as to lose a
parish settlement, for they might live to find _that_ a much better
dependence than anything they would obtain from her. This pettish
epistle, received the day before they left Silverton, was carefully
treasured by Mrs. Barnaby, and often referred to when she was anxious to
impress on her niece a sense of her forlorn condition and helpless
dependence. So all hope from that quarter seemed to be for ever shut
out.... And could she forget that even at the moment when the dangers of
her situation had so forcibly struck Lady Elizabeth Norris, as to make
her approve what she had before declared to be worse than _any
home_,--that even at that moment she had explicitly declared that
neither herself nor her niece could _take charge of her_?
These were mournful thoughts; and it was no great proof of Agnes's
wisdom, perhaps, that, instead of immediately proceeding to the
performance of her prescribed task, she sat down expressly to ruminate
upon them. But the meditation was not permitted to be long; for hardly
had she rested her elbow upon the table, and her cheek upon her hand, in
the manner which ladies under such circumstances always do, than she was
startled by a violent knocking and simultaneous ringing at the
street-door, followed, as soon as it was opened, by a mixture of two or
three loud and angry voices, amidst which she clearly distinguished that
of her aunt; and the moment after she burst into the room, accompanied
by the gentleman who had appeared to admire her so greatly in the street
the day before, together with two other much less well-looking
personages, who stuck close upon the heels of Mrs. Barnaby, with more
appearance of authority than respect.
"You shall live to repent this treatment of a lady," cried Mrs. Barnaby,
addressing the hero of her yesterday's adventure, who was no other than
the keeper of the livery-stable from whom she had hired the carriage and
horses which had dignified her existence for the last month. "You shall
be taught to know what is due from a trumpery country tradesman like
you, to a person of my fortune and station. What put it into your head,
you vile fellow, instead of waiting my return to Cheltenham, to follow
me to London in this abominable manner, and to arrest me in the public
streets?"
"It is no difficult matter to tell you that, Mrs. Barnaby, if that's
your name," replied the man; "and you'll find that I am not the only
vile fellow holding himself ready to pay you the same compliment; though
I, knowing the old saying 'first come, first served,' took some trouble
to be the first."
"And do you really pretend to fancy, you pitiful creature," cried Mrs.
Barnaby, in a voice in which terror and rage were struggling,--"do you
really pretend to believe that I am not able to pay your
twopenny-halfpenny bill a thousand times over?"
"Can't say indeed, ma'am," replied the man; "I shall not stand upon
sending you to prison if you will discharge the account as here we
stand, paying fees and expenses of course, as is fitting... Here are the
items, neither many nor high.--
L. s. d.
Carriage and horses one month, twenty-five}
shillings per diem } 37 0 0
Coachman's livery, board, and wages 20 0 0
Footman's ditto, hired to order 25 0 0
--------
L 82 0 0
--------
Deduct liveries, if returned 12 0 0
--------
Remains L 70 0 0
--------
And all our expenses and fees added won't make it above 77_l._ or 78_l._
altogether; so, ma'am, if you are the great lady you say, you won't find
no great difficulty in giving me a write-off for the sum, and my good
friends here shall stay while I run and get it cashed, after which I
will be ready to make you my bow, and say good morning."
The anger of Mrs. Barnaby was not the less excited because what Mr.
Simmons, the livery-stable keeper, said was true; and she seized with
considerable quickness the feature of the case which appeared the most
against him.
"Your vulgar mode of proceeding at Cheltenham, Mr. Simmons, is, I am
happy to say, quite peculiar to yourselves; for though, for my age, I
have lived a good deal in the world, I certainly never saw anything like
it. Here have I, like a woman of fortune as I am, paid nobly, since I
have been in your trumpery town, for every single thing for which it is
customary to pay ready money; and when a job like yours, which never
since the creation of the world was paid except from quarter to quarter,
has run up for one month, down comes the stable-man post haste after me
with a writ and arrest. I wonder you are not ashamed of yourself."
"I dare say I should, ma'am, you talking so fine as you do, if I hadn't
nothing to put forward in return. I don't believe, Mrs. Barnaby, but
what you, or any other rich-seeming lady like you,... I don't believe
but what any such might have come to Cheltenham, and have run up debts
to the tune of a thousand pounds, and not one of us taken fright at it,
provided the lady had stayed quiet and steady in the town, where one had
one's eyes upon her, and was able to see what she was about. But just
do now look at the difference. 'The season's pretty fullish,' says one,
'and trade's brisk!...' 'That's true,' says another, 'only some's going
off, and that's never a good sign, specially if they go without
paying....' 'And who's after that shabby trick?' says another:...
'Neither more nor less than the gay widow Barnaby!' is the answer....
'The devil she is!' says one; 'she owes me twenty pounds....'--'I hope
you are out there neighbour,' says another, 'for she owes me thirty....
'And me ten'--'and me fifty'--'and me nineteen'--'and me forty,' and so
on for more than I'll number. And what, pray, is the wisest among them
likely to do in such a case? Why, just what your humble servant has
done, neither more nor less."
"And what right have you, audacious man! to suppose that I have any
intention of not returning, and paying all I owe, as I have ever and
always done before?"
"Nothing particular, except your just saying, ma'am, that you should be
back in two days, and nevertheless not making yourself be heard of in
ten, and your rooms kept, and your poor maid kept in 'em all the time
too."
"This man talks like one who knows not what a lady is," said Mrs.
Barnaby, her eyes flashing, and her face crimson; "but I must beg to ask
of you, sir," turning to one of the Bow-street officials, "whether I am
not to have time allowed for sending to my lawyer, and giving him
instructions to settle with this fellow here?"
"Why, by rights, ma'am, you should go to a sponging-house without loss
of time, that we might get the committal made out, and all regular; but
if you be so inclined as to make it worth while to my companion and me,
I don't think we shall object to keeping guard over you here instead,
while you send off for any friends you choose to let into the secret."
"The friends I shall send to are my men of business, fellow!" replied
Mrs. Barnaby, with the strongest expression of disdain that she could
throw into her countenance. "You don't, I hope, presume to imagine that
I would send for any one of rank to affront them with the presence of
such as you?"
"Fair words butter no parsnips, is a good saying and a true one;... but
I'll add to it, that saucy ones unlock no bolts; and if you expect to
get out of this scrape by talking big, it's likely you may find yourself
mistaken."
"A bill must be a good deal longer than this is, man, before the paying
it will be much of a scrape to me," said the widow, affecting to laugh.
"What a fool you are, Agnes," she continued, turning to the corner of
the room into which the terrified girl had crept, "what a prodigious
fool, to be sure, you must be, to sit there looking as white as a sheet,
because an insolent tradesman chooses to bring in a bill of a month's
standing, with a posse of thief-takers to back it.... Get up, pray, and
bring my desk here... I wish to write to my attorney."
In obedience to this command, Agnes rose from her chair, and attempted
to cross the room to fetch the desk, which was at the other extremity of
it; but not all her efforts to arouse her strength sufficed to overcome
the sick faintness which oppressed her. "Do, for God's sake, move a
little faster, child," said Mrs. Barnaby; but Agnes failed in her
habitual and meek obedience, not by falling into a chair, but by sitting
down in one, conscious that her fainting at such a moment must greatly
increase her aunt's embarrassment.
"I'll get the desk, miss," said one of the terrible men, in a voice so
nearly expressive of pity, that tears started to her own eyes in pity of
herself, as she thought how wretched must be the state of one who could
inspire such a feeling in such a being; but she thanked him, and he
placed the lady's desk before her--that pretty little rosewood desk that
had been and indeed still was the receptacle of my Lord Mucklebury's
flattering if not binding effusions; and as the thought crossed the
brain of Mrs. Barnaby that she had hoped to make her fortune by these
same idle papers, she felt for the very first time in her life, that
perhaps, after all, she had not managed her affairs quite so cleverly as
she might have done. It was a disagreeable idea; but even as she
conceived it her spirit rose to counteract any salutary effect such a
notion might produce; and with a toss of the head that indicated
defiance to her own common sense, she opened her desk with a jerk, and
began editing an epistle to Mr. Magnus Morrison.
But this epistle, though it reached the lawyer in a reasonably short
time after it was written, was not the first he received that day, ...
for the Cheltenham post had brought him the following:
"DEAR BROTHER,
"Don't blame me if the gay widow I introduced to you the week
before last, should prove to be a _flam_, as my dear father
used to call it.... I am sorry to say there are great
suspicions of it going about here. She left us telling
everybody that she should be back in two days; and it is now
more than ten since she started, and no soul has heard a word
about her since. This looks odd, and bad enough, you will
think; but it is not the worst part of the story, I'm sorry to
say, _paw de too_, as you shall hear. When she first came to
Cheltenham she took very good rooms ... a separate
drawing-room, which always looks well ... and dress, and all
that, quite corresponding, but no servants nor carriage, nor
anything of the high-flying kind.... Now observe, Magnus, what
follows, and then I think that you will come to a right notion
of what sort of person you have got to deal with. No sooner did
Mrs. Barnaby get acquainted with Lord Mucklebury then she set
off living at the rate of some thousands a-year; and the worst
is, as far as I am concerned, that she coaxed me to go round
bespeaking and ordering everything for her. I know you will
tell me, Magnus, that my father's daughter ought to have known
better, and so I ought; but, upon my word, she took me in so
completely that I never felt a single moment's doubt about the
truth of all she said.... And I believe, too, that the superior
sort of elegant look of that beautiful Miss Willoughby went for
something with me. Having told you all this, it won't be
necessary, I fancy, to say much more in respect to putting you
on your guard.... Of course, you will take care to do nothing
in the way of standing bail, or anything of that sort ... _paw
see bate_, you will say. All Cheltenham is talking about it;
and I was told at breakfast this morning that Simmons, who
furnished the carriage, horses, and servants, is gone to London
to look after her; and that Wright the mercer, and several
others, talk of doing the same. _Too sell aw man we_; but it
can't be helped.... So many people, too, come to me for
information, just as if I knew any more about her than anybody
else at the boarding table.... That queer Lady Elizabeth Norris
sent for me yesterday, begging I would call upon her; and when
I got there I found it was for nothing in the world but to ask
me questions about this Mrs. Barnaby. And there was that
noble-looking Colonel Hubert, who sat and listened to every
word I uttered just as if he had been as curious an old woman
as his aunt: _maize eel foe dear_, Magnus, that men are
sometimes quite as curious as women.... However, they neither
of them got much worth hearing out of me; and yet I almost
thought at one time that the high and mighty Colonel was
writing down what I said, for he had got his gold pencil-case
in his hand; and though it was on the page of a book that he
seemed to be scribbling, I saw plain enough by his eye that he
was listening to me. You know, brother, I am pretty sharp, and
I have got a few presents out of this fly-away lady, let what
will come of it. But I could not help thinking, Magnus,--and if
it was in a printed book it would be called a _fine
observation_,--I could not help thinking how such a vulgar
feeling as curiosity spoils the elegance of the manners. Lady
Elizabeth, who has often told me that I speak the most
exquisite French she ever heard, and who always before
yesterday seemed delighted to have the opportunity of
conversing with me in this very genteel language, never said
one word in it all the time I stayed; and once when, as usual,
I spoke a few words, she looked as cross as a bear, and said,
'Be so good as to speak English just now, Miss Morrison.' Very
impertinent, I thought, _may set eh gal_. Don't think the worse
of me for this unfortunate blunder.... Let me hear how you are
going on, and believe me
"Your affectionate sister,
"SARAH MORRISON."
Mr. Magnus Morrison had by no means recovered the blow given him by this
most unpleasing news, when a note from Mrs. Barnaby to the following
effect was put into his hands.
"MY DEAR SIR,
"A most ridiculous, but also disagreeable circumstance, has
happened to me this morning. A paltry little tradesman of
Cheltenham, to whom I owe a few pounds, has taken fright
because I did not return to my apartments there at the moment
he expected me ... the cause of which delay you must be aware
has been the great pleasure I have received from seeing London
so agreeably.... However, he has had the incredible insolence
to follow me with a writ, and I must beg you to come to me with
as little delay as possible, as your bail, I understand, will
prevent my submitting to the indignity of being lodged in a
prison during the interval necessary for my broker (who acts as
my banker) to take the proper measures for supplying me with
the trifling sum I want. In the hope of immediately seeing you,
"I remain, dear Sir,
"Most truly yours,
"MARTHA BARNABY."
Mr. Magnus Morrison was not "so quick," as it is called, as his sister
Sarah, and in the present emergency felt totally unable to fabricate an
epistle, or even to invent a plausible excuse for an absence, which he
nevertheless finally determined should be eternal. He was ill-inspired
when he took this resolution, for had he attended the lady's summons, he
might, with little trouble, have made a more profitable client of her
yet than often fell to his lot. But he was terror-struck at the word
BAIL; and forgetting all the beef-steaks, cheesecakes, porter, and black
wine that he had swallowed at the widow's cost, he very cavalierly sent
word by the sheriff's officer, who had brought her note, that he was
very sorry, but that it was totally out of his power to come.
On receiving this message, delivered, too, with the commentary of a
broad grin, even Mrs. Barnaby turned a little pale; but she speedily
recovered herself on recollecting how very easy and rapid an operation
the selling out stock was; so, once more raising her dauntless eye, she
said, with an assumption of dignity but little mitigated by this
rebuff,... "I presume you will let me wait in my own apartments till I
can send to my broker?"
"Why, 'tis possible, ma'am, you see, that it may be totally out of his
power too, like this t'other gentleman ... and we can't be kept waiting
all day.... You'll have a trifle to pay already for the obligingness we
have shewn, and so you must be pleased to get ready without more ado."
"You don't mean to take me to prison, fellow, for this trumpery debt!"
"'Tis where ladies always do go when they keep carriages without paying
for them, unless indeed they have got husbands as can go for them; and
as that don't seem to be your case, ma'am, we must really trouble you to
make haste."
"Gracious Heaven!... It is incredible!..." cried the widow, now really
in an agony. "Why, fellow, I tell you I have thousands in the funds that
I can sell out at an hour's warning!"
"So much the better, ma'am--so much the better for us all, as, in that
case, we shall be sure to get our own at last; and if the thing can be
settled so easily, it is quite beneath such a clever lady as you to make
a fuss about lodging at the king's charge for a night or so.... Pray,
miss, can you help the gentlewoman to put up a night-cap, and such like
little comforts, ... not forgetting a small provision of ready money, if
I might advise, for that's what makes the difference between a bad
lodging and a good one where we are going.... Dick ... run out and call
a coach, will you?"
All further remonstrance proved useless; and Mrs. Barnaby, alternately
scolding and entreating, was forced at last to submit to the degradation
of being watched by a bailiff's officer as she went to her chamber to
prepare herself for this terrible change of residence. The most bitter
moment of all, perhaps, was that in which she was told that she must go
alone, for that they had no orders to permit the attendance of any one.
It was only then that she felt, in some degree, the value of the gentle
observant kindness which had marked every word and look of Agnes from
the moment when--her first feeling of faintness over--she assiduously
drew near her, put needle-work into her hands, set herself to the same
employment, and, with equal ingenuity and sweet temper, contrived to
make the long interval during which they had to endure the presence of
two of the men, while the third was dispatched to Mr. Morrison,
infinitely more tolerable than could have been hoped for. But on this
point the officials were as peremptory as in the commands they
reiterated that she should get ready, promising, however, that
application should be made for leave to let the young lady be with her,
if she liked it.
"You may save yourselves the trouble, brutes as you are," cried Mrs.
Barnaby, as, with something very like a sob, she returned the kiss of
Agnes. "I'll defy you to keep me in your vile clutches beyond this time
to-morrow.... Take care that this letter is put into the post directly,
Agnes; but I will give it to the maid myself.... It will reach my broker
by four or five o'clock, I should think; and I'll answer for his not
neglecting the business; but it may, however, be near dinner-time before
I get back--so don't be frightened, my dear, if it is; and here is the
key of the money-drawer, you know, if you want to pay anything."
"Better divide the money drawer with the young lady, at any rate," said
one of the men, laughing.
"That you may pick my pockets, perhaps?" replied the vexed prisoner.
"Have you enough money with you, aunt?" whispered Agnes in her ear.
"Plenty, my dear; and more than I'll spend upon them, depend upon it,"
she replied aloud.... This drew on a fresh and not very gentle
declaration that they must be gone directly; and the unlucky Mrs.
Barnaby, preceded by one and followed by two attendants, descended the
stairs, and mounted the hackney-coach.
It was then that Agnes for the first time began to understand and feel
the nature of her own situation. Alone, utterly alone in lodgings in the
midst of London, totally ignorant of the real state of her aunt's
affairs, and, unhappily, so accustomed to hear her utter the most
decided falsehoods upon all subjects, that nothing she had said on this
gave her any confidence in the certainty either of her speedy return, or
of her being immediately able to settle all claims upon her. What, then,
was it her duty to do? During the first few moments of meditation on her
desolate condition, she thought that the danger of being taken abroad
could not have been greater than that which had now fallen upon her, and
consequently that Lady Elizabeth would be ready to extend to her the
temporary shelter she had told her to claim, in case of what then
appeared the worst necessity. But a very little calmer reflection made
her shrink from this; and the fact that Colonel Hubert was now with her,
which, under other circumstances, would have made such an abode, if
enjoyed only for a day or two, the dearest boon that Providence could
grant her, now caused her to decide, with a swelling heart, that she
would not accept it.
The nature and degree of the disgrace which her aunt had now brought
upon her was so much worse than all that either her vanity or her
coquetry had hitherto achieved, that she felt herself incalculably more
beneath him than ever, and felt during these dreadful moments that she
would rather have begged her bread back to Empton, than have met the
doubtful welcome of his eye upon seeing her under such circumstances.
This thought of Empton recalled the idea of the person whose liberal
kindness had for years bestowed on her this only home that she had ever
loved. Was it possible, that if made acquainted with her present
deplorable situation, she could refuse to extend some sort of protection
to one whose claim upon her she had formerly acknowledged so freely, and
who had never forfeited it by any act of her own?... "I will write to
her!" said Agnes, suddenly rousing herself, as it occurred to her that
she was now called upon to act for herself. "God knows," thought she,
"what my unfortunate and most unwise aunt Barnaby may have written or
said to provoke her; but now, at least, without either rebellion or
deceit, I may myself address her."
This idea generated a hope that seemed to give her new life, and with a
rapid pen she wrote as follows:
"I can hardly dare to expect that a letter from one whom you
have declared you never would see again should be very
favourably received; and yet, my dear aunt Betsy (permit me
once more to call you so), how can I believe that the same
person who took such generous pity on my miserable ignorance
six years ago would, without any fault on my part, permit me
to fail in my hope of turning the education she bestowed into a
means of honourable existence, and that solely from the want of
her protection? Alas! aunt Compton, I am most miserably in want
of protection now. My aunt Barnaby, of whose pecuniary affairs
I, in truth, know nothing, was this morning arrested and taken
away to prison for debt. Her style of expense has been very
greatly increased during the last few weeks, and I have reason
to believe that she entertained a hope of being married to a
nobleman, with whom she made acquaintance at Cheltenham, but
who left it, about a fortnight ago, without taking any leave of
her. I am not much in her confidence; but she has so repeatedly
mentioned before me her determination to be revenged on this
Lord Mucklebury, as well as her certainty of recovering damages
from him, that I have no doubt her coming to London was with a
view to bringing an action for breach of promise of marriage.
What confirms this is, that the only person we have seen is a
lawyer; and the same spirit of conjecture, which has made me
guess what I have told you, leads me to suspect also, that this
lawyer has persuaded her to give the project up; for not only
do I hear no more of it, but she has seemed for the last week
to be devoted wholly to seeing the sights of London in company
with this lawyer. I have not accompanied them, not being very
well, nor very happy in a mode of life so much less tranquil
than what I have been used to at Empton.
"I tell you all these particulars, aunt Compton, that you may
know exactly what my situation is. I am, at this moment, alone
in a London lodging; my aunt Barnaby in prison; and with no
little danger, as far as I am able to judge, that when she has
settled this claim for her carriage and horses, many others may
come upon her.
"My petition to you, therefore, is, that you would have the
_great, great_ goodness to permit my travelling back into
Devonshire to put myself under your protection; not idly to
become a burden to you, but that I might be so happy as to feel
myself in a place of respectability and safety till such time
as my kind friend, Mrs. Wilmot, may hear of some situation as
governess, or teacher at a school, such as she might think me
fit for. I have very diligently kept up my reading and writing
in French and Italian, with the hope of one day teaching both.
They tell me, too, that I have a good voice for singing, as my
poor mother had ... perhaps I might be able to teach that.
"I shall remain here (unless removed by my aunt Barnaby, of
which I would give you notice) till such time as the Silverton
post can bring me an answer. Have pity upon me, dear aunt
Betsy!... Indeed I want it as much now as when you found I
could not read a line of English in your pretty bower at
Compton Basett.
"How often I have thought of your flowers and your bees, aunt
Betsy, and wished I could be there to wait upon them and upon
you!
"Your dutiful and grateful niece,
"AGNES WILLOUGHBY."
"5, Half-Moon Street, Piccadilly, London."
Having finished this letter, Agnes completed one she had before been
writing to Lady Stephenson, and then took her solitary way to a
letter-box, of which she had learned the situation, at no great
distance. She heard her important dispatch to Compton Basett drop into
the box, with a conviction that her fate wholly depended on the manner
in which it was received; and having walked back as slowly as possible,
that she might benefit by the mild western breeze that blew upon her
feverish cheek, she remounted the dark stairs to the solitary
drawing-room, totally incapable of enjoying that solitude, though it had
so often appeared to her the one thing needful for happiness.
Happy was it for her that she had turned her thoughts to her aunt
Compton; for, uncertain as was the result of her application, there was
enough of hope attached to it to save her from that feeling of utter
desolation that must at this moment have been her portion without it.
The more she thought of receiving aid from the pity of Colonel Hubert's
family, the less could she feel comfort from the idea. When it had been
offered as a protection against the notice which they had imagined her
likely to excite, it was soothing to all her feelings; but, required or
accorded as mere ordinary charity, it was intolerable. A melancholy
attempt at dining occupied a few minutes, and then hour after hour
passed over her, slowly and sadly, till the light faded. But she had not
energy for employment; not one of all her best-loved volumes could have
fixed her attention for a moment. She called for no candles, but lying
on the sofa, her aching head pillowed by her arm, she suffered herself
to dwell on all the circumstances of her situation, which weighed most
heavily upon her heart; and assuredly the one which brought the greatest
pang with it was the recollection of having won the affection of Colonel
Hubert's family, just at the moment when disgrace so terrible had fallen
on her own, as to make her rather dread than wish to see him again.
CHAPTER V.
AGNES RECEIVES AN UNEXPECTED VISITER, AND AN IMPORTANT
COMMUNICATION.--SHE ALSO RECEIVES A LETTER FROM CHELTENHAM, AND FROM HER
AUNT BARNABY.
Agnes was roused from this state of melancholy musing by a double knock
at the door.
"Is it possible," she said, starting up, "that she spoke truly, and that
she is already released?"
The street-door was opened, but the voice of Mrs. Barnaby did not make
its way up the stairs before her--a circumstance so inevitable upon her
approach,--that, after listening for it in vain for a moment, the
desolate girl resumed her attitude, and endeavoured to recover the train
of thought that had been broken. But she was not destined to do so, at
least for the present, for the maid threw open the drawing-room door,
and announced "A gentleman."
Agnes, as we have said, was sitting in darkness, and the girl very
judiciously placed her slender tallow-candle in its tin receptacle on
the table, saying, as she set a chair for "the gentleman," "I will bring
candles in a minute, miss," and then departed.
Agnes raised her eyes as the visiter approached, and had the light been
feebler still she would have found no difficulty in discovering that it
was Colonel Hubert who stood before her. He bowed to the angle of the
most profound respect, and though he ventured to extend his hand in
friendly greeting, he took hers with the air of a courtier permitted to
offer homage to a sovereign princess.
Agnes stood up, she received his offered hand, and raised her eyes to
his face, but uttered no word either of surprise or joy. Her face was
colourless, and traces of very recent tears were plainly visible; she
trembled from head to foot, and Colonel Hubert, frightened, as a brave
man always is when he sees a woman really sinking under her sex's
weakness, replaced her on the sofa almost as incapable of speaking as
herself.
"Do not appear distressed at seeing me, dearest Miss Willoughby," said
he, "or I shall be obliged to repent having ventured to wait on you. I
should not have presumed to do this, had not your friends, your truly
attached friends, my aunt and sister, authorized my doing so."
"Oh! what kindness!" exclaimed poor Agnes, bursting into a flood of most
salutary tears. "Do not think me ungrateful, Colonel Hubert, if I could
not say ... if I did not speak to you.... Do you, indeed, come to me
from Lady Elizabeth?"
"Here are my credentials," he replied, smiling, and presenting a letter
to her. "We learned that your foolish aunt ... forgive me, Miss
Willoughby; but the step I have taken can only be excused by explaining
it with the most frank sincerity ... we learned that Mrs. Barnaby,
having quitted Cheltenham suddenly, (the ostensible reason for doing
which was bad enough), had left a variety of debts unpaid; and that her
creditors, alarmed at her not returning, were taking active measures to
secure her person.... Is this true?... Is your aunt arrested?"
"She is," replied Agnes faintly.
"Good God!... You are here, then, entirely alone?"
"I am quite alone," was the answer, though it was almost lost in the sob
that accompanied it.
"Oh! dearest Agnes!" cried Colonel Hubert, in a burst of uncontrolable
emotion, "I cannot see you thus, and longer retain the secret that has
been hidden in my heart almost from the first hour I saw you!... I love
you, Agnes, beyond all else on earth!... Consent to be my wife, and
danger and desertion shall never come near you more!"
What a moment was this to hear such an avowal!... Human life can
scarcely offer extremes more strongly marked of weal and woe than those
presented by the actual position of Agnes, and that proposed to her by
the man she idolized. But let De la Rochefoucault say what he will,
there are natures capable of feeling something nobler than the love of
self; ... and after one moment of happy triumphant swelling of the heart
that left no breath to speak, she heaved a long deep sigh that seemed to
bring her back from her momentary glimpse of an earthly paradise to
things as they are, and said slowly, but with great distinctness, "No!
never will I be your wife!... never, by my consent, shall Colonel
Hubert ally himself to disgrace!"
Had this been said to a younger man, it is probable that he would not
have found in it anything calculated to give a mortal wound to his hopes
and wishes; but it fell with appalling coldness on the heart of the
brave soldier, who had long kept Cupid at defiance by the shield of
Mars, and who had just made the first proposal of marriage that had ever
passed his lips. It was her age and his own that rose before him as she
uttered her melancholy "No, never!..." and Agnes became almost the
first object to whom he had ever, even for a moment, been unjust. He
gave her no credit ... no, not the least, for the noble struggle that
was breaking her heart, and meant most sincerely what he said, when he
replied,--
"Forgive me, Miss Willoughby.... Had I been a younger man, the offer of
my hand, my heart, my life, would not have appeared to you, as it
doubtless must do now,--the result of sober, staid benevolence, desirous
of preserving youthful innocence from unmerited sorrow.... Such must my
love seem.... So let it seem; ... but it shall never cost one hour's
pain to you."... He was silent for a moment, and had to struggle, brave
man as he was, against feelings whose strength, perhaps, only shewed his
weakness.... "But even so," he added, making a strong effort to speak
steadily, "even so; let me not be here in vain: listen to me as a friend
and father."
Poor Agnes!... this was a hard trial. To save him, worshipped as he
was, from a marriage that must be considered as degrading, she could
have sacrificed herself with the triumphant courage of a proud martyr;
but to leave him with the idea that she was too young to love him!...
to let that glowing, generous heart sink back upon itself, because it
found no answering warmth in her!... in her! who would have died only
to purchase the light of owning that she never did, and never could,
love any man but him!... It was too terrible, and the words "Hubert!
beloved Hubert!" were on her lips; but they came no farther, for she had
not strength to speak them. Another effort might have been more
successful, and they, or something like them, might have found way, had
not the gentleman recovered his voice first, and resumed the
conversation in a tone so chillingly reserved, that the timid,
broken-spirited girl, had no strength left "to prick the sides of her
intent," and lay her innocent heart open before him.
"In the name of Lady Elizabeth Norris let me entreat you, Miss
Willoughby, not to remain in a situation so every way objectionable," he
said. "My aunt and sister both are full of painful anxiety on your
account, and the letter I have brought contains their earnest entreaties
that you should immediately take up your residence with my aunt. Do not
refuse this from any fear of embarrassment ... of persecution from
me.... I shall probably go abroad.... I shall probably join my friend
Frederick at Paris. He did you great justice, Miss Willoughby; ... and,
but for me, perhaps.... Forgive me!... I will no longer intrude on
you!--forgive me!--tell me you forgive me, for all the pain I have
caused you, and for more injury, perhaps, than you will ever know! I
never knew how weak--I fear I should say how unworthy--my character
might become, till I knew you; ... and to complete the hateful
retrospect," he added, with bitterness, and rising to go, "to complete
the picture of myself that I have henceforth to contemplate, I was
coxcomb enough to fancy.... But I am acting in a way that I should scorn
a youth for who numbered half my years.... Answer my aunt's letter,
Miss Willoughby ... answer it as if her contemptible nephew did not
exist ... he shall exist no longer where he can mar your fortune or
disturb your peace!"
Agnes looked at him as if her heart would break at hearing words so
harsh and angry, when, losing at once all sense of his own suffering,
Colonel Hubert reseated himself, and, in the gentlest accent of
friendship, alluded to the propriety of her immediately leaving London,
and to the anxiety of her friends at Cheltenham to receive her.
"They are very, _very_ good to me," said Agnes meekly; "and I shall be
most thankful, Colonel Hubert, to avail myself of such precious
kindness, if the old aunt, to whom I have written, in Devonshire, should
refuse to save me from the necessity of being a burden on their
benevolence."
"But shall you wait for this decision here, Miss Willoughby?"
"I have promised to do so," replied Agnes; "and as I may have an answer
here on Thursday, I think, at latest, I would not risk the danger of
offending her by putting it out of my power immediately to obey her
commands, if she should be so kind as to give me any."
The eyes of Agnes were fixed for a moment on his as she concluded this
speech, and there was something in the expression of that look that
shook the sternness of his belief in her indifference. He rose again,
and making a step towards her, said, with a violence of emotion that
entirely changed the tone of his voice,--
"Agnes!... Miss Willoughby!... answer me one question.... Should my
aunt herself plead for me ... could you, would you, be my wife?"
Agnes, equally terrified lest she should say too little or too much,
faltered as she replied, "If it were possible, Colonel Hubert ... could
I indeed believe that your aunt, your sister, would not hate and scorn
me...."
"You might!... You will let me believe it possible you could be brought
to love me?... To love me, Agnes?... No! do not answer me ... do not
commit yourself by a single word!... Stay, then, here; ... but do not
leave the house!... Stay till.... Yet, alas! I dare not promise it!...
But you will not leave this house, Miss Willoughby, with any aunt,
without letting me ... my family, know where you may be found?"
"Oh no!..." said Agnes with a reviving hope, that if they must be
parted, which this reference to her aunt and his own doubtful words made
it but too probable would be the end of all, at least it would not be
because he thought she was too young to love him.... "Oh no!" she
repeated; "this letter will not be left without an answer."
"And you will not stir from these rooms alone?" he replied, once more
taking her hand.
"Not if you think it best," she answered, frankly giving hers, and with
a smile, moreover, that ought to have set his heart at ease about her
thinking him too old to love. And for the moment perhaps it did so, for
he ventured to press a kiss upon that hand, and uttering a fervent
"Heaven bless and guard you!" disappeared.
And Agnes then sat down to muse again. But what a change had now come
o'er the spirit of her dream!... Where was her abject misery? Where the
desolation that had made her almost fear to look around and see how
frightfully alone she was? Her bell was rung, her candles brought her,
tea was served; and though there was a fulness and palpitation at the
heart which prevented her taking it, or eating the bread and butter
good-naturedly intended to atone for her untasted dinner, quite in the
tranquil, satisfactory, and persevering manner that might have been
wished, everything seemed to dance before her eyes _en coleur de rose_,
till at last, giving up the attempt to sit soberly at the tea-table, she
rose from her chair, clasped her hands with a look of grateful ecstasy
to heaven, and exclaimed aloud, "He loves me! Hubert loves me!... Oh,
happy, happy Agnes!"
"Did you call, miss?" said the maid entering, from having heard her
voice as she passed up the stairs.
Agnes looked at her and laughed. "No, Susan," she replied; "I believe I
was talking to myself."
"Well, that is funny," said the girl; "and I'm sure it is a pity such a
young lady as you should have no one else to talk to. Shall I take the
things away, miss?"
Once more left to herself, Agnes set about reading the letter, which
hitherto had lain untouched upon the table, blushing as she opened it
now, because it had not been opened before.
The first page was from Lady Elizabeth, and only expressed her commands,
given in her usual peremptory tone, but nevertheless mixed with much
kindness, that Agnes should leave London with as little delay as
possible, and consider her house as her home till such time as an
eligible situation could be found, in which her own excellent talents
might furnish her with a safer and more desirable manner of existence
than any her aunt Barnaby could offer. The remainder of the letter was
filled by Lady Stephenson, and expressed the most affectionate anxiety
for her welfare; but she too referred to the hope of being able to find
some situation that should render her independent; so that it was
sufficiently evident that neither of them as yet had any idea that this
independence might be the gift of Colonel Hubert.
"It is nonsense to suppose they will ever consent to it," thought
Agnes; and this time her spirits were not so exalted as to make her
breathe her thoughts aloud; "but I never can be so miserable again as I
have been ... it is enough happiness for any one person in this life ...
that everybody says is not a happy one ... it is quite enough to know
that Hubert loves me ... Oh Hubert!... noble Hubert! how did I dare to
fix my fancy on thee?... Presumptuous!... But yet he loves me!"
And with this balm, acting like a gentle opiate upon her exhausted
spirits, she slept all night, and dreamed of Hubert.
The four o'clock delivery of the post on the following day brought her
this letter from her aunt Barnaby.
"DEAR AGNES,
"The brutality of these Cheltenham people is perfectly
inconceivable. Mr. Crayton my broker, and my poor father's
broker before me, came to me as early as it was possible last
night; and I explained to him fully, and without a shadow of
reserve, the foolish scrape I had got into, which would have
been no scrape at all if I had not happened to fall into the
hands of a parcel of rascals. He undertook to get the sum
necessary to release me by eleven o'clock this morning, which
he did, good man, with the greatest punctuality ... paid that
villanous Simmons, got his receipt, and my discharge, when,
just at the very moment when I was stepping into the coach that
was to take me from this hateful place, up come the same two
identical fellows that insulted us in Half-Moon Street, and
arrest me again at the suit of Wright.... Such nonsense!... As
if I could not pay them all ten times over, as easy as buy a
pot of porter. But they care no more for reason than a pig in a
sty; so here I am, shut up again till that dear old man Crayton
can come, and get through all the same tedious work again. You
can't conceive how miserably dull I am; and what's
particularly provoking, I gave over trying to have you in with
me as soon as old Crayton told me I should be out by noon
to-day; and therefore, Agnes, I want you to set off the very
minute you receive this, and come to me for a visit. You may
come to me for a visit, though I can't have you in without
special leave. Mind not to lose your way; but it's uncommonly
easy if you will only go by what I say. Set out the same way
that we went to the church, you know, and keep on till you get
to the Haymarket, which you will know by its being written up.
Then, when you've got down to the bottom of it, turn sharp
round to your left, and just ask your way to the Strand; and
when you have got there, which you will in a minute, walk on,
on, on, till you come to the bottom of a steep hill, and then
stop and ask some one to shew you the way to the Fleet Prison.
When you get there, any of the turnkeys will be able to shew
you to my room; and a comfort I'm sure it will be to see you in
such a place as this.... And do, Agnes, buy as you come along
half a dozen cheesecakes and half a dozen queen-cakes, and a
small jar, for about four or five shillings, of brandy
cherries.... And what's a great comfort, I may keep you till
it's dark, which is what they call shutting-up time, and then
you can easy enough find your way back again by the gaslight,
which is ten times more beautiful than day, all along the
streets from one end of the town to the other.... Only think of
that dirty scoundrel Morrison never coming near me ... after
all that passed too, and all the wine he drank, shabby
fellow!... There is one very elegant-looking man here that I
meet in the passage every time I go to my bed-room. He always
bows, but we have not spoken yet. Bring five sovereigns with
you, and be sure set off the moment you get this.
"Your affectionate aunt,
"MARTHA BARNABY."
It needs not to say the sort of effect which the tone of this letter
produced on a mind in itself delicate and unsunned as the bells of the
valley lily, and filled to overflowing with the image of the noble
Hubert. Yet there were other feelings that mingled with this deep
disgust; she pitied her aunt Barnaby, and could any decent or womanly
exertion have done her good, or even pleasure, she would not have shrunk
from making it. But what she asked was beyond her power to perform; and,
moreover, she had promised Colonel Hubert not to leave the house. How
dear to her was the recollection of this injunction!... how delightful
the idea that his care and his commands protected her from the horrors
of such a progress as that sketched out by her aunt Barnaby. To obey her
was therefore altogether out of the question; but she sat down to write
to her, and endeavoured to soften her refusal by pleading her terror of
the streets at any hour, and her total want of strength and courage to
undertake such an expedition; adding, that she supposed by her account
there could be no doubt of their meeting in Half-Moon Street on the
morrow.
But the morrow and its morrow came, without bringing Mrs. Barnaby. In
fact, writ after writ had poured in upon her, but hoping still to evade
those yet to come, she only furnished herself with what each one
required, and so prolonged her imprisonment to the end of the week. Her
indignation at Agnes's refusal to come to her was excessive, and she
answered her letter by a vehement declaration that she would never again
inhabit the same house with her. This last epistle ended thus:--
"If you don't wish to be turned neck and heels into the street
the moment I return, look out for a nursery-maid's or a
kitchen-maid's place if you will ... only take care never to
let me set eyes upon you again. Ungrateful wretch!... What is
Morrison's ingratitude to yours? For nearly seven months you
have eaten at my cost, been lodged at my cost, travelled at my
cost, ay, and been clothed at my cost too. And what is the
return?... I am in prison for debts, which, of course, were
incurred as much for you as for myself; and you refuse to come
to me!... Never let me see you more--never let me hear your
name, and never again turn your thoughts or hopes to your for
ever offended aunt,
"MARTHA BARNABY."
Little as Agnes wished to continue under the protection of Mrs. Barnaby,
this peremptory dismissal was exceedingly embarrassing. She had declined
immediately accepting the invitation of Lady Elizabeth in a manner that
made her very averse to throwing herself upon it, till a positive
refusal of assistance from her aunt Compton obliged her to do so; and
being absolutely penniless (excepting inasmuch as she was entrusted with
the key that secured the widow's small stock of ready money), her only
mode of not undergoing, to the letter, the sentence which condemned her
to wander in the streets, was remaining where she was till she received
an answer from Miss Compton.
It is certain that she submitted to thus seizing upon hospitality with
the strong hand the more readily, as by doing so she was enabled to obey
the parting injunction of Colonel Hubert; and bracing her courage to
the meeting that must take place should Mrs. Barnaby's release precede
her own, she suffered the heavy interval of doubt to steal away with as
little of the feverish restlessness of impatience as possible.
CHAPTER VI.
AGNES RECEIVES ANOTHER UNEXPECTED VISIT.--MRS. BARNABY RETURNS TO HER
LODGINGS AND CATCHES THE VISITER THERE.
The seven or eight months elapsed since the reader parted from Miss
Compton, passed not over the head of the secluded spinster as lightly as
the years which had gone before ... for her conscience was not quite at
rest. For some time the vehemence of the indignation and disgust excited
by Mrs. Barnaby, during their last interview, sustained her spirits,
much as a potent but noxious dram might have done; and during this time
the fact of Agnes being her inmate and companion, was quite sufficient
to communicate such a degree of contamination to her, as made the
choleric old lady turn from all thought of her with most petulant
dislike. The letter of Mrs. Barnaby, demanding an allowance for Agnes,
reached her just when all this violence was beginning to subside, and
acting like turpentine on an expiring flame, made her anger and hatred
rage again with greater fury than ever. This demand was refused, as we
have seen, in the harshest manner possible, and the writing this
insulting negative was a considerable relief to the spinster's feelings.
But when this was done, and all intercourse, as it should seem, finally
closed between herself and the only human being concerning whom she was
capable of feeling any lively interest, her anger drooped and faded, and
her health and spirits drooped and faded too. She remembered, when it
was too late, that it was not Agnes's fault that she was living with
Mrs. Barnaby; and conscience told her, that if she had come forward, as
she might and ought to have done, at the time of her brother's death,
the poor child might have been saved from the chance of any moral
resemblance to the object of her aversion, however much she might
unhappily inherit the detestable Wisett beauty. Then, too, came the
remembrance of the beautiful vision, whose caresses she had rejected
when irritated almost to madness by the tauntings of Mrs. Barnaby; and
the idea that the punishment allotted to her in this world for this
flagrant act of injustice, was the being doomed never to behold that
fair young creature more, lay with a daily increasing weight of
melancholy on her spirits.
It was on the afternoon of a fine September day that the letter of Agnes
reached her. As usual, she was sitting in her bower, and her flowers
bloomed and her bees hummed about her as heretofore, but the sprightly
black eye that used to watch them was greatly dimmed. She had almost
wholly lost her relish for works of fiction, and reading a daily portion
of the Bible, which she had never omitted in her life, was perhaps the
only one of all her comfortable habits that remained unchanged.
It would be no easy matter to paint the state into which the perusal of
Agnes's letter threw her. Self-reproach was lost in the sort of ecstasy
with which she remembered how thriftily she had hoarded her wealth, and
how ample were the means she possessed to give protection and welcome to
the poor orphan who thus sought a refuge in her bosom. All the strength
and energy she had lost seemed to rush back upon her as her need called
for them, ... and there was more of courage and enterprize within that
diminutive old woman than always falls to the lot of a six-foot-two
dragoon.
Her resolution as to what she intended to do was taken in a moment, and
without any weakening admixture of doubts and uncertainties as to when
and how; but she knew that she should want her strength, and must
therefore husband it. Her step was, therefore, neither hurried nor
unsteady as she returned to the house, and mounted to her sitting-room.
The first thing she did on entering it was to drink a glass of water,
the next to endite a note to the postmaster at Silverton, ordering a
chaise and four horses to be at Compton Basett by daybreak to take her
the first stage towards London. She then rang her bell, gave her note
to Peggy Wright, the farmer's youngest daughter, who was her constant
attendant, and bade her request that her father, if in the house, would
come to her immediately. There was enough in the unusual circumstances
of a letter received, and a note sent, to excite the good farmer's
curiosity, and he was in the presence of his landlady as quickly as she
could herself have wished.
"Sit down, Farmer Wright," said Miss Compton, and the farmer seated
himself.
"I must leave Compton Basett to-morrow morning, Farmer Wright," she
resumed. "My niece--my great niece, I mean, Miss Willoughby, has written
me a letter, which determines me to go to London immediately for the
purpose of taking charge of her myself."
"Sure-ly, Miss Compton, you bean't goen' to set off all by your own self
for Lunnun?" exclaimed the farmer.
"Not if I can manage before night to get a couple of servants to attend
me."
Farmer Wright stared; there was something quite new in Miss Betsy's
manner of talking.
"You are a very active man, farmer, in the haymaking season," continued
Miss Compton with a smile; "do you think, that to oblige and serve me,
you could be as much on the alert for the next three or four hours as if
you had a rick to save from a coming storm of rain?"
"That I wool!" replied Wright heartily. "Do you but bid me do, Miss
Betsy, and I'll do it."
"Then go to your sister Appleby's, and inquire if her son William has
left Squire Horton's yet."
"I need not go so far for that, Miss Compton; Will is down stairs with
my missus at this very minute," said the farmer.
"That is fortunate!... He is not likely to go away directly, is he?"
"No, not he, Miss Betsy; he is come to have a crack with our young 'uns,
and it's more likely he'll stay all night than be off in such a hurry."
"Then, in that case, have the kindness, Farmer Wright, to saddle a
horse, while I write a line to the bank.... I want you to ride over to
Silverton for me, to get some money."
"And I'll do it," replied her faithful assistant, leaving the room.
Fortunately for her present convenience, Miss Compton always kept a
deposit of about one hundred pounds in the bank at Silverton in case of
need, either for the purpose of making the loans which have been already
mentioned as a principal feature in her works of charity, or for any
accidental contingency. Beyond this, however, she had no pecuniary
transactions there, as her habitual secrecy in all that concerned her
money affairs made it desirable that her agent should be more distant.
This fund, however, was quite sufficient for the moment, for, as will be
easily believed, Miss Compton had no debts.
Farmer Wright speedily re-appeared, equipped for his ride.
"You will receive ninety-seven pounds sixteen and two-pence, Wright,"
said the spinster, giving her draught.
"Would it suit you best to receive the rent, Miss Betsy, before you set
off?" said the farmer. "It will make no difference, you know, ma'am, if
I pays it a fortnight beforehand."
"Not an hour, upon any account, Wright," replied his punctilious
landlady. "I will leave written instructions with you as to what you are
to do with it, and about all my other affairs in which you are
concerned. And now send William Appleby to me."
This young man, the nephew of her tenant, and the ex-footman of a
neighbouring family, had been favourably known to her from his
childhood; and a very few minutes sufficed to enrol him as her servant,
with an understanding that his livery was to be ordered as soon as they
reached London.
This done, Mrs. Wright was next desired to attend her; and with very
little waste of time or words, it was agreed between them, that if
"father" made no objection, (which both parties were pretty sure he
would not,) Peggy should be immediately converted into a waiting-maid to
attend upon herself and Miss Willoughby. This last arrangement produced
an effect very likely to be destructive to all Miss Betsy's quiet,
well-laid plans for preparation, for the news that Peggy was to set off
next morning for London very nearly turned the heads of every individual
in the house.
The mother of the family, however, so far recovered her senses as to
appear again in Miss Compton's room at the end of an hour, but with a
heated face, and every appearance of having been in great activity.
"I ax your pardon, Miss Betsy, a thousand times!" said the good woman,
wiping her face; "but Peggy's things, you know, Miss Compton, can't be
like yours, all nicely in order in the drawers; and we must all wash and
iron too before she can be ready. But here I am now to help you, and I
can get your trunk ready in no time."
"I shall take very little with me, Mrs. Wright," replied the old lady,
who seemed as much _au fait_ of what she was about as if she had been in
the habit of visiting London every year of her life; "nor must Peggy
take much," she added gently, but with decision; "and getting her things
washed and ironed must be done after we are gone. I shall let you know
as soon as I can where the luggage that must follow us, shall be
addressed; and instead of washing and ironing, Mrs. Wright, I want you
and one of the elder girls to assist me in making an inventory of
everything I leave behind ... orders concerning which you will also
receive by the post."
Miss Compton, though a very quiet inmate, and one whose regular habits
gave little trouble, was nevertheless a person of great importance at
Compton Basett; and her commands, thus distinctly expressed, were
implicitly obeyed; so that before the usual hour of retiring for the
night, everything was arranged both for going and staying exactly as
she had determined they should be.
It was singular to see with what unvacillating steadiness this
feeble-looking old lady pursued her purpose; no obstacle appeared of
consequence sufficient to draw aside a thought from the main object she
had in view, but was either removed or passed over by an impulse that
seemed as irresistible as the steam that causes the train to rush along
the rail-road, making the way clear, if it does not find it so.
At daybreak the Silverton post-chaise, with four good horses and two
smart post-boys, were at the door; and within ten minutes afterwards all
adieux had been spoken, all luggage stowed, and Miss Compton, who had
never yet left her native county, was proceeding full gallop towards the
metropolis.
"As you drive, so you will be paid," said William to the boys as they
set off; and they did drive as boys so bargained with generally do. Miss
Compton had shewn equal quickness and good judgment in having secured
the services of this William, for he had repeatedly travelled with his
late master and mistress to London, was apt, quick, and intelligent; and
fully justified the expectation his new lady had formed, that, with
_carte blanche_ in the article of expense, he would manage her journey
as expeditiously, and with as little trouble to herself, as if she had
been attended with half a dozen outriders.
At Exeter she dined, and reposed herself for a couple of hours, during
which William undertook to hire a carriage for the journey, furnished
with a dickey behind, and all other conveniences; an arrangement which
greatly lessened the fatigue to all parties, and enabled the
active-minded old lady to proceed as far as Salisbury that night.
Daybreak again found her _en route_; and by means of William's
conditional mode of payment to the postilions, Miss Compton arrived at
Ibertson's Hotel by two o'clock in the afternoon.
It might be supposed, from the exertion used to reach the wide city in
which she knew poor Agnes stood alone, that Miss Compton would drive
directly to Half-Moon Street, and save her, as early as possible, from
all farther anxiety; but such was not her plan.... There was something
still wanting to prove her repentance and her love, before she could
present herself before the forsaken Agnes. All her schemes, all her
wishes, were explained to her efficient aide-de-camp; and while she and
the wondering Peggy reposed themselves, he was sent in search of
handsome private lodgings, which must be such as his master the member
for Silverton might have approved for his own family.... And then he was
to proceed to livery-stables where he was known, and hire for her, by
the week, a carriage and horses _fit for ladies to use_. Such were Miss
Compton's vague, but very judicious orders; and the result was, that by
the time she had dined and taken an hour's nap upon the sofa, a very
respectable equipage was at the door awaiting her orders. In and about
this the light luggage she had brought with her was arranged, and ten
minutes' drive brought her to handsome, airy lodgings, near the top of
Wimpole Street, where William thought he should be able to breathe
himself, and where his mistress and Peggy, new as they were to the smoke
and dust, might have as good a chance of doing so too as in any other
street he could think of.
Miss Compton was pleased, greatly pleased, with her new confidant's
promptitude and ability. The carriage pleased her, the horses, the
coachman, the house, the furniture, and the obsequious landlady too, all
pleased her; and she felt a degree of happiness as she set her Peggy to
make arrangements for the especial comfort and accommodation of Agnes,
such as she had never known before. It cured all fatigue, it overpowered
every feeling of strangeness in her new and most unwonted abode, and
gave a gaiety to her spirits, and lightness to her heart, that made her
look, as she stepped from room to room, like one of the little benignant
old fairies of which we read in French story books.
By eight o'clock all her preparations were complete, the tea-things
placed on the drawing-room table, Peggy given to understand that she was
to consider herself more as Miss Willoughby's personal attendant than
her own, and the carriage again at the door to convey her to the
longed-for yet almost dreaded meeting in Half-Moon Street.
Agnes had written to Miss Compton on Monday, and calculated that she
might receive an answer to her letter on Thursday morning. But Thursday
morning was past, and no letter arrived; and when about half-past eight
on that same evening she heard a carriage stop, and the knocker thunder,
the only idea that suggested itself was, that her aunt Barnaby was
returned, and that she should have to plead for a night's lodging under
her roof.
Her spirits were weakened by disappointment ... she had heard nothing
from Cheltenham since Colonel Hubert's visit; and this, together with
the non-arrival of any Devonshire letter, had caused a degree of
depression to which she very rarely gave way.
"What shall I say to her?... How shall I dare to meet her?" she
exclaimed. "Oh! if she keeps her word, what, what will become of me?"
She heard steps approaching, and feeling convinced it was her aunt
Barnaby, attempted in her terror to open the door that communicated
with the other room, but found it locked; and trembling like a hunted
fawn, obliged to turn to bay, she cast her eyes towards the dreaded
door, and saw Miss Compton gently and timidly entering by it.
"Aunt Betsy!" she cried, springing towards her, and falling
involuntarily upon her knees, "Oh! dear, dear aunt Betsy!... Is it
indeed possible that you are come for me?"
The poor old lady's high-wrought energies almost failed her now; and had
not a chair stood near, she would hardly have saved herself from falling
on the floor beside her niece. "Agnes!... poor child!" she said, "you
thought I was too hard and too cruel to come near you?... I have been
much to blame ... oh! frightfully to blame!... Will you forgive me, dear
one?... My poor pale girl!... You look ill, Agnes, very, very ill....
And is it not a fitting torment for me to see this fair bloodless
cheek?... for did I not hate you for your rosy health?"
Agnes was indeed pale; and though not fainting, was so near it, that
while her aunt uttered this passionate address, she had no power to
articulate a word. But she laid her cheek on the old lady's hands; and
there was something so caressing and so helpless in her attitude as she
did this, that poor Miss Compton was entirely overcome and wept aloud.
No sooner, however, had this first violent burst of emotion passed away,
than the happiness such a meeting was calculated to afford to both of
them, was most keenly and delightfully felt. Miss Compton looked at
Agnes, as the blood beautifully tinged her delicate cheek again, with
such admiration and delight, that it seemed likely enough,
notwithstanding her strong good sense on many points, that she might now
fall into another extreme, and idolize the being she had so harshly
thrust from her ... while the object of this new and unhoped-for
affection seemed to feel it at her very heart, and to be cheered and
warmed by it, like a tender plant receiving the first beams of the
morning sun after the chilling coldness of the night.
At length Miss Compton remembered that she was not come there only to
look at Agnes; and withdrawing her arms, which she had thrown around
her, she said.... "Come, my own child ... this is no roof for either of
us. Have you much to remove? Is there more than a carriage can take,
Agnes?"
"And will you take me with you now, aunt Betsy?" cried the delighted
girl, springing up. "Wait but one moment, and all I have shall be
ready ... it is not much.... My books are packed, and my trunk
too ... the maid will help me."
"Ring the bell then, love, and let my servant take your packages down."
Agnes obeyed ... her trunk ... aunt Betsy's original trunk, and the dear
Empton book-box, were lodged on the driving-seat and the dickey of the
carriage; and William was just mounting the stairs to say that all was
ready, when another carriage was heard to stop, and another knocking
resounded against the open street-door.
"Oh! it is aunt Barnaby!" cried Agnes in a voice of terror.
"Is it?" replied Miss Compton, in the lively tone of former days. "I
shall be exceedingly glad to see her."
"Can you be in earnest, aunt Betsy?" said Agnes, looking very pale.
"Perfectly in earnest, my dear child," answered the old lady. "It will
be greatly more satisfactory that she should be an eye-witness of your
departure with me, than that you should go without giving her notice....
Perhaps she would say you had eloped and robbed the premises."
"Hush!..." cried Agnes ... "she is here!"
Mrs. Barnaby's voice, at least, was already with them. It was, indeed,
the return of this lady which they had heard; and no sooner had she
dismissed her hackney-coachman than she began questioning the servant of
the house, who was stationed at the open door, expecting Miss Compton
and her niece to come down.
"What carriage is that?... Whose servant is that upon the stairs?...
You have not been letting the lodgings, I hope?" were the first words of
the widow.
"Oh! dear no, ma'am!" replied the maid; "everything is just as you left
it."
"Then who is that carriage waiting for?"
"For a lady, ma'am, who is come to call on your young lady."
"MY young lady!... unnatural hussy!... And what fine friends has she
found out here, I wonder, to visit her?... Be they who they will, they
shall hear my opinion of her." And with these words, Mrs. Barnaby
mounted the last stair, and entered the room.
The two unsnuffed tallow candles which stood on the table did not enable
her at the first glance to recognize her aunt, who was wrapped in a long
silk cloak, much unlike any garment she had ever seen her wear; but the
sable figure of Agnes immediately caught her eye, and she stepped
towards her with her arm extended, very much as if about to box her
ears. But it seemed that the action was only intended to intimate that
she was instantly to depart, for, with raised voice and rapid
utterance, she said, "How comes it, girl, that I find you still here?...
Begone!... Never will I pass another night under the same roof with one
who could so basely desert a benefactress in distress!... And who may
this be that you have got to come and make merry with you, while I ...
and for your expenses too.... Whoever it is, they had better shew no
kindness to you, ... or they will be sure to repent of it."
Mrs. Barnaby then turned suddenly round to reconnoitre the unknown
visiter. "Do you not know me, Mrs. Barnaby?" said Miss Compton demurely.
"My aunt Betsy!... Good God! ma'am, what brought you here?"
"I came to take this troublesome girl off your hands, Mrs. Barnaby: is
not that kind of me?"
"That's the plan, is it?" retorted the widow bitterly. "Now I understand
it all. Instead of coming to comfort me in my misery, she was employing
herself in coaxing another aunt to make a sacrifice of herself to her
convenience. Take her; and when you are sick and sorry, she will turn
her back upon you, as she has done upon me!"
"Oh! do not speak so cruelly, aunt Barnaby!" cried Agnes, greatly
shocked at having her conduct thus described to one whose love she so
ardently wished to gain.... "Tell my aunt Compton what it was you asked
of me, and let her judge between us."
"Shut the door, Agnes!..." said Miss Compton sternly; and then,
re-seating herself, she addressed Mrs. Barnaby with an air of much
anxiety and interest: "Niece Martha, I must indeed beg of you to tell me
in what manner this young girl has conducted herself since she has been
with you, for, I can assure you, much depends upon the opinion I shall
now form of her. I have no longer any reason to conceal from you that my
circumstances are considerably more affluent than anybody but myself and
my man of business is aware of.... Nearly forty years of strict economy,
niece Martha, have enabled me to realize a very respectable little
fortune. It was I, and not my tenant, who purchased your poor father's
moiety of Compton Basett; and as I have scarcely ever touched the rents,
a little study of the theory of interest and compound interest will
prevent your being surprised, when I tell you that my present income is
fifteen hundred per annum, clear of all outgoings whatever."
"Is it possible!" exclaimed Mrs. Barnaby, with an accent and a look of
reverence, which very nearly destroyed the gravity of her old aunt.
"Yes, Mrs. Barnaby," she resumed, "such is my income. With less than
this, a gentlewoman of a good old family, desirous of bringing forward a
niece into the world in such a manner as to do her credit, could not
venture to take her place in society; and I have therefore waited till
my increasing revenues should amount to this sum before I declared my
intentions, and proclaimed my heiress. Such being the case, you will not
be surprised that I should be anxious to ascertain which of my two
nieces best deserves my favour. I do not mean to charge myself with
both.... Let that be clearly understood.... The doing so would entirely
defeat my object, which is to leave one representative of the Compton
Basett family with a fortune sufficient to restore its former
respectability."
"And everybody must admire such an intention," replied Mrs. Barnaby, in
an accent of inexpressible gentleness; "and I, for one, most truly hope,
that whoever you decide to leave it to, may deserve such generosity, and
have a grateful heart to requite it with."
"That is just what I should wish to find," returned the spinster; "and
before you came in, I had quite made up my mind that Agnes Willoughby
should be the person; but I confess, Mrs. Barnaby, that what you have
said alarms me, and I shall be very much obliged if you will immediately
let me know what Agnes has done to merit the accusation of having
_deserted her benefactress_?"
"It is but too easy to answer that, aunt Compton," replied the widow,
"and I am sorry to speak against my own sister's child; ... but truth is
truth, and since you command me to tell you what I meant when I said
she had deserted me, I will.... I have been arrested, aunt Compton, and
that for no reason on the earth but because I was tempted to stay three
or four days longer in London than I intended. Of course, I meant to go
back to that paltry place, Cheltenham, and pay every farthing I owed
there, the proof of which is that I _have_ paid every farthing, though
it would have served them right to have kept them a year out of their
money, instead of a month; ... but that's neither here nor there ...
though there was no danger of my staying in prison, I WAS there for
three days, and Agnes could not tell but I might have been there for
ever; ... yet, when I wrote her a most affectionate letter, begging her
only to call upon me in my miserable solitude, she answered my petition,
which might have moved a heart of stone, with a flat refusal.... Ask her
if she can deny this?"
"What say you, Agnes?... Is this so?" said the old lady, turning to the
party accused.
"Aunt Betsy!..." said Agnes, and then stopped, as if unwilling, for
some reason or other, to say more.
"YES or NO?" demanded Mrs. Barnaby, vehemently. "Did you refuse to come
to me, or not?"
"I did," replied Agnes.
"I hope you are satisfied, aunt Compton?" cried the widow
triumphantly.... "By her own confession, you perceive that I have told
you nothing but the truth."
Agnes said nothing in reply to this, but loosening the strings of a silk
bag which hung upon her arm, she took from it a small packet, and placed
it in the hands of Miss Compton. "What have we got here?" said the
spinster sharply.... "What do you give me this for, child?"
"I wish you to read what is there, if you please, aunt," said Agnes.
Miss Compton laid it on the table before her, while she sought for her
spectacles and adjusted them on her nose; but, while doing this, she
kept her eyes keenly fixed upon the little packet, and not without
reason, for, had she turned from it for a single instant, Mrs. Barnaby,
who shrewdly suspected its contents, would infallibly have taken
possession of it.
"My coachman and horses will get tired of all this, I think," said Miss
Compton; "however, as you say, niece Martha, truth is truth, and must be
sought after, even if it lies at the bottom of a well.... This is a
letter, and directed to you, Miss Agnes; ... and this is the back of
another, with some young-lady-like scrawling upon it.... Which am I to
read first, pray?"
"The letter, aunt Betsy," replied Agnes.
"So be it," said the spinster with an air of great indifference; and
drawing one of the candles towards her, and carefully snuffing it, she
began clearly and deliberately reading aloud the letter already given,
in which Mrs. Barnaby desired the presence of Agnes, and gave her
instructions for her finding her way to the Fleet Prison. Having
finished this, she replaced it quietly in its cover without saying a
word, or even raising her eyes towards either of her companions; and
taking the other paper, containing Agnes's reasons for non-compliance,
read that through likewise, exactly in the same distinct tone, and
replaced it with an equal absence of all commentary, in the cover. She
then rose, and walking close up to her elder niece, who proffered not a
word, looking in her face with a smile that must have been infinitely
more provoking than the most violent indignation, said, "Niece
Martha!... the last time I saw you, if I remember rightly, you offered
me some of your old clothes; but now you offer me none, which I consider
as the more unkind, because, if you dressed as smart as you are now
while in prison, you must most certainly wear very fine things when you
are free.... And so, as you are no longer the kind niece you used to be,
I don't think I shall come to see you any more. As for this young lady
here, it appears to me that you have not been severe enough with her,
Mrs. Barnaby.... I'll see if I can't teach her to behave better.... In
prison or out of prison ... if I bid her come, we shall see if she dare
look about her for such plausible reasons for refusing as she has given
you. If she does, I'll certainly send her back to you, Mrs. Barnaby.
Ring the bell, naughty Agnes!"
The maid seemed to have been very near the door, for it instantly
opened. "Tell my servants that I am coming," said the whimsical
spinster, enacting the fine lady with excellent effect; and making a
low, slow, and most ceremonious courtesy to the irritated, but perfectly
overpowered Mrs. Barnaby, she made a sign to Agnes to precede her to the
carriage, and left the room.
CHAPTER VII.
AGNES ELOPES WITH HER AUNT BETSY.
"Is it possible!" cried Agnes, the moment that the door of the carriage
was closed upon them, "is it possible that I am really under your
protection, and going to your home, aunt Betsy?"
"To my temporary home, dear child, you are certainly going," said the
old lady, taking her hand; "but I hope soon to have one more comfortable
for you, my Agnes!"
"Where I shall find the bower and the bees? Is it not so, aunt?"
"Not exactly ... at least not at present.... But tell me, Agnes, don't
you think I was very gentle and civil to Mrs. Barnaby?"
"It was certainly very wise not to reproach her, poor woman, more
directly.... But, oh! dearest aunt Betsy, how well you know her!... If
you had studied for a twelvemonth to find out how you might best have
tormented her, you could have discovered no method so effectual as the
making her first believe that you had a great fortune, and then that her
own conduct had robbed her of your favour. Poor aunt Barnaby!... I
cannot help pitying her!"
"You are tender-hearted, my dear, ... and a flatterer too.... You give
me credit, I assure you, for a vast deal more cleverness than I possess:
excepting on the subject of the old clothes which she offered me when we
met in the cottage of dame Sims, I attempted no jestings with her....
But tell me, Agnes, have you not suffered dreadfully from the tyranny
and vulgar ignorance of this detestable woman? Has she not almost broken
your young heart?"
"I have not been very happy with her, aunt Betsy," replied Agnes
gently; ... "but she speaks only truth when she says I have lived at her
cost, and this ought to close my lips against speaking more against her
than may be necessary to clear my own conduct in your eyes."
Perhaps the old lady was a little disappointed at finding that she was
to have no good stories concerning the absurdities of the apothecary's
high-flying widow, as she called her; but, despite all the oddities of
Miss Compton, there was quite enough of the innate feeling of a
gentlewoman within her to make her value Agnes the more for her promised
forbearance. She threw her arm round her, and pressing her to her bosom,
said,--
"Let this feeling of Christian gentleness be extended to me also,
Agnes, ... for I have great need of it. This Martha Wisett the second,
poor soul, was the first-born of her mother, and seems to have taken as
her birth-right all the qualities, bodily and mental, of her vulgar and
illiterate dam.... But I have no such excuse, my child, for the
obstinate prejudice with which my heart has been filled, and my judgment
absolutely confounded. All you have suffered with this woman, Agnes,
ought, in truth, to be laid to my charge.... I knew what she was, and
yet I suffered you.... Let us try to forget it; and only remember, if
you can, that I turned away from you for no other reason upon earth than
because I feared you were not ... exactly what I now find you. But here
we are at home. How greatly must you want the healing feeling that home
should bring! Poor dear!... When have you ever felt it?"
"At Empton, aunt!" answered Agnes eagerly; and even though the carriage
door was open, and the step let down, she added, "The only home I ever
loved I owed to you."
Hastily as this word was said, it sunk with very healing effect into the
heart of the self-reproaching old lady ... it was answered by a cordial
"God bless you!" and hand in hand the very happy pair walked up the
staircase together. The accomplished William had preceded them, and
thrown open the door of aunt Betsy's handsome drawing-room; and no
apartment could offer an aspect of more comfort. The evening had all the
chilliness of September when its sun is gone; and the small bright fire,
with a sofa placed cosily near it, looked cheerily. Wax-lights on the
chimney and tea-table, gave light sufficient to shew a large,
exceedingly well-fitted up room; and a pretty young woman, neatly
dressed, came forward to offer her services in the removal of cloaks and
shawls.
Agnes looked round the room, and then turned to her aunt, as if tacitly
demanding an explanation of what she saw. Miss Compton smiled, and
answered the appeal by saying, "Did you expect, dearest, that I should
be able to bring my farm-house and my bees with me?"
"No, aunt Compton," replied Agnes, very gravely, "I did not expect
that; ... but...."
"Aunt BETSY--you must always call me aunt Betsy, Agnes. That was the
appellation that your dear voice uttered so joyously when I entered the
dark den in which I found you, and I shall never like any other as
well.... But don't be frightened because I have somewhat changed my mode
of living, my dear child. I will not invite you to ramble through the
streets of London, in order to visit me when I am in prison for debt. I
know what my means are, Agnes--few ladies better--and I will never
exceed them."
This was said very gravely, and the assurance was by no means
unimportant to the tranquillity of the young heiress. The scenes she had
recently passed through would have reconciled her to a farm-house, a
cottage, a hut; so that the air of heaven blew untainted round it, and
no livery-stable keepers, or bailiff's followers, could find entrance
there. But Miss Compton's words and manner set her heart at rest on that
score, though they could not remove her astonishment, the involuntary
expression of which, on her beautiful face, was by no means disagreeable
to the novel-read aunt Betsy. It was just as it should be ... beauty,
goodness, misery, ill-usage, and all; and she felt most happily
convinced that, if there were but a lover in the case, and such a one
as, despite all obstacles, she could approve, she should to her dying
day have the comfort of thinking that the moment which she had chosen
for ceasing to accumulate, and beginning to spend, was the very best
possible.
And this lover in the clouds.... Would Agnes open her heart to her on
such a subject?... Had she any right to hope it?... Not yet, certainly
not yet, thought Miss Compton as, the services of William over, and the
tea-things removed, they drew nearer the fire; and she fixed her eyes
anew on the beautiful face she so greatly loved to contemplate, partly
because it was so beautiful, and partly because she could not trace in
it the slightest resemblance to any member of the Wisett race.
But soft and peaceful as was now the expression of that face, there
might occasionally be seen by an accurate observer that indescribable
look of thoughtfulness in the eyes which never arises till the mind has
been awakened, upon some subject or other, to emotions of deep interest.
Miss Compton was a very accurate observer, and saw, as plainly as
Lavater himself could have done, that Agnes had learned to feel.
The romantic old lady would have given her right hand to possess her
confidence, but she was determined not to ask for it.
"Do you think we shall be happy together, Agnes?" said she, in a voice
which, when its cheerful tone was not exaggerated into the ironical
levity in which she sometimes indulged, was singularly pleasing. "Do
you think that you shall like to be my darling?"
"Yes, I do," replied Agnes, with the sudden bluntness of sincerity; "but
I think I shall plague you sometimes, aunt Betsy."
"You have made up your mind to that already, have you?" returned Miss
Compton, delighted at the playful tone in which she spoke; "then, in
that case, I must make up my mind too, and contrive to make a pleasure
of what you call a plague. How do you mean to begin, Agnes?... What will
you do first?... Will you cry for the moon?"
"Will you try to get it for me if I do, aunt Betsy?" said Agnes,
laughing.
"Yes, I will ... that is, if you will let me know what sort of moon it
is, and to what part of the heavens I must turn to find it. Jupiter, you
know, has...."
"Oh! my moon is the highest and brightest of them all!..." said Agnes,
with a sigh; and, after remaining silent for a moment, she added, ...
"Aunt Betsy, may I tell you everything that has happened to me?"
"If you love me well enough to do this, my child," said the delighted
old lady, while, nevertheless, a tear glistened in her clear black
eye,--"if you love me well enough, I shall feel that I have not given up
my bees and my flowers for nothing."
Agnes drew nearer, and, after a moment's hesitation, began.
"I believe that all young ladies' histories have something about a
gentleman in them, and so has mine...."
"A _young_ gentleman, I hope, Agnes?" interrupted the aunt, with a
smile.
Agnes coloured a little, but replied, "He is not so very young, aunt
Betsy, as to make his youth his most remarkable quality."
"Very well, that is all quite right; he ought to be older than you, my
dear.... Go on."
"When I was at Clifton, aunt Betsy, I was often in company with Colonel
Hubert...."
"A colonel?... That sounds very respectable; he was the father, I
suppose, of THE gentleman?"
"No, indeed," replied Agnes, with some vexation; "he is himself the only
gentleman that I have anything to say about, ... and his sister says
that he will be a general next month."
"Indeed!... A general?... General Hubert!... a very eligible
acquaintance, I have no doubt.... I should hardly have hoped you could
have had the good luck to meet with such among the friends of your aunt
Barnaby."
"An eligible acquaintance!... Oh! aunt, you don't understand me at
all!... But I will tell you everything. Colonel Hubert is ... I can't
describe him.... I hope you will see him, aunt Betsy, and then you will
not wonder, perhaps, that I should have thought him, from the very first
moment I saw him, the only person in the world...."
Agnes stopped short; but Miss Compton seemed to think she had finished
her phrase very properly.
"And what did he think of you, my dear?... this young colonel?"
"Colonel Hubert never said anything about it at Clifton," replied Agnes,
blushing; "but yet I thought--I hoped he liked me, though I knew it did
not signify whether he did or not, for he is one of a very
distinguished family, ... who could never, I imagined, think seriously
of any one living with ... with my aunt Barnaby. But at Cheltenham I
became acquainted with his aunt, Lady Elizabeth Norris, and his sister,
Lady Stephenson, and they were very, _very_ kind to me; and when I came
to London with my aunt Barnaby in this wild manner, they were very
anxious about me, and made me promise to write to them.... But before I
thought they could know anything about her being taken to prison ... the
very day indeed that she went there, in the evening, while I was sitting
in that dismal room, just as you found me to-night ... Colonel
Hubert.... Oh! aunt Betsy ... the sight of you did not surprise me
more.... Colonel Hubert walked in."
"That was hardly right, though, Agnes, if he knew you were alone."
"He brought a letter from his aunt and sister, most kindly asking me to
take shelter with them immediately; ... and I am quite sure that when he
came he had no intention of speaking of anything but that.... But I
believe I looked very miserable, and his generous heart could not bear
it, so he told me that he loved me, and asked me to be his wife."
"It _was_ generous of him at such a dreadful moment," said the spinster,
her eyes again twinkling through tears.... "And how did you answer him,
my love?"
"I told him," replied Agnes, trembling and turning pale as she spoke, "I
told him that I could never be his wife!"
"Why, my dear, I thought you said," ... cried the old lady, looking much
disappointed, ... "I thought you said you admired him of all things, and
I am sure he seems to have deserved it; but I suppose you thought he was
too old for you?"
"No! no! no!" replied Agnes vehemently.... "He is young enough for me to
love him, oh! so dearly!... It was because I could not hear that he
should marry so beneath himself ... it was because I thought his aunt
and sister would resent it...."
"Humph!... That was very generous on your part too; but I suppose he
knows best.... And what did he say then, Agnes?"
"Oh! aunt Betsy!... he said exactly as you did ... he said that he was
too old for me to love him; ..." and, remembering the agony of that
moment, she hid her face in her hands and wept.
Miss Compton looked at her with pitying eyes; and, after a moment, said,
"And so you parted, Agnes?"
"Yes!" she replied, removing her hands. "It was almost so, and yet not
quite.... I could not tell him, you know, how dearly, how very dearly I
loved him!... that was impossible!... but I said something about his
sister and his aunt; and then ... oh! I shall never forget him!...
something like hope ... pray, do not think me vain, aunt Betsy,--but it
_was_ hope that shot into his eye again, and changed the whole
expression of his face; ... yet he said no more about his love, and only
asked me to promise never to leave the shelter of that roof till I heard
from his aunt again.... And I did promise him.... But could I keep it,
aunt?... It would have been obeying him in words, and not in spirit....
And now I'm coming to my reason for telling you all this so very
soon.... What shall I say to them now? How shall I write to them?"
It seemed that Miss Compton did not find this a very easy question to
answer, for she took many minutes to consider of it. At length she
said, ... "As to setting right the love part of the affair, you need not
alarm yourself, my dear ... there will be no great difficulty in
that.... If you know your own mind, and really are in love with a
general, instead of an ensign, I don't see why you should be
contradicted, though it is a little out of the common way.... He is a
gentleman, and that is the only point upon which I could have been very
strict with you.... But there is another thing, Agnes, in which you must
please to let me have my own way.... Will you promise me?"
"How can there be any way but yours in what concerns me, dear aunt
Betsy?"
"Bless you, my dear!... I will not be a tyrant ... at least not a very
cruel tyrant; but my happiness will be injured for the rest of my life,
Agnes, if the next time you see this gentleman and his family, it is
not in such a manner as to make them perceive, without the necessity of
their listening to an old woman's long story about it, that you are not
an unworthy match for him in any way.... Let this be managed, and
everything will end well.... There will be no risk of your witnessing,
either in the words or looks of these noble ladies whom you call your
friends, any struggle between their partiality for you and their higher
hopes for him. HE will ever remember with pleasure that he waited not
for this to offer you his hand and heart; and trust me YOU will never
remember with sorrow that you did wait for it before you accepted him.
Do you agree with me?"
"Indeed I do!" fervently replied Agnes. "But could they see me at this
moment, would not your wish be answered? Could they doubt for a moment,
while seeing you, and seeing the style of all about you, that I am
something more than the poor hopeless dependant of Mrs. Barnaby?"
"That is not it.... That would not do at all, child," replied the old
lady, sharply. "It shall not be the poor dependant of anybody that this
noble-hearted Colonel Hubert shall come to woo. Love him as much as you
will, the world may say, and his family may think too, that his rank and
station led you to accept him. I will save you both from this danger.
Colonel Hubert shall not try his chance with you again till you are the
independent possessor of fifteen hundred pounds a-year. When I die,
Agnes, if you behave well in the interim, I will bequeath my bees to
you, and all the furniture of my two pretty rooms at Compton Basett, as
well as all the reserved rents in the shape of allowances, coals, wood,
attendance, and the like, which will be mine while I live. This, my
dear, shall come to you in the way of legacy, in case I continue to be
pleased with your behaviour; but there is no way for me to atone for the
injury I have done to the representative of my family by suffering her
to remain six months with Mrs. Barnaby, but making her at once the
independent possessor of the Compton property."
"My dear, dear aunt!" said Agnes, most unfeignedly distressed, "there
can be no occasion at this moment to talk of your doing what, in my
poor judgment, would be so very wrong.... Should I be so happy as to
make Colonel Hubert known to you, I would trust to him to discuss such
subjects.... Oh! what delight, aunt Betsy, for you to have such a man
for your friend!... and all owing to me!"
There was something so ingenuous, so young, so unquestionably sincere in
this burst of feeling, that the old lady was greatly touched by it. "You
are a sweet creature, Agnes," she replied, "and quite right in telling
me not to discuss any matters of business with you.... I shall touch on
no such subjects again, for I see they are totally beyond your
comprehension. Nevertheless, I must have my way about not introducing
myself to Colonel Hubert's family, or himself either, in lodgings. Write
to your kind friends, my dear; tell them that your old aunt Compton has
left her retirement to take care of you, and tell them also that she
feels as she ought to do.... But, no; you write your own feelings, and I
will write mine.... But this must be to-morrow, Agnes; ... it is past
twelve o'clock, love. See! that gay thing on the chimney-piece attests
it.... I must shew you to your room, my guest; hereafter I shall be
yours, perhaps."
Peggy being summoned, the two ladies were lighted to the rooms above....
These were in a style of great comfort, and even elegance; but one being
somewhat larger than the other, and furnished with a dressing-room, it
was in this that Agnes found her trunk and book-box; and it was here
that, after seeing that her fire burned brightly, and that Peggy was
standing ready to assist in undressing her, the happy Miss Compton
embraced, blessed, and left her to repose.
It was a long time, however, before Agnes would believe that anything
like sleep could visit her eyes that night. What a change, what an
almost incredible transition, had she passed through since her last
sleep! It was more like the operation of a magician's wand than the
consequence of human events. From being a reprobated outcast, banished
from the roof that sheltered her, she had become the sole object of
love and care to one who seemed to have it in her power to make life a
paradise to her. How many blissful visions floated through her brain
before all blended together in one general consciousness of happy
security, that at last lulled her to delicious sleep! She was hardly
less sensible than her somewhat proud aunt of the pleasure which a
reunion with her Cheltenham friends, under circumstances, so changed,
would bring; and her dreams were of receiving Lady Elizabeth Norris and
her niece in a beautiful palace on the shores of a lovely lake, while
Colonel Hubert stood smiling by to watch the meeting.
CHAPTER VIII.
AGNES APPEARS LIKELY TO PROFIT BY THE CHANGE OF AUNTS.
The first waking under the consciousness of new, and not yet familiar
happiness, is perhaps one of the most delightful sensations of which we
are susceptible. Agnes had closed her eyes late, and it was late when
she opened them, for Peggy had already drawn her window curtains; and
the gay hangings and large looking-glasses of the apartment met her eyes
at the first glance with such brilliant effect, that she fancied for an
instant she must still be dreaming. But by degrees all the delightful
truth returned upon her mind. Where was the blank, cold isolation of the
heart, with which her days were used to rise and set? Where were the
terrors amidst which she lived, lest her protectress should expose
herself by some monstrous, new absurdity? Where was the hopeless future,
before which she had so often wept and trembled? Was it possible that
she was the same Agnes Willoughby who had awoke with such an aching
heart, but four-and-twenty hours ago?... All these questions were asked,
and gaily answered, before she had resolution to spring from her bed,
and change her delightful speculations for a more delightful reality.
Notwithstanding the various fatigues of the preceding day, Miss Compton
was not only in the drawing-room, but her letter to Lady Elizabeth
Norris was already written on the third side of a sheet of letter paper,
thus giving Agnes an opportunity of explaining everything before her own
lines should meet her ladyship's eye.
The meal which has been slandered as "lazy, lounging, and most
unsocial," was far otherwise on the present occasion. The aunt and niece
sat down together, each regaling the eyes of the other with a
countenance speaking the most heart-felt happiness; and while the old
lady indulged herself with sketching plans for the future, the young one
listened as if her voice were that of fate, declaring that she should
never taste of sorrow more.
"The carriage will be here at twelve, Agnes," said Miss Compton, to
"take us into what our books tell us is called THE CITY, as if it were
the city of cities, and about which I suppose you and I are equally
ignorant, seeing that you never did take that pleasant little walk the
dowager Mrs. Barnaby so considerately sketched out for you. So now we
shall look at it together. But don't fancy, my dear, that any such idle
project as looking at its wonders is what takes me there now.... I have
got a broker, Agnes, as well as the widow, and it is quite as necessary
to my proceedings as to hers that I should see him. But we must not go
till our partnership letter is ready for the post. Here is my share of
it Agnes ... read it to me, and if it meets your approbation, sit down
and let your own precede it."
The lines written by Miss Compton were as follow:--
"MADAM,
"Permit a stranger, closely connected by the ties of blood to
Agnes Willoughby, to return her grateful thanks for kindness
extended to her at a moment when she greatly needed it. That
she should so have needed it, will ever be a cause of
self-reproach to me; nor will it avail me much either in my own
opinion, or in that of others, that the same qualities in our
common kinswoman, Mrs. Barnaby, which produced the distress of
Agnes, produced in me the aversion which kept me too distant to
perceive their effects on her respectability and happiness.
"I am, Madam,
"Your grateful and obedient servant,
"ELIZABETH COMPTON."
Agnes wrote:--
"MY KIND AND GENEROUS FRIENDS!
"Lady Elizabeth!... Lady Stephenson! I write to you, as I never
dared hope to do, from under the eye and the protection of my
dear aunt Compton. It is to her I owe all the education I ever
received, and, I might add, all the happiness too, ... for I
have never known any happy home but that which her liberal
kindness procured for me during five years spent in the family
of my beloved instructress Mrs. Wilmot. For the seven months
that have elapsed since I quitted Mrs. Wilmot, my situation, as
you, my kind friends, know but too well, has been one of very
doubtful respectability, but very certain misery. My aunt
Compton blames herself for this, but you, if I should ever be
so happy as to make you know my aunt Compton, will blame me.
Her former kindness ought to have given me courage to address
her before, even though circumstances had placed me so entirely
in the hands of Mrs. Barnaby as to make the separation between
us fearfully wide. But, thank God! all this unhappiness is now
over. I _did_ apply to her at last, and the result has been the
converting me from a very hopeless, friendless, and miserable
girl (as I was when you first saw me) into one of the very
happiest persons in the whole world. I have passed through some
scenes, from the remembrance of which I shall always shrink
with pain; but there have been others ... there have been
points in my little history, which have left an impression a
thousand times deeper, and dearer too, than could ever have
been produced on any heart unsoftened by calamity. And must it
not ever be accounted among my best sources of happiness, that
the regard which can never cease to be the most precious, as
well as the proudest boast of my life, was expressed under
circumstances which to most persons would have appeared so
strongly against me?
"My generous friends!... May I hope that the affection shewn to
me in sorrow will not be withdrawn now that sorrow is past?...
May I hope that we shall meet again, and that I may have the
great happiness of making my dear aunt known to you? She is all
kindness, and would take me to Cheltenham, that I might thank
you in person for the aid so generously offered in my hour of
need, but I fear poor Mrs. Barnaby's adventures will for some
time be too freshly remembered there for me to wish to revisit
it...."
When Agnes had written thus far, she stopped. "Where shall I tell them,
aunt Betsy, that we are going to remain?" she said.... "If ... if
Colonel Hubert" ... and she stopped again.
"If Colonel Hubert ... and what then, Agnes?"
"Why, if Colonel Hubert _were_ to pay us a visit, aunt Betsy, I cannot
help thinking that he would understand me better now, than when I was so
dreadfully overpowered by the feeling of my desolate condition.... Don't
you think so?"
"I think it very probable he might, my dear; ... and as to your sensible
question, Agnes, of where we are going to be, I think you must decide it
yourself. We have both declared against Cheltenham, and for reasons
good.... Where then should you best like to go?"
"To Clifton, aunt Betsy!... It was there I saw him first, and there,
too, I was most kindly treated by friends who, I believe, pitied me
because ... because I did not seem happy, I suppose.... Oh! I would
rather go to Clifton than any place in the world ... excepting Empton."
"And to Empton we cannot go just at present, Agnes ... it would be too
much like running out of the world again, which I have no wish at all to
do. To Clifton, therefore, we will go, dear child, and so you may tell
your good friends."
Agnes gave no other answer than walking round the table and imprinting a
kiss upon the forehead of her happy aunt.... Then resuming her writing,
she thus concluded her letter:--
"My aunt Compton, as soon as she has concluded some business
which she has to settle in London, will go to Clifton, where, I
believe, we shall stay for some months; and should any of your
family happen again to be there, I may perhaps be happy enough
to see them. With gratitude to all, I remain ever your attached
and devoted
"AGNES WILLOUGHBY."
Poor Agnes!... She was terribly dissatisfied with her letter when she
had written it. Not all her generalizations could suffice to tell him,
THE him, the only mortal him she remembered in the world,--not all her
innocent little devices to make it understood that _he_ was included in
all her gratitude and love, as well as in her invitation to
Clifton,--made it at all clear that she wanted Colonel Hubert to come
and offer to her again.
Yet what could she say more?... She sat with her eye fixed on the paper,
and a face full of meaning, though what that meaning was, it might not
be very easy to decide.
"What is my girl thinking of?" said Miss Compton.
"I am thinking," replied Agnes, and she shook her head, "I am thinking
that Colonel Hubert will never understand from this letter, aunt Betsy,
how very much I want to see him again."
"That is very true, my dear."
"Is there anything else I could say to make him know how greatly he
mistook me when he fancied I said NO from my want of love?"
"Oh yes! my dear, certainly."
"Tell me then, my dear, dear, aunt!... I feel as if I had no power to
find a word.... Tell me what I shall say to him."
"You may say many things ... for instance, ... you may say, Tell my
beloved Colonel Hubert...."
"Oh! aunt Betsy!... aunt Betsy! you are laughing at me," cried Agnes,
looking at her very gravely, and with an air of melancholy reproach.
"So I am, my dear: an old spinster of three score is but a poor
confidant in matters of this sort.... But if you seriously ask for my
advice, I will give it, such as it is. Let our letter go just as it is,
without any addition or alteration whatever. If Colonel Hubert sees this
letter, as you seem to expect, and if he loves you as you deserve to be
loved, he will find food enough for hope therein to carry him further
than from one end of Gloucestershire to the other.... If he does _not_
see it, put what you will in it, he would learn nothing thereby.... But
if, seeing it, he determines to sit quietly down under your refusal ...
then let him; I, for one, should feel no wish to become better
acquainted with the gentleman."
Agnes said no more, but folded the letter, and directed it to Lady
Elizabeth Norris, Cheltenham.
"Now, aunt, I have folded up Colonel Hubert, and put him out of sight
till he shall choose to bring himself forward again.... I will tease you
no more about him.... Shall I put my bonnet on?... The carriage has
been waiting for some time."
"My darling Agnes!..." said the old lady, looking fondly at her, "how
little I deserve to find you so exactly what I wished you should be!...
You are right; we will talk no more of this Colonel Hubert till he has
himself declared what part he means to play in the drama before us. We
shall be at no loss for subjects.... Remember how much we have to settle
between us!... our establishment, our equipage, our wardrobes, all to
be decided upon, modelled, and provided. Get ready, dearest; the sooner
we get through our business, the earlier we shall be at Clifton; ... and
who knows which part of our _dramatis personae_ may arrive there first?"
A happy smile dimpled the cheek of Agnes as she ran out of the room to
equip herself, and in a few minutes the two ladies were _en route_
towards the city.
"What makes you wear such very deep mourning, my dear?" said Miss
Compton, fixing her eyes on the perennial black crape bonnet of her
companion. "Is it all for the worthy apothecary of Silverton?... But
that can't be either, for now I think of it, his charming widow had half
the colours of the rainbow about her.... What does it mean, Agnes?"
Agnes looked out of the window to conceal a smile, but recovering her
composure answered,... "I have never been out of mourning, aunt, since
Mr. Barnaby died.... There was a great deal of black not worn out, ...
and as it made no difference to me...."
"Oh! monstrous!..." interrupted Miss Compton. "I see it all: ... while
she wantons about like a painted butterfly, she has thrown her
chrysalis-case upon you, my pretty Agnes, in the hope of making you look
like a grub beside her.... Is it not so?"
"Oh no!... my aunt Barnaby loves dress certainly, ... and greatly
dislikes black, and so...."
"And so you are to wear it for her?... Well, Agnes, you shan't abuse
her, if you think it a sin.... God forbid!... But do not refuse to let
me into a few of her ways.... Did she ever ask you to put on her
widow's cap, my dear? It might have saved the expense of night-caps at
least."
* * * * *
It was almost a cruelty in Agnes to conceal the many characteristic
traits of selfish littleness which she had witnessed in her widowed
aunt, from the caustic contemplation of her spinster one, for she would
have enjoyed it. But it was so much in her nature to do so, that dearly
as she would have loved to amuse aunt Betsy, and give scope to her
biting humour on any other theme, she gave her no encouragement on this;
so, by degrees, all allusion to Mrs. Barnaby dropped out of their
discourse; and if, from time to time, some little sample of her
peculiarities peeped forth involuntarily in speaking of the past, the
well-schooled old lady learned to enjoy them in silence, and certainly
did not love her niece the less for the restraint thus put upon her.
* * * * *
Considering how complete a novice our spinster practically was as to
everything concerning the vast Babylon called London, she contrived to
go where she wished and where she willed with wonderfully few blunders.
It was all managed between William and herself, and Agnes marvelled at
the ease with which much seemingly important business was transacted.
The carriage was stopped before a very dusky-looking mansion at no great
distance from the Exchange, within the dark passage of which William
disappeared for some moments, and then returning, opened the carriage
door, and, without uttering a word, gave his arm to assist Miss Compton
to descend.
"I will not keep you waiting long, my dear," she said, and, without
further explanation, followed her confidential attendant into the house.
In about half an hour she returned, accompanied by a bald-headed,
yellow-faced personage, who, somewhat to the surprise of Agnes, mounted
the carriage after her, and placed himself as _bodkin_ between them. "To
the Bank," was the word of command then given, and in a moment they
again stopped, and Agnes was once more left alone.
The interval during which she was thus left was this time considerably
longer than the last, and she had long been tired of watching the goers
and comers, all bearing, however varied their physiognomy, the same
general stamp of busy, anxious interest upon their brows, before the
active old lady and her bald-headed acquaintance re-appeared.
The old gentleman handed her into the carriage, and then took his leave
amidst a multitude of obsequious bows, and assurances that her commands
should always be obeyed at the shortest notice, _et cetera, et
cetera, et cetera_.
"Agnes!..." said the old lady, as soon as she had exchanged a few words
with William as to where she next wished to go, "Agnes! I look to you to
supply the place of my bees and my flowers, and I do not much fear that
I shall lament the exchange; but you must not continue to be dight in
this grim fashion; it might be soothing to the feelings of Mr. Barnaby's
fond widow, but to me it is very sad and disagreeable.... And so, my
dear, here is wherewithal to change it."
During the whole of this speech Miss Compton had been employed in
extracting a pocket-book of very masculine dimensions from her pocket;
and having at length succeeded, she opened it, drew forth two
bank-notes of twenty-five pounds each, and laid them in the lap of her
niece.
Agnes took them up, and looked at them with unfeigned astonishment. "My
dear aunt," she said, "I am afraid you will find me a much younger and
more ignorant sort of girl than you expected.... I shall no more know
what to do with all this money than a child of five years old. You
forget, aunt Betsy, that I never have had any money of my own since I
was born, and I really do not understand anything about it."
"This is a trouble of a new and peculiar kind, my dear, and I really
don't remember, in all my reading, to have found a precedent for it....
What shall we do, Agnes?... Must you always wear this rusty-looking
black gown, because you don't know how to buy another?"
"Why, no, aunt.... I don't think that will be necessary either; but
don't you think it would be better for you to buy what you like for
me?... It won't be the first time, aunt Betsy. I have not forgotten when
my pretty trunk was opened by Mrs. Wilmot, ... or how very nicely
everything was provided for the poor ragged little girl who never
before, as long as she could remember, had possessed anything beside
thread-bare relics, cobbled up to suit her dimensions.... It was you who
thought of everything for me then ... and I'm quite sure you love me a
great deal better now;" and Agnes placed the notes in Miss Compton's
hands as she spoke.
"I had prepared myself for a variety of new occupations," replied the
spinster, "but choosing the wardrobe of an elegant young lady was
certainly not one of them.... However, my dear, I have no objection to
shew you that my studies have prepared me for this too.... Nothing like
novel-reading, depend upon it, for teaching a solitary recluse the ways
of the world. You shall see how ably I will expend this money, Agnes;
but do not turn your head away, and be thinking of something else all
the time, because it is absolutely necessary, I do assure you, that a
young lady in possession of fifteen hundred a year should know how to
buy herself a new bonnet and gown."
The value of Miss Compton's literary researches was by no means lowered
in the estimation of Agnes by the results of the three hours which
followed; for though there were moments in which her thoughts would
spring away, in spite of all she could do to prevent it, from
discussions on silks and satins to a meditation on her next interview
with Colonel Hubert, she was nevertheless sufficiently present to what
was passing before her eyes to be aware that an old lady, who has
herself lived in a "grogram gown" for half a century, may be capable of
making a mighty pretty collection of finery for her niece, provided that
she has paid proper attention to fashionable novels, and knows how to
ask counsel, as to what _artistes_ to drive to, from so intelligent an
aide-de-camp as William.
In short, by the united power of the money and the erudition she had
hoarded, Miss Compton contrived, in the course of a fortnight, to make
as complete a change in the equipments of Agnes as that performed of
yore upon Cinderella by her godmother. Nor was her own wardrobe
neglected; she had no intention that the rusticity of her spinster aunt
should draw as many eyes on Agnes as the gaudiness of her widowed one,
and proved herself as judicious in the selection of sable satins and
velvets for herself, as in the choice of all that was most becoming and
elegant for the decoration of her lovely niece.
Never, certainly, was an old lady more completely happy than the
eccentric, proud, warm-hearted aunt Betsy, as, with a well-filled purse,
she drove about London, and found everything she deemed suitable to the
proper setting forth of her heiress ready to her hand or her order. She
could not, indeed, have a carriage built for her ... she could not
afford time for it; ... but William, the indefatigable William,
ransacked Long Acre from one end to the other, till he had discovered an
equipage as perfect in all its points as any order could have made it;
and on this the well-instructed Miss Compton, whose heraldic lore was
quite sufficient to enable her with perfect accuracy to blazon her own
arms, had her lozenge painted in miniature; which being all that was
required to render the neat equipage complete, this portion of their
preparation did not cause any delay.
To Miss Peters Agnes wrote of all the unexpected good which had befallen
her, with much freer confidence than she could indulge in when
addressing the relations of Colonel Hubert. Her friend Mary already knew
the name of "Miss Compton, of Compton Basett," and no fear of appearing
boastful rendered it necessary for her to conceal how strangely the
aspect of her worldly affairs was changed.
To her, and her good-natured mother, was confided the task of choosing
lodgings for them; and so ably was this performed, that exactly in one
fortnight and three days from the time Colonel Hubert had left Agnes so
miserably alone in Mrs. Barnaby's melancholy lodgings in Half-Moon
Street, she was established in airy and handsome apartments in the Mall
of Clifton, with every comfort and elegance about her that thoughtful
and ingenious affection could suggest to make the contrast more
striking.
The happiness of this meeting with the kind friends who had conceived so
warm an affection for her, even when presented by Mrs. Barnaby, was in
just proportion to the hopeless sadness with which she had bid them
farewell; and the reception of her munificent aunt among them, with the
cordial good understanding which mutually ensued, did all that fate and
fortune could do to atone for the suffering endured since they had
parted.
CHAPTER IX.
BRINGS US BACK, AS IT OUGHT, TO MRS. BARNABY.
It may be thought, perhaps, that the vexed, and, as she thought herself,
the persecuted Mrs. Barnaby, had sufficiently tried what a prison was,
to prevent her ever desiring to find herself within the walls of such an
edifice again; but such an opinion, however likely to be right, was
nevertheless wrong; for no sooner had the widow recovered from the fit
of rage into which the triumphant exit of Miss Compton had thrown her,
and settled herself on her solitary sofa, with no better comforter or
companion than a cup of tea modified with sky-blue milk, than the
following soliloquy (though she gave it not breath) passed through her
brain.
"Soh!... Here I am then, after six months' trial of the travelling
system, and a multitude of experiments in fashionable society, just
seven hundred pounds poorer than when I set out, and without having
advanced a single inch towards a second marriage.... This will never
do!... My youth, my beauty, and my fortune will all melt away together
before the object is obtained, unless I change my plans, and find out
some better mode of proceeding."
Here Mrs. Barnaby sipped her vile tea, opened her work-box that she had
been constrained to leave so hastily, ascertained that the exquisite
collar she was working had received no injury during her absence, and
then resumed her meditations.
"Heigh ho!... It is most horribly dull, sitting in this way all by
one's-self ... even that good-for-nothing, stupid, ungrateful Agnes was
better to look at than nothing; ... and even in that horrid Fleet there
was some pleasure in knowing that there was an elegant, interesting man,
to be met in a passage now and then ... whose eyes spoke plainly enough
what he thought of me.... Poor fellow!... His being in misfortune ought
not to produce ill-will to him in a generous mind!... How he looked as
he said 'Adieu, then, madam!... With you vanishes the last ray of light
that will ever reach my heart!'... And I am sure he said exactly what
he felt, and no more.... Poor O'Donagough!... My heart aches for him!"
And here she fell into a very piteous and sentimental mood, indeed. Had
her soliloquy been spoken out as loud as words could utter it, nobody
would have heard a syllable about love, marriage, or any such nonsense;
her heart was at this time altogether given up to pity, compassion, and
a deep sense of the duties of a Christian; and before she went to bed
she had reasoned herself very satisfactorily into the conviction that,
as a tender-hearted woman and a believer, it was her bounden duty, now
that she had got out of trouble herself, to return to the Fleet for the
purpose of once more seeing Mr. O'Donagough, and inquiring whether it
was in her power to do anything to serve him before she left London.
Nothing more surely tends to soothe the spirits and calm the agitated
nerves than an amiable and pious resolution, taken, as this was done,
during the last waning hours of the day, and just before the languid
body lays itself down to rest. Mrs. Barnaby slept like a top after
coming to the determination that, let the turnkeys think what they
would of it, she would call at the Fleet Prison, and ask to see Mr.
O'Donagough, the following morning.
The following morning came, and found the benevolent widow stedfast in
her purpose; and yet, to her honour be it spoken, it was not without
some struggles with a feeling which many might have called shame, but
which she conscientiously condemned as pride, that she set forth at
length upon her adventurous expedition.
"Nothing, I am sure," ... it was thus she reasoned with herself, ...
"nothing in the whole world could induce me to take such a step, but a
feeling that it was my duty. Heaven knows I have had many follies in my
day--I don't deny it; I am no hardened sinner, and that blessed book
that he lent me has not been a pearl thrown to swine. '_The Sinner's
Reward!_' ... what a comforting title!... I don't hope ever to be the
saint that the pious author describes, but I'm sure I shall be a better
woman all my life for reading it; ... and the visiting this poor
O'Donagough is the first act by which I can prove the good it has done
me!"
Then came some doubts and difficulties respecting the style of toilet
which she ought to adopt on so peculiar an occasion. "It won't do for a
person looking like a woman of fashion to drive up to the Fleet Prison,
and ask to see such a man as O'Donagough.... He is too young and
handsome to make it respectable.... But, after all, what does it signify
what people say?... And as for my bonnet, I'll just put my Brussels lace
veil on my black and pink; that will hide my ringlets, and make me look
more matronly."
In her deep lace veil then, and with a large silk cloak which concealed
the becoming gaiety of her morning dress, Mrs. Barnaby presented herself
before the gates she had so lately passed, and in a very demure voice
said to the keeper of it, "I wish to be permitted to see Mr.
O'Donagough."
The fellow looked at her and smiled. "Well, madam," he replied, "I
believe there will be no difficulty about that. Walk on, if you
please.... You'll find them as can send you forward."
A few more barriers passed, and a few more well-amused turnkeys
propitiated, and Mrs. Barnaby stood before a door which she knew as well
as any of them opened upon the solitary abode of the broken-hearted but
elegant Mr. O'Donagough. The door was thrown open for her to enter; but
she paused, desiring her usher to deliver her card first, with an
intimation that she wished to speak to the gentleman on business. She
was not kept long in suspense, for the voice of the solitary inmate was
heard from within, saying in soft and melancholy accents, "It is very
heavenly kindness! Beg her to walk in." And in she walked, the room-door
being immediately closed behind her.
Mr. O'Donagough was a very handsome man of about thirty years of age,
with a physiognomy and cerebral developement which might have puzzled
Dr. Combe himself; for impressions left by the past, were so evidently
fading away before the active operation of the present, that to say
distinctly from the examining eye, or the examining finger, what manner
of man he was, would have been exceedingly difficult. But the powers of
the historian and biographer are less limited, and their record shall be
given.
Mr. Patrick O'Donagough was but a half-breed, and that a mongrel half,
of the noble species which his names announce. He was the natural son of
an Englishman of wealth and consequence by a poor Irish girl called Nora
O'Donagough; and though his father did what was considered by many as
very much for him, he never permitted him to assume his name. The young
O'Donagough was placed as a clerk to one of the police magistrates of
the metropolis, and shewed great ability in the readiness with which he
soon executed the business that passed through his hands. He not only
learned to know by sight every rogue and roguess that appeared at the
office, but shewed a very uncommon degree of sagacity as to their
innocence or guilt upon every new occasion that enforced their
appearance there. His noble father never entirely lost sight of him; and
finding his abilities so remarkable, he was induced again to use his
interest in those quarters where influence abides, and to get him
promoted to a lucrative situation in a custom-house on the coast, where
he made money rapidly, while his handsome person and good address gave
him access to the society of many people greatly his superiors in
station, who most of them were frequenting a fashionable watering-place
at no great distance from the station where he was employed.
This lasted for a few years, much to the satisfaction of his illustrious
parent; and it might have continued till an easy fortune was assured to
him, had he not unluckily formed too great an intimacy with one or two
vastly gentleman-like but decidedly sporting characters. From this point
his star began to descend, till, step by step, he had lost his money,
his appointment, his father's favour, and his own freedom. Having lain
in prison for debt during some weeks, he found means again to touch the
heart of his father so effectually, as to induce him to pay his debts,
and restore him to freedom, upon condition, however, of his immediately
setting off for Australia with five hundred pounds in his pocket, and
with the understanding that he was never more to return. The promise was
given, and the five hundred pounds received; but the young man was not
proof against temptation; he met some old acquaintance, lost half his
money at _ecarte_, and permitted the vessel in which he was to sail to
depart without him. This was a moment of low spirits and great
discouragement; but he felt, nevertheless, that a stedfast heart and
bold spirit might bring a man out of as bad a scrape even as that into
which he had fallen.
Some people told him to apply again to his father, but he thought he had
better not, and he applied to a gentleman with whom he had made
acquaintance in prison instead. This person had, like himself, been
reduced to great distress by the turf; but having fortunately found
means of satisfying the creditor at whose suit he was detained, he was
now doing exceedingly well as preacher to an independent congregation of
ranting fanatics. He bestowed on his old associate some excellent advice
as to his future principles and conduct, giving him to understand that
the turf, even to those who were the most fortunate, never answered so
well as the line of business he now followed; and assured him, moreover,
that if he would forthwith commence an assiduous study of the principles
and practice of the profession, he would himself lend him a helping hand
to turn it to account. O'Donagough loved change, novelty, and
excitement, and again manifested great talent in the facility with
which he mastered the mysteries of this new business. He was soon seen
rapidly advancing towards lasting wealth and independence: one of the
wealthiest merchants in London had offered him the place of domestic
prayer and preacher at his beautiful residence at Castaway-Saved Park,
when an almost forgotten creditor, who had lost sight of him for many
years, unluckily recognised him as he was delivering a most awakening
evening lecture in a large ware-room, converted into a chapel near Moor
Fields. Eager to take advantage of this unexpected piece of good
fortune, the tailor (for such was his profession) arrested the inspired
orator in the first place, and then asked him if he were able to settle
his account in the next. Had the manner of transacting the business been
reversed, it is probable that the affair would have been settled without
any arrest at all; for Sir Miles Morice, of Castaway-Saved Park, was one
of the most pious individuals of the age, and would hardly have
permitted his chaplain elect (elect in every sense) to have gone to
prison for thirty-seven pounds, nine shillings, and eight pence; but
being in prison, O'Donagough was shy of mentioning the circumstance to
his distinguished patron, and was employed, at the time Mrs. Barnaby
first made acquaintance with him, in composing discourses "on the
preternatural powers over the human mind, accorded to the chosen vessels
called upon to pour out the doctrine of the new birth to the people."
There is little doubt that these really eloquent compositions would have
sold rapidly, and perfectly have answered the object of their clever
author. But accident prevented the trial from being made, for before the
projected volume was more than half finished, success of another kind
overtook Mr. O'Donagough.
* * * * *
Mrs. Barnaby, on entering, found the poor prisoner she had so charitably
come to visit seated at a writing-desk, with many sheets of
closely-written manuscript about it. He rose as she entered, and
approached her with a judicious mixture of respectful deference and
ardent gratitude.
"May Heaven reward you, madam, for this blessed proof of christian
feeling.... How can I suitably speak my gratitude?"
"I do assure you, Mr. O'Donagough, that you are quite right in thinking
that I come wholly and solely from a christian spirit, and a wish to do
my duty," said Mrs. Barnaby.
Mr. O'Donagough looked extremely handsome as he answered with a
melancholy smile, "Alas! madam ... what other motive could the whole
world offer, excepting obedience to the will of Heaven, sufficiently
strong to bring such a person as I now look upon voluntarily within
these fearful walls?"
"That is very true indeed!... There _is_ nothing else that could make
one do it. Heaven knows I suffered too much when I was here myself, to
feel any inclination for returning; ... but I thought, Mr. O'Donagough,
that it would be very unfeeling in me, who witnessed your distress, to
turn my back upon you when my own troubles are past and over; and so I
am come, Mr. O'Donagough, to ask if I can be of any use to you in any
way before I set off upon my travels, ... for I intend to make a tour to
France, and perhaps to Rome."
The widow looked at Mr. O'Donagough's eyes, to see how he took this
news; for, somehow or other, she could not help fancying that the poor
young man would feel more forlorn and miserable still, when he heard
that not only the walls of the Fleet Prison, but the English Channel,
was to divide them: nor did the expression of the eyes she thus
examined, lessen this idea. A settled, gentle melancholy seemed to rise
from his heart, and peep out upon her through these "_windows_ of the
soul."
"To France!... To Rome!..." A deep sigh followed, and for a minute or
two the young man remained with his eyes mournfully fixed on her face.
He then rose up, and stepping across the narrow space occupied by the
table that stood between them, he took her hand, and in a deep, sweet
voice, that almost seemed breaking into a sob, he said,--"May you be
happy whithersoever you go!... My prayers shall follow you.... My ardent
prayers shall be unceasingly breathed to heaven for your safety; ... and
my blessing ... my fervent, tender blessing, shall hover round you as
you go!"
Mrs. Barnaby was exceedingly affected. "Don't speak so!... Pray, don't
speak so, Mr. O'Donagough!" she said, in a voice which gave her very
good reason to believe that tears were coming. "I am sure I would pray
for you too, when I am far away, if it would do you any good," and here
one of her worked pocket-handkerchiefs was really drawn out and applied
to her eyes.
"IF, Mrs. Barnaby!" exclaimed the young man fervently, "IF ... oh! do
not doubt it ... do not for a moment doubt that I should feel the
influence of it in every nerve. Let me teach you to understand me, Mrs.
Barnaby, ... for I have made an examination into the effects of
spiritual sympathies the subject of much study.... Lay your hand upon my
heart ... nay, let it rest there for a moment, and you will be able to
comprehend what I would explain to you. Does not that poor heart beat
and throb, Mrs. Barnaby?... and think you that it would have fluttered
thus, had you not said that you would pray for me?... Then can you doubt
that if, indeed, you should still remember the unhappy O'Donagough as
you pursue your jocund course o'er hill and vale ... if, indeed, you
should breathe a prayer to Heaven for his welfare, can you doubt that it
will fall upon him like the soft fanning of a seraph's wing, and heal
the tumult of his soul, e'en in this dungeon?"
There was so much apparent sincerity, as well as tenderness, in what the
young man uttered, that a feeling of conviction at once found its way to
the understanding of Mrs. Barnaby; and little doubt, if any, remained on
her mind as to the efficacy of her prayers.... "Indeed, Mr. O'Donagough,
I will pray for you then, ... and I'm sure I should be a very wicked
wretch if I did not.... But is there nothing else I could do to comfort
you?"
Mr. O'Donagough had often found his handsome and expressive countenance
of great service to him, and so he did now. No answer he could have
given in words to this kind question, could have produced so great
effect as the look with which he received it. Mrs. Barnaby was
fluttered, agitated, and did not quite know
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