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Title: The Widow Barnaby. Vol. 1 (of 3)

Author: Frances Milton Trollope

Release date: June 30, 2011 [eBook #36561]
                Most recently updated: January 7, 2021

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Delphine Lettau, Mary Meehan and the Online
        Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WIDOW BARNABY. VOL. 1 (OF 3) ***




Produced by Delphine Lettau, Mary Meehan and the Online
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                         THE WIDOW BARNABY.

                        BY FRANCES TROLLOPE,

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


    IN THREE VOLUMES.
    VOL. I.

    LONDON:
    RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.

    1839.

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




THE WIDOW BARNABY.




CHAPTER I.

INTRODUCTION TO THE FAMILY OF THE FUTURE MRS. BARNABY.--FINANCIAL
DIFFICULTIES.--MATERNAL LOVE.--PREPARATIONS FOR A FETE.


Miss Martha Compton, and Miss Sophia Compton, were, some five-and-twenty
years ago, the leading beauties of the pretty town of Silverton in
Devonshire.

The elder of these ladies is the person I propose to present to my
readers as the heroine of my story; but, ere she is placed before them
in the station assigned her in my title-page, it will be necessary to
give some slight sketch of her early youth, and also such brief notice
of her family as may suffice to make the subsequent events of her life,
and the persons connected with them, more clearly understood.

The Reverend Josiah Compton, the father of my heroine and her sister,
was an exceedingly worthy man, though more distinguished for the
imperturbable tranquillity of his temper, than either for the brilliance
of his talents or the profundity of his learning. He was the son of a
small landed proprietor at no great distance from Silverton, who farmed
his own long-descended patrimony of three hundred acres with skilful and
unwearied industry, and whose chief ambition in life had been to see his
only son Josiah privileged to assume the prefix of _reverend_ before his
name. After three trials, and two failures, this blessing was at last
accorded, and his son ordained, by the help of a very good-natured
examining chaplain of the then Bishop of Exeter.

This rustic, laborious, and very happy Squire lived to see his son
installed Curate of Silverton, and blessed with the hand of the dashing
Miss Martha Wisett, who, if her pedigree was not of such respectable
antiquity as that of her bridegroom, had the glory of being accounted
the handsomest girl at the Silverton balls; and if her race could not
count themselves among the landed gentry, she enjoyed all the
consideration that a fortune of one thousand pounds could give, to atone
for any mortification which the accident of having a _ci-devant_
tallow-chandler for her parent might possibly occasion.

But, notwithstanding all the pride and pleasure which the Squire took in
the prosperity of this successful son, the old man could never be
prevailed upon by all Mrs. Josiah's admirable reasonings on the rights
of primogeniture, to do otherwise than divide his three hundred acres of
freehold in equal portions between the Reverend Josiah Compton his son,
and Elizabeth Compton, spinster, his daughter.

It is highly probable, that had this daughter been handsome, or even
healthy, the proud old yeoman might have been tempted to reduce her
portion to the charge of a couple of thousand pounds or so upon the
estate; but she was sickly, deformed, and motherless; and the tenderness
of the father's heart conquered the desire which might otherwise have
been strong within him, to keep together the fields which for so many
generations had given credit and independence to his race. To leave his
poor little Betsy in any degree dependent upon her fine sister-in-law,
was, in short, beyond his strength; so the home croft, and the long
fourteen, the three linny crofts, the five worthies, and the ten-acre
clover bit, together with the farm-house and all its plenishing, and one
half of the live and dead farming stock, were bequeathed to Elizabeth
Compton and her heirs for ever--not perhaps without some hope, on the
part of her good father, that her heirs would be those of her reverend
brother, also; and so he died, with as easy a conscience as ever rocked
a father to sleep.

But Mrs. Josiah Compton, when she became Mrs. Compton, with just one
half of the property she anticipated, waxed exceeding wroth; and though
her firm persuasion, that "the hideous little crook-back could not live
for ever," greatly tended to console and soothe her, it was not without
very constant reflections on the necessity of keeping on good terms with
her, lest she might make as "unnatural a will as her father did before
her," that she was enabled to resist the temptation of abusing her
openly every time they met; a temptation increased, perhaps, by the
consciousness that Miss Betsy held her and all her race in the most
sovereign contempt.

Betsy Compton was an odd little body, with some vigour of mind, and
frame too, notwithstanding her deformity; and as the defects in her
constitution shewed themselves more in her inability to endure fatigue,
than in any pain or positive suffering, she was likely to enjoy her
comfortable independence considerably longer, and considerably more,
than her sister thought it at all reasonable in Providence to permit.

The little lady arranged her affairs, and settled her future manner of
life, within a very few weeks after her father's death, and that without
consulting brother, sister, or any one else; yet it may be doubted if
she could have done it better had she called all the parish to counsel.

She first selected the two pleasantest rooms in the house for her
bed-room and sitting-room, and then skilfully marked out the warmest
and prettiest corner of the garden, overlooking some of her own rich
pastures, with the fine old grey tower of Silverton in the distance, as
the place of her bower, her flower-garden, and her little apiary. She
then let the remainder of her house, and the whole of her
well-conditioned dairy-farm, for three hundred pounds a-year, with as
much waiting upon as she might require, as much cream, butter, milk, and
eggs, as she should use, and as much fruit and vegetables as her tenants
could spare--together with half a day's labour every week for her tiny
flower-garden.

She had no difficulty in finding a tenant upon these terms; the son of a
wealthy farmer in the neighbourhood had a bride ready as soon as he
could find a farm-house to put her into, and a sufficient dairy upon
which to display her well-learned science. Miss Betsy's homestead was
the very thing for them. The bride's portion was five hundred pounds for
the purchase of the late Squire Compton's furniture and the half of his
fine stock of cows, &c. &c. the which was paid down in Bank of England
notes within ten minutes after the lease was signed, and being carefully
put into the funds by Miss Betsy, became, as she said to herself (but to
nobody else), a sort of nest egg, which, as she should only draw out the
interest to lay it in again in the shape of principal, would go on
increasing till she might happen to want it; so that, upon the whole,
the style and scale of her expenses being taken into consideration, it
would have been difficult to find any lady, of any rank, more really and
truly independent than Miss Betsy.

She felt this, and enjoyed it greatly. Now and then, indeed, as she
remembered her old father, and his thoughtful care for her, her sharp
black eyes would twinkle through a tear; but there was more softness
than sorrow in this; and a more contented, or, in truth, a more happy
spinster might have been sought in vain, far and near, notwithstanding
her humped back.

Far different was the case of those who inherited the other moiety of
the estate called Compton Basett. The reverend Josiah, indeed, was
himself too gentle and kind-hearted to feel anger against his father, or
a single particle of ill-will towards his sister; yet was he as far from
sharing her peace and contentment as his disappointed and vituperative
wife. How, indeed, can any man hope to find peace and contentment, even
though he has passed the rubicon of ordination, and has been happy
enough to marry the favourite flirt of ten successive regiments, if he
be never permitted to close his eyes in sleep till he has been scolded
for an hour, and never suffered to wake at any signal, save the larum of
his lady's tongue.

It was in vain that day and night he continued submissively to reiterate
the phrases, "to be sure, my dear," ... "certainly," ... "there is no
doubt of it," ... "he ought not to have done so, my love," ... "you are
quite right, my dear," ... and the like. All this, and a great deal
more, submission and kindness was in vain; Mrs. Compton's complainings
ceased not, and, what was harder still, she always contrived by some
ingenious mode of reasoning to prove that all the mischief which had
happened was wholly and solely her husband's fault.

Mean while the two little girls sent to bless this union of masculine
softness and feminine hardness, grew on and prospered, as far as animal
health went, just as much as if their father were not taking to smoking
and hot toddy as a consolation for all his sorrows, or their mother to a
system of visiting and gossiping, which left her no time, had she
possessed the talent, to do more for their advantage than take care that
they had enough to eat. They were very fine on Sundays, or whenever
their ma' expected company; and not too dirty at other times to pass
muster at the day-school, at which they were destined to receive all the
education which fate intended for them.

Miss Betsy, little as she admired her sister-in-law, and dearly as she
loved her sunny garden in summer and her snug chimney-corner in winter,
now and then left both to pass a few hours in Silverton; for she loved
her brother, despite the weakness of character which appeared to her
keen faculties to be something very nearly approaching fatuity; and
being as well aware as the prettiest young lady in the town could be,
that she was herself totally unfit to be married, she looked to his
children with the interest with which human beings are apt to consider
those who must become the possessors of all they leave behind.

For many years Miss Betsy looked forward with hope for one of two
greatly desired events. That most coveted was the death of her
sister-in-law; the other, and for many years the most probable, was the
birth of a male heir to her brother.

But time wore away, and both were abandoned. Had it been otherwise, had
Miss Betsy seen a male Compton ready to unite in his own person all the
acquired and inherited honours of his twaddling father, and all the
daily increasing hoard that she was herself accumulating, her temper of
mind would probably have been very different. As it was, she looked upon
the little girls as much more belonging to their mother than to their
father; and the steady thriftiness, which, had it been pursued for the
sake of a nephew, would have had some mixture of generous devotion in
it, now that its result could only benefit nieces, by no means very
dearly loved, seemed to threaten the danger of her becoming saving for
mere saving's sake.

There was, however, in the heart of Miss Betsy much to render such an
incrustation of character difficult; but there was also much to
displease her in those who alone could claim her kindness on the plea of
kindred; so that the most acute observer might have been at a loss to
say what tone her vexed temper might finally take towards them.

Nevertheless, the two young sisters, at the respective ages of fifteen
and seventeen, were as forward and handsome girls as ever drew the
attention of a country town. They were equally handsome, perhaps, though
very unlike. Martha was tall, dark-eyed, fresh-coloured, bold-spirited,
and believed in her heart that she was to be called "my lady," and to
drive in a coach and four. Sophia, the younger girl, was less tall and
less bright-coloured; her hair was light, and her eyes, though their
lashes were black, were of the softest grey. Her chief beauty, however,
consisted in a complexion of great delicacy, and a mouth and teeth that
could hardly be looked at without pleasure, even by cross Miss Betsy
herself.

Miss Martha Compton was a young lady endowed with a vast variety of
brilliant talents. She could dance every night, and very nearly all
night long, though she had only learned for six weeks; she could make
pasteboard card-boxes and screens, work satin-stitch, and (like most
other clever young ladies bred in a country town abounding with
officers) quote the oft profaned lyrics of Tom Moore.

The reputation of her sister for talents rested on a basis much less
extended; it would indeed have been a false concord to talk of her
talents, for she had but one in the world. Untaught, and unconscious of
the power nature had bestowed, she sang with the sweet shrillness of the
lark, and had science been set to work upon her for six months,
Silverton might have boasted one of the finest native voices in the
kingdom.

Mrs. Compton was proud of both her daughters, and however difficult it
might be to procure shoes and gloves out of an income of somewhat less
than four hundred pounds a-year, the winter balls of Silverton never
opened till the Miss Comptons were ready to stand up.

Had she been a little less brutally cross to her poor husband, Mrs.
Compton would really at this time have been almost interesting from the
persevering industry and ingenuity with which she converted the relics
of her own maiden finery into fashionable dancing-dresses for her girls.
And on the whole the Miss Comptons were astonishingly well-dressed; for,
besides the above-mentioned hoards, every article of the family
consumption was made to contribute to the elegance of their appearance.
Brown sugar was substituted for white at the morning and the evening
meal; the butcher's bills were kept down wonderfully by feeding the
family upon tripe twice a-week ... the home-brewed was lowered till the
saving in malt for one year bought two glazed calico slips, four pair
of long white gloves, and a bunch of carnations for Martha and of lilies
for Sophia. Nothing, in short, was over-looked or forgotten that could
be made to distil one drop of its value towards decorating the beauties
of Silverton.

Few subjects have furnished more various or more beautiful images for
the poet's pen than maternal fondness. From the heart-stirring fury of
the dauntless lioness when her young ones are threatened, down to the
patient hen red-breast as she sits abrood, lonely, fasting, and apart
from all the joys of birdhood, awaiting the coming life of her loved
nestlings ... in short, from one extremity of animal creation to the
other, volumes of tender anecdotes have been collected illustrative of
this charming feature of female nature; and yet much still remains to be
said of it. Where is the author who has devoted his power of looking
into the human heart, to the task of describing the restless activity,
the fond watchfulness, the unwearied industry of a proud, poor, tender
mother, when labouring to dress her daughters for a ball? Who has told
of the turnings, the dyings, the ironings, the darnings, that have gone
to make misses of ten pounds a-year pin-money look as smart as the
squanderer of five hundred? Yet such things are: the light of morning
never steals into the eyes of mortals to spur them on again to deeds of
greatness after nightly rest, without awaking many hundred mothers whose
principal business in life is to stitch, flounce, pucker, and embroider
for their daughters!... All this is very beautiful!... I speak not of
the stitching, flouncing, puckering, and embroidering ... but of the
devotion of the maternal hearts dedicated to it.... All this is very
beautiful!... yet never has gifted hand been found to bring forth in
delicate penciling, traits such as these with half the study that has
been often bestowed on the painting a cobweb. This is unjust.

Great, however, as were Mrs. Compton's exertions for the establishment
of her daughters by the ways and means above described, her maternal
efforts were not confined to these: for their sakes she on one occasion
armed herself for an enterprise which, notwithstanding the resolute tone
of her character, cost her some struggles. This desperate undertaking,
which was nothing less than the penetrating to the rarely-invaded
retreat of Miss Betsy, for the purpose of asking her to give the girls a
little money, was occasioned by a great event in the annals of
Silverton.

The officers of the ---- regiment, a detachment of which had been
quartered there for a twelvemonth, gallantly determined to give the
neighbouring families a fête before they left the town, in return for
the hospitalities they had received. I am writing of the year 1813, a
period when the palmy days of country quarters still existed, and many
may still remember the tender sensibilities excited by a departing
regiment, and the gay hopes generated by an arriving one. Either of
these events were well-calculated to chase the composure of spirits
arising from the unbroken routine of ordinary existence, and it may
easily be imagined that, upon an occasion where the effects of both
were brought to act upon the hearts and souls of a set of provincial
fair ones at the same moment, the emotions produced must have been of no
ordinary nature.

Such was the case at the fête given by the first battalion of the ----
regiment on their leaving Silverton; for, as it chanced that they were
to be replaced by the second battalion of the same corps, the compliment
intended for the neighbourhood was so arranged as to be shared by the
officers who were about to be introduced to it; and thus an immense mass
of joys and sorrows, regrets and hopes, tears and smiles, all came into
action at once; and volumes might be filled in the most interesting
manner, solely in describing the states of mind produced in the most
charming portion of the inhabitants of twenty-seven of the principal
houses of Silverton and its vicinity.

"It was so quite unlike any other party that ever was given," as Mrs.
Compton well observed, in talking over the matter with her daughters,
"that it was downright impossible not to make some difference in the way
of preparing for it."

"Different!... I believe it is different!" exclaimed Miss Martha; "it is
the first ball we ever showed ourselves at by daylight, and I should
like to know how we, that always lead everything, are to present
ourselves in broad sunshine with dyed pink muslin and tarnished silver?"

"You can't and you shan't," replied her affectionate mother, "if I sell
the silver spoons and buy plated ones instead.... I will _not_ have my
girls disgraced in the face of two regiments at once. But, upon my life,
girls, money is not to be had for the asking; for truth it is, and no
lie, that there is not above twenty pounds in the bank to last till
Michaelmas, and the butcher has not been paid these five months. But
don't look glum, Martha!... Shall I tell you what I have made up my mind
to do?"

"Carry a plate round the mess-room, mamma, when they are all assembled,
perhaps," replied the lively young lady, "and if you asked for aid for
the sake of our bright eyes, it is likely enough you might get
something; but if it is not that, what is it, mother?"

"Why, I will walk over to Compton Basett, Martha, and ask the
ram's-horn, your aunt, for five pounds outright, and tell her into the
bargain what it is for, and, stingy and skinflint as she is, I can't say
that I shall be much surprised if she gives it; for she is as proud as
she's ugly; and it won't be difficult to make her see, this time, that I
am asking more for credit's sake than for pleasure."

"Go, mother, by all means," replied the young lady with a sneer, that
seemed to indicate despair of any aid from Miss Betsy. "All I know is,
that she never gave me anything since I was born but a bible and
prayer-book, and it don't strike me as very likely she'll begin now. Set
off, however, by all manner of means, and if you come back empty-handed,
I'll tell you what my scheme shall be."

"Tell me now, Martha," said the mother. "It's no joke, I can tell you,
striding over the hill this broiling day. I don't want to go for
nothing, I promise you. Tell us your scheme, girl, at once."

"Why, if I was you, mother, I would go to Smith's shop, and tell him
confidentially that I wanted a little more credit, and that everything
would be sure to be settled at Christmas."

"That won't do, Martha Compton. Your father has given him a bill already
for thirty pounds, due in November, and it is a chance if it gets
honoured, I promise you. Smith knows too much about our money matters to
be caught napping."

"Well then, set off, mother! I'd offer to go with you, only I know that
Captain Tate will be sure to be walking on the Hatherton Road, and I
shouldn't wonder yet if he was to come out with a proposal."

"Oh! never mind me, child, I can go alone, and that's what you can't do,
my dear.... You must take Sophy with you, mind that, and don't get
talked of just as the new set are coming in."

"Nay, for that matter, Sophy will be as likely to meet Willoughby as I
shall be to meet Tate, so there is no fear I should have to go alone."

"Well!... take care of yourselves, and don't let the sun get to tan
your necks, mind that."

Having given these parting injunctions, Mrs. Compton set forth upon her
expedition, the result of which shall be given in the next chapter.




CHAPTER II.

A SISTERLY VISIT, AND A CHEERFUL RECEPTION.--THE RETREAT OF A RURAL
HEIRESS.--INTERESTING CONVERSATION.--AN UNSATISFACTORY LETTER.


Mrs. Compton said no more than the truth, when she declared that it was
no joke to walk from Silverton to Compton Basett in the dog-days. A long
shadeless hill was to be mounted, several pastures, beautifully open to
the sun, with all their various stiles, were to be conquered, and
finally a rough stony lane, that might have crippled the hoof of a
jackass, was to be painfully threaded before she could find herself at
Miss Betsy's door. Yet all this she undertook, and all this she
performed, strengthened by the noble energy of maternal love.

On reaching at length the comfortable, well-conditioned abode of her
husband's rural ancestors, she so far suspended her steadfast purpose
as to permit herself to drop into a deliciously cool woodbine-covered
seat in the porch, and there indulged the greatly-needed luxuries of
panting and fanning herself at her ease for a few minutes, before she
set to work on the stony heart of the spinster.

Just as she was beginning to think that it was time her rest should end,
and her important labour begin, a curly-headed little girl, of some
eight or nine years old, came from the house, and very civilly asked her
"What she pleased to want?"

"I want to see Miss Betsy ... can't you go to her, my little girl, and
tell her that her sister, Mrs. Compton, is come to pay her a visit?"

"Yes, ma'am," replied the child, "there she is, you can see her, if you
please to look this way ... there ... at the end of the long walk, where
you see the bit of grass-plat and the two elm trees. Miss Betsy always
sits in her bower in a sun-shiny morning watching the bees."

"Well!... trot away to tell her Mrs. Compton is coming, and then she
won't be surprised, you know."

The child did as she was bid, tripping lightly along a well-kept gravel
walk which led to the grass-plat, while Mrs. Compton followed with
sedater step behind.

How the announcement of her arrival was received by the little spinster
she could not judge, though she was at no great distance when it was
made; but her messenger having entered beneath the flowery shelter of
Miss Betsy's bower, both parties were effectually concealed from her
sight, and despite the profound contempt she constantly expressed for
the "little fright," she paused at some paces from the entrance, to
await the child's return.

The interval was not long; but though her little envoy speedily
reappeared, she brought no message, and silently pointing to the bower,
ran back towards the house.

Mrs. Compton looked after her, as if she had rather she would have
remained; but she called her courage (of which she had usually a very
sufficient stock) to aid her in meeting "the ugly little body's queer
ways," and marched forward to the encounter.

A few steps brought her to the front of Miss Betsy's bower, and there
she saw the still happy heiress seated on a bench, which, though it
might upon occasion hold two persons, had nevertheless very much the
comfortable air of an arm-chair, with a last year's new novel on a
little table before her (a subscription to a library at Exeter being one
of her very few expensive indulgences).

Miss Betsy's dress was always as precisely neat and nice as that of a
quaker; and on the present occasion no bonnet concealed the regular
plaiting of her snow-white muslin cap, which, closely fitting round her
pale but intelligent features, was so peculiarly becoming, that her
visitor muttered in her heart, "She can dress herself up, nasty crooked
little thing, and we shall soon see if she has generosity enough to make
her nieces look half as smart."

"Good morning to you, sister Betsy," it was thus she began the difficult
colloquy that she was come to hold. "You look charming well to-day,
with your beautiful cap, and your pretty arbour, and your book, and your
arm-chair, and all so very snug and comfortable.... Ah, goodness me!
nobody knows but those who have tried, what a much finer thing it is to
be single than married!"

"Did you come all the way from Silverton, Mrs. Compton, to tell me
that?" said the lady of the bower, pointing to a stool that stood at the
entrance.

"Why no, sister Betsy, I can't say I did," replied Mrs. Compton, seating
herself. "I am come upon an errand not over agreeable, I assure
you--neither more nor less than to talk of your poor brother's troubles
and difficulties; and what is worst of all, I don't feel over sure that
you will care anything about it."

"And what makes you think that, Mrs. Compton?" said Miss Betsy in a sort
of cheerful, clear voice, that certainly did not evince any painful
acuteness of sympathy.

"How can I think that you care much about him, or any of us, sister
Betsy, since 'tis months and months that you have never come near
us?... I am sure we often talk of you, and wish you would be a little
more sociable."

"That is exceedingly obliging, Mrs. Compton," replied Miss Betsy in the
same cheering, happy tone of voice, "and I should be very wrong not to
oblige you, if I could fancy that my doing so could be of any real use
or service. But to tell you the truth, I suspect that my poor brother
likes to have a better dinner when I am at table than when I am not; and
if all's true that gossips tell about his butcher's bill, that can be
neither right nor convenient; ... and as for you, Mrs. Compton, and the
young ladies, I greatly doubt if my frequent appearance among you would
contribute much to your intimacy with the officers."

"You talk very strangely, sister Betsy.... I am sure I was not thinking
of the officers at all, but only of how glad we always were to see you."

"That is very kind, indeed!" replied the provoking spinster in the same
happy voice; "and I assure you that I do believe my brother likes to
see me very much, and what is more remarkable still, I have more than
once fancied that my niece Sophy looked rather pleased when I came in."

"And so did Martha, I am sure, ... and so did I, sister Betsy; you can't
deny that: ... then why don't you come to see us oftener?"

"For no reason in the world," replied Miss Betsy gaily, "but because I
like to stay at home better."

"So much the worse for us, ... so much the worse for us, sister
Betsy.... If you had been to see us, you must have found out what I am
now come to tell you, and that is, that poor dear Josiah is in very
great difficulty indeed; and though we generally, I must say, bear all
our hardships remarkably well, yet just at this time it comes upon us
with unbearable severity."

"Does it indeed, Mrs. Compton?... But you have never yet turned your
head to look at my bees; ... for my part, I can sit and watch them by
the hour together, if my book is not too interesting: ... careful little
fellows! It is but just three o'clock," (standing up as she spoke to
look out upon a sundial that glittered in the middle of the grass-plat,)
"but just past three, and they are beginning to come home with their
work already."

Mrs. Compton felt what the French call _desoutée_, but she recovered
herself, and returned to the charge.

"You are a happy woman, sister Betsy," said she, "with nothing to care
about but your books and your bees!"

"I am _very_ happy indeed!" replied the maiden, in an accent that well
befitted the words; "and so are my bees too, for it is beautiful
weather, and one can almost see the flowers grow, they come on so
finely."

"But I want to talk to you, sister Betsy, about our troubles.... You
don't know how I slave and fag to make our poor girls look like
somebody.... No Saturday night ever comes that I do not sit up till past
midnight striving to make their things decent for Sunday!"

"Do you indeed, Mrs. Compton?... I was told that they wore pink bows in
their bonnets last Sunday, and green the Sunday before; ... but I did
not know that you sat up to change them."

"Change them!... God bless you!... I wish that was all I have got to
do.... Why, I had to wash those pink ribbons, and then dip them in
saucer pink, and then rub them very nearly dry, till my poor arms almost
came off, and then iron them, and then sew in the wire ribbon again, and
then make them up.... I'll leave you to judge how much sleep I was
likely to get; for I could not have the bonnets till after the girls
came home from the evening parade, where they had been with Mrs. Colonel
Williamson--they never go to parade without one of the regimental ladies
as a chaperon."

"But why don't the young ladies rub their ribbons a little themselves?"
asked Miss Betsy.

"Oh! that would not answer at all, sister Betsy. Why, that very Saturday
night they were at a musical party at Colonel Williamson's, and Sophy
was the principal lady singer. She and that elegant young Willoughby
always sing together, and the best judges in Silverton say it is as fine
as anything in London."

"Well, that's very nice indeed, Mrs. Compton, ... and I don't suppose
she _could_ well rub her ribbons while she was singing."

As she said this, Miss Betsy's eye returned, as if drawn by some strong
attraction (as had been often the case before since the conversation
began) to the volume that lay open on the little table before her. Mrs.
Compton became desperate, and rising from her stool, approached the
table, and boldly closed the book.

"Upon my word, you must hear what I have got to say, sister Betsy, and
leave alone reading for a minute or so, while I talk to you of what
concerns the honour of your family."

"The honour of the family?..." said the spinster in an accent of some
alarm, employing herself, however, in finding her place again, and then
putting a mark in it. "I hope you have got nothing very bad to tell me
about the young ladies, Mrs. Compton?"

"Nothing in the world but good, sister Betsy, if you will but lend us a
helping hand, once and away.... You seem to know all the news, and
therefore I dare say you have heard that the first battalion of the ----
are to go to Plymouth on the seventeenth, and that the second battalion
are to march into Silverton on the same day; so the colonels have agreed
that a fête, a public breakfast and dancing to the band, in tents, in a
field behind the Spread Eagle, shall be given by the officers of the
first battalion on the sixteenth, and that all or nearly all the
officers of the second battalion shall have leave to come forward one
day's march to join it, and be introduced to all the neighbourhood. Now,
just fancy our girls being invited to such a party as this, and not
having a dress in the world that they can go in.... Just tell me what
you think of this, sister Betsy?"

"Not having had much experience in such matters, Mrs. Compton, I really
am quite at a loss to guess what it is that young ladies are likely to
do in such a case."

"Don't you think it would be very natural, sister Betsy, to turn towards
some kind, generous, rich relation, and ask their help out of such a
strait?... don't you think this would be natural and right, sister
Betsy?"

"Yes, very natural and right indeed, Mrs. Compton."

"Thank God!... then all our troubles are at an end!... Dear, blessed,
sister Betsy!... ten pounds, ten pounds will be quite enough for us
all, and buy a pair of new black stockings for Josiah into the bargain,
in case he should like to go."

Miss Betsy made no reply, but drawing the table a little towards her,
opened her book, and began to read.

"It's a long walk I have to go, sister," resumed Mrs. Compton, "and I
shall be particularly glad to get home; ... so, will you have the
kindness to give me the money at once?"

"Ma'am?..." said Miss Betsy, looking up with a most innocent expression
of countenance.

"Whatever sum you may be pleased to grant us, sister Betsy, I beg and
entreat you to give me directly."

"So I would, Mrs. Compton, without a moment's delay," replied Miss
Betsy, with the most cheerful good-humour, "only I don't intend to give
you any money at all."

"Oh! isn't that treachery?... isn't that cruelty?" exclaimed the
agitated matron, wringing her hands. "Did not you say, sister Betsy,
that it would be the most natural and right thing in the world to ask
one's rich relations in such a moment as this?"

"But I never said it would be right to ask me, Mrs. Compton."

"But you meant it, if you did not say it, and that I'm sure you can't
deny, ... and isn't it hard-hearted to disappoint me now?"

"It is a great deal more hard-hearted in you, Mrs. Compton, to take upon
you to say that I am rich. I am a poor crooked ram's-horn of a body, as
you know well enough, and I want the comfort and the consolation of all
the little countrified indulgences that my good father provided for me
by his will. You were a beauty, Mrs. Compton, and your daughters are
beauties, and it must be a great blessing to be a beauty; but when God
denied me this, he gave me a kind-hearted father, who took care that if
I could not have lovers, I should have wherewithal to do tolerably well
without them; and I am not going to fly in the face of Providence, or of
my father either, in order to dress you and your daughters up to please
the officers. So now, Mrs. Compton, I think you had better go home
again."

"And is this the way you treat your poor brother's children, Miss
Betsy?... your own flesh and blood!... and they, poor girls, sitting at
home in the midst of their faded, worn-out trumpery, and thinking what a
disgrace they shall be to the name of Compton in the eyes of all the
country, if their aunt Betsy won't come forward to help them!"

"Stop a minute, Mrs. Compton, and I will help them in the best manner I
can. But I must go into my own room first, and you may sit here the
while."

"Will you give me a draught of milk; sister Betsy?" said the again
sanguine visitor, "my mouth is perfectly parched."

The same little girl who had acted as her usher was again within call,
and Miss Betsy summoned her by name.

"Go to your mother, Sally, and desire her to spare me a pennyworth of
fresh milk; and here, my dear, is the money to pay for it. Don't drop
it, Sally."

"Dear me, sister Betsy, I don't want to put you to the expense of a
penny for me; ... I thought that you had milk allowed you in your rent."

"And so I have, as much as I can use. But you are not me, Mrs. Compton;
and I make a great point of being just and exact in all ways.... And now
I will go for what I promised you."

In about ten minutes the little lady returned with something in her hand
that looked like a sealed letter.

"Please to give this to my nieces, Mrs. Compton, with my good wishes for
their well doing and happiness; and now, if you please, I will wish you
good morning, for I am rather tired of talking. Don't open that letter,
but give it sealed to your daughters. Good morning, Mrs. Compton."

Miss Betsy then carefully took up the empty cup which her visitor had
drained, and returned to the house, leaving her sister-in-law to set off
upon her homeward walk in a condition painfully balancing between hope
and fear; nevertheless she obeyed the command she had received, and
delivered the letter unopened into the hands of her daughter Martha.

That young lady tore it asunder by the vehemence of her haste to obtain
information as to what it might contain, but Miss Sophia, who was of a
more gentle nature, quietly took the dissevered parts, and having
carefully placed them side by side upon the table, read as follows:

     "NIECE MARTHA AND NIECE SOPHIA,

     "Your mother tells me that you are greatly troubled in your
     minds as to what dresses you shall appear in at a fête, or
     entertainment, about to be given by some officers. She tells me
     that your dresses are all very dirty, wherefore I hereby
     strongly advise you never on any account to put them on again
     till such time as they shall be made clean; for it is by no
     means an idle proverb which says, 'Cleanliness is next to
     godliness.' Your mother spoke also of some articles which, as
     she said, it would be necessary for you to put on upon this
     occasion, all of which you possessed, but in a state greatly
     faded--which means, as I take it, that they have lost their
     colour by exposure to the sun; observing, (what is indeed very
     obviously true,) that as this fête or entertainment is to be
     given by daylight, the loss of colour in these articles would,
     if seen at such a time, become particularly conspicuous. It is
     therefore her opinion, and it is in some sort mine also, that
     the wearing such faded apparel would be exposing yourselves to
     the unpleasant observations of your richer, cleaner, and
     smarter neighbours. For which reason my opinion is, (and I
     shall be very glad if it prove useful to you,) that you avoid
     such a disagreeable adventure, by staying at home.

     "I am your aunt,

     "ELIZABETH COMPTON."

The effect likely to be produced by such a communication as this, upon
ladies in the situation of Mrs. Compton and her daughters, must be too
easily divined to require any description; but the resolution taken in
consequence of it by Miss Martha, being rather more out of the common
way, shall be related in a chapter dedicated to the subject.




CHAPTER III.

GRAPHIC DESCRIPTION OF THE MOST INTERESTING OF THE SILVERTON
LOCALITIES--A RENCONTRE NOT UNEXPECTED.--A SUCCESSFUL MANOEUVRE.


After uttering a few of those expressions which, by a very remarkable
sort of superstition, most nations of the civilized world hold to be a
relief under vexation, Miss Martha Compton resumed the bonnet and
parasol which she had but recently laid aside, and without consulting
either mother or sister, who were occupied in a reperusal of Miss
Betsy's epistle, she sallied forth, and deliberately took her way in a
direction leading towards the barracks, which were situated close by the
turnpike that marked the entrance to the town.

Let it not be supposed, however, that the young lady had any intention
of entering within the boundary of that region, whose very name is
redolent to all provincial female hearts as much of terror as of joy;
she had no such desperate measure in her thoughts. Nor was there need
she should; for between the curate's dwelling and the barrack-yard there
was a three-cornered open space, planted with lime trees, displaying on
one side some of the handsomest shops in the town, among which were the
pastry-cook's and the circulating library, (both loved resorts of idle
men,) and beneath the trees a well-trodden, a _very_ well-trodden walk,
rarely or never without some lounging red coat to enliven its shade.
When it is added, that in this open space the band played morning and
evening, all the world will be aware that if not the centre, it was
decidedly the heart of Silverton, for to and from it the stream of human
life was ever flowing, and all its tenderest affections were nourished
there.

Being by necessity obliged to pass along this walk, or the pavement
which skirted the road beside it, Miss Martha Compton had no occasion
whatever to enter the barrack-yard, or even to approach its enclosure,
in order to ensure meeting, within the space of any given hour before
mess-time, any officer she might wish to see.

There was at this particular epoch much of constancy in the feelings of
the fair Martha; for though she had parted from Captain Tate only
three-quarters of an hour before, it was Captain Tate, and Captain Tate
only, that she now wished to see. Nor did she long wish in vain. When
her tall person, straight ankles, and flashing eyes first entered upon
the "High Street Parade," Captain Tate was swallowing the fourth
spoonful of a raspberry ice; but, ere she had reached the middle of it,
he was by her side.

"Oh! Captain Tate!" she exclaimed, with heightened colour and brightened
eyes, ... "I did not expect to see you again this morning.... I thought
for certain you would be riding with the colonel, or the major, or some
of them."

"Ah! Miss Martha!... You don't know what it is to be ordered from
quarters where ... you don't know what it is to be torn heart and soul
and body asunder, as I shall be in a few days, ... or you would not fancy
one should be riding out of town, as long as one had the power of
staying in it!"

"Oh dear!... you won't mind it, I'm sure ... you will like Plymouth
quite as well ... or perhaps better than you do Silverton: ... we shall
all remember you longer than you will remember us."

"Do not say so!... do not say so!... beautiful Martha!--you cannot think
it."

"I'm sure I do," responded the young lady, with a very distinct sigh.

It was exceedingly wrong in Captain Tate (yet all his family and
intimate friends declared that he was as worthy a fellow as ever
lived)--it was exceedingly wrong in him to offer his arm to Miss Martha
the moment he heard this sigh; for in fact he was engaged to be married
to his cousin, and the marriage ceremony was only deferred till he
should be gazetted as a major; yet he scrupled not, as I have related,
to offer his arm, saying in a very soft, and even tender accent,--

"I know it is not the etiquette of dear, quiet little Silverton, for
the officers to offer their arms to the young ladies; but just at the
last ... at such a moment as this, not even the Lord Mayor of the town
himself could think it wrong."

This reasoning seemed quite satisfactory, for Miss Martha's arm was
immediately placed within his.

"It is very true, as you say, Captain Tate; the last time does make a
difference. But it will be very dull work for you going to Smith's shop
with me; ... and I must go there, because mamma has sent me."

"Dull!... Oh! Miss Martha, do you _really_ think that any place can be
dull to me where you are?"

"How do I know, Captain Tate?... How can any girl know how much, or how
little."

"Good heaven!... we are at the shop already!" said the Captain,
interrupting her.... "How such dear moments fly!"

Miss Martha answered not with her lips, but had no scruple to let her
fine large eyes reply with very intelligible meaning, even though at
that very moment she had reached the front of the counter, and that Mr.
Smith himself stood before her, begging to know her commands. Her arm,
too, still confidingly hung upon that of the stylish-looking young
officer; and there certainly was both in her attitude and manner
something that spoke of an interest and intimacy between them of no
common kind.

A few more muttered words were exchanged between them before the
draper's necessary question met any attention whatever, yet in general
the Miss Comptons were particularly civil to Mr. Smith, and at length,
when she turned to answer him, she stopped short before she had well
pronounced the words "mull muslin," saying with an air of laughing
embarrassment, and withdrawing her arm,--

"Upon my word and honour, you must go, Captain Tate.... I can no more
buy anything while you stand talking to me than I can fly."

"Did not you promise me?" said the Captain reproachfully, and not
knowing what in the world to do with himself till it was time to dress.

"Yes, I know I did," she replied; "but the truth is," ... and she
pressed both her hands upon her heart, and shook her head ... "the thing
is impossible.... You must leave me, indeed!... we shall meet to-night
at the Major's, you know ... farewell!..." and she stretched out her
hand to him with a smile full of tender meaning.

The Captain looked rather puzzled, but fervently pressed her hand, and
saying "_Au revoir_ then!" left the shop. The young lady looked after
him for a moment, and then, turning to Mr. Smith with a look, a sigh,
and a smile not at all likely to be misunderstood, said,--

"I suppose, Mr. Smith, you have heard the news about me?... There never
was such a place for gossip as Silverton."

Mr. Smith smilingly protested he had heard nothing whatever about her,
but added, with very satisfactory significance, that he rather thought
he could guess what the news was, and begged very respectfully to wish
her joy of it.

"You are very kind, Mr. Smith; I am sure it is the last thing I
expected ... so much above me in every way.... And now, Mr. Smith, I
want to speak to you about the things that must be bought. I am sure you
are too neighbourly and too kind to put difficulties in my way. It is a
very different thing now, you know, as to what I buy; and I am sure you
will let me have quite on my own account, and nothing at all to do with
papa, a few things that I want very much at the present moment."

Miss Martha looked so handsome, and the whole affair seemed so clear and
satisfactory, that Mr. Smith, careful tradesman as he was, could not
resist her appeal, and declared he should be happy to serve her with
whatever articles she might choose to purchase.

Her dark eyes sparkled with the triumph of success; she had often felt
her own powers of management swelling within her bosom when she
witnessed the helpless despondency of her father, or listened to the
profitless grumbling of her mother, upon every new pecuniary pressure
that beset them; and it is not wonderful if she now believed more firmly
than ever, that much suffering and embarrassment might very often be
spared, or greatly alleviated, by the judicious exercise of such powers
as she felt conscious of possessing.

As a proof that her judgment was in some measure commensurate with her
skill, she determined not to abuse the present opportunity by
contracting a debt which it would be quite impossible for her father to
pay; so, notwithstanding all the tempting finery with which the
confiding Mr. Smith spread the counter, she restrained her purchases to
such articles as it might really have endangered all their schemes of
future conquest to have been without, and then took her leave, amidst
blushes and smiles, and with many assurances to the gently-facetious
shopkeeper, that let her be where she would, she should never forget his
obliging civility.

It was a moment of great triumph for Martha when Mr. Smith's man
arrived, and the huge and carefully packed parcel was brought up to the
chamber where Mrs. Compton and her daughters sat at work.

"What in the world is this?" exclaimed the mother, seizing upon it. "Is
it possible that her letter was only a joke, and that the little fright
has actually sent you some dresses at last?"

"It is much more likely, I fancy, that I have coaxed Mr. Smith into
giving us a little more credit. It can all be paid off by a little and a
little at a time, you know; and at any rate, here are some very pretty
dresses for the fête, besides about three pounds' worth of things that
we really could not do without any longer."

"And do you really mean, Martha, that you have got Smith to send in all
these beautiful things on credit?"

"I do indeed, mamma."

"Was there ever such a girl!... Only look, Sophy, at this lovely muslin!
Why, it will wash, and make up again with different trimmings as good as
new for a dozen regiments to come!... Oh! you dear clever creature,
what a treasure you are!... I wish to God I had trusted all to you from
the first, and not tired myself to death by walking over to that stingy
little monster ... but, tired or not, we must cut these dear sweet
dresses out at once. Nancy Baker must come in and make the bodies, and
we must set to, girls, and run the seams ... and a pleasure it will be
too, God knows!... I have worked at turning and twisting old gowns into
new ones till I have hated the sight of an ironing box and a needle; but
this is another guess sort of a business, and I shall set about it with
a right good will, I promise you."

And so she did, and the dresses went on prosperously, as well as
everything else connected with the officers' fête; and when the
wished-for, but dreaded day arrived, in which so many farewell sighs
were to be sighed, and so many last looks looked, and so many
scrutinizing glances given, as to what might be hoped for from the
flirtations of the ensuing year, the sun shone so brightly as evidently
to take part with the new-comers, permitting not one single cloud to
sympathise with those who were about to depart.

Of all the beauties assembled at this hybrid festival, none appeared to
greater advantage than the Misses Compton. Their dresses were neither
dirty nor faded, but exceedingly well calculated to set off their charms
as favourably as their mother herself could have desired. Captain Tate,
after dancing his last dance with Martha, pointed her out with some
feeling of triumph to one of the new arrivals as the girl upon whom he
had bestowed the largest share of his regimental gallantries; but he was
far from imagining, as he did so, how very much better she had contrived
to manage the flirtation than himself. She had made it the means of
clothing herself and sister from top to toe, while to him it had been
very costly in gloves, ices, eau de cologne, and dancing-pumps.




CHAPTER IV.

A WEDDING, AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.--A TRANSFER OF PROPERTY.--MISS MARTHA
RECEIVES A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE.--ANOTHER EXPEDITION TO COMPTON BASETT.


The regimental gala which had been looked forward to with so much
interest, though very gay and very agreeable, did not perhaps produce
all the results expected by the soft hearts and bright eyes of
Silverton, for only one wedding was achieved in consequence of it. This
one made a very hasty and imprudent bride of Sophia Compton. Her
charming voice, joined to her pretty person, was too enchanting for the
enthusiastic Lieutenant Willoughby to leave behind him; and just as the
full moon rose upon the tents of the revellers, he drew her gently into
the deep shadow of that appropriated to the sutlers, and there swore a
very solemn oath that it was quite impossible he should continue to
exist, if she refused to elope with him that evening.

Upon the whole, Miss Sophia was by no means sorry to hear this, but
could not help expressing a modest wish that he would be so obliging as
to change the plan of operations, and instead of eloping with her, would
just speak to papa, and so be married in a proper way.

For a considerable time, longer indeed than it was possible to remain in
the shadow of the sutler's tent, the young gentleman declared this to be
impossible; because, in that case, his own relations must be informed of
the affair, and he knew perfectly well that if this happened, effectual
measures would be taken to prevent his ever possessing his adorable
Sophia at all. These arguments were repeated, and dwelt upon with very
convincing energy, for the space of one whole quadrille, during which
the tender pair sat ensconced behind a fanciful erection, on the front
of which was traced, in letters formed of laurel leaves, the words, "TO
THE LADIES." Nor was his pretty listener insensible to their force, or
the probable truth of the "_misery_" they predicted; it was, therefore,
all things considered, much to the credit of Miss Sophy that she
persevered in her refusal of accepting him on the terms he offered.

Lieutenant Willoughby was by no means a wicked young man, but it was his
nature to covet particularly whatever it was least convenient to obtain;
and it was, I believe, of him that a youthful anecdote has been recorded
which sets this disposition in a striking point of view. Upon occasion
of some dainty, but pernicious delicacy, being forbidden, or some frolic
tending too strongly to mischief being stopped, he is said to have
exclaimed, "It is a very, _very_ shocking thing, mamma, that everything
that is nice is called wrong, and everything that is nasty is called
right." This was said when he was seven years old, but at twenty-two he
was very nearly of the same unfortunate opinion, and invariably valued
everything in proportion to the conviction he felt that he should be
opposed in his pursuit of it.

When, therefore, Miss Sophia persisted in her declaration that she would
not run away with him, Lieutenant Willoughby became perfectly desperate
in his determination to obtain her; and having a sort of natural
instinct which convinced him that no proposal of marriage would be
ill-received by Mrs. Compton, he wrung the hand of his Sophy, implored
her not to dance with anybody else, and then having sought and found her
mother amidst the group of matrons who sat apart admiring their
respective daughters, he drew her aside, and told his tale of love.

This, as he expected, was by no means unkindly received; and when Mrs.
Compton, having recovered from her first ecstasy, began to hint at
income and settlement, the impassioned young gentleman contrived to
puzzle her so completely, by stating the certainty of his being
disinherited if his marriage were immediately known, and the handsome
fortune it was possible he might have if it were kept profoundly secret,
that he sent her home as vehemently determined to let him marry her
daughter, without saying a word to his family about the matter, as he
could possibly have desired.

The result of this may be easily divined. Nothing approved by Mrs.
Compton was ever effectually opposed by Mr. Compton; so Miss Sophia was
married to Lieutenant Willoughby within ten days of the regimental ball,
and within one year afterwards a female infant, called Agnes Willoughby,
was placed in the care of the Curate of Silverton and his wife; her
young mother being dead, and her broken-spirited father about to set off
for the West Indies, having found his father implacable, his
well-married sisters indignant, and nothing left him whereon to found a
hope of escape from his difficulties except thus giving up his little
girl to her grandfather, and exchanging his commission in the gay ----
regiment for one in a corps about to embark for a service very likely to
settle all his embarrassments by consigning him to an early tomb.

Meanwhile the Curate of Silverton was becoming every day more involved
in debt; and his dashing eldest daughter, though handsomer than ever,
painfully conscious that among all the successive legions of lovers
whose conspicuous adorations had made her the most envied of her sex,
there was not one who offered any rational probability of becoming her
husband.

The first of these misfortunes was the most embarrassing, and so
imperiously demanded a remedy, that the poor Curate at length consented
to find it in the sale of his moiety of his paternal acres. It is
certain that his nightly potations of hot toddy had very considerably
impaired his powers of caring for anything; nevertheless, it was not
without a pang that he permitted his wife to insert an advertisement in
the county paper, proclaiming the sale by auction of certain crofts and
meadows, barns and byres, making part and parcel of a capital
dairy-farm, known by the name of Compton Basett.

When the day of sale arrived, several competitors appeared who bid
pretty briskly for the lot; for the land, particularly thirty acres of
it, known by the name of "the butcher's close," was some of the best in
the county; but the successful candidate, who, it was pretty evident
from the first, was determined that it should be knocked down to no one
else, was farmer Wright, Miss Betsy's prosperous and well-deserving
tenant. This, though the purchase was a large one for a mere farmer,
(amounting to six thousand five hundred and twenty-five pounds,) did not
greatly surprise the neighbourhood, for the Wrights were known to be a
prudent, thrifty, and industrious race. It is possible they might have
been more surprised had they known that it was Miss Betsy herself, and
not her tenant, who was the purchaser. But so it was. The twenty-five
years which had elapsed since the death of her father had enabled this
careful little lady to accumulate, by means of her rent, her five
hundred pounds and its compound interest, and the profits of her
well-managed apiary, a much larger sum than it required to become the
possessor of her brother's share of Compton Basett; and when she had
finished the affair, and leased out the whole property (the butcher's
close included) to her friend and tenant farmer Wright, for the annual
rent of six hundred pounds (now including two chickens per week for her
own use), she still remained possessed of four thousand pounds sterling,
safely lodged in the funds; a property which went on very rapidly
increasing, as her scale of expense never varied, and rarely exceeded
ten pounds per annum beyond the profits of her bees, and her stipulated
accommodation from the farm. But, in spite of this strict economy, Miss
Betsy was no bad neighbour to the poor, and in a small and very quiet
way did more towards keeping dirt and cold out of their dwellings, than
many who spent three times as much upon them, and made ten times as much
fuss about it.

It was not, however, till many years later, that the fact of her being
the possessor of the whole of the Compton Basett estate, became known to
any one but farmer Wright; and as to the amount of her half-yearly
increasing property in the funds, she had no confidant but her broker.
This mystery, this profound secrecy, in the silent rolling up of her
wealth, was perhaps the principal source of her enjoyment from it. It
amused her infinitely to observe, that while the bad management and
improvidence of her brother and his wife were the theme of eternal
gossipings, her own thrift seemed permitted to go quietly on, without
eliciting any observation at all. Her judicious and regularly
administered little charities, assisted in producing this desired
effect, much more than she had the least idea of; for the praises of
Miss Betsy's goodness and kindness proceeded from many who had profited
more from her judgment, and her well-timed friendly loans, than from her
donations; and the gratitude for such services was much more freely and
generally expressed, than if the favours conferred had been merely those
of ordinary alms-giving. It was therefore very generally reported in
Silverton that Miss Betsy Compton gave away all her income in charity,
which was the reason why she never did anything to help her embarrassed
relations. These erroneous reports were productive of at least one
advantage to the family of the Curate of Silverton, for it effectually
prevented their having any expectations from her beyond a vague and
uncertain hope, that if she did not bequeath her farm-house and acres to
a hospital, the property might be left to them. But not even the
croaking ill-will of Mrs. Compton could now anticipate a very early date
for this possible bequest; for, pale and delicate-looking as she ever
continued, nobody had ever heard of Miss Betsy's having a doctor's bill
to pay; and as she was just seven years younger than her brother the
Curate, who, moreover, was thought to be dropsical, there appeared
wofully little chance that her death would ever benefit her disappointed
sister-in-law at all. A very considerable portion of the purchase-money
of the estate had dwindled away ... the little Agnes Willoughby had
attained the age of eleven years, and Mr. Compton had become so ill as
to have been forced to resign his curacy, when Mr. Barnaby, the
celebrated surgeon and apothecary of Silverton, who for the last ten
years had admired Miss Martha Compton more than any lady he had ever
looked upon, suddenly took courage, and asked her point-blank to become
his wife.

Had he done this some few years before, his fate would have been told in
the brief monosyllable no, uttered probably with as much indignation as
any sound compounded of two letters could express; but since that time
the fair Martha had seen so many colonels, majors, captains, ... ay, and
lieutenants too, march into the town, and then march out again, without
whispering anything more profitable in her ear than an assurance of her
being an angel, that the case was greatly altered; and after the
meditation of a moment, she answered very modestly, ... "You must speak
to my mother, Mr. Barnaby."

Perfectly satisfied by the reply, Mr. Barnaby did speak to her mother;
but the young lady took care to speak to her first, and after a long and
very confidential conversation, it was determined between them that the
offer of the gentleman should be accepted, that fifty pounds out of the
few remaining hundreds should be spent upon her wedding-garments, and
that whenever it pleased God to take poor Mr. Compton, his widow and
little grand-daughter should be received into Mr. Barnaby's family.

It has not been recorded with any degree of certainty, whether these
last arrangements were mentioned to the enamoured Galen, when the
important interview which decided the fate of Miss Martha took place;
but whether they were or not, the marriage ceremony followed with as
little delay as possible.

Two circumstances occurred previous to the ceremony which must be
mentioned, as being calculated to open the character of my heroine to
the reader. No sooner was this important affair decided upon, than Miss
Martha told her mamma, that it was her intention to walk over to Compton
Basett, and inform Miss Betsy of the news herself.

"And what do you expect to get by that, Martha?" said the old lady. "I
have not forgot yet _my_ walk to Compton Basett just before poor dear
Sophy's marriage, nor the trick the little monster played me, making me
bring home her vile hypocritical letter as carefully as if it had been
a bank-note for a hundred pounds.... You must go without me, if go you
will, for I have taken my last walk to Compton Basett, I promise you."

"I don't want you to trouble yourself about it in any way, mother,"
replied Miss Martha. "I'll make Agnes walk with me; and whether I get
anything out of the little porcupine or not, the walk can do us no great
harm."

"'Tis not so hot as when I went, that's certain," said Mrs. Compton,
becoming better reconciled to the expedition. "She has never seen Agnes
since the poor little thing was thought to be dying in the measles, just
five years ago; and then, you know, she did hire a nurse, and send in
oranges and jellies, and all that sort of trumpery; ... and who can say
but her heart may soften towards her again, when she sees what a sweet
pretty creature she is grown?"

"I can't say I have much faith in good looks doing much towards drawing
her purse-strings. She has seen poor Sophy and me often enough, and I
can't say that we ever found our beauty did us any good with her,
neither is it that upon which I reckon now. But telling her of a wedding
is not begging, you know, ... and I don't think it impossible but what
such a prudent, business-like wedding as mine, may be more to her taste
than poor Sophy's, where there was nothing but a few fine-sounding names
to look to ... and much good they did her, poor thing!"

"Well, set off, Martha, whenever you like. There is no need to make
little Agnes look smart, even if I had the means to do it, for it's
quite as well that she should be reminded of the wants of the poor child
by the desolate condition of her old straw-bonnet.... When do you think
you shall go?"

"This afternoon; I'm sure of not seeing Barnaby again till tea-time, for
he has got to go as far as Pemberton, so we may start as soon as dinner
is over."

Miss Martha Compton and her young companion set off accordingly about
three o'clock, and pursued their way, chiefly in silence, to Miss
Betsy's abode; for Agnes rarely spoke to her aunt, except when she was
spoken to, and Miss Martha was meditating profoundly the whole way upon
the probability of obtaining Mr. Barnaby's consent to the re-furnishing
his drawing-room. It was the month of April, the air deliciously sweet
and mild, and birds singing on every tree; so that although the leaves
were not yet fully out, they found Miss Betsy sitting as usual in her
bower, and enjoying as keenly the busy hum about her bee-hives, as ever
Miss Martha did the bustling animation produced by the murmurings of a
dozen red-coats.

Miss Betsy was at this time about fifty years of age, and though the
defect in her shape was certainly not lessened by age, she was
altogether an exceedingly nice-looking little old lady; and her cap was
as neat and becoming, and her complexion very nearly as delicate, as at
the time of Mrs. Compton's visit just twelve years before.

She fixed her eyes for a moment upon Martha as she approached the bower,
but appeared not to know her; the little girl following close behind,
was for a minute or two invisible; but the instant she caught sight of
her, she rose from her seat, and stepping quickly forward, took the
child by her hand, drew her in, and placed her on the bench by her side.

Little Agnes, who knew she was come to see her aunt, felt assured by
this notice that she was in her presence, and, moreover, that she was a
very kind person; so, when the old lady, after examining her features
very attentively, said, "You are little Agnes, are you not?" she replied
without hesitation or timidity, "Yes, I am; and you are good aunt Betsy,
that used to give me the oranges."

"Do you remember that, my child?... 'tis a long while, almost half your
little life. Take off your bonnet, Agnes, and let me see your face."

Agnes obeyed, the "desolate" straw-bonnet was laid aside, and Miss Betsy
gazed upon one of the fairest and most delicate little faces that the
soft beams of an April sun ever fell upon.

The pale recluse kept her keen eyes fixed upon the little girl for many
minutes without pronouncing a word; at length she said, but apparently
speaking only to herself,--

"It is just such a face as I wanted her to have.... Her father was a
gentleman.... She will never have red cheeks, that is quite certain."

"How d'ye do, aunt Betsy?..." said Miss Martha, in a very clear and
distinct voice; probably thinking that she had remained long enough in
the background.

"Very well, I thank you," was the reply; "and who are you?"

"Dear me, aunt, you must say that for fun, ... for it is hardly likely
you should know Agnes, that was almost a baby the last time you ever saw
her, and forget me, that was quite grown up at that same time."

"Oh!... then you are Miss Martha, the great beauty, are you? You look
very old indeed, Miss Martha, considering that you can't be very much
past thirty, and that I suppose is the reason I did not know you. How is
your poor father, Miss Martha?"

"He's very bad, aunt Betsy; but I hope the news I am come to tell you
will be a comfort to him, and please you too."

"And what news can that be, Miss Martha?"

"I am going to be married, aunt Betsy, to a person that is extremely
well off, and able to set me above all poverty and difficulties for
ever; ... and the only thing against it is, that papa cannot afford to
give me any money at all for my wedding clothes, which is a dreadful
disgrace to the name of Compton; and to tell you the truth at once, for
I am a frank, honest-hearted girl, that never hides anything, I am come
over here on purpose to ask you to give me a few pounds, just to prevent
my having to ask my husband for a shift."

"If you have no shift, Miss Martha, while you are wearing such a gay
bonnet as that, I think any man must be a great fool for taking you.
However, that is his affair, and not mine. I cannot afford to buy your
wedding-clothes, Miss Martha; nor do I intend ever to give you any money
at all for any purpose whatever, either now, or at any future period;
so, if you are wise, as well as frank, you will never ask me again. If
you marry a _gentleman_, and have children who shall behave according to
my notions of honour, honesty, and propriety, it is possible that the
little I may leave will be divided among them, and any others whom I may
think have an equal claim upon me. But I heartily hope you will have
none, for I feel certain I should not like them; and I would rather that
the poor little trifle I may have left when I die, should go to some one
I did like."

Miss Martha's heart swelled with rage, yet, remote as Miss Betsy's
contingent benefits were likely to be, they had still influence
sufficient to prevent her breaking out into open violence, and she sat
silent, though with burning cheeks and a beating heart. The address she
had just listened to was certainly not of the most agreeable style and
tone, but it may be some apology for Miss Betsy's severity to state,
that the scene which had taken place in Mr. Smith's shop rather more
than twelve years before, in which a certain Captain Tate took an
important, though unconscious, part, was accurately well-known to the
little spinster, Mrs. Wright (the wife of her tenant) having witnessed
the whole of it.

When she had finished her speech to Miss Martha, which was spoken in her
usual gay tone of voice, Miss Betsy turned again towards Agnes, who was
then standing at the entrance of the bower, earnestly watching the bees.

"They are pretty, curious creatures, are they not, Agnes?" said she. "I
hope some day or other you will be as active and industrious. Do you
love to work, my little girl?"

"I love to play better," replied Agnes.

"Ay ... that's because you are such a young thing. And who are your
playfellows, Agnes?"

"I have not got any playfellows but myself," was the reply.

"And where do you play?"

"In grandpapa's garden, behind the house."

"And what do you play at?"

"Oh! so many things. I play at making flower-beds in the summer, and at
snow-balls in the winter; and I know a blackbird, and ever so many
robin-redbreasts, and they know me, and I...."

"Do you know how to read, Agnes?"

"A little," ... replied the child, blushing deeply.

"Come here, then, and read a page of my book to me."

Poor Agnes obeyed the summons, and submissively placing herself by the
side of her aunt, took the book in her hands and began to read. But it
was so very lame and imperfect a performance, that Miss Betsy wanted
either the cruelty or the patience to let it proceed; and taking the
volume away, she said, in a graver tone than was usual with her, "Nobody
seems to have given themselves much trouble about teaching you, my
little girl; ... but I dare say you will read better by and bye.... Are
you hungry, Agnes?... do you wish for something to eat after your
walk?"

Delighted at being thus relieved from exposing her ignorance, the little
girl replied gaily--

"I am very hungry indeed, ma'am."

"Then sit here to rest for a few minutes, and I will see what I can get
for you;" and so saying, Miss Betsy rose, and walked briskly away
towards the house.

"Old brute!..." exclaimed Miss Martha, as soon as she was quite beyond
hearing.... "There's a hump for you!... Isn't she a beauty, Agnes?"

"A beauty, aunt Martha?... No, I don't think she is a beauty, though I
like the look of her face too; ... but she certainly is not a beauty,
for she is not the least bit like you, and you are a beauty, you know."

"And who told you that, child?"

"Oh! I have heard grandmamma and you talk about it very often.... and I
heard Mr. Barnaby say, when he came in yesterday, 'How are you, my
beauty?' ... and besides, I see you are a beauty myself."

"And pray, Agnes," replied her aunt, laughing with great good-humour,
"how do you know a beauty when you see one?"

"Why, don't I see every time I walk by Mr. Gibbs's shop, his beauties
in the window, with their rosy cheeks, and their black eyes, and their
quantity of fine ringlets? and you are exactly the very image of one of
Mr. Gibbs's beauties, aunt Martha."

Miss Martha remembered that there _was_ one very pretty face in the
window of the village perruquier, and doubted not that the little
Agnes's observation had reference to that one; it was therefore with one
of her most amiable smiles that she replied,--

"You little goose!... how can I be like a painted wax image?"

But the protestations and exclamations by which the simile might have
been proved good, were broken off by the approach of a maid-servant from
the house, who said that Miss Betsy was waiting for them.

They found the neat little lady in her pretty sitting-room, with a
lily-white cloth spread on a table near the open window, and a home-made
loaf, a little bowl of native cream, and a decanter of bright
spring-water, with a couple of tumblers near it.

Simple as this repast was, it was well relished by both the nieces,
though decidedly served in honour of only one. However, no positive
objection being made to Miss Martha's taking her share of it, she spared
neither the loaf nor the cream; and remembering her mother's account of
her penny repast, felt something like triumph as she ate, to think how
much more she had contrived to get out of her churlish relative.

But this was all she got ... excepting, indeed, that she felt some
consolation for her disappointment in having to tell her mother, on her
return, that if she had children, (and of course she should, as
everybody else had,) they were to have their share of all the old maid
might leave.

"Ugly old hypocrite!... it won't be much, take my word for it," replied
Mrs. Compton.... "She likes all the beggars in the parish a vast deal
better than she does her own flesh and blood.... Don't talk any more of
her, Martha.... I should be glad if I was never to hear her name
mentioned again!"




CHAPTER V.

A VISIT FROM THE HEIRESS.--MISS AGNES WILLOUGHBY IS SENT TO SCHOOL.


In about a month after this visit, and less than a week before the day
fixed upon for the happiness of Mr. Barnaby, Miss Betsy Compton very
unexpectedly made a visit to her brother. She found him a good deal
altered, but she found him also with his toddy and pipe, both objects of
such hatred and disgust to her anchoritish spirit, that all the kind
feelings which might have been awakened by his failing health, were
chased by looking upon what caused it.

To see her feeble-minded brother was not, however, the only or the
principal object of her visit to Silverton; and she permitted not many
minutes to be wasted in mutual questionings that meant very little,
before she let him understand what was.

"I am come to speak to you, brother," she said, "about little Agnes. I
should like to know in what manner you intend to educate her?"

"Mrs. Compton manages all that, sister Betsy," replied the invalid;
"and, at any rate, I am sure I have no money to teach her anything."

"But it is a sin, brother, to let the child run wild about the garden as
you would a magpie.... Do you know that she can't read?"

"No, sister Betsy, I know nothing at all about it, I tell you.... How
can I help it? Am I in a condition to teach anybody to read?"

"There are others more to blame than you are, brother, no doubt; ... but
let it be who's fault it will, it must not go on so. I suppose you will
make no objection to my sending her to school?"

"Oh dear, no! not I; ... but you had better ask Mrs. Compton about it."

"Very well.... But I have your consent, have I not?"

"Dear me, yes, sister Betsy.... Why do you tease me so, making me take
the pipe out of my mouth every minute?"

Miss Betsy left the little smoke-dried back parlour appropriated to the
master of the house, and made her way to the front room up stairs called
the drawing-room, which had been reserved, since time out of mind, for
the use of the ladies of the family and their visitors. There she found,
as she expected, Mrs. Compton and her daughter amidst an ocean of
needle-work, all having reference, more or less, to the ceremony which
was to be performed on the following Thursday.

"So, Mrs. Compton," was her salutation to the old lady, and a nod of the
head to the young one. "I have been speaking to my brother," continued
Miss Betsy, "concerning the education of little Agnes, and he has given
his consent to my putting her to school."

"_His_ consent!..." exclaimed Mrs. Compton; "and, pray, is she not my
grandchild too?... I think I have as good a right to take care of the
child as he has."

"_She_ has a right," replied the spinster, "to expect from both of you a
great deal more care than she has found; and were I you, Mrs. Compton, I
would take some trouble to conceal from all my friends and acquaintance
the fact that, at eleven years of age, my grandchild was unable to
read."

"And that's a fact that I can have no need to hide, Miss Betsy, for it's
no fact at all--I've seen Martha teaching her scores of times."

"Then have her in, Mrs. Compton, and let us make the trial. If I have
said what is not true, I will beg your pardon."

"Lor, mamma!" said Miss Martha, colouring a little, "what good is there
in contradicting aunt Betsy, if she wants to send Agnes to school? I am
sure it is the best thing that can be done for her, now I am going to be
married.... And Mr. Barnaby asked me the other day, if you did not mean
to send her to school."

"I don't want to keep her from school, God knows, poor little thing, or
from anything else that could do her good.... Only Miss Betsy speaks so
sharp.... But I can assure you, sister, we should have put her to the
best of schools long and long ago, only that, Heaven knows, we had not
the means to do it; and thankful shall I be if you are come at last to
think that there may be as much charity in helping your own blood
relations, as in giving away your substance to strangers and beggars."

"You are right, Mrs. Compton, as far as relates to sending Agnes to
school ... that will certainly be a charity. When can the child be got
ready?"

"As soon as ever you shall be pleased to give us the means, sister
Betsy."

"Do you mean, Mrs. Compton, that she has not got clothes to go in?"

"I do indeed, sister Betsy."

"Let me see what she _has_ got, and then I shall know what she wants."

"That is easily told, aunt, without your troubling yourself to look over
a few ragged frocks and the like. She wants just everything, aunt
Betsy," said the bride expectant, brave in anticipated independence, and
rather inclined to plague the old lady by drawing as largely as might be
on her reluctant funds, now they were opened, even though the profit
would not be her own.

"If she really does want everything, Martha Compton, while you are
dressed as you now are, very cruel injustice has been done her," replied
the aunt. "Your sister had no portion given her, either of the patrimony
of her father, or the thousand pounds brought by her mother; and as her
marriage with a man who had not a sixpence was permitted, this child of
hers has an equal right with yourself to share in the property of your
parents."

"The property of their parents!... Why bless me, Betsy Compton, how you
do talk!... as if you did not know that all the property they ever had,
is as good as gone. Has not farmer Wright got the estate? And has not
the butcher, and the baker, and the shoemaker, and all the rest of them,
got what it sold for, as well as my thousand pounds among them, long
ago?"

"Then you are now on the very verge of ruin, Mrs. Compton?" said the
spinster gravely.

"Yes, sister Betsy, we are," replied the matron reproachfully. "And I
can't but say," she continued, "that a lone woman like you, without any
expenses whatever but your own meat and drink, which everybody says is
next to nothing,--I can't but say that you might have helped us a little
before now, and no harm done."

"That is your opinion of the case, Mrs. Compton: mine is wholly
different. I think harm is done whenever power of any kind is exerted in
vain. I have no power to help you.... Were all I have, poured out upon
you, while I lodged myself in the parish workhouse, my conviction is,
that I should only be enabling you to commit more follies, and, in my
judgment, more sins."

"Well, well, Miss Betsy, it is of no use talking to you--I know that of
old; and to tell you the truth, when I _do_ come to beggary, I had
rather beg of anybody else than of you. I hear far and near of your
charity to others, but I can't say that I ever saw any great symptom of
it myself."

"Let me see what clothes little Agnes has got, Mrs. Compton, if you
please. Our time will be more profitably employed in seeing what I may
be able to do for her, than in discoursing of what I am not able to do
for you. Miss Martha then, I suppose, may be able to bring her things
in."

"Why, as far as the quantity goes, they won't be very difficult to
carry. But I don't see much use in overhauling all the poor child's
trumpery ... unless it is just to make you laugh at our poverty, ma'am."

The spinster answered this with a look which shewed plainly enough that,
however little beauty her pale face could boast, it was by no means
deficient in expression. Miss Martha hastened out of the room to do her
errand without saying another word.

I will not give the catalogue of poor Agnes's wardrobe, but only observe
that it was considerably worse than Miss Betsy expected; she made,
however, no observation upon it; but having examined it apparently with
very little attention, she took leave of the mother and daughter, saying
she would call again in a day or two, and took with her (no permission
asked) a greatly faded, but recently fitted frock, which abduction
mother and daughter remonstrated against, loudly declaring it was her
best dress, except the old white muslin worked with coloured worsteds,
and that she would have nothing upon earth to wear.

"It shall not be kept long," was the reply; and the little lady
departed, enduring for a moment the atmosphere of her brother's parlour
as she passed, in order to tell him, as she thought herself in duty
bound to do, that she should get some decent clothes made for the child,
and call again as soon as they were ready to take her to school.

The poor gentleman seemed greatly pleased at this, and said, "Thank you,
Betsy," with more animation than he had been heard to impart to any
words for many years.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was just three days after Miss Martha Compton had become Mrs.
Barnaby, that the same post-chaise drove up to the door that had carried
her away from it on an excursion of eight-and-forty hours to Exeter,
which the gallant bridegroom had stolen a holiday to give her; but upon
this occasion it was hired neither by bride nor bridegroom, but by the
little crooked spinster, who was come, according to her promise, to take
Agnes to school.

Mrs. Compton was just setting out to pay her first morning visit to the
bride, and therefore submitted to the hasty departure of the little girl
with less grumbling than she might have done, if less agreeably engaged.

"You must bid your grandpapa good-b'ye, Agnes," said Miss Betsy, as they
passed the door of his parlour, and accordingly they all entered
together.

"God bless you, my poor little girl!" said the old man after kissing
her forehead, "and keep your aunt Betsy's favour if you can, ... for I
don't think I can do much more to help anybody.... God bless you,
Agnes!"

"Dear me, Mr. Compton!... you need not bring tears in the child's eyes
by speaking that way.... I am sure she has never wanted friends since
her poor dear mother died; and there's no like she should either, with
such an aunt as Martha, married to such a man as Mr. Barnaby.... I
suppose she is not to be kept from her family, sister Betsy, but that we
shall see her in the holidays. I am sure I don't know where she is
likely to see things so elegant as at her aunt Barnaby's.... Such a
drawing-room!... and a man in livery, at least a boy, ... and
everything else conformable.... I suppose this is to be her home, Miss
Betsy, still?"

"I am glad you have mentioned this, Mrs. Compton," replied her
sister-in-law, "because now, in the presence of my brother, I may
explain my intentions at once. Whatever you may think of my little
means, either you or your wife, or your daughter, brother Josiah, I am
not rich enough in my own opinion to make it prudent for me to saddle
myself with the permanent charge of this poor child. Moreover, to do so,
I must altogether change the quiet manner of life that I have so long
enjoyed, and I am not conscious of being bound by any tie sufficiently
strong to make this painful sacrifice a duty. Something I think I ought
to do for this child, and I am willing to do it. I conceive that it will
be more easily in my power to spare something from my little property to
obtain a respectable education for her, than either in your's, brother,
or even in that of her newly-married aunt Barnaby; for doubtless it
would not be agreeable for her to begin her wedded life by throwing a
burden upon her husband. But, on the other hand, it will certainly be
much more within the power of her aunt Barnaby to give her a comfortable
and advantageous home afterwards, than in mine. I will therefore now
take charge of her for five years, during which time she shall be
supplied with board, lodging, clothes, and instruction, at my expense;
or, in case I should die, at that of my executors. After this period I
shall restore her to you, brother, or to her grandmother, if both or
either of you shall be alive, or if not, to her aunt Barnaby; and when I
die she shall have a share, with such others as I may think have a claim
upon me, of the small matter I may leave behind. But this of course must
be lessened by the expenses I am now contracting for her."

"And are we never to see her for five years, sister Betsy?" said Mrs.
Compton very dolorously.

"To tell you the truth, Mrs. Compton, I think the coming home to you
twice a-year, for the holidays, could be no advantage to her education,
and the expense of such repeated journeyings would be very inconvenient
to me. I have therefore arranged with the persons who are to take charge
of her that she is to pass the vacations with them. I shall, however,
make a point of seeing her myself more than once in the course of the
time, and will undertake that she shall come to Silverton twice during
these five years, for a few days each time.... And now, I think, there
is no more to say; so come, my little girl, for it is not right to keep
the driver and the horses any longer waiting."

The adieux between the parties were now hastily exchanged, little Agnes
mounted the post-chaise, aunt Betsy followed, and they drove off, though
in what direction they were to go, after leaving the Silverton turnpike,
no one had ever thought of inquiring.

Poor Mrs. Compton stood for some moments silently gazing after the
post-chaise, and on re-entering her drawing-room, felt a sensation that
greatly resembled desolation from the unwonted stillness that reigned
there. She was instantly cheered, however, by recollecting the very
agreeable visit she was going to pay; and only pausing to put on her new
wedding bonnet and shawl, set off for Mr. Barnaby's, saying to the maid,
whom she passed as she descended, "I should like, Sally, to have seen
what sort of things she has got for the poor child."

"If they was as neat and as nice as the little trunk as was strapped on
in the front, and that's where they was packed, no doubt,... there
wouldn't be no need to complain of them," was the reply. And now,
leaving Agnes to aunt Betsy and her fate, I must return to the duty I
have assigned myself, and follow the fortunes of Mrs. Barnaby.




CHAPTER VI.

WEDDED HAPPINESS.--DEATH OF MRS. COMPTON.--THE EX-CURATE BROUGHT INTO A
PEACEFUL HARBOUR.--HE FALLS SICK, AND HIS SISTER AND GRANDCHILD ARE
SUMMONED.


The first five or six months of Mrs. Barnaby's married life were so
happy as not only to make her forget all her former disappointments, but
almost to persuade her that it was very nearly as good a thing to marry
a middle-aged country apothecary, with a good house and a good income,
as a beautiful young officer with neither.

Since her adventure with Mr. Smith, the draper, milliner, mercer, and
haberdasher of Silverton _par excellence_, Mrs. Barnaby's genius for
making bargains had been sadly damped; not but that she had in some
degree saved her credit with that important and much-provoked personage
by condescending to wear the willow before his eyes; she even went so
far as to say to him, with a twinkling of lids that passed for having
tears in her own,--

"No young lady was ever so used before, I believe.... I am sure, Mr.
Smith, you saw enough yourself to be certain that I was engaged to
Captain Tate,... yet the moment he found a girl with a little money he
sent back all my letters...!"

Perhaps Mr. Smith believed the lady ... perhaps he did not; but at any
rate he gave her no encouragement to recommence operations upon his
confiding nature; on the contrary, he ceased not to send in his little
account very constantly once every three months, steadfastly refusing to
give credit for any articles, however needful. After the sale of the
Compton Basett property the bill was paid, but no farther accommodation
in that quarter ever obtained; indeed the facility of selling out of the
funds a hundred pounds a time as it was wanted, superseded the necessity
of pressing for it, and in a little way Miss Martha and Mr. Smith had
continued to deal most amicably, but always with a certain degree of
mutual shyness.

How delightfully different was the case now!... Mrs. Barnaby had only to
send her maid or her man (boy) to the redundant storehouse of Mr. Smith,
and all that her heart best loved was sent for her inspection and
choice, without the slightest doubt or scruple.

Mr. Barnaby was proud of his wife; for if not quite as slender and
delicate, she really looked very nearly as handsome as ever, a slight
_soupçon_ of rouge refreshing the brilliancy of her eyes, and concealing
the incipient fading of her cheeks; while the total absence of _mauvaise
honte_ (an advantage which may be considered as the natural consequence
of a twelve years' reign as the belle of a well-officered county town,)
enabled her to preside at his own supper parties, and fill the place of
honour as bride at those of his neighbours, with an easy sprightliness
of manner that he felt to be truly fascinating. In short, Mr. Barnaby
was excessively fond of his lady, and as he was known to have made much
more money than he had spent, as no bill had ever been sent to him
without immediate payment following, and as Mrs. Barnaby's nature
expanded itself in this enlarged sphere of action, and led her to
disburse five times as much as Mr. Barnaby had ever expended without
her, all the tradesmen in the town were excessively fond of her too.
Wherever she went she was greeted with a smile; and instead of being
obliged to stand in every shop, waiting till some one happened to be at
leisure to ask her what she wanted to buy, her feathers and her frills
were no sooner discovered to be approaching the counter, than as many
right arms as were in presence thrust forward a seat towards her, while
the well-pleased master himself invariably started forth to receive her
commands.

Any bride might have found matter for rejoicing in such a change, but
few could have felt it so keenly as Mrs. Barnaby. She was by nature both
proud and ambitious, and her personal vanity, though sufficiently
strong within her to form rather a conspicuous feature in her character,
was, in truth, only a sort of petted imp, that acted as an agent to
assist in forwarding the hopes and wishes which her pride and ambition
formed.

This pride and ambition, however, were very essentially different from
the qualities known by these names among minds of a loftier nature. The
ambition, for instance, instead of being "that last infirmity of noble
mind" for which Milton seems to plead so feelingly, was, in truth, the
first vice of a very mean one. Mrs. Barnaby burned with ambition to find
herself in a situation that might authorize her giving herself the airs
of a great lady; and her pride would have found all the gratification it
sought, could she have been sure that her house and her dress would be
daily cited among her acquaintance as more costly than their own.

Mrs. Barnaby had moreover _un esprit intriguant_ in the most
comprehensive sense of the phrase, for she would far rather have
obtained any object she aimed at by means of her own manoeuvring,
than by any simple concurrence of circumstances whatever; and this was
perhaps the reason why, at the first moment the proposals of Mr.
Barnaby, whom she had (comparatively speaking) used no tricks to
captivate, produced a less pleasurable effect upon her mind, than a
similar overture from any one of the innumerable military men whom she
had so strenuously laboured to win, would have done. However, she was
for this very reason happier than many other brides, for, in fact, she
became daily more sensible of the substantial advantages she had
obtained; and, on the whole, daily better pleased with her complaisant
husband.

As her temper, though quietly and steadily selfish, was neither sour nor
violent, this state of connubial happiness might have continued long,
had not some untoward accidents occurred to disturb it.

The first of these was the sudden and dangerous illness of Mrs. Compton,
which was of a nature to render it perfectly impossible for Mr. and Mrs.
Barnaby to continue their delightful little parties at home and abroad.
The dying lady ceased not to implore her daughter not to leave her, in
accents so piteous, that Mr. Barnaby himself, notwithstanding his tender
care for his lady's health, was the first to declare that she must
remain with her. This heavy burden, however, did not inconvenience her
long, for the seizure terminated in the death of the old lady about a
week after its commencement.

But even this, though acknowledged to be "certainly a blessing, and a
happy release," could not restore the bride to the triumphant state of
existence the illness of her mother had interrupted; for, in the first
place, her deep mourning was by no means becoming to her, and she was
perfectly aware of it; and her white satin, and her silver fringe, would
be sure to turn yellow before she could wear them again. Besides, what
was worse than all, a young attorney of Silverton married the daughter
of a neighbouring clergyman, who, of course, was immediately installed
in all a bride's honours, to the inexpressible mortification of Mrs.
Barnaby.

The annoyance which followed these vexations was, however, far more
serious: the resources of poor Mr. Compton were completely exhausted; he
had drawn out his last hundred from the funds, and actually remained
possessed of no property whatever, except the nearly expired lease, and
the worn-out furniture of the house in which he lived.

Mrs. Barnaby listened to the feeble old man's statement of his desperate
position with dismay; she knew just enough of his affairs to be aware
that it was very likely to be true, though with mistaken tenderness her
mother had always refrained from representing their embarrassments to
her daughter, as being of the hopeless extent which they really were.

What, then, was to be done? The choice lay between two measures only,
both deeply wounding to her pride. In the one case she must leave the
old man to be arrested in his bed for the price of the food which for a
few months longer perhaps he might still get on credit ... in the other
she must undergo the humiliation of informing her husband that all the
gay external appearances she and her mother had so laboriously presented
to the public eye, were in reality but so much cheatery and delusion;
and that, if he would not take compassion on her father's destitute
condition, the poor old man must either die in the county prison or the
parish workhouse.

The alternative offered more of doubt than of choice, and it might have
been long ere she decided, had she not cleverly recollected that, if she
decided upon leaving him to get on as he could for a few weeks longer,
she must at last submit to her husband's knowing the real state of the
case; she therefore resolutely determined that he should know it at
once.

The time she chose to make the disclosure was the hour when men are
generally supposed to be in the most amiable frame of mind possible,
namely, when hunger, but not appetite, has been satisfied, and digestion
not fully begun; that is to say, Mr. Barnaby was enjoying his walnuts
and his wine.

"My dear Barnaby!..." she began, "I have some very disagreeable
intelligence to communicate to you, which has reached me only to-day,
and which has distressed me more than I can express."

"Good heaven!... What can you mean, my dear love?... For God's sake do
not weep, my beautiful Martha, but tell me what it is, and trust to me
for consolation."

"And that indeed I must do, dearest Barnaby!... for who else have I
now to look to?... My poor father ... I had no idea of it till this
morning ... my poor father is...."

"Dying, perhaps, my poor love!... Alas! Martha dearest, I have long
known that his case was perfectly hopeless, and I had hoped that you had
been aware of this also; but really, my love, his state of health is
such as ought in a great degree to reconcile you to his loss.... I am
sure he must suffer a great deal at times."

Mrs. Barnaby's first impulse was to reply that what she had to tell was
a great deal worse than that; but this would have been the truth, and a
sort of habitual, or it might indeed be called natural cautiousness, led
her always to pause before she uttered anything that she had no motive
for saying, excepting merely that it was true; and she generally found,
upon reconsideration, that there was hardly anything which might not,
according to her tactics, be improved by a _leetle_ dressing up. So, in
reply to this affectionate remonstrance from her husband, Mrs. Barnaby
answered with a sob:--

"No, my dear Barnaby!... I have no reason to doubt but that Providence
will spare my sole remaining parent for some short time longer, if only
to prove to him that his happy daughter has the will as well as the
means to supply to him the exemplary wife he has lost! But, alas! dear
Barnaby, who in this world can we expect to find perfect? My poor dear
mother, in her great anxiety to spare his age and weakness the suffering
such intelligence must occasion, most unwisely concealed from him and
from me the failure of the merchant in whose hands he had deposited the
sum for which he sold his patrimonial estate.... His object in selling
it was to increase his income, principally indeed for my poor mother's
sake, and now the entire sum is lost to us for ever!"

"God bless me!... This is a sad stroke indeed, my dear! What is the name
of this merchant?... I hope, at least, that we may get some dividend out
of him."

"I really do not know his name, but I know that it is a New York
merchant, and so I fear there is little or no chance of our ever
recovering a penny."

"Why, really, in that case, I will not flatter you with much hope on the
subject. And what has the poor old gentleman got to live upon, my dear
Martha?"

"Nothing, Barnaby!... absolutely nothing: and unless your tender
affection should induce you to permit his spending the little remnant of
his days under our roof, I fear a prison will soon enclose him!"

A violent burst of weeping appeared to follow this avowal; and Mr.
Barnaby, who was really a very kind-hearted man, hastened to console
her by declaring that he was heartily glad he had a home to offer
him.... "So, dry up your tears, my dear girl, and let me see you look
gay and happy again," said he; "and depend upon it, we shall be able to
make papa very comfortable here."

The disagreeable business was over, and therefore Mrs. Barnaby did look
gay and happy again. Moreover, she gave her husband a kiss, and said in
a very consolatory accent, "The poor old man need not be in our way
much, my dear Barnaby; ... I have been thinking that the little room
behind the laundry may be made very comfortable for him without any
expense at all; I shall only just have to...."

"No, no, Martha," interrupted the worthy Galen, "there is no need of
packing the poor gentleman into that dismal little place.... Let him
have the room over the dining-room; the south is always the best aspect
for the old; and, besides, there is a closet that will serve to keep his
pipes and tobacco, and his phials and his pill-boxes, out of sight."

"You are most ex-_cess_-ively kind, my dear Barnaby," replied his lady;
"but did not you tell me that you meant to offer the Thompsons a bed
when the bachelors' ball is given?... And I am sure you would not like
to put _them_ anywhere but in the south room."

"I did say so, my dear, and I am sure I meant it at the time; but a bed
for the ball-night is of so little consequence to them, and a warm,
comfortable room, for your father is so important, that, do you know, it
would seem to me quite silly to bring the two into comparison."

"Well!... I am sure I can't thank you enough, and I will go the first
thing to-morrow to tell my father of your kindness."

"I must pass by his house to-night, my dear, in my way to the Kellys',
and I will just step in and tell him how we have settled it."

It was impossible even for Mrs. Barnaby to find at the moment any
plausible reason for objecting to this good-natured proposal; but, in
truth, it was far from agreeable to her. Her poor father was quite
ignorant of the elegant turn she had given to the disagreeable fact of
his having spent his last shilling, and she was by no means desirous
that her kind-hearted husband should enter upon any discussion of his
"_misfortunes_" with him. But a moment's reflection sufficed to bring
her ready wit into play again; and then she said, in addition to the
applause she had already uttered,--"By the by, my dear Barnaby, I am not
quite sure that I can let you enjoy this pleasure without my sharing it
with you. I know it will make my dear father so _very_ happy!"

"Well, then, Martha, put on your bonnet and cloak, and come along; ...
it will be better you should go too, or I might linger with him too long
to explain matters, and I really have no time to lose."

       *       *       *       *       *

The kindness thus manifested by the worthy Barnaby was not evanescent;
it led him to see that the money produced by the sale of the little
remnant of poor Mr. Compton's property, was immediately disposed of in
the payment of such trifling debts as, despite his long waning credit,
he had been able to contract; and for the two years and eight months
that he continued struggling with advancing age and increasing disease,
his attention to him was unremitting.

During the whole of that time Miss Betsy Compton never saw him. All
hope, and indeed all urgent want of assistance from her well-guarded
purse having ended, Mrs. Barnaby's anger and hatred towards the
spinster, flourished unchecked by any motives of interest; and Miss
Betsy was not a person to present herself uninvited at the house of a
rich apothecary, who had the privilege of calling her aunt. She had
indeed from time to time taken care to inform herself of the condition
of her brother, and finding that he wanted for nothing, but was, on the
contrary, very carefully nursed and attended, she settled the matter
very easily with her conscience; and with the exception of the pension,
and other little expenses of Agnes, her income, yearly increasing,
continued to roll up for no other purpose, as it should seem, than
merely to afford her the satisfaction of knowing that she was about ten
times as rich as anybody (excepting, perhaps, farmer Wright,) believed
her to be.

When, however, the last hours of the old man were approaching, he told
Mr. Barnaby that he should like to see both his sister and his
grandchild; and ten minutes had not passed after he said so, before an
express was galloping towards Compton Basett with a civil gentleman-like
letter from the apothecary to Miss Betsy, informing her of the condition
of her brother, and expressing the hospitable wish that she and the
little Agnes would be pleased to make his house their home as long as
the poor gentleman remained alive.

Miss Betsy had some strong prejudices, but she had strong discernment
too; and few old maids whose personal knowledge of the world had been as
contracted as hers, would have so instantly comprehended the good sense
and the good feeling of the author of this short note as she did. Her
answer was brief, but not so brief as to prevent the friendly feeling
with which she wrote it from being perceptible; and ere they met, this
stranger aunt, and nephew, were exceedingly well-disposed to be civil to
each other.

Miss Betsy's arrangements were soon made. She wrote to the person to
whose care she had intrusted Agnes, desiring her immediately to send her
under proper protection to Silverton, and having done this, she set off
in farmer Wright's chaise-cart to pay her first visit to her married
niece, and her last to her dying brother.




CHAPTER VII.

THE ELEGANCE OF MRS. BARNABY DISPLAYED.--ITS EFFECT ON HER AUNT
BETSY.--INTERVIEW BETWEEN THE BROTHER AND SISTER.


Agnes Willoughby had never been in Silverton from the day that her aunt
Betsy first took her from her grandfather's house. Had Mrs. Compton
lived, she would probably have battled for the performance of Miss
Betsy's promise, that the little girl should sometimes visit them; but
though it is probable Mrs. Barnaby might occasionally have thought of
her niece with some degree of interest and curiosity, the feeling was
not strong enough to induce her to open a correspondence with Miss
Betsy; still it was certainly not without something like pleasure that
she found she was again to see her.

Miss Betsy arrived late in the evening of the day on which the summons
reached her; and, being shewn into Mrs. Barnaby's smart drawing-room,
was received with much stateliness by that lady, who derived
considerable consolation, under the disagreeable necessity of welcoming
a person she detested, from the opportunity it afforded her of
displaying the enormous increase of wealth and importance that had
fallen upon her since they last met.

Poor Miss Betsy really felt sad at the thoughts of the errand upon which
she was come; nevertheless she could not, without some difficulty,
suppress her inclination to smile at the full-blown dignity of Mrs.
Barnaby. Fond as this lady was of parading her grandeur on all
occasions, she had never, even among the dear friends whom she most
especially desired to inspire with envy, felt so strong an inclination
to shew off her magnificence as on the present. The covers were removed
from the chairs and sofas; the eclipse produced by the dim grey drugget,
when stretched across the radiance of the many-coloured carpet, was
over; five golden-leaved annuals, the glory of her library, were spread
at well-graduated distances upon her round table; her work-box, bright
in its rose-coloured lining, her smart embossed letter-case, her chimney
ornaments, her picture frames, her foot-stools, all were uncovered, all
were studiously shown forth to meet the careless eye of Miss Betsy;
while the proud owner of all these very fine things, notwithstanding the
gloomy state of her mansion, was herself a walking museum of lace and
trinkets.... Nor were her manners less superb than her habiliments.

"I am sorry, Miss Compton," she said.... "I may call you Miss Compton
now, as my marriage put an end to the possibility of any confusion.... I
am sorry that your first introduction to my humble abode should have
been made under circumstances so melancholy. Dismal as of necessity
everything must look now, I can assure you that this unpretending little
room is the scene of much domestic comfort."

This was unblushingly said, though the cold, stiff-looking apartment was
never entered but upon solemn occasions, when the whole house was
turned inside out for the reception of company. Miss Betsy, or rather
Miss Compton, (as, in compliance with Mrs. Barnaby's hint, we will in
future call her,) looked round upon the spotless carpet, and upon all
the comfortless precision of the apartment, and replied,--

"If this is your common living room, niece Martha, you are certainly
much improved in neatness; and seeing it so prim, it is quite needless
to ask if you have any children."

This reply was bitter every way; for, first, it spoke plainly enough the
spinster's disbelief in the domestic elegance of her niece; and
secondly, it alluded to her being childless, a subject of very
considerable mortification to Mrs. Barnaby.

How far this sort of ambush warfare might have proceeded it is
impossible to say, as it would have been difficult to place together any
two people who more cordially disliked each other; but before Mrs.
Barnaby had time to seek for words bearing as sharp a sting as those she
had received, her husband entered. He waited not for the pompous
introduction his wife was preparing, but walking up to his guest
addressed her respectfully but mournfully, saying he feared it was
necessary to press an early interview with her brother, if she wished
that he should be sensible of her kindness in coming to him.

Miss Compton immediately rose, and uttering a short, strong phrase
expressive of gratitude for his kindness to the dying man, said she was
ready to attend him. She found her brother quite sensible, but very
weak, and evidently approaching his last hour; he thanked her for coming
to him, warmly expressed his gratitude to Mr. Barnaby, and then murmured
something about wishing to see little Agnes before he died.

"She will be here to-morrow, brother," replied Miss Compton, "and in
time, I trust, to receive your blessing."

"Thank you, thank you, sister Betsy; ... but tell me, tell me before you
go, ... have you sold father's poor dear fields as I have done? That is
all I have got to be very sorry for.... I ought never to have done
that, sister Betsy."

Mr. Barnaby had left the room as soon as he had placed Miss Compton in a
chair by the sick man's bed, and none but an old woman who acted as his
nurse remained in it.

"You may go, nurse, if you please, for a little while; I will watch by
my brother," said Miss Compton. The woman obeyed, and they were left
alone. The old man followed the nurse with his eyes as she retreated,
and when she closed the door said,--

"I am glad we are alone once more, dear sister, for you are the only one
I could open my heart to.... I don't believe I have been a very wicked
man, sister Betsy, though I am afraid I never did much good to anybody,
nor to myself neither; but the one thing that lies heavy at my heart, is
having sold away my poor father's patrimony.... I can't help thinking,
Betsy, that I see him every now and then at the bottom of my bed, with
his old hat, and his spud, and his brown gaiters ... and ... I never
told anybody; ... but he seems always just going to repeat the last
words he ever said to me, which were spoken just like as I am now
speaking to you, Betsy, with his last breath; ... and he said, 'Josiah,
my son, I could not die with a safe conscience if I left my poor weakly
Betsy without sufficient to keep her in the same quiet comfort as she
has been used to. But it would grieve me, Josiah....' Oh! how plain I
hear his voice at this minute!--'it would grieve me, Josiah,' he said,
'if I thought the acres would be parted for ever ... they have been
above four hundred years belonging to us from father to son; and once
Compton Basett was a name that stood for a thousand acres instead of
three hundred;' ... and then ... don't be angry, sister Betsy," said the
sick man, pressing her hand which he held, "but he said, 'I don't think
Betsy very likely to marry; and if she don't, Josiah, why, then, all
that is left of Compton Basett will be joined together again for your
descendants,' ... and yet, after this I sold my portion, Betsy, ... and
I do fear his poor spirit is troubled for it--I do indeed ... and it is
that which hangs so heavy upon my mind."

"And if that be all, Josiah, you may close your eyes, and go to join our
dear father in peace. He struggled with and conquered his strongest
feeling, his just and honourable pride, for my sake; and for his, as
well as for the same feeling, which is very strong within my own breast
also, I have lived poorly, though not hardly, Josiah, and have added
penny to penny till I was able to make Compton Basett as respectable a
patrimony as he left it. It was not farmer Wright who bought the land,
brother--it was I."

The old man's emotion at hearing this was stronger than any he had shewn
for many years. He raised his sister's hand to his lips, and kissed it
fervently. "Bless you, Betsy!... bless you, my own dear sister!"... he
said in a voice that trembled as much from feeling as from weakness, and
for several minutes afterwards he lay perfectly silent and motionless.

Miss Compton watched him with an anxious eye, and not without a flutter
at her heart lest she should suddenly find this stillness to be that of
death. But it was not so; on the contrary, his voice appeared
considerably stronger than it had done since their interview began, when
he again spoke, and said,--

"I see him now, sister Betsy, as plainly as I see the two posts at the
bottom of my bed, and he stands exactly in the middle between them; he
has got no hat on, but his smooth white hair is round his face just as
it used to be, and he looks so smiling and so happy.... Do not think I
am frightened at seeing him, Betsy; quite the contrary.... I feel so
peaceful ... so very peaceful...."

"Then try to sleep, dear brother!" said Miss Compton, who felt that his
pulse fluttered, and, aware that his senses were wandering, feared that
the energy with which he spoke might hasten the last hour, and so rob
his grandchild of his blessing.

"I will sleep," he replied, more composedly, "as soon as you have told
me one thing. Who will have the Compton Basett estate, Betsy, when you
are dead?"

"Agnes Willoughby," replied the spinster, solemnly.

"That is right.... Now go away, Betsy, ... it is quite right ... go away
now, and let me sleep."

She watched him for a moment, and seeing his eyes close, and hearing a
gentle, regular breathing that convinced her he was indeed asleep, she
crept noiselessly from his bedside; then having summoned the nurse, and
re-established her beside the fire, retired to the solitude of her own
room.




CHAPTER VIII.

SOLITARY MEDITATION AND IMPORTANT RESOLUTIONS.--AGNES WILLOUGHBY ARRIVES
AT SILVERTON.--HER GRANDFATHER GIVES HER HIS BLESSING, AND DIES.--MISS
COMPTON MAKES A SUDDEN RETREAT.


When Miss Compton reached her room, she found a tiny morsel of fire just
lighted in a tiny grate; and as the season was November, the hour nine
P. M., and the candle she carried in her hand not of the brightest
description, the scene was altogether gloomy enough. But not even to
save herself from something greatly worse, would she at that moment have
exchanged its solitude for the society of Mrs. Barnaby, although she had
been sure of finding her in the best-lighted room, and seated beside the
brightest fire that ever blazed. So, wrapping around her the stout
camlet cloak by the aid of which she had braved the severity of many
years' wintry walks to church, she sat down in the front of the little
fire, and gave herself up to the reflections that crowded upon her mind.

Elizabeth Compton did not believe in the doctrine of ghosts; her mind
was of a strong and healthy fibre, which was rarely sufficiently wrought
upon by passing events to lose its power of clear perception and
unimpassioned judgment; but the scene she had just passed through, had
considerably shaken her philosophy. Five-and-thirty years had passed
since Josiah and Elizabeth shared the paternal roof together. They were
then very tender friends, for he was affectionate and sweet-tempered;
and she, though nearly seventeen, was as young in appearance, and as
much in need of his thoughtful care of her, as if she had been many
years younger. But this union was totally and for ever destroyed when
Josiah married; from the first hour they met, the two sisters-in-law
conceived an aversion for each other which every succeeding interview
appeared to strengthen; and this so effectually separated the brother
from the sister, that they had never met again with that peculiar
species of sympathy which can only be felt by children of the same
parents, till now, that the sister came expressly to see the brother
die.

This reunion had softened and had opened both their hearts: Josiah
confessed to his dear sister Betsy that his conscience reproached him
for having made away with his patrimony ... a fact which he had never
hinted to any other human being ... and she owned to him that she was
secretly possessed of landed property worth above six hundred a-year,
and also--which was a confidence, if possible, more sacred still--that
Agnes Willoughby would inherit it.

It would be hardly doing justice to the good sense of Miss Betsy to
state, that this rational and proper destination of her property had
never been finally decided upon by her till the moment she answered her
brother's question on the subject; and still less correctly true would
it be to say, that the dying man's delirious fancy respecting the
presence of their father was the reason that she answered that appeal
in the manner she did; yet still there might be some slight mixture of
truth in both. Miss Compton was constantly in the habit of telling
herself that she had _not_ decided to whom she would leave her property;
but it is no less true, that the only person she ever thought of as
within the possibility of becoming her heir, was Agnes. It is certain
also, as I have stated above, that Miss Compton did _not_ believe that
departed spirits ever revisited the earth; nevertheless, the dying
declaration of Josiah, that he saw the figure of his father, did produce
a spasm at her heart, which found great relief by her pronouncing the
words, "Agnes Willoughby."

And now that she was quietly alone, and perfectly restored to her sober
senses, she began to reconsider all that she had spoken, and to pass
judgment upon herself for the having yielded in some degree to the
weakness of a visionary imagination.

The result, however, of this self-examination was not exactly what she
herself expected. At first she was disposed to exclaim mentally, "I
have been foolish--I have been weak;" ... but as she gazed abstractedly
on her little fire, and thought--thought--thought of all the chain of
events (each so little in itself, yet all so linked together as to
produce an important whole,) by which she, the sickly, crooked, little
Betsy Compton, had become the proprietor of the long preserved patrimony
of her ancestors, ... and also, when she remembered the infinite chances
which had existed against either of her portionless, uneducated nieces,
forming such a marriage as might produce a child of gentle blood to be
her successor,--when she thought of all this, and that, notwithstanding
the lieutenant's poverty, the name of Willoughby could disgrace none to
which it might be joined, she could not but feel that all things had
been managed for her better than she could have managed them for
herself.

"And if," thought she, "I _was_ influenced, by hearing my poor father so
accurately described, to bind myself at once by a promise to make little
Agnes my heir, how do I know but that Providence intended it should be
so?"

"Is my freedom of action then gone for ever?" she continued, carrying on
her mental soliloquy. The idea was painful to her, and her head sunk
upon her breast as she brooded upon it.

"Not so!" she muttered to herself, after some minutes' cogitation. "I am
not pledged to this, nor shall it be so. If indeed some emanation from
my father's mind has made itself felt by his children this night, it
ought not to make a timid slave of me, but rather rouse my courage and
my strength to do something more than mere justice to the race that
seems so strangely intrusted to my care. And so I will!... if the girl
be such a one as may repay the trouble; ... if not, I will shew that I
have still some freedom left."

       *       *       *       *       *

Miss Compton had never seen Agnes Willoughby from the time she first
took her from Silverton. Deeply shocked at the profound ignorance in
which she found the poor little girl when she visited Compton Basett,
she had set herself very earnestly to discover where she could
immediately place her, with the best chance of her recovering the time
she had so negligently been permitted to lose, and by good luck heard of
a clergyman's family in which young ladies were received for a stipend
of fifty pounds a-year, and treated more like the children of
affectionate parents than the pupils of mercenary teachers. The good
spinster heard all this, and was well pleased by the description; yet
would she not trust to it, but breaking through all her habits, she put
herself into a post-chaise and drove to the rectory of Empton, a
distance of at least twenty miles from the town of Silverton. Here she
found everything she wished to find; a small, regular establishment, a
lady-like and very intelligent woman, with an accomplished young person,
(her only child,) fully capable of undertaking the education of a
gentleman's daughter; while the venerable father of the family and of
the parish, by his gentle manners and exemplary character, ensured
exactly the sort of respectability in the home she sought for the
little Agnes, which she considered as its most essential feature.

The preliminaries were speedily arranged, and as soon as a neat and
sufficient wardrobe was ready for her use, her final separation from her
improvident grandmother took place in the manner that has been related.

When Miss Compton left the little girl in the charge of Mrs. Wilmot, she
had certainly no idea of her remaining there above three years without
visiting or being seen by any of her family; but Mrs. Wilmot, in her
subsequent letters, so strongly urged the advantage of not disturbing
studies so late begun, and now proceeding so satisfactorily, that our
reasonable aunt Betsy willingly submitted to her remaining quietly where
she was; an arrangement rendered the more desirable by the death of her
grandmother, and the breaking up of the establishment which had been her
only home.

The seeing her again after this long absence was now an event of very
momentous importance to Miss Compton. Should she in any way resemble
either her grandmother or her aunt Barnaby, the little spinster felt
that the promise so solemnly given would become a sore pain and grief to
her, for rather a thousand times would she have bequeathed her carefully
collected wealth to the county hospital, than have bestowed it to swell
the vulgar ostentation of a Mrs. Barnaby. The power of choice, however,
she felt was no longer left her. She had pledged her word, and that
under circumstances of no common solemnity, that Agnes Willoughby should
be her heir.

The poor little lady, as these anxious ruminations harassed her mind,
became positively faint and sick as the idea occurred to her, that the
eyes of little Agnes had formerly sparkled with somewhat of the
brightness she thought so very hateful in her well-rouged aunt; and at
length, having sat till her candle was nearly burnt out, and her fire
too, she arose in order to return to the fine drawing-room, and bid her
entertainers good night; but she stood with clasped hands for one
moment upon the hearthstone before she quitted it, and muttered half
aloud, ... "I have said that Agnes Willoughby shall be my heir, ... and
so she shall; ... she shall (be she a gorgon or a second Martha) inherit
the Compton Basett acres, restored, improved, and worth at least one
fourth more than when my poor father ... Heaven give his spirit rest!...
divided them between his children. But for my snug twelve thousand
pounds sterling vested in the three per cents, and my little mortgage of
eighteen hundred more for which I so regularly get my five per cent.,
that at least is my own, and that shall never, _never_ go to enrich any
one who inherits the red cheeks and bright black eyes of Miss Martha
Wisett.... No!... not if I am driven to choose an heir for it from the
Foundling Hospital!"

Somewhat comforted in spirit by this magnanimous resolve, Miss Compton
found her way to the drawing-room, and would have been fully confirmed
in the wisdom of it, had any doubt remained, by the style and tone of
Mrs. Barnaby, whom she found sitting there in solitary state, her
husband being professionally engaged in the town, and her own anxiety
for her dying father quite satisfied by being told that he was asleep.

"And where have you been hiding yourself, aunt Betsy, since you left
papa?" said the full-dressed lady, warmed into good humour by the
consciousness of her own elegance, and the delightful contrast between a
married woman, sitting in her own handsome drawing-room, (looking as she
had just ascertained that she herself did look by a long solitary study
of her image in the glass,) and a poor crooked little old maid like her
visitor. "I have been expecting to see you for this hour past. I hope
Barnaby will be in soon, and then we will go to supper. Barnaby always
eats a hot supper, and so I eat it with him for company, ... and I hope
you feel disposed to join us after your cold drive."

"I never eat any supper at all, Mrs. Barnaby."

"No, really?... I thought farm-house people always did, though not
exactly such a supper as Barnaby's, perhaps, for he always will have
something nice and delicate; and so, as it pleases him, I have taken to
the same sort of thing myself ... veal cutlets and mashed potatoes, ...
or half a chicken grilled perhaps, with now and then a glass of
raspberry cream, or a mince pie, as the season may be, all which I take
to be very light and wholesome; and indeed Barnaby thinks so too, or
else I am sure he would not let me touch it.... You can't think, aunt
Betsy, what a fuss he makes about me.... To be sure, he is a perfect
model of a husband."

"God grant she may be the colour of a tallow-candle, and her eyes as
pale and lustreless as those of a dead whiting!" mentally ejaculated the
whimsical spinster; but in reply to her niece she said nothing. After
sitting, however, for about ten minutes in the most profound silence,
she rose and said,--

"I should like to have a bed-candle, if you please, ma'am. I need not
wait to see the doctor. If he thinks there is any alteration in my
brother, he will be kind enough to let me know."

The lady of the mansion condescendingly rang the bell, which her
livery-boy answered with promptness, for he was exceedingly well
drilled, Mrs. Barnaby having little else to do than to keep him and her
two maids in proper order; ... the desired candle was brought, and Miss
Compton having satisfied herself that her brother still slept, retired
to rest.

The following day was an important one to her race; ... the last male of
the Compton Basett family expired, and the young girl to whom its small
but ancient patrimony was to descend, appeared for the first time before
Miss Compton in the character of her heiress.

It was about mid-day when the post-chaise which conveyed Agnes arrived
at Mr. Barnaby's door. Had the person expected been a judge in whose
hands the life and death of the spinster freeholder was placed, her
heart could hardly have beat with more anxiety to catch a sight of his
countenance, and to read her fate in it, than it now did to discover
whether her aspect were that of a vulgar beauty or a gentlewoman.

Miss Compton was sitting in the presence of Mrs. Barnaby when the
carriage stopped at the door, and had been for some hours keenly
suffering from the disgust which continually increased upon her, at
pretty nearly every word her companion uttered. "If she be like this
creature," thought she, as she rose from her seat with nervous emotion,
"if she be like her in any way ... I will keep my promise when I die,
but I will never see her more."

Nothing but her dread of encountering this hated resemblance prevented
her from going down stairs to meet the important little girl; but, after
a moment's fidgetting, and taking a step or two towards the door, she
came back and reseated herself. The suspense did not last long; the door
was opened, and "Muss Willerby" announced.

A short, round, little creature, who though nearly fourteen, did not
look more than twelve, with cheeks as red as roses, and large dark-grey
eyes, a great deal brighter than ever her aunt's or grandmother's had
been, entered, and timidly stopped short in her approach to her two
aunts, as if purposely to be looked at and examined.

She _was_ looked at and examined, and judgment was passed upon her by
both; differing very widely, however, as was natural enough, but in
which (a circumstance much less natural, considering the qualifications
for judging possessed by the two ladies,) the younger shewed
considerably more discernment than the elder. Mrs. Barnaby thought
her--and she was right--exceedingly like what she remembered her very
pretty mother at the same age, just as round and as rosy, but with a
strong mixture of the Willoughby countenance, which was very decidedly
"Patrician" both in contour and expression.

But poor Miss Compton saw nothing of all this ... she saw only that she
was short, fat, fresh-coloured, and bright-eyed!... This dreaded
spectacle was a death-blow to all her hopes, the hated confirmation of
all her fears. It was in vain that when the poor child spoke, her voice
proved as sweet as a voice could be,--in vain that her natural curls
fell round her neck as soon as her bonnet was taken off in rich
chestnut clusters--in vain that the smile with which she answered Mrs.
Barnaby's question, "Do you remember me, Agnes?" displayed teeth as
white and as regular as a row of pearls,--all these things were but so
many items against her in the opinion of Miss Compton, for did they not
altogether constitute a brilliant specimen of vulgar beauty? Had Agnes
been tall, pale, and slight made, with precisely the same features, her
aunt Betsy would have willingly devoted the whole of her remaining life
to her, would have ungrudgingly expended every farthing of her income
for her comfort and advantage, and would only have abstained from
expending the principal too, because she might leave it to her untouched
at her death. But now, now that she saw her, as she fancied, so very
nearly approaching in appearance to everything she most disliked, all
the long-indulged habits of frugality that had enabled her (as she at
this moment delighted to remember) to accumulate a fortune over which
she still had entire control, seemed to rise, before her, and press
round her very heart, as the only means left of atoning to herself for
the promise she had been led to make.

"I will see the eyes of my father's son closed," thought she, "and then
I will leave the beauties to manage together as well as they can till
mine are closed too, ... and by that time, perhaps, the rents of the
lands that I must no longer consider as my own, and my interest and my
mortgages, may have grown into something rich enough to make them and
theirs wish that they had other claims upon Elizabeth Compton besides
being her nearest of kin."

These thoughts passed rapidly, but their impression was deep and
lasting. Miss Compton sat in very stern and melancholy silence, such as
perhaps did not ill befit the occasion that had brought them all
together; but Mrs. Barnaby, whose habitual propensity to make herself
comfortable, prevented her from sacrificing either her curiosity or her
love of talking to ceremony, ceased not to question Agnes as to the
people she had been with, the manner in which she had lived, and the
amount of what she had learned.

On the first subject she received nothing in return but unbounded,
unqualified expressions of praise and affection, such as might either be
taken for the unmeaning hyperbole of a silly speaker, or the warm
out-pouring of well-deserved affection and gratitude, so Miss Compton
classed all that Agnes said respecting the family of the Wilmots under
the former head: her record of their manner of living produced exactly
the same result; and on the important chapter of her improvements, the
genuine modesty of the little girl did her great disservice; for when,
in answer to Mrs. Barnaby's questions.... "Do you understand French?...
Can you dance?... Can you play?... Can you draw?" she invariably
answered, "A little," Miss Compton failed not to make a mental note upon
it, which, if spoken, would have been, "Little enough, I dare say."

This examination had lasted about half an hour, when Mr. Barnaby
entered, and, addressing them all, said, "Poor Mr. Compton has woke up,
and appears quite collected, but, from his pulse, I do not think he can
last long.... Is this Miss Willoughby, Martha?... I am sorry that your
first visit, my dear, should be so sad a one; ... but you had better all
come now, and take leave of him."

The three ladies rose immediately, and without speaking followed Mr.
Barnaby to the bedside of the dying man. He was evidently sinking fast,
but knew them all, and expressed pleasure at the sight of Agnes. "Dear
child!" he said, looking earnestly at her, "I am glad she is come to
take my blessing.... God bless you, Agnes!... She is very like.... God
bless you, Agnes!... God bless you all!"

Mr. Barnaby took his wife by the arm and led her away; she took her
weeping niece with her, but Miss Compton shook her head when invited by
Mr. Barnaby to follow them, and in a very few minutes completed the duty
to perform which she had left her solitude, for with her own hands she
closed her brother's eyes, and then stole to her room, from which she
speedily dispatched an order for a post-chaise to come immediately to
the door.

The conduct and manners of Mr. Barnaby had pleased the difficult little
lady greatly, and she would willingly have shaken hands with him before
leaving his house; but to do this she must have re-entered the
drawing-room, and again seen Mrs. Barnaby and Agnes, a penance which she
felt quite unequal to perform; so, leaving a civil message for him with
the maid, she went down stairs with as little noise as possible as soon
as the chaise was announced, and immediately drove off to Compton
Basett.




CHAPTER IX.

MR. BARNABY PAYS A VISIT TO COMPTON BASETT, AND RECEIVES FROM THE
HEIRESS A FORMAL CONGÉ.--AGNES IS SENT BACK TO SCHOOL, AND REMAINS THERE
TILL CALLED HOME BY THE NEWS OF HIS DEATH.


Some surprise and great indignation were expressed by Mrs. Barnaby on
hearing that Miss Compton had departed without the civility of taking
leave. She resented greatly the rudeness to herself, but, as she justly
said, the meaning of it was much more important to Agnes than to her.

"What is to become of her, Mr. Barnaby, I should like to know?..." said
the angry lady. "Agnes says that Mrs. Wilmot expects her back directly,
and who is to pay the expense of sending her, I wonder?"

Mr. Barnaby assured her in reply that there would be no difficulty about
that, adding, that they should doubtless hear from Miss Compton as soon
as she had recovered the painful effect of the scenes at which she had
so lately been present.

Days passed away, however, the funeral was over, and everything in the
family of Mr. Barnaby restored to its usual routine, yet still they
heard nothing of Miss Compton.

"I see clearly how it is," said the shrewd lady of the mansion. "Aunt
Betsy means to throw the whole burden of poor dear little Agnes upon
us, ... and what in the world are we to do with her, Barnaby?"

"I cannot think she has any such intention, Martha. After the excellent
education she has been giving her for the last three or four years, it
is hardly likely that she would suddenly give her up, when it is
impossible but she must have been delighted with her. But, at any rate,
make yourself easy, my dear Martha; if she abandons her, we will not; we
have no children of our own, and I think the best thing we can do is to
adopt this dear girl.... She is really the sweetest little creature I
ever saw in my life. I can assure you, that when her education is
finished, I, for one, should be delighted to have her live with us....
What say you to it, Martha?"

"I am sure you are goodness itself, my dear Barnaby; and if the crabbed,
crooked old maid would just promise at once to leave her the little she
may have left after all her ostentatious charities, I should make no
objection whatever to our adopting Agnes. She is just like poor Sophy,
and it certainly is a pleasure to look at her."

"Well, then, don't fret yourself any more about aunt Betsy. I will call
upon her one of these days when I happen to be going Compton Basett way,
and find out, if I can, what she means to do about sending her back to
Mrs. Wilmot. It would be a pity not to finish her education, for it is
easy to see that she has had great justice done her."

It was not, however, till some word from Agnes gave him to understand
that she was herself very anxious about going on with her studies, and
desirous of letting Mrs. Wilmot know what was become of her, that he
made or met an opportunity of conversing with Miss Compton. He found her
reading a novel in her chimney corner, and dressed in deep, but very
homely mourning. She received him civilly, nay, there was even something
of kindness in her manner when she reverted to the time she had passed
in his house, and thanked him for the hospitality he had shewn her. He
soon perceived, however, that the name of Agnes produced no feeling of
interest; but that, on the contrary, when he mentioned her, the
expression of the old lady's face changed from very pleasing serenity to
peevish discomfort; so he wisely determined to make what he had to say a
matter of business, and immediately entered upon it accordingly.

"My principal reason, Miss Compton, for troubling you with a visit,"
said he, "is to learn what are your wishes and intentions respecting
Miss Willoughby. Is it your purpose to send her back to Mrs. Wilmot?"

"I have already been at a great and very inconvenient expense, Mr.
Barnaby, for the education of Agnes Willoughby; but as I have no
intention whatever of straitening my poor little income any further by
incurring cost on her account, I am glad that what I _have_ done has
been of the nature most likely to make her independent of me and of you
too, Mr. Barnaby, in future. When I first placed her with Mrs. Wilmot I
agreed to keep her there for five years, seventeen months of which are
still unexpired. To this engagement I am willing to adhere; and though I
can't say I think her a very bright girl, but rather perhaps a little
inclining towards the contrary, yet still I imagine that when she knows
she has her own bread to get, she may be induced to exert herself
sufficiently during the next year and five months to enable her to take
the place of governess to very young children, or perhaps that of
teacher in a second or third rate school. That's my notion about her,
Mr. Barnaby; and now, if you please, I never wish to hear any more upon
the subject."

Greatly displeased by the manner in which Miss Compton spoke of his
young favourite, Mr. Barnaby rose, and very drily wished her good
morning; adding, however, that no farther delay should take place in
sending Miss Willoughby back to resume her studies.

He was then bowing off, but the little lady stopped him, saying, "As I
have been the means of sending the child to such a distance from her
nearest relation, I mean your wife, sir, it is but just that I should
pay such travelling expenses as are consequent upon it. Here, sir, is a
ten-pound-note that I have carefully set apart for this purpose; have
the kindness to dispense it for her as may seem most convenient. And
now, sir, farewell! I wish not again to have my humble retreat disturbed
by any persons so much above me in all worldly advantages as you and
your elegant wife, and having performed what I thought to be my duty by
the little Willoughby, I beg to have nothing farther to do with her. I
dare say your lady will grow exceedingly fond of her, for it seems to me
that they are vastly alike, and if that happens; there will be no
danger of the young girl's wanting anything that a poor little sickly
and deformed old body like me could do for her. Good morning, Mr.
Barnaby."

Mr. Barnaby silently received the ten pounds, which he thought he had no
right to refuse; and having patiently waited till Miss Compton had
concluded her speech, he returned her "good morning," and took his
leave.

The worthy apothecary's account of his visit produced considerable
sensation. Agnes indeed received it in silence, but the offensive
brightness of her eyes was dimmed for a moment or two by a few
involuntary tears. Her young heart was disappointed; for not only had
the strong liking conceived by the Wilmot family for her aunt Betsy led
her to believe that she must unquestionably like her too, but she
gratefully remembered her former gentle, quiet kindness to herself; and
(worse still), on being brought back amongst her relatives, she had,
contrary to what is usual in such cases, conceived the greatest
predilection for the only one among them who did not like her at all.

But it was not in silence that Mrs. Barnaby received her husband's
statement of the capricious old lady's firmly pronounced resolve of
never having anything more to do with Agnes Willoughby. All the old
familiar epithets of abuse came forth again as fresh and vigorous as if
but newly coined; and though these were mixed up with language which it
was by no means agreeable to hear, her judicious husband suffered her to
run on without opposition till she was fairly out of breath, and then
closed the conversation by putting a bed-candle into her hand, and
saying,

"Now let us all go to bed, my dear, ... and I dare say you will have
much pleasure in proving to your peevish relative that, as long as you
live, Agnes will want no other aunt to take care of her."

The good seed sown with these words brought forth fruit abundantly. Mrs.
Barnaby could not do enough in her own estimation to prove to the whole
town of Silverton the contrast between Miss Compton and herself--the
difference between a bad aunt and a good one.

Fortunately for the well-being of Agnes at this important period of her
existence, she had inspired a strong feeling of affectionate interest in
a more rational being than Mrs. Barnaby; her well-judging husband
thought they should do better service to the young girl by sending her
back to Mrs. Wilmot with as little delay as possible, than by keeping
her with them for the purpose of proving to all the world that they were
the fondest and most generous uncle and aunt that ever a dependant niece
was blest with, and she was sent back to Empton accordingly.

In order to do justice to the kindness of Mr. Barnaby's adoption of the
desolate girl, it must be remembered that neither he nor his wife had
any knowledge of the scene which passed between Miss Compton and her
brother before his death, neither had they the least idea that the old
lady possessed anything beyond her original moiety of the Compton Basett
estate; and they both believed her to be so capricious as to render it
very probable (although it was remembered she had once talked of leaving
it to those who had claims on her) that some of the poor of her parish
might eventually become her heirs,--an idea which the unaccountable
dislike she appeared to have taken to Agnes greatly tended to confirm.

Once during the time that remained for her continuance with the Wilmots,
Agnes paid a fortnight's visit to the abode she was now taught to
consider as her home: the next time she entered it, (a few weeks only
before the period fixed for the termination of her studies,) she was
summoned thither by the very sudden death of her excellent and valuable
friend Mr. Barnaby. This event produced an entire and even violent
change in her prospects and manner of life, as well as in those of her
aunt; and it is from this epoch that the narrative promised by the
title of "The Widow Barnaby" actually commences, the foregoing pages
being only a necessary prologue to the appearance of my heroine in that
character.




CHAPTER X.

THE WIDOW BARNABY ENTERS ACTIVELY ON HER NEW EXISTENCE.--HER
WEALTH.--HER HAPPY PROSPECTS.--MRS. WILMOT VISITS MISS COMPTON, AND
OBTAINS LEAVE TO INTRODUCE AGNES WILLOUGHBY.


Mrs. Barnaby was really very sorry for the death of her husband, and
wept, with little or no effort, several times during the dismal week
that preceded his interment; but she was not a woman to indulge long in
so very unprofitable a weakness; and accordingly, as soon as the funeral
was over, and the will read, by which he left her sole executrix and
sole legatee of all he possessed, she very rationally began to meditate
upon her position, and upon the best mode of enjoying the many good
things which had fallen to her share.

She certainly felt both proud and happy as she thought of her
independence and her wealth. Of the first she unquestionably had as much
as it was possible for woman to possess, for no human being existed who
had any right whatever to control her. Of the second, her judgment would
have been more correct had she better understood the value of money.
Though it is hardly possible any day should pass without adding
something to the knowledge of all civilized beings on this subject, it
is nevertheless certain that there are two modes of education which lead
the mind in after life into very erroneous estimates respecting it. The
one is being brought up to spend exactly as much money as you please,
and the other having it deeply impressed on your mind that you are to
spend none at all. In the first case, it is long before the most
complete reverse of fortune can make the _ci-devant_ rich man understand
how a little money can be eked out, so as to perform the office of a
great deal; and in the last, the change from having no money to having
some will often, if it come suddenly, so puzzle all foregone
conclusions, as to leave the possessor wonderfully little power to
manage it discreetly.

The latter case was pretty nearly that of Mrs. Barnaby: when she learned
that her dear lost husband had left her uncontrolled mistress of
property to the amount of three hundred and seventy-two pounds per
annum, besides the house and furniture, the shop and all it contained,
she really felt as if her power in this life were colossal, and that she
might roam the world either for conquest or amusement, or sustain in
Silverton the style of a retired duchess, as might suit her fancy best.

Never yet had this lady's temper been so amiably placid, or so
caressingly kind, as during the first month of her widowhood. She gave
Agnes to understand that she wished to be considered as her mother, and
trusted that they should find in each other all the happiness and
affection which that tenderest of ties was so well calculated to
produce.

"It will not be my fault, Agnes," she said, "if such be not the case.
Thanks be to heaven, and my dear lost Barnaby, I have wealth enough to
consult both your pleasure and advantage in my future mode of life; and
be assured, my dear, that however much my own widowed feelings might
lead me to prefer the tranquil consolations of retirement, I shall
consider it my duty to live more for you than for myself; and I will
indeed hasten, in spite of my feelings, to lay aside these sad weeds,
that I may be able, with as little delay as possible, to give you such
an introduction to the world as my niece has a right to expect."

Agnes was at a loss what to reply; she had still all the frank
straight-forwardness of a child who has been educated by unaffected,
sensible people, and yet she knew that she must not on this occasion say
quite what she thought, which would probably have been,--

"Pray, don't fancy that I want you to throw aside your widow's weeds for
me, aunt.... I don't believe you are one half as sorry for uncle
Barnaby's death as I am".... But fortunately there was no mixture of
_bêtise_ in her frankness; and though it might have been beyond her
power to express any great satisfaction at being thus addressed, she
had no difficulty in saying,--"You are very kind to me, aunt," for this
was true.

Notwithstanding this youthful frankness of mind, however, Agnes had by
this time lost in a great measure that very childish look which
distinguished her at the time her appearance so little pleased the
fastidious taste of Miss Compton. She was still indeed in very good
health, which was indicated by a colour as fresh, and almost as delicate
too, as that of the wild rose; but her rapid growth during the last two
years had quite destroyed the offensive "roundness," and her tall,
well-made person, gave as hopeful a promise as could be wished for of
womanly grace and beauty. The fair face was already the very perfection
of loveliness; and had the secretly proud Miss Compton seen her as she
walked in her deep heavy mourning beside her wide-spreading aunt to
church, on the Sunday when that lady first restored herself to the
public eye, she might perchance have thought, that not only was she
worthy to inherit Compton Basett and all its accumulated rents, but any
other glory and honour that this little earth of ours could bestow.

       *       *       *       *       *

A feeling of strong mutual affection between the parties, led both the
Wilmot family and Agnes to petition earnestly that the few weeks which
remained of the stipulated (and already paid for) five years, might be
completed; and Mrs. Barnaby, though it was really somewhat against her
inclination, consented.

But though she had not desired this renewed absence of her niece, the
notable widow determined to put it to profit, and set about a final
arrangement of all her concerns with an activity that proved good Mr.
Barnaby quite right in not having troubled her with any assistant
executor.

She soon contrived to learn who it was who wished to succeed her "dear
Barnaby," and managed matters so admirably well as to make the eager
young man pay for the house, furniture, shop, &c. &c., about half as
much again as they were worth, cleverly contriving, moreover, to retain
possession for three months.

This important business being settled, she set herself earnestly and
deliberately to consider what, when these three months should be
expired, she should do with her freedom, her money, herself, and her
niece. In deciding upon this question, she called none to counsel, for
she had sense enough to avow to herself that she should pay not the
slightest attention to any opinion but her own. In silence and in
solitude, therefore, she pondered upon the future; and, to assist her
speculations, she drew forth from the recesses of an old-fashioned
bureau sundry documents and memoranda relative to the property
bequeathed to her by her husband.

It was evident that her income would now somewhat exceed four hundred
a-year, and this appeared to her amply sufficient to assist the schemes
already working in her head for future aggrandizement, but by no means
equal to what she felt her beauty and her talents gave her a right to
hope for.

"It is, however, a handsome income," thought she, "and such a one as,
with my person, may, and must, if properly made use of, lead to all I
wish!"...

Mrs. Barnaby had once heard it said by a clever man, that human wishes
might oftener be achieved, did mortals better know how to set about
obtaining them.

"First," said the oracle, "let him be sure to find out what his wishes
really are. This ascertained, let him, in the second place, employ all
his acuteness to discover what is required for their fulfilment.
Thirdly, let him examine himself and his position, in order to decide
how much he, or it, can contribute towards this. Fourthly, let him
subtract the sum of the capabilities he possesses from the total of
means required. Fifthly, let him learn by, with, and in his heart of
hearts, what it is that constitutes the remainder; and sixthly, and
lastly, let him gird up the loins of his resolution, and start forth
DETERMINED to acquire them. Whoso doeth this, shall _seldom_ fail."

In the course of her visitings, military friendships and all included,
Mrs. Barnaby, even in the small arena of Silverton, had heard several
wise things in her day; but none of them ever produced such lasting
effect as the words I have just quoted. They touched some chord within
her that vibrated, ... not indeed with such a thrill as they might have
made to ring along the nerves of a fine creature new to life, and
emulous of all things good and great, but with a little sharp twitch,
just at that point of the brain where self-love expands itself into a
mesh of ways and means, instinct with will, to catch all it can that may
be brought home to glut the craving for enjoyment; and so pregnant did
they seem to her of the only wisdom that she wished to master, that her
memory seized upon them with extraordinary energy, nor ever after
relinquished its hold.

Little, however, could it profit her at the time she heard it; but she
kept it, "like an ape in the corner of his jaw, first mouthed, to be
last swallowed."

It was upon these words that she now pondered. Her two elbows set on the
open bureau, her legs stretched under it, her lips resting upon the
knuckles of her clasped hands, and her eyes fixed in deep abstraction on
the row of pigeonholes before her, she entered upon a sort of
self-catechism which ran thus:--

_Q._ What is it that I most wish for on earth?

_A._ A rich and fashionable husband.

_Q._ What is required to obtain this?

_A._ Beauty, fortune, talents, and a free entrance into good society.

_Q._ Do I possess any of these?... and which?

_A._ I possess beauty, fortune, and talents.

_Q._ What remains wanting?

_A._ A free entrance into good society.

"TRUE!" she exclaimed aloud, "it is that I want, and it is that I must
procure."

Notwithstanding her sanguine estimate of herself, the widow, when she
arrived at this point, was fain to confess that she did not exactly know
how this necessary addition to her ways and means was to be acquired.
Beyond the town of Silverton, and a thinly inhabited circuit of a mile
or two round it, she had not a personal acquaintance in the world. This
was a very perplexing consideration for a lady determined upon finding
her way into the first circles, but its effect was rather to strengthen
than relax her energies.

There was, however, one person, and she truly believed one only in the
wide world, who might, at her first setting out upon her progress, be
useful to her. This was a sister of Mr. Barnaby's, married to a
clothier, whose manufactory was at Frome, but whose residence was
happily at Clifton near Bristol. She had never seen this lady, or any of
her family, all intercourse between the brother and sister having of
late years consisted in letters, not very frequent, and the occasional
interchange of presents,--a jar of turtle being now and then forwarded
by mail from Bristol, and dainty quarters of Exmoor mutton, and tin pots
of clouted cream, returned from Silverton.

Nevertheless Mrs. Peters was her sister-in-law just as much as if they
had lived next door to each other for the last five years; and she had,
of course, a right to all the kindness and hospitality so near a
connexion demands.

A clothier's wife, to be sure, was not exactly the sort of person she
would have chosen, had choice been left her; but it was better than
nothing, infinitely better; ... "and besides," as the logical widow's
head went on to reason, "she may introduce me to people above
herself.... At a public place, too, like Clifton, it must be so easy!
And then every new acquaintance I make will serve to lead on to
another.... I am not so shy but I can turn all accidents to account; and
I am not such a fool as to stand at one end of a room, when I ought to
be at the other...."

Mrs. Barnaby never quoted Shakspeare, or she would probably have added
here,--

"Why, then the world's mine oyster, which I with _wit_ will open," for
it was with some such thought that her soliloquy ended.

Day by day the absence of Agnes wore away, and day after day saw some
business preparatory to departure dispatched. Sometimes the hours were
winged by her having to pull about all the finery in her possession,
and dividing it into portions, some to be abandoned for ever, some to be
enveloped with reverend care in cotton and silver paper for her future
use, and some to be given to the favoured Agnes.

While such cares occupied her hands, her thoughts naturally enough
hurried forward to the time when she should lay aside her weeds. This
was a dress so hatefully unbecoming in her estimation, that she firmly
believed the inventor of it must have been actuated by some feeling akin
to that which instituted the horrible Hindoo rite of which she had
heard, whereby living wives were sacrificed to their departed husbands.

"Only!" she cried, bursting out into involuntary thanksgiving, "ours,
thank God! is not for ever!"

To appear for the first time in the fashionable world in this frightful
disguise, was quite out of the question; and consequently she could not
make her purposed visit to Clifton till the time was arrived for
throwing them off, and till ... to use her own words, "lilacs and greys
were possible".... Yet there were other considerations that had weight
with her too.

"His sister, however, shall just see me in my widow's weeds," thought
she; "it may touch her heart perhaps, and must make her feel how very
nearly we are related; ... but before any living soul out of the family
can come near me, I will take care to look ... what I really am!... Six
months!... it must, I suppose, be six months first!... Dreadful bore!"

The first half of this probationary term was to be passed at
Silverton,--that was already wearing fast away,--and for the latter part
of it she determined to take lodgings in Exeter.

"Yes ... it shall be Exeter!" she exclaimed, and then added, with a
perfect quiver of delight, "Oh! what a difference now from what it was
formerly!... How well I remember the time when a journey to Exeter
appeared to me the very gayest thing in the world!... and now I should
no more think of staying there than a queen would think of passing her
life in her bed-room!"

The more she meditated on the future, indeed, the more enamoured did she
become of it, till at length, her affairs being very nearly all brought
to a satisfactory conclusion, a restless sort of impatience seized upon
her; and nearly a fortnight before the time fixed for the return of
Agnes she wrote a very peremptory letter of recall, but altogether
omitted to point out either the mode of conveyance, or the protection
she deemed necessary for her during the journey.

Perhaps Mrs. Wilmot was not sorry for this, as it afforded her an excuse
for remaining herself to the last possible moment with a pupil who had
found the way to create almost a maternal interest in her heart, and
moreover gave her an opportunity of seeking an interview with the
singular but interesting recluse who five years before had placed in her
hands the endearing, though ignorant little girl, whose education had
proved a task so unusually pleasing.

The principal reason, however, for Mrs. Wilmot's wishing to pay Miss
Compton a visit, arose from the description Agnes had given of her
conduct towards her, and of the system of non-intercourse which it was
so evidently the little lady's intention to maintain.

Without having uttered a word resembling fault-finding or complaint,
Agnes had somehow or other made the Wilmots feel that, though aunt Betsy
certainly did not like her, she liked aunt Betsy a great deal better
than she did aunt Barnaby; and this, added to the favourable impression
Miss Compton had herself left upon their minds, made the good Mrs.
Wilmot exceedingly anxious that she should not remain ignorant of the
treasure she possessed in her young relation.

The delay of a few days before Mrs. Wilmot could take her pupil home,
was inevitable; and when they arrived Mrs. Barnaby had bustled her
affairs into such a state of forwardness, that, though she received
them without any great appearance of melancholy or ill-humour, she
hinted pretty plainly that Agnes came too late to be of much use to her
in packing.

Mrs. Wilmot made a very sufficient apology for the delay, and then took
leave, saying that she should remain in Silverton that night, and drive
out the next morning to pay her compliments to Miss Compton. The bare
mention of the spinster's name at once converted the widow's civility
into rudeness; she offered her guest neither refreshment nor
accommodation of any kind; and poor Agnes had the pain of seeing her
dearest friend depart to pass the night at an inn, when she would have
gladly stood by to watch her slumbers all night, might she have offered
her own bed for her use.

On the following morning Mrs. Wilmot paid her purposed visit to Miss
Compton, and found her, in dress, occupation, and mode of life, so
precisely what she has been described before, that not a word need be
added on the subject. Greatly different, however, was the welcome she
accorded that lady to what we have formerly seen her bestow upon her
relatives. She greeted her, indeed, with a smile so cordial, and a tone
of voice so pleasantly expressive of the satisfaction her visit gave,
that it was only when the object of it was brought forward, that Mrs.
Wilmot, too, discovered that Miss Compton could be a very cross little
old lady when she chose it.

"I shall quite long, my dear madam, to hear your opinion of my pupil,"
said Mrs. Wilmot, "for I cannot but flatter myself that you will be
delighted with her."

"Then ask me nothing about her, ma'am, if you please," replied the
recluse.

"But it is near two years, Miss Compton, since you saw her, and she is
wonderfully improved in that time," said Mrs. Wilmot.... "Yet I own I
should have thought that even then, two years ago, when you did see her,
that you must have found her a very charming girl, full of sweetness and
intelligence, and with a face...."

"We had better say no more about her, if you please, Mrs. Wilmot,"
tartly interrupted the recluse.... "I dare say you made the best you
could of her, and it is no fault of yours that old Wisett's great
grand-daughter should be a Wisett; ... but I hate the very sight of her,
as I do, and have done, and ever shall do, that of all their kin and
kind ... so it is no good to talk of it...."

"The sight of her!..." reiterated the astonished Mrs. Wilmot. "Why, my
dear Miss Compton, she is reckoned by every one that sees her to be one
of the loveliest creatures that nature ever formed.... If her timid,
artless manners, do not please you, it is unfortunate; but that you
should not think her beautiful, is impossible."

"I beg your pardon, ma'am ... I should not care a straw for the manners
of a child, for I know that time and care might change them, ... but it
is her person that I can't endure; ... there is no disputing about
taste, you know. I should not have thought, indeed, that she was quite
the style for you to admire so violently; ... but, of course, that is
nothing to me.... I know that the look of her eyes, and the colour of
her cheeks, is exactly what I think the most detestable; ... there is no
right or wrong in the matter ... it is all fancy, and the sight of her
makes me sick.... Pray, ma'am, say no more about her."

There was but one way in which Mrs. Wilmot could comprehend this
extraordinary antipathy to what was so little calculated to inspire it,
and this was by supposing that Miss Compton's personal deformity
rendered the sight of beauty painful to her; an interpretation, indeed,
as far as possible from the truth, for the little spinster was
peculiarly sensible to beauty of form and expression wherever she found
it; but it was the only explanation that suggested itself; and with
mingled feelings of pity and contempt, Mrs. Wilmot replied,--"There may
be no right or wrong, Miss Compton, in a judgment passed on external
appearance only, for it may, as you observe, be purely a matter of
taste; but surely it must be otherwise of an aversion conceived against
a near relative whose amiable disposition, faultless conduct, and
brilliant talents, justly entitle her to the love, esteem, and
admiration of the whole world.... This is not merely a matter of taste,
and in this there may be much wrong."

Miss Compton appeared struck by these words, but after pondering a
moment upon them, replied,--"And how can I tell, Mrs. Wilmot, but that
your judgment of this child's character and disposition may be as much
distorted by unreasonable partiality, as your opinion of her
vulgar-looking person?"

A new light here broke in upon the mind of Mrs. Wilmot; she remembered
the remarkable plumpness of the little Agnes before she made that sudden
start in her growth which, in the course of two important years, had
converted a clumsy-looking child into a tall, slight, elegantly made
girl; and with greatly increased earnestness of manner she answered,--

"I only ask you to see her once, Miss Compton.... I have no wish
whatever that your judgment should be influenced by mine with respect
either to the person or the mind of Agnes Willoughby; but I greatly
wish that your own opinion of her should be formed upon what she now is,
and not upon what she has been. I am sure you must feel that this is
reasonable.... Will you then promise me that you will see her?"

"I will," ... replied Miss Compton. "The request is reasonable, and I
promise to comply with it. Yet it can only be on one condition, Mrs.
Wilmot."

"And what is that, Miss Compton?"

"That I may see her without her horrid aunt Barnaby."

Mrs. Wilmot smiled involuntarily, but answered gravely, "Of course, Miss
Compton, that must be as you please.... Rather than you should fail to
see my pretty Agnes, I will remain another day from home on purpose to
bring her to you myself. Will you receive us if we come over to you at
this hour to-morrow morning?"

"I will," ... again replied the recluse; "and whatever may be the result
of the interview, I shall hold myself indebted to the kind feelings
which have led you to insist upon it."

"Thank you, thank you!" said Mrs. Wilmot, rising to take her leave.
"To-morrow, then, you will see me again, with my young charge."




CHAPTER XI.

AN IMPORTANT CORRESPONDENCE, AND AN IMPORTANT INTERVIEW.


On returning to her solitary quarters at the King's Head, Mrs. Wilmot
called for pen, ink, and paper, and wrote the following note to her
young pupil.

     "MY DEAR AGNES,

     "I am just returned from a visit to Compton Basett, where I was
     very kindly received by your aunt. She wishes to see you before
     you leave the neighbourhood, and I have promised to take you to
     her to-morrow morning; I will therefore call at eleven o'clock,
     when I hope I shall find you ready to accompany me. With
     compliments to Mrs. Barnaby, believe me, dear Agnes,

     "Affectionately yours,

     "MARY WILMOT."

To this epistle she speedily received the following answer.

     "MRS. BARNABY presents her compliments to Mrs. Wilmot, and begs
     to know if there is any reason why she should not join the
     party to Compton Basett to-morrow morning? If not, she requests
     Mrs. Wilmot's permission to accompany her in the drive, as the
     doing so will be a considerable convenience; Mrs. Barnaby
     wishing to pay her duty to her aunt before she leaves the
     country."

To return a negative to this request was disagreeable: being absolutely
necessary, however, it was done without delay; but it was with burning
cheeks and flashing eyes that Mrs. Barnaby read the following civil
refusal.

     "MRS. WILMOT regrets extremely that she is under the necessity
     of declining the company of Mrs. Barnaby to-morrow morning, but
     Miss Compton expressly desired that Agnes should be brought to
     her alone."

To this Mrs. Barnaby replied,--

     "As Mrs. Wilmot has been pleased to take upon herself the
     office of go between, she is requested to inform Miss Betsy
     Compton, that the aunt who has adopted Agnes Willoughby,
     intends to bestow too much personal care upon her, to permit
     her paying any visits in which she cannot accompany her."

       *       *       *       *       *

The vexed and discomfited Mrs. Wilmot returned to Compton Basett with
these two notes in her hand instead of the pretty Agnes, and her
mortification was very greatly increased by perceiving that the
disappointment of the old lady fully equalled her own. This obvious
sympathy of feeling led to a more confidential intercourse than had
ever before taken place between the solitary heiress and any other
person whatever; so contrary, indeed, was this species of frank
communication to her habits, that it was produced rather by the
necessity of giving vent to her angry feelings, than for the
gratification of confessing any other.

In reply to her first indignant burst of resentment, Mrs. Wilmot said,--

"I lament the consequences of this ill-timed impertinence, for my poor
pupil's sake, more than it is easy for me to explain to you, Miss
Compton.... Do me the justice to believe that I am not in the habit of
interfering in the family concerns of my pupils, and then you will be
better able to appreciate the motives and feelings which still lead me
to urge you not to withdraw your protection and kindness from Agnes
Willoughby."

"I do believe that your motives are excellent; and I can believe, too,
that if your pupil deserve half you have said of her, the protection and
kindness even of such a being as myself might be more beneficial to her
than being left at the mercy of this hateful, vulgar-minded woman....
But what would you have me do, Mrs. Wilmot?... You would not ask me to
leave my flowers, my bees, my books, and my peaceful home, to keep watch
over Mrs. Barnaby, and see that she does not succeed in making this poor
girl as detestable as herself?... You would not expect me to do this,
would you?"

"No, Miss Compton; no one, I think, would willingly impose such a task
upon you as that of watching Mrs. Barnaby. But I see no objection to
your watching Agnes."

"And how is the one to be done without the other? It is quite natural
that the child of one of Miss Martha Wisett's daughters, should live
with the other of them. My relationship to this girl is remote in
comparison to hers."

"Miss Compton," replied Mrs. Wilmot, "I fear that my acquaintance with
you hardly justifies the pertinacity with which I feel disposed to urge
this point; but, indeed, it is of vital importance to one that I very
dearly love, and one whom you would dearly love too, would you permit
yourself to know her."

"Do not apologise to me for the interest you take in her," returned the
old lady in a tone rather more encouraging.... "There is more need,
perhaps, that I should apologise for the want of it ... and ... to say
truth," she added after a considerable pause, "I have no objection to
explain my motives to you, ... though it has never fallen in my way
before to meet any one to whom I wished to do this. My life has been an
odd one; ... though surrounded by human beings with whom I have lived on
the most friendly terms, I have passed my existence, as to anything like
companionship, entirely alone. I have never been dull, for I have read
incessantly, and altogether I think it likely that I have been happier
than most people. But in the bosom of this unrepining solitude it is
likely enough that I have nursed opinions into passions, and distastes
into hatred. Thus, Mrs. Wilmot, the reasonable opinion that I set out
with, for instance, when inheriting my father's long-descended acres,
that it was my duty in all things to sustain as much as in me lay the
old claim to gentle blood which attached to my race, (injured, perhaps,
in some degree, by this division of its patrimony in my favour,) even
this reasonable opinion, Mrs. Wilmot, has by degrees grown, perhaps,
into unreasonable strength; for I would rather, madam, press age and
ugliness remarkable as my own to my heart, as the acknowledged
descendant of that race, than a vulgar, coarse-minded, coarse-looking
thing, though she were as buxom as Martha Wisett when my poor silly
brother married her."

The latter part of this speech was uttered with great rapidity, and an
appearance of considerable excitement; but this quickly subsided, and
the little spinster became as pale and composed as usual, while she
listened to Mrs. Wilmot's quiet accents in reply.

"There is nothing to surprise me in this, Miss Compton; the feeling is a
very natural one. But the more strongly it is expressed, the more
strongly must I wonder at your permitting the sole descendant of your
ancient race to be left at the mercy of a Mrs. Barnaby."

Not all the eloquence in the world could have gone so far towards
obtaining the object Mrs. Wilmot had in view as this concluding phrase.

"You are right!... excellent woman!... You are right, and I deserve to
see my father's acres peopled by a race of Barnaby's.... I will save
her!..."

But here the poor old lady stopped. A sudden panic seized her, and she
sat for several minutes positively trembling at the idea that she might
unadvisedly take some step which should involve her in the horrible
necessity of being encumbered for the rest of her life with a companion
whose looks or manner might remind her of a Martha Wisett, or a Mrs.
Barnaby.

"I dare not do it!" she exclaimed at last. "Do not ask it ... do not
force me; ... or, at any rate, contrive to let me see her first, in a
shop, or in the street, or any way.... I can decide on nothing till I
have seen her!"

"I would do anything within my power to arrange this for you," replied
Mrs. Wilmot; "but I cannot delay my return beyond to-morrow; nor do I
believe that my agency would render this more easy. Why should you not
at once call on both your nieces, Miss Compton? There would be no
difficulty in this, and it would give you the best possible opportunity
of judging both of the appearance and manners of Agnes."

"Both my nieces!... no difficulty!... You understand little or nothing
of my feelings.... But go home, go home, Mrs. Wilmot. Do your own duty,
which is a plain one, ... and leave me to find out mine, if I can."

"You will not, then, abandon the idea of seeing this poor girl, Miss
Compton?"

"No, I will not," was the reply, pronounced almost solemnly.

"Then, farewell! my dear madam; I can ask no more than this, except,
indeed, your forgiveness for having asked thus much so perseveringly."

"I thank you for it, Mrs. Wilmot.... I believe you are a very good
woman, and I will endeavour to act, if God will give me grace, as I
think you would approve, if you could read all the feelings of my heart.
Farewell!"

And so they parted; the active, useful matron to receive the eager
welcome of her expecting family, and the solitary recluse to the
examination of her own thoughts, which were alternately both sweet and
bitter, sometimes cheering her with a vision of domestic happiness and
endearment to soothe her declining age, and sometimes making her shudder
as she fancied her tranquil existence invaded and destroyed by the
presence of one whom she might strive in vain to love.




CHAPTER XII.

CHOOSING A LADY'S-MAID.--A HAPPY MEETING UNHAPPILY BROKEN IN UPON.--MISS
COMPTON UTTERS A LONG FAREWELL TO AGNES.


Mrs. Wilmot did not leave Silverton without taking an affectionate leave
of Agnes, and when this was over, the poor girl felt herself wholly, and
for ever, consigned to the authority and companionship of Mrs. Barnaby.
It would be difficult to trace out the cause of the sharp pang which
this conviction brought with it; but it was strong enough at that moment
to rob the future of all the bright tints through which eyes of sixteen
are apt to look at it. She cherished, certainly, a deep feeling of
gratitude for the kindness that afforded her a home; but, unhappily, she
cherished also a feeling equally strong, that it was less easy to repay
the obligation with affection than with gratitude.

Not a syllable had been said to her by Mrs. Wilmot respecting the
interview she was still likely to have with her aunt Compton; for she
had promised this secrecy to the nervous and uncertain old lady, who,
while trembling with anxious impatience to see this important niece,
shrunk before the difficulties she foresaw in finding such an
opportunity as she sought, for she still resolutely persevered in her
determination not to see Mrs. Barnaby with her; ... but yet, when
finally she did contrive to come within sight of the poor girl, it was
exactly under the circumstances she so earnestly wished to avoid.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. Barnaby, in her often meditated estimate of revenue and expenses,
had arrived at the conclusion that she ought not to travel without a
maid, but that the said maid must be hired at the lowest rate of wages
possible. The necessity for this addition to her suite did not arise
from any idle wish for personal attendance, to which she had never been
much accustomed, but from the conviction that there was something in the
sound of "my maid" which might be of advantage to her on many occasions.

The finding out and engaging a girl that might enact the character of
lady's-maid showily and cheaply, was the most important thing still left
to be done before they quitted Silverton. The first qualification was a
tall person, that might set off to advantage such articles of the
widow's cast-off finery as might be unnecessary for Agnes; the next, a
willingness to accept low wages.

While meditating on the subject, it occurred to Mrs. Barnaby that one of
the girls she had seen walking in procession to church with the
charity-school, was greatly taller than all the rest, and, in fact, so
remarkably long and lanky, that she felt convinced she might, if
skilfully dressed up, pass extremely well for a stylish lady's-maid.

Delighted at the idea, she immediately summoned Agnes to walk with her
to the school-house, which was situated outside the town, about a mile,
on the road leading to Compton Basett. On reaching the building, her
knock was answered by the schoolmistress herself, who civilly asked her
commands.

"I must come in, Mrs. Sims, before I can tell you," was the reply, and
it was quite true; for, as Mrs. Barnaby knew not the name of her
intended Abigail, the only mode of entering upon her business, must be
by pointing out the girl whose length of limb had attracted her. But no
sooner had she passed the threshold than she perceived the long and
slender object of her search immediately opposite to her, in the act of
taking down a work-basket from the top of a high commode; which
manoeuvre, as it placed her on tip-toe, and obliged her to stretch out
her longitude to the very utmost, displayed her to the eyes of Mrs.
Barnaby to the greatest possible advantage, and convinced her very
satisfactorily that her judgment had not erred.

"That is the girl I wanted to speak about," she said, pointing to the
lizard-like figure opposite to her. "What is her name, Mrs. Sims?"

"This one, ma'am, as is fetching my basket?" interrogated Mrs. Sims in
her turn.

"Yes, that one ... that tall girl.... What is her name?"

"Betty Jacks, ma'am, is her name."

"Jacks?" repeated Mrs. Barnaby, a little disconcerted; "Jacks!... that
won't do.... I can never call her Jacks; but for that matter, I could
give her another name easy enough, to be sure.... And what is she good
for?... what can she do?"

"Not over much of anything, ma'am. She was put late to me. But she can
read, and iron a little, and can do plain work well enough when she
chooses it."

"When she chooses it!... and she'll be sure to choose it, I suppose,
when she goes to service. I want a girl to wait upon me, and to sew for
me when she has nothing else to do, and I think this one will do for me
very well."

"I ask your pardon, ma'am," replied Mrs. Sims, "but if I might make so
bold, I would just say that for a notable, tidy, good girl, Sally
Wilkins there, that one at the end of the form, is far before Betty
Jacks in being likely to suit."

"What!... that little thing? Why, she is a baby, Mrs. Sims."

"She is eleven months older than Betty Jacks, ma'am, and greatly beyond
her in every way."

"But I don't like the look of such a little thing. The other would do
for what I want much better. Come here, Betty Jacks. Should you like to
go out to service with a lady who would take care that you should always
be well dressed, and let you travel about with her, and see a great deal
of the world?"

"Yes, my lady," replied the young maypole, grinning from ear to ear, and
shewing thereby a very fine set of teeth.

"Well, then, Betty Jacks, I think we shall suit each other very well.
But I shan't call you Betty though, nor Jacks either ... mind that. You
won't care about it, I suppose, if I find out some pretty,
genteel-sounding name for you, will you?"

"No, my lady!" responded the delighted girl.

"Very well; ... and I will give you three pounds a year wages, and good
clothes enough to make you look a deal better than ever you did before.
What do you say to it?"

"I'll be glad to come, and thankye, too, my lady, if father will let
me."

"Who is her father, Mrs. Sims?"

"Joe Jacks the carpenter, ma'am."

"I don't suppose he is likely to make much objection to her getting such
a place as mine, is he?"

"That is what I can't pretend to say, ma'am," replied the schoolmistress
very gravely.... "I don't think Betty over steady myself, but of course
it is no business of mine, and it will be far best that you should see
Joe Jacks yourself, ma'am, and hear what he says about it."

"To be sure; ... and where can I see him?"

"He'll be certain to be here to-morrow morning, ma'am, for he'll come to
be paid for the bench he made for me; and if so be you would take the
trouble to call again just about one, when Betty will be going home with
him for the half holiday they always haves of a Saturday, why then,
ma'am, you'd be quite sure to see him, and hear what he'd got to say."

"Very well, then, that will do, and we shall certainly walk over again
to-morrow, if the weather is anything like fine.--Good morning to you,
Mrs. Sims!... Mind what I have said to you, Betty; this is a fine chance
for you, and so you must tell your father. Come along, Agnes."

It so chanced that within half an hour of their departure Miss Compton
also paid a visit to the school. Mrs. Sims was one of the persons whom
she had saved from severe, and probably lasting penury, by one of those
judicious loans, which, never being made without good and sufficient
knowledge of the party accommodated, were sure to be repaid, and
enabled her to perform a most essential benefit without any pecuniary
loss whatever.

There were no excursions which gave the old lady so much pleasure as
those which enabled her to contemplate the good effects of this rational
species of benevolence, and farmer Wright never failed to offer her a
place in his chaise-cart whenever his business took him near any of the
numerous cottages where this agreeable spectacle might greet her. On the
present occasion he set her down at the door of the school-house, while
he called upon a miller at no great distance; and Mrs. Sims, who was
somewhat disturbed in mind by the visit and schemes of Mrs. Barnaby, no
sooner saw her enter than she led her through the throng of young
stitchers and spellers to the tidy little parlour behind.

"Well, now, Miss Compton, you are kindly welcome," she said; "and I wish
with all my heart you had been here but a bit ago, for who should we
have here, ma'am, but your own niece, Mrs. Barnaby."

Miss Compton knit her brows with an involuntary frown.

"And that sweet, pretty creature, Miss Willoughby, comed with her....
She is a beauty, to be sure, if ever there was one."

"What did they come for, Mrs. Sims?" inquired Miss Compton with sudden
animation.

"Why, that is just what I want to tell you, ma'am, and to ask your
advice about. She come here--Mrs. Barnaby I mean--to look after that
saucy Betty Jacks, by way of taking her to be her servant, and
travelling about with her; and, upon my word, Miss Compton, she might
just as well take my cat there, for any good or use she's likely to be
of: and besides that, ma'am, I have no ways a good opinion of the
child,--for child she is, though she's such a monster in tallness;--she
does not speak the truth, Miss Compton, and that's what I can't abide,
and I don't think she'll do me any credit in any way; ... but yet I'm
afraid it would be doing a bad action if I was to stand in the girl's
light, and prevent her going, by telling all the ill I think of her,
when they comes again to-morrow to settle about it."

Mrs. Sims ceased, and certainly expected a decided opinion from Miss
Compton on the subject, for that lady had kept her eyes fixed upon her,
and appeared to be listening with very profound attention; but the only
reply was, "And do you think the girl will come with her?"

"Come with who, ma'am?"

"With Mrs. Barnaby, to be sure."

"Oh no, ma'am! she won't come with her.... She will go home, as usual,
to-night, and is to come back to meet the ladies here, a little after
noon to-morrow, with her father."

"But Agnes ... Miss Willoughby I mean, ... are you sure she will come
back with her aunt to-morrow?"

"I am sure I can't say, ma'am, ... but I think she will; for I well
remember Mrs. Barnaby said with her grand way, ... 'We will walk over
to-morrow if the weather be anyways fine.'"

Miss Compton now seemed sunk in profound meditation, of which Mrs. Sims
fully hoped to reap the fruits; but once more she was disappointed, for
when Miss Compton again spoke, it was only to say,--

"I want to see Agnes Willoughby, Mrs. Sims, and I do not want to see
Mrs. Barnaby. Do you think you could manage this for me, if I come here
again to-morrow?"

"I am sure, ma'am," replied Mrs. Sims, looking a little surprised and a
little puzzled--"I am sure there is nothing that I am not in duty bound
to do for you, if done it can be; and if you will be pleased to say how
the thing shall be managed, I will do my part with a right good will to
make everything go as you wish."

This was a very obliging reply, but it shewed Miss Compton that she must
trust to her own ingenuity for discovering the ways and means for
putting her design in practice. After thinking about it a little, and
looking round upon the locale, she said,--

"I will tell you how it must be. I will be here to-morrow before the
time you have named to them, and you shall place me in this room. When
Mrs. Barnaby is engaged in talking to the girl and her father, take
Agnes by the hand and lead her in to me, saying, if you will, that you
have something you wish her to see, ... which will be no more than the
truth. If Mrs. Barnaby happens to hear this, and offers to follow, then,
as you value my friendship, close the door and lock it,--never mind what
she thinks of it.... I will take care her anger shall do you no harm."

"Oh dear, ma'am! I'm not the least afraid of Mrs. Barnaby's anger, ...
nor do I expect she will take any notice. She seems so very hot upon
having that great awkward hoyden, Betty Jacks, that I don't think, when
she is engaged with the father about it, she will be likely to take much
heed of Miss Agnes and me. But at any rate, Miss Compton, I'll take good
care, ma'am, that she shan't come a-near you. And now, ma'am, will you
be so good as to tell me if you think I shall be doing a sin letting
this idle hussy set off travelling with her?"

"No sin at all, Mrs. Sims," replied Miss Compton with decision. "Let the
girl be what she may, depend upon it she is quite ..." but here she
stopped; adding a minute after, "Do go, Mrs. Sims, and see if farmer
Wright's cart is come back."

A few minutes more brought the humble vehicle to the door, when the
heiress climbed to her accustomed place in it, and gave herself up to
meditation so unusually earnest, as not only to defeat all the good
farmer's respectful attempts at conversation, but to occupy her for one
whole hour after her return, and that so completely as to prevent her
from opening her half-read volume, though that volume was Walter
Scott's.

Thoughts and schemes were working and arranging themselves in her head,
which were, in truth, important enough to demand some leisure for their
operations. This "_beauty if ever there was one_," this poor motherless
and father-forgotten Agnes, this inevitable heiress of the Compton
acres, ought she, because she had found her short and fat two years
before, to abandon her to the vulgar patronage of the hateful Mrs.
Barnaby? A blush of shame and repentance mantled her pale cheek as this
question presented itself, and she acknowledged to her own heart the sin
and folly of the prejudice which had led her to turn away from the only
being connected with her, to whom she could be useful. She remembered,
too, in this hour of self-examination and reproach, that the father of
this ill-treated girl was a gentleman; and that she ought, therefore, to
have been kindly fostered by the last of the Comptons as a
representative more worthy to revive their antiquated claims to
patrician rank, than could have been reasonably expected from any
descendant of her brother Josiah.

These thoughts having been sufficiently dwelt upon, examined, and
acknowledged to be just, the arrangement of her future conduct was next
to be considered; and, notwithstanding the singularly secluded life she
had led, the little lady was far from being ignorant of the entire
change it would be her duty to make in the whole manner of her
existence, should she decide upon taking Agnes Willoughby from Mrs.
Barnaby, and becoming herself her sole guardian and protectress.

Could she bear this?... and could she afford it? The little,
weak-looking, but wirey frame of the spinster, had a spirit within it of
no inconsiderable firmness; and the first of these questions was soon
answered by a mentally ejaculated "I WILL," which, in sincerity and
intensity of purpose, was well worth the best vow ever breathed before
the altar. For the solution of the other, the old lady turned to her
account books, and found the leading items in the column of receipts to
be as follows:--

                                                                 £.

    By annual rent from the Compton Basett farm                  600
    By interest on 12,000_l._ in the Three per Cents             360
    By interest on 1800_l._ lent on mortgage at 5_l._
      per cent.                                                   90
    By interest on 6000_l._ lent on mortgage at 4_l._
      per cent.                                                  240
    By interest on 2500_l._ lent on mortgage at 5_l._
      per cent.                                                  125
                                                               -----
                                                               £1415

Of this income, (the last item of which, however, had been entered only
three weeks before, being the result of the latest appropriation of her
savings,) Miss Compton spent not one single farthing, nor had done so
since the payment in advance of three hundred and fifty pounds to Mrs.
Wilmot for the education and dress of Agnes. In fact, the profits
arising from the honey she sold, fully furnished all the cash she
wanted; as her stipulated supplies from the farm amounted very nearly to
all that her ascetic table required.... She used neither tea nor wine,
milk supplying their place.... She had neither rent, taxes, nor
servants, to pay; and her toilet, though neat to admiration, cost less
than any lady would believe possible, who had not studied the enduring
nature of stout and simple habiliments, when worn as Miss Compton wore
them.

Such being the facts, it might be imagined that a schedule like the
above would have appeared to such a possessor of such an income a
sufficient guarantee against any possible pecuniary embarrassment from
inviting one young girl to share it with her. But Miss Compton, as she
sat in her secluded bower, had for years been looking out upon the
fashionable world through the powerful though somewhat distorting
_lunette d'approche_ furnished by modern novels; and if she had acquired
no other information thereby, she at least had learned to estimate with
some tolerable degree of justness the difference between the expense of
living in the world, and out of it.

"If I do adopt her, and make her wholly mine," thought she, "it shall
not be for the purpose of forming her into a rich country-town miss....
She shall be introduced into the world, ... she shall improve whatever
talents Nature may have given her by lessons from the best masters; ...
her dress shall be that of a well-born woman of good fortune, and she
shall be waited upon as a gentlewoman ought to be. Can I do all this,
and keep her a carriage besides, for fourteen hundred a-year?... No!..."
was uttered aloud by the deeply meditative old lady. "What then was she
to decide upon? Should she wait for two more years before she declared
her intentions, and by aid of the farther sum thus saved enable herself
to reach the point she aimed at?" Something that she took for prudence
very nearly answered "YES," but was checked by a burst of contrary
feeling that again found vent in words,--"And while I am saving hundreds
of pounds, may she not be acquiring thousands of vulgar habits that may
again quench all my hopes?... No; it shall be done at once." So at
length she laid her head on her pillow resolved to take her heiress
immediately under her own protection ... (provided always that the
examination which was to take place on the morrow should not prove that
the Wisett style of beauty was unbearably predominant,) and that having
arranged with her honest tenant some fair equivalent for her profitable
apiary, her lodgings, and her present allowances, she should take her at
once to London, devote one year to the completion of her education, and
leave it to fate and fortune to decide what manner of life they should
afterwards pursue.

For a little rustic old woman who had never in her life travelled beyond
the county town of her native shire, this plan was by no means ill
concocted, and must, I think, display very satisfactorily to all
unprejudiced eyes the great advantages to be derived from a long and
diligent course of novel-reading, as, without it, Miss Compton would,
most assuredly, never have discovered that fourteen hundred a-year was
insufficient to supply the expenses of herself and her young niece.

But, alas!... All this wisdom was destined to be blighted in the bud.

       *       *       *       *       *

Miss Compton was true to her appointment, and so was Mrs. Barnaby; the
fair Agnes, too, failed not to make her appearance; and moreover the
critical eyes of the old lady failed not to discover, at the very first
glance, that no trace of Wisett vulgarity was there to lessen the effect
of her exceeding loveliness. But all this was of no avail ... for the
matter went in this wise.

The first who arrived of the parties expected by Mrs. Sims, was Joe
Jacks the carpenter. His daughter Betty had given him such an account of
the proposal made to her, as caused him to be exceedingly anxious for
its acceptance; and he now came rather before the appointed time, in
order to hint pretty plainly to Mrs. Sims that he should take it very
ill, if she did not give a good word to help his troublesome Betty off
his hands.

Then came Miss Compton, who walked straight through the school-room, and
ensconced herself in the little parlour behind it, and in about ten
minutes afterwards the stately Mrs. Barnaby and her graceful companion
arrived also.

Mrs. Sims was by no means deficient in her manner of managing the little
intrigue intrusted to her; she waited very quietly till she perceived
Mrs. Barnaby completely occupied in making the carpenter understand,
that if she engaged to find shoes, shifts, and flannel petticoats for
his daughter, as well as all her finery, the wages could not be more
than two pounds.... And then she laid a gentle hand on Agnes, who, not
being particularly interested in the discussion, suffered herself to be
abducted without resistance, and in the next moment found herself in the
presence of Miss Compton.

The young girl knew her in a moment, for she had made a deep impression
on her memory, both by her kindness at one period, and her capricious
want of it at another. But far different was the effect of memory in the
old lady; for not only was she unable to recognize in the figure before
her the Agnes of her recollection, or rather of her fancy, but it was
not immediately that she could be made to believe in the identity.

"You do not mean to tell me, Mrs. Sims, that this young lady is Agnes
Willoughby?" said she, rising up, and really trembling from agitation.

"Dear me, yes, Miss Compton, to be sure it is."

"Do you not know me, dear aunt?" said Agnes, approaching her, and
timidly holding out her hand.

"Your aunt?... am I really your aunt?... Is it possible that you are my
poor brother's grandchild?"

"I am Agnes Willoughby," replied the young girl, puzzled and almost
frightened by the doubts and the agitation she witnessed.

"If you are!" exclaimed Miss Compton, suddenly embracing her, "I am a
more guilty creature than I ever thought to be!"

At this moment, and while the arms of the diminutive spinster were still
twined round the person of Agnes, who had just decided in her own mind
that her great-aunt was the most unintelligible person in the world, the
door of the little parlour opened with a jerk that shewed it yielded to
no weak hand, and the full-blown person of the widow Barnaby stood
before them. Her eyes and her rouge were as bright as ever, and her
sober cap and sable draperies vainly, as it should seem, endeavoured to
soften those peculiarities of the Wisett aspect against which Miss
Compton had sworn eternal hatred, for never had she appeared more
detestable; her usual bravura manner indeed was somewhat exaggerated by
her indignation at the concealment which had been attempted, and which
had been adroitly pointed out to her by the sharp-witted Betty Jacks.

"Soh!... you thought I should not find you out, I suppose!" she
exclaimed, as she shut the door behind her.

"God give me patience!" cried the irritated recluse, suddenly
disengaging herself from Agnes. "This is strange persecution, Mrs.
Barnaby," and as she spoke she endeavoured to effect her retreat. But
this could not be done in a straight direction, inasmuch as it required
a considerable circuit safely to weather either side of the expansive
widow; and before Miss Compton reached the door, that lady had so
established herself before it as to render her leaving the room without
permission absolutely impossible.

The time had been, when the hope of "getting something out of the little
hunch-back," would have enabled Mrs. Barnaby to put a very strong
restraint upon any feeling likely to offend her, but this was over. She
thought her turn was come now, and considered her own revenues and her
own position as so immeasurably superior to those of the little "old
woman clothed in grey" who stood shaking before her, that her pride
would never have forgiven her avarice had it led her to neglect this
favourable opportunity of displaying some of the contempt and scorn
which she had felt she had heretofore received from her.

"Upon my word, Miss Compton," she began, "I do really wonder you are not
ashamed of yourself, to come visiting this vulgar body Mrs. Sims,
instead of profiting by the notice of your own relations, which might do
you honour. And your dress, Miss Compton!... What must my niece, Miss
Willoughby, think, at seeing the sister of her own grandfather going
about in such a horrid, coarse, miserable stuff gown as that? We all
know how you have been squandering your little property upon the beggars
you get to flatter you, but that is no reason for behaving as you do
towards me. My excellent husband has left me in circumstances of such
affluence as might enable me to assist you by the gift of some of my own
clothes, if you conducted yourself as you ought to do."

This harangue would probably have been cut short, had Miss Compton
retained breath enough to articulate; but astonishment and indignation
almost choked her; instead of speaking, she stood still and panted, till
Agnes, inexpressibly shocked and terrified, moved a chair towards her,
and entreated her to sit down. Her only reply, however, was rudely
pushing Agnes and her chair aside, and then, with a sort of desperate
effort, exclaiming,--

"Woman!... Let me pass!"

"Oh! yes--you may pass and welcome," said Mrs. Barnaby, standing
aside.--"You have behaved to me from first to last more like a fiend
than an aunt, and I certainly shall not break my heart if I never set my
eyes on you again. Come, Agnes, my love, I have concluded my business in
this musty-smelling place, and now let us be gone.... Don't stand
fawning upon her.... I promise you it will be all in vain.... You will
get nothing by it, my dear."

Distressed beyond measure at this painful scene, and not well knowing
how to express the strong feeling which drew her to the side of Miss
Compton, Agnes stood timidly uncertain what she ought to do, when Mrs.
Barnaby's authoritative voice again uttered, "Come, my dear Agnes, I am
impatient to take you away from what I consider so very disgraceful a
meeting."

Thus painfully obliged to decide upon either taking leave of her older
relative, or of departing without it, Agnes turned again towards Miss
Compton, and silently bending down, offered to kiss her cheek. But the
angry old lady started away from her, saying,--"None of that, if you
please!--No fawning upon me. You are her '_dear love_,' and her '_dear
Agnes_,' ... and none such shall ever be graced or disgraced by me!" And
thus saying, she walked past the tittering Mrs. Barnaby, and out of the
house; preferring the chance of toiling two miles to reach her home,
rather than endure another moment passed under the same roof with her.




CHAPTER XIII.

MRS. BARNABY SETS FORTH ON HER TRAVELS.--THE READER TAKES LEAVE OF MISS
COMPTON.--MRS. BARNABY ENJOYS HER JOURNEY, AND ARRIVES SAFELY AT EXETER.


Within a week after this unfortunate interview, all Mrs. Barnaby's
earthly possessions, excepting her money, were deposited in the waggon
that travelled between Silverton and Exeter; and the day afterwards
herself, her niece, and her maid, whom she had surnamed Jerningham, (the
two former in the coach, and the latter on the top of it,) set forth on
their way to that fair and ancient city of the west.

Before we follow them thither, we must stop for a moment to bid a long
adieu to poor Miss Compton. Unfortunately for her temper, as well as her
limbs, farmer Wright did not over-take her till within a few yards of
their home; and the agitation and fatigue, both equally unusual to her,
so completely overpowered her strength and spirits, that having taken to
her bed as soon as she reached her room, she remained in it for above a
fortnight, being really feverish and unwell, but believing herself very
much worse than she really was. During the whole of this time, and
indeed for several months afterwards, she never attempted to separate
the innocent image of Agnes from the offensive one of Mrs. Barnaby. The
caress which the poor girl had offered with such true tenderness and
sympathy, was the only distinct idea respecting her that remained on the
mind of Miss Compton; and this suggested no feeling but that of
indignation, from the conviction that Mrs. Barnaby's "dear love," not a
whit less detestable, was only more artful than herself; or that, not
yet being in possession of the wealth of which her hateful protectress
boasted, she deemed it prudent to aim at obtaining whatever she herself
might have to bestow.

Notwithstanding all these disagreeable imaginings, however, the old lady
gradually recovered both her health and her usual tranquil equality of
spirits, sometimes even persuading herself that she was very glad she
had not been seduced, by the appearance of Agnes, to sacrifice her own
comfort for the advantage of an artful girl, who was, after all, quite
as much the grand-daughter of a Wisett as of a Compton.

       *       *       *       *       *

Never during the prosperous years that Mrs. Barnaby had been the
mistress of her comfortable house at Silverton, (excepting, perhaps, for
the delightful interval while she was treated throughout the town as a
bride,) did she feel half so grand or so happy a personage as now that
she had no house at all. There was an elegance and freedom, which she
never felt conscious of before, in thus setting off upon her travels
with what she believed to be an ample purse, of which she was the
uncontrolled mistress, a beautiful niece to chaperone, and a lady's-maid
to wait upon her; and had Agnes, who sat opposite to her, been less
earnestly occupied in recalling all the circumstances of her last
strange interview with her aunt Compton, she must have observed and been
greatly puzzled by the series of (perhaps) involuntary grimaces which
accompanied Mrs. Barnaby's mental review of her own situation.

"A rich and handsome widow!... Could fate have possibly placed her in
any situation she should have liked so well?" This was the question she
silently asked herself, and cordially did her heart answer "No."

As these thoughts worked in her mind her dark, well-marked eyebrows
raised themselves, her eyes flashed, and her lips curled into a
triumphant smile.

The person who occupied the transverse corner to herself was a handsome
young man, who had joined the Silverton coach, from the mansion of a
gentleman in the neighbourhood, to which, however, he was himself quite
a stranger; and having in vain tried to get sight of the features
concealed by the long crape veil beside him, he took to watching those
no way concealed by the short crape veil opposite.

"Mother and daughter, of course," thought he. "A young specimen, without
rouge or moustache, would not be amiss."

Mrs. Barnaby perceived he was looking at her, and settled her features
into dignified but not austere harmony.

"It is very pleasant travelling this morning, ma'am," said the young
man.

"As pleasant as a stage-coach can be, I imagine; ... but I am so little
accustomed to the sort of thing that I am not a very good judge. Do you
know, sir, where the coach stops for dinner?"

"I cannot say I do; I never travelled this road before."

"Then you are not a resident in the neighbourhood?"

"No, ma'am, quite a bird of passage. It is the first time I have ever
been in Devonshire. It seems to be a beautiful county indeed."

"Very!"... Mrs. Barnaby heartily hoped that no comparisons would follow,
as it was not at all her intention to confess, either on the present or
any future occasion, that she had never seen any other; and she
therefore rather abruptly changed the conversation by adding, "Do you
know, sir, whether there are many outside passengers?... I hope my maid
will not be annoyed in any way.... It is the first time I ever put her
outside a coach!"

"Poor woman!" thought the young man--"lost her husband, and her money
with him, I suppose. I must contrive to look at this tall, slender girl,
though."

But Agnes seemed little disposed to give him any opportunity of doing
so, for she continued to keep her eyes fixed on the scene without, thus
very nearly turning her back on her curious neighbour.

Mrs. Barnaby's first act of active chaperonship was a very obliging one;
she perceived the young man's object, and not having the slightest
inclination to conceal the beauty of Agnes, which she held to be one of
the many advantages with which she was herself surrounded, she said,--

"My dear Agnes, do look at that pretty cottage; it is a perfect picture
of rural felicity!"

Agnes obeyed the words, and followed with her eyes the finger that
pointed through the opposite window, thus indulging her neighbour with a
full view of her exquisite profile. The effect was by no means what Mrs.
Barnaby expected; the young man looked, and instead of being led by what
he saw into talkative civility, he became very respectfully silent. But
respectful silence was not an offering to which Mrs. Barnaby in the most
brilliant season of her beauty had ever been accustomed; it puzzled her,
till a thought struck her which is worth recording, because it very
greatly influenced her conduct and feelings for a long time afterwards.
This gentleman, whose attentions for the journey she greatly wished to
conciliate, had addressed her in the easy style by which "fast" young
men are apt to believe they can propitiate the favour of every woman
somewhat under fifty years of age, and somewhat, too, beneath themselves
in condition. Our traveller had no fear of blundering when he settled
that Mrs. Barnaby belonged to this class; but the instant he caught a
glimpse of the countenance of Agnes, he became equally sure that she at
least belonged to a higher one. It was not wonderful that poor Miss
Compton doubted, when she looked at her, the possibility of her being a
descendant of the buxom Martha Wisett, for, excepting something in the
form and soft lustre of her dark-brown eyes, her features bore no
resemblance to her mother, or her mother's family, but a most decided
one to that of her father, who, though a very foolish, hot-headed
lieutenant, when we made his acquaintance, was descended from a race of
aristocratic ancestors, rather remarkable for their noble and regular
cast of features, which appeared indeed to be their least alienable
birthright.

The traveller, though a young man, had lived sufficiently in the world
to have learned at least the alphabet of character as written on the
countenances of those he met, and he spelt gentlewoman so plainly on
that of Agnes, that he felt no more right to address her without
introduction than he would have done had the stage-coach been an
opera-box.

"That's very odd," ... thought Mrs. Barnaby. "She certainly is a most
beautiful creature ... quite as handsome as I was even in poor dear
Tate's days, and yet the moment he got a sight of her, his pleasant, gay
manner, changed all at once, and he now looks as glum as a boy at
school.... Though she is my niece, she is not like me; that's
certain, ... and who knows but that many men may still prefer my style
to hers?... As to this one, at least, it is impossible to doubt it, and
it will be great folly in me to set out with a fancy that my face and
figure, especially when I get back to dress again, will not stand a
comparison with hers. For some years, at any rate, in justice to myself,
I will keep this in mind; and not take it for granted that every glance
directed towards us is for the child, and not for the woman."

This agreeable idea seemed all that was wanting to make the journey
perfectly delicious, and not even the continued reserve of the young man
could affect in any great degree the charming harmony of her spirits. We
hear much of the beautiful freshness of hope in young hearts just about
to make their first trial of the joys of life; but it is quite a mistake
to suppose that any such feeling can equal the fearless, confident,
triumphant mastery and command of future enjoyment, which dilates the
heart, in the case of such an out-coming widow as Mrs. Barnaby.

The Silverton coach set its passengers down at Street's hotel, in the
Church-yard; and my heroine, who now for the first time in her life
found herself at an inn, with the power of ordering what she chose,
determined to enjoy the two-fold gratification of passing for a lady of
great fashion and fortune, and of taking especial care of her
creature-comforts into the bargain.

"Do you want rooms, ma'am?" said the head of a waiter, suddenly placing
itself among the insides.

"Yes, young man, I want the best rooms in the house.... Where is my
maid?--Let her be ready to attend me as soon as I get out. We have
nothing with us but three trunks, one square box, one hat-box, two
carpet-bags, and my dressing-case. Let everything be conveyed to my
apartments. Now open the door, and let me get out.... Follow me,
Agnes.... You will come, if you please, without delay, young man, to
receive my orders respecting refreshments."

Two lighted candles were snatched up as they passed the bar, and Mrs.
Barnaby proceeded up the stairs in state, the waiter and his candles
before, Agnes and "_my maid_" behind.

"This room is extremely dark and disagreeable.... Pray, send the master
of the house to me; I wish to give my orders to him."

"My master is not at home, ma'am."

"Not at home?... Extremely negligent, I must say. Perhaps it will be
better for me to proceed to some other hotel, where I may be able to see
the head of the establishment. I have not been accustomed to be treated
with anything like neglect ... people of my condition, indeed, seldom
are."

"If you will be pleased, my lady, to give your orders to me," said the
waiter very respectfully, "you shall find nothing wanting that belongs
to a first-rate house."

"Then, pray, send my maid to me.... Oh! there you are, Jerningham."

"Yes, ma'am," answered the gawky soubrette, tucking back the veil with
which Mrs. Barnaby had adorned one of her own bonnets, and staring at
the draperied windows, and all the other fine things which met her eyes.

"You will see, Jerningham, that my sleeping apartment is endurable."

Now Betty Jacks, though careless and idle, was by no means a stupid
girl; but she was but fifteen years old, and her experiences not having
hitherto been upon a very extended scale, she found herself at a loss to
understand what her new mistress meant, about nine times out of every
ten that she spoke to her. On receiving the order above mentioned, she
meditated for an instant upon what an "endurable sleeping apartment"
might be; but the sagacity which failed to discover this, sufficed to
suggest the advantage of not confessing her ignorance; and she answered
boldly, "Yes, sure, ma'am."

"Go, then," said the lady, languidly throwing her person upon a sofa;
and then turning to the waiter, who still remained with the door in his
hand, she pronounced with impressive emphasis,--

"Let there be tea, sugar, and cream brought, with buttered toast, and
muffins also, if it be possible.... Agnes, my love, I am afraid there is
hardly room for you on the sofa; but sit down, dear, and try to make
yourself comfortable on a chair."

The two ladies were now left to themselves, Betty Jacks joyfully
accompanying the smart young waiter to the regions below. "And who may
be your missus, my dear?" he said, giving her an encouraging chuck under
the chin; "she can't have much to do, I'm thinking, with any of the
county families, for they bean't much given to stage-coaches, and never
without their own gentlemen to guard 'em.... Is she a real grand lady,
or only a strutting make-believe?"

Betty, thinking it much more for her own credit to serve a real grand
lady than a make-believe, readily answered.

"To be sure, she is a real grand lady, Mr. Imperdence.... We comes up
along from Silverton, and she's one of the finest ladies in the town."

"_In_ the town," repeated the knowing waiter significantly.... "I
understand.... Well, she shall have some tea; .... And now, my girl, you
had better go and do what she bid you."

"Well now, if I hav'n't downright forgot already!" said the unblushing
Betty. "Will you tell me what it was then?"

"How old are you, my dear?" was the unsatisfactory reply.

"And pray what's that to you?... But come now, do tell me, willy', what
was it missus told me to do?"

"To go see after her bed, my dear, and all that, and unpack her
nightcap, I suppose."

"Well, then, give me a candle,--that's a good man.... But where is her
bed, though?"

"You bean't quite hatched yet, my gay maypole, but you'll do well
enough some of these day.... Here, Susan! shew this young waiting-maid a
bed-room for two ladies--and one for yourself too, I suppose, my dear. I
shouldn't wonder, Susan, if it was possible the grand lady up stairs may
pay less than a duchess; but take my word for it she'll blow you sky
high, if you don't serve her as if you thought she was one."

"How did she come?" snappishly inquired the chamber-maid.

"By the Royal Regulator," answered the waiter. "But inside, Susan,
inside, you know, and with her lady's-maid here to wait upon her; so
mind what you're about, I tell you."

"Come this way, young woman, if you please," said the experienced
official, who was not to be bullied out of a first-floor room by the
report of duchess-like airs, or the sight of a lanky child for a
waiting-maid. So Betty was made to mount to a proper stage-coach
elevation.

Mrs. Barnaby, however, got her tea, and her toast, and her muffins,
greatly to her satisfaction, even though the master of the
establishment knew nothing about it; and though she did make Agnes's
slender arm pay for the second flight of stairs, in order to prove how
very little used she was to such fatigue, she was, on the whole, well
pleased with her room when she reached it, well pleased with her bed,
well pleased with her breakfast, and ready to set off as soon as it was
over to look out for lodgings and adventures.




CHAPTER XIV.

HOW TO CHOOSE LODGINGS.--REASONS FOR LAYING ASIDE WIDOW'S
WEEDS.--LADY-LIKE ACCOMPLISHMENTS.--AFFECTIONATE FORETHOUGHT.--CHARMING
SENSIBILITY.--GENEROUS INTENTIONS.--A CLEVER LETTER, BUT ONE UPON WHICH
DOCTORS MAY DISAGREE.


Of lodgings Mrs. Barnaby saw enough to offer a most satisfactory
selection, and heartily to weary Agnes, who followed her up and down
innumerable stairs, and stood behind her, during what seemed endless
colloquies with a multitude of respectable-looking landladies, long
after she had flattered herself that her aunt must have been suited to
her heart's desire by what she had already seen. Of adventures the quiet
streets of Exeter were not likely to produce many; but the widow had the
satisfaction of observing that lounging gentlemen were abundant, a
cavalry officer still visible now and then, and that hardly one man in
ten of any class passed her without staring her full in the face.

At length, after having walked about till she was sufficiently tired
herself, and till poor Agnes looked extremely pale, she entered a
pastry-cook's shop for the purpose of eating buns, and of taking into
deliberate consideration whether she should secure apartments in the
Crescent, which were particularly comfortable, or some she had seen in
the High Street, which were particularly gay.

Mrs. Barnaby often spoke aloud to herself while appearing to address her
niece, and so she did now.

"That's a monstrous pretty drawing-room, certainly; and if I was sure
that I should be able to get any company to come and see me, I'd stick
to the Crescent.... But it's likely enough that I shall find nobody to
know, and in that case it would be most horribly dull.... But if we did
not get a soul from Monday morning to Saturday night, we could never be
dull in the High Street. Such lots of country gentlemen!... And they
always look about them more than any other men." And then, suddenly
addressing her niece in good earnest, she added,--

"Don't you think so, Agnes?"

"I don't know, ma'am," replied Agnes, in an accent that would have
delighted her aunt Compton, and which might have offended some sort of
aunts; but it only amused her aunt Barnaby, who laughed heartily, and
said, for the benefit of the young woman who presided at the counter, as
well as for that of her niece,--

"Yes, my dear, that's quite right; that's the way we all begin.... And
you will know all, how, and about it, too, long and long before you will
own it."

Agnes suddenly thought of Empton parsonage, its pretty lawn, its
flowers, its books, and its gentle intellectual inmates, and
involuntarily she closed her eyes for a moment and sighed profoundly;
but the reverie was not permitted to last long, for Mrs. Barnaby, having
finished her laugh and her bun, rose from her chair, saying,--

"Come along, child!... The High Street will suit us best, won't it,
Agnes?"

"You must best know what you best like, aunt," replied the poor girl
almost in a whisper, "but the Crescent seemed to me very quiet and
agreeable."

"Quiet!... Yes, I should think so!... And if that's your fancy, it is
rather lucky that it's my business to choose, and not yours. And it's my
business to pay too.... It's just sixpence," she added with a laugh, and
pulling out her purse. "One bun for the young lady, and five for me.
Come along, Agnes ... and do throw back that thick crape veil, child....
Your bonnet will look as well again!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Another half hour settled the situation of their lodgings in Exeter.
Smart Mrs. Tompkin's first-floor in the High Street, with a bed in the
garret for Jerningham, was secured for three months; at the end of which
time Mrs. Barnaby was secretly determined as nearly as possible to lay
aside her mourning, and come forth with the apple blossoms, dazzling in
freshness, and _couleur de rose_. The bargain for the lodgings, however,
was not concluded without some little difficulty, for Mrs. Tompkins, who
owned that she considered herself as the most respectable lodging-house
keeper in Exeter, did not receive this second and conclusive visit from
the elegant widow with as much apparent satisfaction as was expected.

"Here I am again, Mrs. Tompkins!" said the lively lady in crape and
bombasin. "I can see no lodgings I like as well as yours, after all."

"Well.... I don't know, ma'am, about that," replied the cautious Mrs.
Tompkins; "but, to say the truth, I'm not over and above fond of lady
lodgers ... they give a deal more trouble than gentlemen, and I've
always been used to have the officers as long as there were any to be
had; and even now, with only three cavalry companies in the barracks,
it's a rare chance to find me without them."

"But as you do happen to be without them now, Mrs. Tompkins, and as your
bill is up, I suppose your lodgings are to let, and I am willing to take
them."

"And may I beg the favour of your name, ma'am?" said the respectable
landlady, stiffly.

"Barnaby!" answered the widow, with an emphasis that gave much dignity
to the name. "I am the widow of a gentleman of large fortune in the
neighbourhood of Silverton, and finding the scene of my lost happiness
too oppressive to my spirits, I am come to Exeter with my niece, and
only one lady's-maid to wait upon us both, that I may quietly pass a few
months in comparative retirement before I join my family and friends in
the country, as their rank and fortune naturally lead them into more
gaiety than I should at present like to share. I am not much accustomed
to be called upon thus to give an account of myself; but this is my
name, and this is my station; and if neither happens to satisfy you, I
must seek lodgings elsewhere."

"I beg your pardon, ma'am, I'm sure," replied Mrs. Tompkins,
considerably awed by this imposing statement, "but in our line it is
quite necessary, and real ladies, as I dare say you are, are always
served the better for being known. At what inn is your lady's-maid and
your luggage put up, ma'am?"

"At Street's hotel, Mrs. Tompkins; and if we agree about the apartments,
I shall go there, pay my bill, and return directly. You have flies here,
I think, have you not?... I have no carriage with me."

"Yes, ma'am, we have flies, and none better; but if it's only for the
luggage, a porter would do better, and 'tis but a step to walk."

The bargain was then concluded, the ladies returned to the hotel, and
after a short struggle in the heart of the widow between economy, and
her rather particular love of a comfortable dinner, she decided upon an
early broiled chicken and mushrooms before her removal, in preference to
a doubtful sort of mutton chop after it. But at seven o'clock the two
ladies were seated at tea in the drawing-room, the lady's-maid having
been initiated by the factotum of the house into all the mysteries of
the neighbouring "shop for everything," and performing her first act of
confidential service very much to the satisfaction of her mistress, who
could not wonder that a city like Exeter should be dearer than such a
little out-of-the-way place as Silverton.

Mrs. Barnaby knew not a single soul in Exeter, and she lay in bed on the
following morning for a full hour later than usual, ruminating on the
possibilities of making acquaintance with somebody who might serve as a
wedge by which she might effect an entry into the society to be found
there. Once seen and known, she felt confident that no difficulty would
remain, but the first step was not an easy one.

She doubted not, indeed, that she might easily enough have obtained some
introductions from among her acquaintance at Silverton, but it was no
part of her plans to make her _entrée_ into the _beau monde_, even of
Exeter, as the widow of an apothecary. "No!" thought she, as she turned
herself by a vigorous movement from one side of the bed to the other,
"I will carve out my own fortune without any Silverton introductions
whatever! I know that I have a head of my own, as well as a face, and
when once I have got rid of this nasty gown and that hideous cap, we
shall see what can be done."

Walking up and down the High Street, however, which formed nearly her
only occupation during all the hours of light, was, she soon found, the
only gaiety she could hope for, and it proved a source of mingled joy
and woe. To see so many smart people, and so many beautiful bonnets, was
an enchantment that made her feel as if she had got to the gates of
Paradise; but the impossibility of speaking to the smart people, or
wearing the beautiful bonnets, soon turned all the pleasure into
bitterness, and she became immeasurably impatient to cure at least one
of these miseries, by throwing aside her hated weeds. To do this, soon
became, as she said, necessary to her existence; and her landlady at
last turned out to be a perfect treasure, from the sympathy and
assistance she afforded her in the accomplishment of her wishes.

Mrs. Tompkins had speedily discovered both that her lodger really had
money, and that the gentleman of large fortune whom she had lost was the
apothecary of Silverton. The respect obtained by the first quite
obliterated, in Mrs. Tompkins' eyes, any contempt that might have been
generated by the falsehoods which the second brought to light, and on
the whole nothing could be more friendly than their intercourse.

"There can be no use, Mrs. Tompkins," said the doleful widow, "do you
think there can ... in my going on wearing this dismal dress, that
almost breaks my heart every time I look at myself?... It is very nearly
six months now since my dear Mr. Barnaby died, and I believe people of
fashion never wear first mourning longer."

Mr. Barnaby, however, had been alive and well exactly three months after
the period named by his widow as that of his death; and that, too, Mrs.
Tompkins knew as well as she did; but Mrs. Tompkins' sister was a
milliner, and family affection being stronger within her than any
abstract love of propriety, she decidedly voted for laying aside the
weeds immediately, there being "no yearthly good," as she well observed,
"in any woman's going on breaking her heart by looking at herself in the
glass." So the sister was sent for, and after a long consultation in the
widow's bed-room, it was decided that the following Sunday should send
her to the cathedral in a black satin dress, with lavender-coloured
bonnet, fichu, gloves, reticule, and so forth.

Considering the complete dependence of Agnes, and the great aptitude of
such a disposition as that of Mrs. Barnaby to keep this ever in her
mind, she certainly felt a greater degree of embarrassment at the idea
of communicating this resolution to her than might have been expected.
Her friends might fairly have drawn an inference considerably in her
favour from this, ... namely, that she was ashamed of it. But however
respectable its cause, the feeling was not strong enough to offer any
effectual impediment to her purpose, and she came forth from the
council-chamber where this great measure had been decided on, wishing,
for the moment at least, that Agnes was at the bottom of the sea, but
firm in her determination to announce to her the important resolution
she had taken, without a moment's further delay.

"I don't know how it is, my dear Agnes," said she, after seating
herself, and looking steadfastly at her niece for a minute or two; "but
though I don't dislike to see you in deep mourning, the sight of it on
myself makes me perfectly wretched.... Why should I go on making my poor
heart ache, for no reason upon earth that I know of, but because, when
people happen to be where they are known by everybody, it is customary
to wear a certain dress for a certain number of days and weeks; but,
thank Heaven! Agnes, there is not a single soul in all Exeter that knows
me, and I really think there is something very like a rebellion against
Providence in refusing to take advantage of this lucky circumstance,
which doubtless the mercy of Heaven has arranged on purpose, so as to
enable me to spare myself without impropriety. It is easy enough, Agnes,
for ordinary-minded women, to wear, for a whole year together, a dress
that must remind them every instant of the most dreadful loss a woman
can sustain!--it is easy enough for others, but it will not do for
me!... And in justice to myself, and indeed to you too, Agnes, I am
determined to make the effort at once, and discard a garb that breaks my
poor heart every time I cast my eyes on any part of it. You must, of
course, perceive that it is not for myself alone, my dear child, that I
make this effort to restore the health and spirits with which nature has
hitherto so bountifully blessed me; ... it is indeed chiefly for you,
Agnes!... it is for your sake, my dear, that I am determined, as far as
in me lies, to stop the sorrow that is eating into my very vitals....
But never be unjust to me, Agnes!... Whenever you see me shaking off the
gloom of my widowed condition, remember it is solely owing to my love
for you.... Remember this with gratitude, Agnes, and, for the sake of
truth, let others know it too, whenever you have an opportunity of
alluding to it."

And now again did young Agnes doubt her power of answering with
propriety. The principle of truth was strong within her, and to have
expressed either sympathy or gratitude would have been an outrage to
this principle, which would have made her hate herself ... she could
not, she would not do it; and in reply to her aunt's harangue, who
seemed to wait for her answer, she only said,

"The dress of a widow is indeed very sad to look upon; no one can doubt
that, aunt Barnaby."

"Good Heaven!... then _you_ also suffer from the sight of it, my poor
child!... Poor dear Agnes! I ought to have thought of this before; ...
but I will wound your young heart no longer. This week shall end a
suffering so heavy, and so unnecessary for us both, and I trust you will
never forget what you owe me. And yet, my dear, though I hope and
believe I shall be sustained, and find myself capable of making this
effort respecting my own dress, there is a tender weakness still
struggling at my heart, Agnes, which would make it very painful to me
were I immediately to see you change yours. Do you feel any repugnance,
my dear girl, to wearing that deep mourning for your poor uncle for some
months longer?"

Agnes now felt no difficulty whatever in answering as she was expected
to do, and very eagerly replied, "Oh! dear no, aunt ... none in the
least."

"I rejoice," said the widow, solemnly, "to perceive in you, young as you
are, Agnes, feelings so perfectly what they ought to be; ... you would
spare me suffering from sadness too profound, yet would you, my child,
in all things not injurious to me, desire to testify your deep respect
for the invaluable being we have lost. This is exactly what I would wish
to see, and I trust you will ever retain a disposition so calculated to
make me love you. But look not so sad, my love!... I really must invent
some occupation to cheer and amuse you, Agnes.... Let me see ... what
say you, dearest, to running some edging for me on a tulle border for
my _tour de bonnet_?"

       *       *       *       *       *

The widow faithfully kept her kind promise to Agnes, and never again
(excepting for a short interval that will be mentioned hereafter) did
she run the risk of grieving any heart by the sight of deep mourning for
her lost Barnaby, for though she restrained herself for some time longer
within the sober dignity of black satins and silks as the material of
her robes, there was no colour of the rainbow that did not by degrees
find its way amidst her trimmings and decorations. During this period
all the hours not devoted to the displaying her recovered finery in
church or street, were employed in converting cheap muslin into rich
embroidery, and labouring to make squares of Scotch cambric assume the
appearance of genuine _batiste_, rich with the delicate labours of
Moravian needles.

It was a great happiness for Agnes that satin-stitch had never ranked as
a necessary branch of female education at Empton Rectory; had she been
able to embroider muslin, her existence would have been dreadful, for,
beyond all question, few of her waking hours would have been employed
upon anything else; one of Mrs. Barnaby's favourite axioms being, that
"there is NOTHING which makes so prodigious a difference in a lady's
dress, as her wearing a great profusion of good work!"... So a great
profusion of good work she was quite determined to wear, and deep was
her indignation at the culpable negligence of Mrs. Wilmot, upon finding
that an accomplishment "so particularly lady-like, and so very useful,"
had been utterly neglected.

To invent an occupation for herself during the hours thus employed by
her aunt, soon became the subject of all Agnes's meditations. She knew
that it must be something that should not annoy or inconvenience Mrs.
Barnaby in the slightest degree, and it was this knowledge, perhaps,
which made her too discreet to ask for the hire of a pianoforte, for
which, nevertheless, she longed, very much like a hart for the water
brook; for the musical propensities of her father and mother had
descended to her, and of all the pleasures she had yet tasted, that
derived from her study and practice of music had been the greatest. But
that her aunt should pay money for no other purpose than for her to
amuse herself by making a noise in their only sitting-room, was quite
out of the question. So the piano she mentally abandoned for ever; but
there were other studies that she had pursued at Empton, which, if
permitted to renew, even without the aid of any master, would greatly
embellish an existence, which the poor girl often felt to be as heavy a
gift as could well have been bestowed upon a mortal. Having at length
decided what it was she would ask for, she took courage, hemmed twice,
and then said,--

"Should you have any objection, aunt, to my endeavouring by myself to go
on with my French and Italian, while you are at work?... I am sometimes
afraid that I shall forget all I have learned."

"I am sure I hope not, and it will be very stupid, and very wicked of
you, Agnes, if you do. Your teaching is all we ever got out of that
hunch-backed Jesabel of an aunt; and you must always recollect, you
know, that it is very possible you may have to look to this as your only
means of support. I am sure I am excessively fond of you, I may say
passionately attached to you, it is quite impossible you can ever deny
that; but yet we must neither of us ever forget that it is likely enough
I may marry again, and have a family; and in that case, my dear, much as
I love you, (and my disposition is uncommonly affectionate,) it will be
my bounden duty to think of my husband and children, which would
probably make it necessary for you to go out as a governess or teacher
at a school."

"I understand that very well, aunt," replied Agnes, greatly comforted by
the prospect thus held out, "and that is a great additional reason for
my endeavouring to render myself fit to undertake such a situation. I
was getting on very well at Empton. Will you be so very kind as to let
me try to get on by myself here?"

"Certainly, Agnes.... I shall wish to encourage your laudable
endeavours; ... but I must say it was a most abominable shame in that
Mrs. Wilmot not to teach you satin-stitch, which, after all, is the only
really lady-like way in which a young woman can assist in maintaining
herself. Just look at this collar, Agnes; ... the muslin did not cost
sixpence ... certainly not more than sixpence, and I'd venture to say
that I could not get the fellow of it in any shop in Exeter for two
guineas.... It is long before French, or Italian either, will bring such
a percentage as that.... Now listen to me, Agnes, before you set-to,
upon your stupid books again.... I'll tell you what I am willing to do
for you. I hate teaching too much to attempt instructing you myself, but
I will pay a woman to come here to give you lessons, if you will tell me
truly and sincerely that you shall be able to learn it, and to stick to
it. I am so fond of you, Agnes, so particularly fond of you, that I
should not at all mind keeping you on, even when I am married, if
you will take fairly and honestly to this elegant and lady-like
employment, ... for I should never have any difficulty, I dare say, in
disposing of what you did, beyond what I might want for myself and
children--that is, provided you bring yourself to work in this sort of
perfectly elegant style. What d'ye say to it, Agnes?"

"You are very kind, aunt," replied the terrified girl, blushing
violently, "but indeed, indeed, I am afraid, that as I have never begun
yet, I should find it quite impossible to bring my stubborn fingers to
work as yours do. I never was particularly clever in learning to work, I
believe, and what you do is so very nice that I could never hope to do
anything like it."

"Perhaps you are right, my dear, ... it is not every woman whose fingers
can move as mine do," replied Mrs. Barnaby, looking down complacently at
the mincing paces of her needle; ... "but your hands are not clumsy,
Agnes, rather the contrary, I must say; and I can't but think, child,
that if you were to set-to with hearty good will, and practise morning,
noon, and night, it is very likely you might learn enough, after a year
or two of constant pains-taking, to enable you to give up all your
wearisome books at once and for ever. That is worth thinking of twice, I
promise you."

"Indeed, indeed, dear aunt, I never should make anything of it!..."
exclaimed Agnes eagerly; "I am sure it is one of the things that people
must begin early, ... and I don't at all dislike books, ... and I would
rather go out to teach, if you please, than work muslin, ... for I am
quite, quite sure that I never should do it well, no, not even
decently."

"So much the worse for you, child!... At any rate, I have done my duty
by offering to have you taught: please to remember that."

"And may I begin then, aunt, with my books?"

"And where are you to get books, Miss Agnes?... It is of no use to
expect I can buy them, and that you will find.... I see already that
Silverton is no rule for the rest of the world as to expense, and that I
shall have quite enough to do with my money without wasting it on
trumpery; ... so, pray, don't look to my buying books for you, for most
assuredly I shall do no such thing."

"Oh no, aunt!... I do not think of it,--there is not the least occasion
for such extravagance; you shall see how well I am provided." And so
saying, she ran out of the room, and in a few minutes returned with a
small and very neat mahogany box, which in travelling had been carefully
covered by a leathern case, and which her aunt had suffered to accompany
her unchallenged, because she presumed it to be the treasury of all "her
best things;" a species of female property for which the widow had
never-failing respect, even when it did not belong to herself, which was
perhaps more than could be said respecting any other sort of property
whatever.

Agnes brought this box in with difficulty, for though small, it was
heavy, and when opened displayed to the somewhat surprised eyes of her
aunt a collection of tiny volumes, so neatly fitting their receptacle,
as to prove that they must have been made to suit each other.

"This was Mr. Wilmot's present to me, aunt," said Agnes, taking out a
volume to exhibit its pretty binding. "Was it not kind of him?"

"It looks very extravagant, I think, for a man whose wife keeps
school.... He must have been sadly puzzled to know what to do with his
money."

"No, aunt, that was not the reason, for Mr. Wilmot is not extravagant at
all; but he told me that aunt Betsy, instead of paying every half year,
like other people, insisted upon giving him the five years' stipend for
me, as well as the money for my clothes, all at once; and that he had
always determined upon laying out the interest this sum had brought in a
present for me. I think it was very generous of him."

"And what in the world have you got there, child? All grammars and
spelling-books, I suppose; ... but it's the most senseless quantity of
school books that ever were got together for one person, I think.... I
see no generosity in anything so very silly."

"They are not school books, aunt, I assure you."

"Then what are they, pray? Why do you make such a mystery about it?"

"Oh! it's no mystery; ... but I did not know... I will read you the
titles, if you please, aunt. Here are Shakspeare, Milton, Spencer, and
Gray; ... these are all my English books."

"And what are these?"

"Racine, Corneille, La Fontaine, and Boileau."

"What useless trash!.... And these?"

"Dante, Tasso, and Petrarch; ... and these six larger volumes are the
'componimenti lirici' of various authors."

"Oh goodness, child!... don't jabber your stupid school jargon to
me.... There!... take them all away again; I can't very well see how
they are to help you make a governess of yourself: grammars, I should
think, and dictionaries, would be more to the purpose for that sort of
profitable usefulness."

"And I have got them too, aunt, in my clothes trunk; and if you will
but be pleased to let me give my time to it, I am quite sure that I
shall get on very well."

"Get on!... get on to what, child?"

"To reading both French and Italian with facility, ... and perhaps to
writing both with tolerable correctness."

"Well, ... if it will enable you to get your bread one of these days, I
am sure that I don't wish to hinder it,--so go to work as soon as you
will,--only pray don't let me hear any more about it, for I quite hate
the sort of thing,--though of course, my dear, if I was in your
situation, I should know it was my duty to think differently. But those
whom Providence has blessed with wealth, have a right to indulge their
taste, ... and my taste is altogether that of a lady."

From this time the aching void in the heart, and almost in the intellect
of Agnes, seemed supplied. Her aunt, when she did not want her as a
walking companion, suffered her to go on reading and scribbling to her
heart's content, and the more readily, perhaps, from its giving her the
air of being still a child learning lessons, which was exactly the
footing on which she wished to keep her, if possible, for another year
or two, as she was by no means insensible to the inconvenience of having
a grown-up niece, while still in the pride of beauty herself.

In this manner the period allotted for their stay at Exeter wore away;
Mrs. Barnaby's wardrobe, embroidery, and all, was quite ready for
display; Betty Jacks, alias Jerningham, had learned to look exceedingly
like a disreputable young woman, to run of errands, and to _iron out_
tumbled dresses; the bright sun of June had succeeded the lovely
temperature of a Devonshire spring, and everything seemed to invite the
adventurous widow to a wider field of display. But before she made this
onward movement from which she hoped so much, it was necessary to
apprize her sister-in-law, Mrs. Peters, of her affectionate intention of
passing a few months at Clifton, in order to become acquainted with her
and her family. The letter by which this intention was announced, is too
characteristic of my heroine to be omitted.

     "MY DEAREST SISTER,

     "Under the dreadful calamity that has fallen upon me, no idea
     has suggested the slightest glimpse of comfort to my widowed
     heart but the hope of becoming acquainted with my lost
     Barnaby's sister! Beloved Margaret!... So let me call you, for
     so have I been used to hear you called by HIM!... Beloved
     Margaret! Let me hope that from you, and your charming family,
     I shall find the sympathy and affection I so greatly need.

     "Your admirable brother ... my lost but never-to-be-forgotten
     husband ... was as successful as he deserved to be in the
     profession of which he was the highest ornament, and left an
     ample fortune,--the whole of which, as you know, he bequeathed
     to me with a confidence and liberality well befitting the
     perfect, the matchless love, which united us. But, alas! my
     sister, Providence denied us a pledge of this tender love, and
     where then can I so naturally look for the ultimate possessors
     of his noble fortune as amongst your family? I have one young
     niece, still almost a child, whom I shall bring with me to
     Clifton. But though I am passionately attached to her, my sense
     of justice is too strong to permit my ever suffering her claims
     to interfere with those more justly founded. When we become
     better acquainted, my dearest Margaret, you will find that this
     sense of what is right is the rule and guide of all my actions,
     and I trust you will feel it to be a proof of this, that my
     style and manner of living are greatly within my means. In
     fact, I never cease to remember, dear sister, that, though the
     widow of my poor Barnaby, I am the daughter of the well-born
     but most unfortunate clergyman of Silverton, who was obliged to
     sell his long-descended estate in consequence of the treachery
     of a friend who ruined him. Thus, while the high blood which
     flows in my veins teaches me to do what is honourable, the
     unexpected poverty which fell upon my own family, makes me feel
     that there is more real dignity in living with economy, than in
     spending what my confiding husband left at my disposal, and
     thus putting it out of my power to increase it for the benefit
     of his natural heirs.

     "This will, I hope, explain to you satisfactorily my not
     travelling with my own carriage, and my having no other retinue
     than one lady's-maid. Alas!... it is not in pomp or parade
     that a truly widowed heart can find consolation!

     "Let me hear from you, my dear sister, and have the kindness to
     tell me where you think I had better drive, on arriving at
     Clifton. With most affectionate love to Mr. Peters, and the
     blessing of a fond aunt to all your dear children, I remain,
     dearest Margaret,

     "Your ever devoted sister,

     "MARTHA BARNABY."

This letter was received by Mrs. Peters at the breakfast-table, round
which were assembled three daughters, one son, and her husband. The lady
read it through in silence, cast her eyes rapidly over it a second time,
and then handed it over to her spouse with an air of some solemnity,
though something very like a smile passed across her features at the
same moment.

Mr. Peters also read the letter, but not like his lady, in silence.

"Very kind of her indeed!... Poor dear lady!... a true mourner, that's
plain enough to be seen.... She must be an excellent good woman, my
dear, this widow of poor Barnaby; and I'm heartily glad she is coming
among us. Your aunt Barnaby's coming, girls, and I hope you'll all
behave so as to make her love you.... Is there any objection, Margaret,
to the children's seeing this letter?"

"None at all," replied the lady ... "excepting...."

"Excepting what, my dear?... I am sure it is a letter that would do her
honour anywhere, and I should be proud to read it on the exchange....
What do you mean by excepting?"

"It is no matter.... The girls and I can talk about it afterwards, ...
and James, I think, will understand it very clearly at once."

"Understand it?... to be sure he will.... I never read a better letter,
or one more easily understood, in my life.--Here, James, read it aloud
to your sisters."

The young man obeyed, and read it very demurely to the end, though, more
than once, his laughing blue eye sent a glance to his mother that
satisfied her she was right in her estimate of his acuteness.

"That's an aunt worth having, isn't it?..." said old Peters, standing
up, and taking his favourite station on the hearth-rug, with his back to
the grate, though no fire was in it.... "Now I hope we shall have no
airs and graces, because she comes from a remote part of the country,
but that you will one and all do your best to make her see that you are
worthy of her favour."

"I will do all I can to shew myself a dutiful and observant nephew....
But don't you think, sir, that 'the lady doth protest too much?'"

"Oh! but she'll keep her word," ... replied his mother, laughing.

"Keep her word?... to be sure she will, poor lady! She is
broken-hearted and broken-spirited, as it's easy to see by her letter,"
observed the worthy Mr. Peters; "and I do hope, wife, that you will be
very kind to her."

"And where shall I tell her to drive, Mr. Peters?"

"To the York hotel, my dear, I should think."

"Do you know that I rather fancy she expects we should ask her to come
here?"

"No!... Well, that did not strike me. Let me see the letter again....
But it's no matter; whether she does or does not it may be quite as well
to do it; ... and she says she likes to save her money, poor thing."

The father and son then set off to walk to Bristol, and Mrs. Peters and
her three daughters were left to sit in judgment on the letter, and then
to answer it.

"I see what you think, mamma," said the eldest girl, as the door closed
after them; "you have no faith in this widowed aunt's lachrymals?"

"Not so much, Mary, as I might have, perhaps, if she said less about her
sorrows."

"And her generous intentions in our favour, mamma," ... said the
youngest, "perhaps you have no faith in them either."

"Not so much, Lucy," said the lady, repeating her words, "as I might
have, perhaps, if she said less about it."

"I hope you are deceived, all of you," said Elizabeth, the second girl,
very solemnly; "and I must say I think it is very shocking to put such
dreadful constructions upon the conduct of a person you know so little
about."

"I am sure I put no constructions," replied Mary, "I only ventured to
guess at mamma's."

"And I beg to declare that my sins against this generous new relative
have gone no farther," said Lucy.

"Well, well, we shall see, girls," said the lively mother. "Let us all
start fair for the loaves and fishes; ... and now, Elizabeth, ring the
bell, let the breakfast be removed, and you will see that I shall reply
in a very sober and proper way to this pathetic communication."

The letter Mrs. Peters composed and read to her daughters, was approved
even by the sober-minded and conscientious Elizabeth; it contained an
obliging offer of accommodation at their house in Rodney Place, till
Mrs. Barnaby should have found lodgings to suit her, and ended with kind
regards from all the family, and "_I beg you to believe me your
affectionate sister, Margaret Peters_."

So far, everything prospered with our widow. This invitation was exactly
what she wished, and having answered, accepted, and fixed the day and
probable hour at which it was to begin, Mrs. Barnaby once more enjoyed
the delight of preparing herself for a journey that was to lead her
another step towards the goal she had in view.




CHAPTER XV.

THE ENTRÉE OF MRS. BARNABY IN MRS. PETERS'S DRAWING-ROOM.--FAMILY
CONSULTATIONS.--ARRANGEMENTS FOR MISS WILLOUGHBY'S DRESS FOR SOME TIME
TO COME.


In one respect Mrs. Barnaby was considerably more fortunate than she had
ventured to hope, for the "clothier," and the clothier's family, held a
much higher station in society than she had anticipated. Mr. Peters had
for many years been an active and prosperous manufacturer, neither above
his business, nor below enjoying the ample fortune acquired by it; his
wife was a lively, agreeable, lady-like woman, formed to be well
received by any society that the chances of commerce might have thrown
her into, being sufficiently well educated and sufficiently gifted to do
credit to the highest, and without any pretensions which might have
caused her either to give or receive pain, had the chances been against
her, and she had become the wife of a poor instead of a rich
manufacturer. The eldest son, who was excellently well calculated to
follow the steps of his lucky father, was already married and settled at
Frome, with a share of the business of which he was now the most
efficient support; the younger son, who was intended for the church, was
at present at home for a few months previous to his commencing
term-keeping at Oxford; and the three daughters, from appearance,
education, and manners, were perfectly well qualified to fill the
situation of first-rate belles in the Clifton ball-room. Their house and
its furniture, their carriage and establishment, were all equally beyond
the widow's expectations, so that, in short, a very agreeable surprise
awaited her arrival at Clifton.

It was a lovely evening of the last week in June, that a Bristol
hackney-coach deposited Mrs. Barnaby, her niece, her Jerningham, and her
trunks, at No. 4, Rodney Place. The ladies of the Peters family had
just left the dinner-table, and were awaiting their relative in the
drawing-room. Let it not be supposed that the interesting widow made her
_entrée_ among them in the dress she had indulged in during her
residence at Exeter; she was not so thoughtless; and so well had poor
Agnes already learned to know her, that she felt little surprise when
she saw her, the day before they left that city, draw forth every
melancholy article that she had discarded, and heard her say,--

"My life passes, Agnes, in a constant watchfulness of the feelings of
others.... It was for your sake, dear girl, that I so early put off this
sad attire, and the fear of wounding the feelings of my dear
sister-in-law now induces me to resume it, for a few days at least, that
she may feel I come to find my first consolation from her!"

So the next morning Mrs. Barnaby stepped into the stage-coach that was
to convey her to Bristol with her lilacs, her greys, and her pink
whites, all carefully shrouded from sight in band-boxes, and herself a
perfect model of conjugal woe.

"Shew me to my sister!" said the widow, as soon as she had counted all
her own packages, and with a cambric handkerchief, without an atom of
embroidery, in her hand, her voice ready to falter, her knees to
tremble, and her tears to flow, she followed the servant up stairs.

Mrs. Peters came very decorously forward to meet her, but she was,
perhaps, hardly prepared for the very long embrace in which her unknown
sister held her. Mrs. Peters was a very little woman, and was almost
lost to sight in the arms and the draperies of the widow; but when at
last she was permitted to emerge, Agnes was cheered and greatly
comforted by the pleasing reception she gave her; while the young ladies
in their turn (with the exception of the grave and reasonable Elizabeth,
perhaps,) submitted rather impatiently to the lingering and sobbing
embraces of their new aunt, as they had by no means gazed their fill on
the lovely creature she brought with her.

Though there was certainly no reason in the world why the niece of Mrs.
Barnaby should not be beautiful, both Mrs. Peters and her daughters
gazed on her with something like astonishment. It seemed as if it were
strange that they had not heard before of what was so very much out of
the common way; and so great was the effect her appearance produced, and
so engrossing the attention she drew, that Mrs. Barnaby passed almost
uncriticised; and when the ladies of the family met afterwards, a female
committee, in Mrs. Peters's dressing-room, and asked each other what
they thought of their new relation, no one seemed prepared to say more
of her than ... "Oh!... she has been handsome, certainly ... only she
rouges, and is a great deal too tall; .... But, did you ever see so
beautiful, so elegant a creature, as her niece?" Such, with a few
variations, according to the temper of the speaker, was the judgment of
all.

Before this judgment was passed upon the new arrivals in the
dressing-room, the aunt and niece had also undergone the scrutiny of
both father and son, who had joined them at the tea-table.

They, too, had held their secret committee, and freely enough exchanged
opinions on the subject.

"Upon my word, James, she is an extremely fine woman, and I really never
saw any person conduct herself better upon such an occasion. All
strangers, you know, and she, poor soul!... with her heart breaking to
think what she has lost!... I really cannot but admire her, and I
flatter myself we shall all find means to make her like us too. I hope
you agree with me, James, in my notions about her!"

"Oh! dear, yes.... I am sure I do ... a very excellent person--indeed, I
have no doubt of it.... But did you ever, sir, see such a creature as
her niece? She seemed to me something more like a vision--an
emanation--than a reality."

"A what, James?"

"I beg your pardon, my dear sir, but I believe I have lost my senses
already. Don't you think, father, I had better set off for Oxford
to-morrow morning?"

"Good gracious! no, James.... Why should you go away just as your aunt
Barnaby is come, and she having such kind intentions towards you all?"

"Very well, sir," replied the gay-hearted youth; "if such be your
pleasure, I will brave the danger, and trust to Providence.... But, good
night, father!... I must say one word to my sisters before they go to
bed".... And the privileged intruder entered his mother's dressing-room
while the party were still discussing the merits of the new-comers.

"Oh! here comes James," exclaimed Lucy, making room for him on the
sofa where she was seated. "That's delightful! Come, mamma, sit down
again ... let us hear what this accomplished squire of dames says of
her.... Do you think now, James, that Kattie M'Gee is the prettiest girl
you ever saw?"

"Prettiest?--why, yes, prettiest, as contra-distinguished from most
beautiful,--perhaps I do," replied the young man, with an ex-cathedra
sort of air; ... "but if you mean to ask who I think the very loveliest
creation ever permitted to consecrate the earth by setting her
heaven-born feet upon it, I reply Miss Agnes Willoughby!"

"Bravo!... That will do," replied Lucy. "I thought how it would fare
with the puir Scottish lassie the moment I beheld this new divinity."

"Poor James! I am really sorry for you this time," said his mother, "for
I cannot give you much hope of a cure from the process that has hitherto
proved so successful.... I see no chance whatever of a "fairer she"
coming to cauterize, by a new flame, the wound inflicted by this
marvellous Miss Willoughby."

"They jest at scars who never felt a wound!" exclaimed the young man
fervently.... "Mary!... Elizabeth!... have you none of you a feeling
of pity for me?... Oh! how I envy you all!... for you can gaze and bask
in safety in the beams of this glorious brightness, while I, as my
mother says, am doomed to be scorched incurably!"

"If you have any discretion, James, you will run away," said his eldest
sister.... "Her generous aunt, you know, has declared that she shall
never have any of uncle Barnaby's money; and if you stay you may depend
upon it that, while you are making love to the niece, I shall be winning
the heart of the aunt, and contrive by my amiable cajoleries to get your
share and my own too of all she so nobly means to bestow upon us."

"Nonsense, Mary!... Don't believe her, James!..." cried the worthy
matter-of-fact Elizabeth. "If you are really in love with her already, I
think it would be a very good scheme indeed for you to marry her,
because then Mrs. Barnaby could be doing her duty to you both at once."

"Very true, Elizabeth," ... said the mother; "but you none of you
recollect that while you have been regaling yourselves with the charms
of the young lady, I have been worn to a thread by listening to the
noble sentiments of the old ... old?... mercy on me! the _elder_ one.
Pray, offer to set off with them, James, in quest of lodgings as soon
as breakfast is over to-morrow, for I foresee that I cannot stand it
long.... And now go away all of you, for I am tired to death. Good
night!... Good night!"

And now let us see the impression made on the aunt and niece by their
reception, for, though separate rooms were prepared for them, Mrs.
Barnaby did not permit the weary Agnes to enjoy the supreme luxury of
this solitary apartment till she had indulged herself with a little
gossip.

Mrs. Peters had herself shewn Mrs. Barnaby to her room, at the door of
which she was preparing to utter a final good night, but was not
permitted to escape without another sisterly embrace, and being held by
the hand for some minutes, while the widow said,--

"You know not how soothing it is to my feelings, dearest Margaret!...
you must allow me to call you Margaret ... you know not how soothing,
how delightful it is to my feelings to lay my head and poor aching heart
to rest under the roof of my dear Barnaby's sister!... Alas! none but
those who have suffered as I have done, can fully understand this....
And yet I so much wish you to understand me, dearest sister!... I so
long to have my heart appreciated by you!... Step in for one moment,
will you?"... And the request was seconded by a gentle pulling, which
sufficed to bring the imprisoned Mrs. Peters safely within the door....
"I cannot part with you till I have explained a movement ... a rush of
sentiment, I may call it,--that has come upon me since I entered this
dear dwelling. The time is come, is fully come, you know, when fashion
dictates the laying aside this garb of woe; and as my excellent mother
brought me up in all things respectfully to follow the usages of
society, I have been struggling to do so in the present instance ... and
have actually already furnished myself with a needful change of
apparel ... never yet, however, dearest Margaret!"--and here she pressed
her handkerchief to her eyes,--"never yet have I had the courage to wear
it. But, thank Heaven! I now feel strengthened, and when we meet
to-morrow you shall see the influence the sight of you and your dear
family has had upon me. And now, good night, my sister!... I will detain
you no longer,... but do explain to your charming family, dear Margaret!
how this sudden change in my appearance has been wrought.... Good
night!... But where is Agnes?... Poor love! she will not sleep, even in
your elegant mansion, till she has received my parting kiss. She
perfectly dotes upon me!... Will you have the kindness to let her be
sent to me?"

       *       *       *       *       *

In the happiest state of spirits from the conscious skill with which she
had managed this instantaneous change of garments ... delighted with the
unexpected elegance of the house, and all within it ... with her
reception, ... and, above all else, with the recollection of the able
manner in which she had propitiated the favour of these important
relatives by her letter, the widow rang the bell for her Jerningham, and
anxiously awaited her arrival and that of her niece, that she might
indulge a little in the happy, boastful vein that swelled her bosom.

"Well, my dear," she broke out, the instant Agnes entered, "I hope you
like my brother and sister, and my nieces and my nephew.... Upon my
word, Agnes, you are the luckiest girl in the world! What a family for
you to be introduced to, on a footing of the greatest intimacy too, and
that on your very first introduction into life! They must be exceedingly
wealthy ... there can be no doubt of it. I suppose you have seen a great
many servants, Jerningham?"

"Oh my!--sure enough, ma'am!... There's the footman, and the boy, and
the coachman."

"A coachman!" interrupted Mrs. Barnaby; "they keep a carriage, then?...
I really had no idea of it. My dear Barnaby never told me that.... I
wonder at it!... And well, Jerningham, how many maids are there?

"Oh lor! ma'am, I hardly can tell, for I was tooked to sit in one room,
and there was one, and maybe two maids, as bided in another; that was
the kitchen I _sem_, ma'am, and everything was so elegant, ma'am...."

"I dare say it was, Jerningham, ... and you must be very careful to keep
up your own consequence, and mine too, in such a house as this. You
understand me, Jerningham: I have already, you remember, given you some
hints.... You have not forgotten, I hope?"

"No, that I haven't, ma'am," replied the girl; "and ... I mean to tell
'em ..." but looking at Agnes, she stopped short, as it seemed, because
she was there.

"Very well ... that's quite right, ... and I'll give you these gloves of
mine. Mend them neatly to-morrow morning, and never be seen to go out
without gloves, Jerningham.... And now unpack my night-bag, ... and you
had better just open my trunk too. Remember to learn the hour of
breakfast, and come to me exactly an hour and a half before. I shall put
on my black satin to-morrow, and my lavender trimmings.... You know
where to find them all, don't you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Very well, forget nothing, and I will give you that cap with the lilac
bows that I dirtied-out at Exeter.... Mercy on me, Agnes, how you are
yawning!"

"I _am_ very tired, aunt, and I will wish you good night now, if you
please."

"What!... without one word of all you have seen? Well, you are a stupid
girl, Agnes, and that's the fact.... You find nothing, I suppose, to
like or admire in my sister's house, or in those delightful,
fashionable-looking young people?"

"Yes, indeed I do, aunt, ... only I think I am too sleepy to do justice
to them. They are very agreeable, and I like them very much indeed."

"I am glad to hear it, child, ... and I hope you will do your best to
make yourself agreeable to them in return. If you were not such a baby,
that young man would make a capital match for you, I dare say. But we
must not think about that, I suppose.... And, now you may go; ... but
stay one minute. Observe, Agnes, I have explained to my sister all my
feelings about my mourning, and you must take care to let the young
people understand that you keep on with crape and bombasin some time
longer, because you like it best.... And, by the by, I may as well tell
you at once, my dear, that as you look so particularly well in deep
mourning, and are so fond of wearing it, you had better not think of a
change for some time to come. I am sorry to tell you, my dear, that I
find everything as I come up the country a vast deal indeed dearer than
I expected, and therefore it will be absolutely necessary to save every
penny I can. Now the fact is, that my mourning has been taken so much
care of, and altogether so little worn, that the best gown is very
nearly as good as new, and the worst has still a deal of wear left in
it. So, I think the best thing we can do, Agnes, is to have both of them
made up to fit you, that is, when your own are quite worn-out; ... and
my bonnets too, if I can teach Jerningham to wash the crape nicely in a
little small beer, they will come out looking quite like new, ... and
they are so becoming to you!... and in this way, you see, my dear, a
great many pounds may be saved."

"Thank you, aunt," meekly replied Agnes.

"Well, there's a good girl, go to bed now, and be sure to make the young
ladies understand that you go on with crape and bombasin because you
like it."




CHAPTER XVI.

MRS. PETERS BECOMES UNEASY, BUT CONTRIVES TO ATTAIN HER OBJECT.--A
PLEASANT WALK DISCOVERED TO BE A GOOD MEANS OF MAKING A PARTY OF YOUNG
PEOPLE ACQUAINTED WITH EACH OTHER.--MRS. PETERS SHEWS MUCH PROMPTITUDE
AND EXPERIENCE IN TAKING LODGINGS.--SHE ALSO DISCOVERS THE BEST MODE OF
LIONIZING A LADY WHO IS TOO BEAUTIFUL.--ANOTHER COUNTRY WALK IMPROVES
THE INTIMACY BETWEEN THE YOUNG LADIES.


The impressions mutually received overnight, were not greatly changed
when the parties met again on the following morning; excepting, indeed,
that Mr. Peters was rather surprised at seeing the widow looking so very
smart, and so very much handsomer.

The young people could hardly admire Agnes more than they had done
before, though they confessed that they were not fully aware of the
particular beauty of her hair, or of the perfect symmetry of her person,
till they had seen her by daylight; but Mrs. Peters pleaded guilty to
disliking her affectionate sister quite as much on Tuesday morning as
she had done on Monday night; and as the sun shone brightly she took
advantage of this to introduce the subject that was decidedly next her
heart.

"You must take care to put this beautiful day to profit, Mrs. Barnaby,"
said she. "Of course you have heard of our rocks, and our downs, Miss
Willoughby? and you could not look at them through a more favourable
atmosphere.... We shall have time to take you to our famous windmill,
and to shew you some lodgings too, Mrs. Barnaby, for we Bristol people
never sacrifice business to pleasure. I thought of you yesterday morning
when I saw a bill up at Sion Row ... some of the prettiest lodgings in
Clifton, and it will be dangerous to put off looking at them, they are
so very likely to be taken."

The good-natured Mr. Peters felt a great inclination to say that there
could be no need of hurry in looking out for lodgings, as he should be
so very glad to keep the ladies where they were; but, though the most
perfect harmony (real harmony) and good feeling existed between Mr.
Peters and his wife, a very salutary understanding also existed, that
whenever she said anything that he did not quite comprehend, which not
unfrequently happened, he was neither to contradict nor observe upon it
till the matter had been inquired into between them when they were
_tête-à-tête_, upon which occasions he always found her as ready to hear
as to render reasons, and it was rare indeed that the conference broke
up without their being of the same mind.

In conformity to this excellent rule, the good man suffered this
lodging-hunting expedition to be arranged without offering any
objection, and set off on his daily walk to the Bristol exchange, with
no other observation than that he should leave James to escort them, as
he did not think he should find him a very gay companion if he took him
away.

The ladies then immediately dispersed to bonnet and cloak themselves,
and in a few minutes the whole party, amounting to seven, all turned out
upon the broad flagstones of Rodney Place, and dividing into three
couples, with James hanging on upon that of which Agnes was one,
proceeded, headed by Mrs. Barnaby and Mrs. Peters, towards Sion Row.

Before they reached it, however, James called a council with his eldest
sister and Miss Willoughby, upon the necessity of so very large a party
all going to look for lodgings.

"Would it not be better, Mary," said the young man, "for us to take Miss
Willoughby to the down? The others can follow if they like it, you know,
and we shall be sure to meet them coming back."

"Very well, then, tell mamma so, will you?" replied the young lady,
turning off in the direction indicated.

The message caused the elder ladies to stop; Mrs. Peters looked very
much as if she did not like her share in the division, but, after a
moment's hesitation, she good-humouredly nodded assent, and walked on,
Elizabeth, (who in her heart believed Mrs. Barnaby was the kindest
person in the world, because she said so,) joining the elder ladies, and
the four others striking off towards the beautiful rising ground on the
right.

There is a sort of free-masonry among young people which is never
brought into action till the elders are out of the way, and it was
probably for this reason that Agnes felt better acquainted with her
companions, before they had pursued their walk for half an hour, than
all the talk of the preceding evening, or that of the breakfast-table,
had enabled her to become. Something, too, might have been effected in
the way of familiarity by an accident arising from the nature of the
scenery upon which they paused to gaze. On reaching the windmill, and
looking down upon the course of the Avon, winding its snake-like path at
their feet, with the woods of Leigh, rich in their midsummer foliage,
feathering down on one side, and rocks of limestone, bright in their
veins of red and grey, freshly opened by the quarrying, rising
beautifully bold on the other, Agnes stood wrapt in ecstasy. All she
had yet seen of Nature had been the flowery meads and blooming apple
orchards of the least romantic part of Devonshire; and though there was
beauty enough in this to awaken that love of landscape which is always
one of the strongest feelings in a finely-organized mind, she was quite
unprepared for the sort of emotion the scene she now beheld occasioned
her. She pressed forward before her companions, and, utterly unmindful
of danger, leaned over the verge of the giddy precipice, till young
Peters, really alarmed, seized her by the arm and drew her back again.
Tears were in her eyes, and her face was as pale as marble.

"My dear Miss Willoughby!" said Mary, kindly, "the precipice has made
you giddy, ... I do believe, if James had not seized you, that you would
have fallen!"

"Oh! no, no," replied Agnes, shaking her head, while a bright flush
instantly chased the paleness, "I do assure you I was not in any danger
at all ... only I never saw anything so beautiful before."

"Let us sit down," said Lucy. "There is no dampness whatever. It is
almost the first day of real summer, and the air is delicious. Is it not
beautiful here, Agnes?"

A look of gratitude, and almost of affection, was the answer; and as the
little party sat together, inhaling that most delicious of essences
which the sun draws forth when herbs and flowers are what he shines
upon, with a lovely landscape around, and each other's fair young faces
and blithe voices beside them, was it wonderful that the recent date of
their acquaintance should be forgotten, or that they laughed, and
chatted, and looked about, and enjoyed themselves, with as much gaiety
and as little restraint as if they had known each other for years.

They were all very happy, and a full hour passed unheeded as they amused
themselves, sometimes with idle talk, sometimes with listening to the
reverberating thunder that arose from the blasting of the rocks below
them, and sometimes by sitting silent for a whole minute together,
pulling up handfuls of the fragrant thyme with which their couch was
strewed. They were all very happy, but none of the party had any notion
of the happiness of Agnes. It was the first moment of real positive
enjoyment she had tasted since she left Empton, and a feeling like
renewed life seemed to seize upon her senses. Without reasoning about
it, she had felt, during the last few months, as if it were her fate to
be unhappy, and that all she had to do was to submit; but, to her equal
delight and astonishment, she now found that nobody ever was so much
mistaken, for that she was one of the most particularly happy people in
the world, wanting nothing but sun, sweet air, and a lovely landscape,
to make her forget that such a thing as sorrow existed; and the only
thought that threw a shadow upon the brightness of her spirit, was that
which suggested that she must have been very wicked to have doubted for
a moment the goodness of God, who had formed this beautiful world on
purpose to make people happy.

But, though every moment of such an hour as this seems to leave its own
sweet and lasting impression on the memory, the whole is soon gone; and
when Mary, with the wisdom called for by being the eldest of the party,
jumped up, exclaiming that they had quite forgotten their appointment to
meet her mother on the down, Agnes roused herself with a sigh, as if she
had passed through a momentary trance.

They met the rest of their party, however, though the order of the
meeting was changed, for it was our young set who encountered the others
on their return, after a ramble of half a mile or so towards the
turnpike, which it is probable had not been enlivened by any such
raptures as those felt by Agnes.

The two parties now joined, and the conversation was general, not very
lively perhaps, but by no means devoid of interest to Agnes, who had
fallen so heartily in love with St. Vincent's rocks, as to make her hear
of being fixed for some time in their neighbourhood with the greatest
delight.

"Well, ma'am, have you seen any lodgings that you liked?" said the
eldest Miss Peters to Mrs. Barnaby.

"Yes, my dear Mary, I have, indeed," replied the widow; "thanks to your
dear kind mamma, who has really been indefatigable. Clifton seems
exceedingly full, I think, and I am not sorry for it, for my poor dear
Agnes really wants a little change to rouse her spirits.... That
mourning habit that she so delights in, is, I am sorry to say, but too
just a type of her disposition."

The brother and sisters, who had so lately shared in the gay hilarity of
Agnes's laughter, exchanged glances, but said nothing, while she herself
blushing, and half laughing again at the same recollection, changed the
subject by saying.--

"And have you taken lodgings, aunt?"

"Yes, my dear, I have ... small but very delightful lodgings in Sion
Row ... the very Row, Agnes, that you heard my dear sister mention this
morning as so desirable!... and which we quite despaired of getting at
first, for there appeared to be all sorts of difficulties. But,"
turning to Mrs. Peters, "you seem to understand all these things,
Margaret, so admirably well! You made the good woman do exactly what
you pleased.... So clever,... and so like your poor dear brother!..."

"My poor dear brother must have been wonderfully changed if he ever
shewed himself half so self-willed!" thought the conscious Mrs. Peters,
who had certainly used something like bribery and corruption to remove
all difficulties in procuring for her sister-in-law apartments, which
must by agreement be entered upon the following day.

"But you have got them, aunt, at last?... I am so glad of it!... for I
think Clifton the most beautiful place I ever saw in my life."

"Falling in love with the young man, that is quite clear," thought the
active-minded widow.

A fresh return of happiness awaited Agnes on re-entering the house. Lucy
threw her wraps aside and sat down to the pianoforte: she played
prettily, and sang, too, well enough to delight the thirsty ears of
Agnes, who had never heard a note, excepting at the cathedral at Exeter,
since she had left her school. The evident pleasure which her
performance gave to her young auditor, encouraged the good-natured Lucy
to proceed, and, excepting during an interval occupied by eating
sandwiches for luncheon, she continued to play and sing till three
o'clock.

Though by no means one of those performers who like to keep the
instrument wholly to themselves, it never occurred to her to ask Agnes
to play. There was something so childishly eager in the delight with
which she listened, that Lucy fancied it was the novelty of the thing
that so captivated her attention; and with something of that feeling,
perhaps, against which her father had warned them all, and which leads
young ladies at Clifton to fancy that young ladies in Devonshire must be
greatly behind-hand in all things, she somehow or other took it for
granted that it was very unlikely Agnes Willoughby should have learned
to play or sing.

When the time-piece on the chimney struck three, there seemed to be a
general movement among the Peters family, indicative of another
_sortie_.

"I suppose you walk again, mother?" said the young man.

"I suppose so, James. I dare say Mrs. Barnaby will like to go to the
library and put her name down at the rooms."

"Oh yes!... I shall, indeed, ... for poor Agnes's sake!..."

"Very well; that is all quite right.... You and I are smart enough, Mrs.
Barnaby, but I suppose the girls will choose to change their walking
bonnets for bonnets for the walk, and we must wait for them. Here are
all the annuals, I believe, ... and I am deep in this review."

So saying, Mrs. Peters threw aside her shawl, seated herself in a low
bee-hive that just fitted her little person, and "happified" herself
with a biting article in the Quarterly.

Mrs. Barnaby smilingly turned to the piles of pretty books that
decorated the loo-table; but hardly had the young ladies disappeared,
and Mrs. Peters occupied herself, than she rose, and silently glided out
of the room.

Agnes had no better bonnet to put on than the one she had already
displayed, but she ran up stairs with the other girls, because one of
them had put out a hand inviting her to do so, and it was therefore to
one of their rooms she went, instead of her own: another step this, and
a very considerable one too, towards intimacy between young ladies; for
few things produce a more genial flow of talk than the being surrounded
by a variety of objects in which all parties take a common interest.

Had Mrs. Barnaby been upon this occasion a little less humble-minded in
her estimate of her own charms, it would have been better for her; but,
unfortunately, a restless spirit within whispered to her that she was
not quite beautiful enough for the "walk," and the "library," and the
"rooms," and it was to refresh her rouge a little, that she followed the
young ladies up stairs.

Now her rouge had been decidedly sufficient before, and moreover, after
she had touched up her bloom to the point she deemed to be the most
advantageous, it struck her that her lavender and black bonnet and
plumes looked sombre, and would be rendered infinitely more becoming by
introducing among the blonde beneath a few bright blossoms of various
colours; so that, when she re-entered the drawing-room, she looked
precisely like a clever caricature of what she had been when she left
it,--the likeness not lost, but all that touched upon the ridiculous or
_outré_ brought out and exaggerated.

Mrs. Peters looked up as she entered, and gave her one steady glance,
then rose from her chair and rang the bell.

The young people were all seated in array, waiting for the widow's
re-appearance as a signal to depart, and all rose together as she
entered; but they had yet longer to wait, for Mrs. Peters, after ringing
the bell, quietly reseated herself, and prepared to resume her book,
saying,--

"Upon second thoughts, dear friends, I think we shall do better if we
order the carriage, and take Mrs. Barnaby and Miss Willoughby to
Bristol. The library and all that will be within five minutes' walk of
their lodgings, and as they leave us to-morrow, it will be making
better use of our time to go to Bristol to-day." At this moment a
servant entered, and the determined little lady, without waiting to hear
any opinions on her proposal, desired to know if the coachman was in the
house.

"Yes, ma'am," was the reply.

"Then tell him to bring the carriage round as quickly as he can.... You
may give Miss Willoughby another song, Lucy, in the interval. I want
you, Mary, in my room for a moment."... And Mrs. Peters left the room,
followed by her eldest daughter.

"Have I puzzled you, Mary?" said she, laughing, and closing the door of
the dressing-room as soon as they had entered it.... "Don't think me
whimsical, child, but upon my word I cannot undertake to parade that
painted and plumaged giantess through Clifton. I will sacrifice myself
for a two hours' purgatory, and listen with the patience of a martyr to
the record of her graces, her virtues, and her dignity, but it must be
in the close carriage. I always prefer performing my penances in
private. Elizabeth evidently believes in her, and I really think
admires her beauty into the bargain; so she had better go with us, for I
presume, Mary, you have no wish to be of the party?"

"Oh yes, I will certainly go, if Agnes does.... But, mamma, I hope you
won't take a fancy against our being a great deal with Miss Willoughby.
I will agree in all you may choose to say against this overwhelming aunt
Barnaby, but it would grieve me to be rude to her charming niece. She
is, I do assure you, the very sweetest creature I ever made acquaintance
with."

"It is evident that you have taken a great fancy _for_ her, ... and,
upon the whole, it is a fancy that does you honour, for it clearly
proves you to be exempt from the littleness of fearing a rival.... There
is not a single girl in the neighbourhood that can be compared to her in
beauty--I am quite ready to acknowledge that; ... but you must excuse
me, Mary, if I doubt the possibility of my sympathizing with you in
your general and unqualified admiration of a young lady brought up by my
portentous sister Barnaby."

"But Agnes Willoughby was not brought up by her, mamma ... quite the
contrary.... You laugh, mamma, but I do assure you...."

"I laugh at your '_quite the contrary_,' which means, I suppose, that
she has been brought _down_ by her; and you will be brought down too, my
dear, if you suffer yourself to be identified with her and her rouge in
public."

"Identified with Mrs. Barnaby?... I am quite sure that I do not like her
at all better than you do; and I will make myself into a porcupine, and
set up my quills at her whenever she comes near me, if you wish it; but
then, on your side, you must promise" ... and the young lady took her
mother's hand very coaxingly ... "you must promise to take the trouble
of talking a little to Agnes ... will you?"

"Yes, I will, if I have an opportunity; ... and I am sure, if she is
good for anything, I pity her.... Now, then, let us go down again, and
you shall see how well I will behave."

Before they reached the drawing-room, however, Mary Peters had conceived
a project of her own. She knew what sort of a drive it would be when her
mother was "behaving well" to a person she disliked, and she instantly
addressed a whispered request to Agnes that she would stay at home, and
chat, instead of going to Bristol.

"If I may!..." replied Agnes, colouring with pleasure at the proposal;
but the yoke upon her young neck was far from being as easy a one as
that by which Mrs. Peters guided her daughters, and she felt so much
doubt of obtaining permission if she asked it herself, that she added,
"Will you ask for me?"

"Mrs. Barnaby," said her courageous friend, "you must do without your
niece during your drive, if you please, for she is going to look over my
portfolios."

"You are excessively kind, my dear Mary!" replied the benign Mrs.
Barnaby, too well satisfied at displaying herself in her beloved
sister's carriage to care three straws what became of her niece the
while. "I am sure Agnes can never be sufficiently grateful for all your
kindness."

The delighted Agnes instantly disembarrassed herself of all out-of-door
appurtenances, and Lucy, without saying a word about it, quietly did the
same. The carriage was announced, the radiant widow stalked forth, Mrs.
Peters took Elizabeth by the arm, and followed her, shaking her head
reproachfully at Lucy as she passed her, and the young man escorted them
down stairs; but having placed them in the carriage, he declined
following them, saying,--

"I dare say my father will be glad of the drive home, for it is quite
hot to-day.--You will be sure to find him at the Exchange Coffee-house
if you get there by half-past four.... A pleasant ride!... Good
morning!" and the next moment he joined the happy trio in the
drawing-room.

"And what shall we do with ourselves?" said he. "Would Miss Willoughby
like to promenade among the beaux and belles? Or will she let us keep
her all to ourselves, and take another delightful country walk with us?
Which do you vote for, Miss Willoughby."

"For the country walk, decidedly," she replied.

"Then let us go down by the zig-zag, and walk under the rocks," said
Lucy; and in another minute they were _en route_ for that singular and
(despite the vile colour of the water) most beautiful river-path.

The enjoyment of this second ramble was not less to Agnes than that of
the first, for, if the newness of the scenery was past, the newness of
her companions was past too; and she suffered herself to talk, with all
the open freedom of youth and innocence, of her past life, upon which
Mary, with very friendly skill, contrived to question her; for she was
greatly bent upon discovering the source and cause of the widely
different tone of mind which her acuteness had discovered between Mrs.
Barnaby and her protegée. This walk fully sufficed to explain it; for
though Agnes would have shrunk into impenetrable reserve had she been
questioned about her aunt Barnaby, she opened her heart joyfully to all
inquiries respecting Empton, and the beloved Wilmots; nor was she
averse, when asked if Mrs. Barnaby had placed her with these very
delightful people, to expatiate upon the eccentric character of her
half-known aunt Betsy. On the contrary, this was a subject upon which
she loved to dwell, because it puzzled her. The one single visit she had
made to Miss Compton in her bower, with the simple but delicious repast
which followed it ... the old lady's marked kindness to herself, her
mysteriously rude manner to her aunt Martha, ... the beauty of her
bower, the prettiness of her little parlour, had all left a sort of
vague and romantic impression upon her mind, which no subsequent
interviews had tended to render more intelligible. And all this she
told, and with it the fact that it was this same dear, strange, variable
aunt Compton, who had placed her in the care of Mrs. Wilmot.

"Miss Compton of Compton Basett," repeated Mary; "that is a mighty
pretty aristocratic designation. Your aunt Betsy is an old spinster of
large fortune, I presume?"

"Why, no, I don't believe she is; indeed, my aunt Barnaby says she is
very poor, but that she might have been a great deal richer had she not
given so much of her property to the poor; ... but I wish I knew
something more of her.... I cannot help thinking that, with all her
oddities, I should like her very much. There is one thing very strange
about her," she added musingly, "she is quite deformed, quite crooked,
and yet I think she is one of the most agreeable-looking persons I ever
saw in my life."

"She has a handsome face, perhaps?" said Lucy.

"No, I believe not. She is very pale, and her face is small, and there
is nothing very particular in her features; but yet, somehow or other, I
love dearly to look at her."

"The force of contrast, perhaps?" whispered James to his eldest sister.

"No doubt of it," she replied.

And thus they walked and talked, till it was quite time to turn back,
and though their pace was somewhat accelerated, it was as much as they
could do to get home in time to dress for their six o'clock dinner.

But the walk was not only agreeable, but profitable to Agnes, for at the
end of it Miss Peters felt fully prepared to give a reason for her
confidence relative to the cause of the dissimilarity between Mrs.
Barnaby and her niece.




CHAPTER XVII.

MRS. BARNABY TAKES POSSESSION OF HER LODGINGS, AND SETS ABOUT MAKING
HERSELF COMFORTABLE.--SHE OPENS HER PLANS A LITTLE TO AGNES, AND GIVES
HER SOME EXCELLENT ADVICE.--THE COMFORT OF A MIDSUMMER FIRE.--THE
APARTMENT OF AGNES SET IN ORDER.--A LECTURE ON USEFULNESS.--VIRTUOUS
INDIGNATION.


The following morning Mrs. Peters took care, without being particularly
rude, that a movement of some activity "to speed the parting guest,"
should be perceptible in her household. Mr. Peters took a very kind
leave of both ladies at breakfast, and expressed a very friendly wish of
being useful to them as long as they should remain at Clifton; but his
judicious lady, who generally knew, without any discourtesy, how to make
him perceive that his first impressions were somewhat less acute than
her own, had pointed out to him a few peculiarities in Mrs. Barnaby,
which he certainly did not approve. The principal of these, perhaps, was
that of her rouging, which for some time he steadfastly refused to
believe, declaring that her complexion was the most beautiful he ever
saw; but when, his examination being sharpened, he could withhold his
belief no longer, he ingenuously confessed he did not like it, and
allowed that, though he thought it would be great folly to lose the fine
fortune she had promised them on that account, he certainly thought he
should feel more comfortable when the rouge pots were all gone into
lodgings, because they were articles he did not wish to put in the way
of his girls.

As soon as Mr. Peters had taken his leave, the footman was very audibly
instructed to order a porter to come for Mrs. Barnaby's luggage; "And
let it be before the hall dinner, Stephen, that William may be able to
walk beside the things, and see that none of them are dropped by the
way."

And then Mrs. Barnaby was very kindly asked if she would not like to
send her maid to see that a fire was lighted in the drawing-room, and
that anything she wanted for dinner might be ordered in?... And then the
thoughtful Mrs. Peters proposed, after Betty Jacks had been gone about
an hour, that James should go to the lodgings, and that they should not
set off themselves till he came back and gave notice that everything was
ready and comfortable.

In short, Mrs. Barnaby, her niece, her maid, and all their travelling
baggage, were safely deposited at No. 1, Sion Row, before the clock
struck three.

The widow looked about her when she first got into her own drawing-room
very much as if she did not know how she got there. She was puzzled and
mystified by the tactics of Mrs. Peters. Delighted beyond all bounds of
moderation in finding the family so infinitely higher in station than
she had anticipated, her first idea, on perceiving what a land of milk
and honey she had fallen into, was to exert all her fascinating talents
to enable her to stay there as long as possible. But the conviction
that this scheme would not take, came upon her, she hardly knew how. She
had not the slightest inclination to persuade herself that the "dear
Margaret" was otherwise than civil to her, yet she felt as if she was to
be kept in order, and neither go, nor stay, except as she might receive
permission; but, finally, she contrived to heal the wound her vanity had
thus received by believing that Mrs. Peters's high fashion, and superior
knowledge of life, naturally rendered her manners unlike any she had
hitherto been acquainted with, and consequently that she might
occasionally mistake her meaning.

Upon the whole, however, she began her Clifton campaign in very good
spirits. The Peterses must be extremely useful acquaintance, and might
be safely boasted of anywhere as dear and near relations. This was very
different from arriving, as she had done, at Exeter, without a chance of
making a single acquaintance besides her dress-maker. Moreover, she had
got through the difficulty of throwing off her weeds admirably; she had
managed matters so that the dress of Agnes should be perfectly
respectable, and yet cost her nothing for a twelvemonth; she had just
received a quarter's income without any deduction, and, to crown all,
"she never was in better looks in her life."

Short, then, was the interval of discomfort that kept her inactive on
first entering her lodgings. "It was not quite such a drawing-room as
that of Mrs. Peters, to be sure, but it was the most fashionable part of
Clifton; and with her management, and admirable ways of contriving
things, she should soon make it extremely _lady-like_."

"Well, now then we must set to work, Agnes," she said, drawing off her
gloves. "Come, Jerningham, you must not stand looking out of the window,
child; there is an immense deal to do before we can be comfortable. And
the first thing will be to get all the trunks up, those that came by the
waggon, and those that came with us."

"Then I'm sure, ma'am," replied the waiting-maid, "I don't know where
you'll find room to put 'em."

"They must all be brought in here, Jerningham, to begin; and when I have
got all my own things unpacked, we must see how we shall be off about
drawers, and closets, and pegs, and all that; and then the empty trunks
and boxes must be carried into your garret, Jerningham, or into that
little room inside mine, that I mean to give up to Agnes."

"To me, aunt?... How very kind!" exclaimed her niece, delighted beyond
measure at the idea of some place, no matter what, where she might be
alone.

"Yes, my dear.... You have not seen the rooms yet; come with me, Agnes,
while Jerningham goes down about the trunks, and I will shew you our
apartments."

"But what am I to do then, ma'am, about the trunks?" said Betty Jacks in
a fit of despair; "I'm sure I can't carry 'em up any how."

"Then ask the people of the house to help you."

"Why, there's only the old lady and one maid, ma'am, and I'm sure they
can't and they won't."

Mrs. Barnaby meditated for a moment, and then drew out her purse. "Here
is sixpence, Jerningham: go to the next public-house, and hire a man to
bring up my boxes. It is immensely expensive, Agnes, this moving about,
and we really must be very careful!... Of course, my dear, you do not
want any dinner after the Rodney Place luncheon? I took care to take a
couple of glasses of wine on purpose; and you should remember, my dear,
that I have every earthly thing to pay for you, and never neglect an
opportunity of sparing me when you can. After we have done our unpacking
we can dress, and go out to the pastry-cook's--there is hardly anything
I like better than cakes--and you can have a biscuit, you know, if you
should want anything before tea."

The majestic lady then led the way to their "apartments," which
consisted of a small bed-room behind the drawing-room, and a very small
closet, with a little camp-bed behind that.

"Here, my dear, is the room I intend for you. It is, I believe,
generally used for a servant, but I have been at the expense of hiring a
garret for Jerningham on purpose that you might have the comfort of
this. In fact, that bed of mine is not larger than I like for myself,
and the drawers, and all that, are not at all more than I shall want; so
remember, if you please, not to let any single article of yours, great
or small, be ever seen in my room; I shall be puzzled enough, I am sure,
as it is, to find room for my own things. You have a great advantage
over me there, Agnes; ... that fancy of yours for keeping yourself in
deep mourning makes it so easy for you to find space enough for
everything."

"Oh yes!" replied Agnes joyfully, "everything shall be put into the
closet. What very pleasant lodgings these are, aunt ... so much better
than those at Exeter! It is such a nice closet this, and I am so much
obliged to you for giving it up to me!"

"I shall be always ready to make sacrifices for you, Agnes, so long as
you continue to behave well. Here come some of the boxes ... now then,
you must kneel down and help to unpack them."

It was a long and a wearisome task that unpacking, and often did Agnes,
as the sun shone in upon them while they performed it, think of her
pleasant walks with her new friends, and long to breathe again the air
that blew upon her as she stood on the top of St. Vincent's rocks.

Mrs. Barnaby, on the contrary, was wholly present to the work before
her; and though she waxed weary and warm before it was completed, her
spirits never flagged, but appeared to revive within her at every fresh
deposit of finery that she came upon, and again and again did she call
upon Agnes and Jerningham to admire the skill with which she had stowed
them.

At length the work was done, and every disposable corner of her room
filled; under the bed, over the bed, in the drawers, and upon the
drawers, not an inch remained unoccupied by some of the widow's
personalities.

It was by this time so late that the cake scheme was given up, and the
drawing-room being restored to order, the two ladies sat down to tea. It
was then that Mrs. Barnaby's genius displayed itself in sketching plan's
for the future: she had learned from Mrs. Peters and the simple-minded
Elizabeth, during their drive to and from Bristol, all particulars
respecting the Clifton balls, and moreover that the Peters family seldom
failed to attend them.

"This will be quite enough to set us going respectably: people that come
in their own carriage, must have influence. I trust that those stupid
humdrums, the Wilmots, gave you some dancing lessons, Agnes?"

"Yes, aunt."

"You are always so short in your answers, you never tell me anything. Do
you think you could get through a quadrille without blundering?"

"Yes, I hope so, aunt."

"Remember, if you can't, I shall be most dreadfully angry, for it would
destroy all my plans entirely.--I mean, Agnes, that you shall dance as
much as possible;--nothing extends one's acquaintance among young men so
much. I am not quite sure myself about dancing. I don't think I shall do
it here, on account of dear Margaret ... perhaps she might think it too
soon. I shall probably take to cards; that's not a bad way of making
acquaintance either; but in all things remember that you play into my
hands, and whenever you have a new partner remember that you always say
to him, 'You must give me leave to introduce you to my aunt'.... Do you
hear me, Agnes?"

"Yes, aunt," replied the poor girl with an involuntary sigh.

"What a poor, stupid creature you are, to be sure!" returned Mrs.
Barnaby in a tone of much displeasure. "What in the world can you sigh
for now, just at the very moment that I am talking to you of balls and
dancing? I wish to Heaven you were a little more like what I was at your
age, Agnes! Be so good as to tell me what you are sighing for?"

"I don't know, aunt; I believe I am tired."

"Tired?... and of what, I should like to know? Come, come, let us have
no fine lady airs, if you please; and don't look as if you were going to
cry, whatever you do. There is nothing on earth I dislike so much as
gloom. I am of a very cheerful, happy temper myself, and it's perfect
misery to me to see anybody look melancholy.... I declare, Agnes, I am
as hungry as a hound!... I don't like to ring for Jerningham again, she
looked so horridly cross; and I wish, my dear, you would just toast this
round of bread for me. Mrs. Peters was quite right about the fire ... it
is such a comfort! and coals are so cheap here.... Let me stir it up a
little ... there, now its as bright as a furnace; you can just kneel
down in the middle here upon the rug."

Agnes obeyed, and after some minutes' assiduous application to the
labour imposed, she presented the toasted bread, her own fair face
scarcely less changed in tint by the operation.

"Gracious me, child! what a fright you have made of yourself!... you
should have held the other hand up before your face.... You are but a
clumsy person, I am afraid, at most things, as well as at satin-stitch.
Will you have some more tea, my dear?..." draining, as was her habit,
the last drop into her own cup before she asked the question, and then
extending her hand to that genial source of hospitality, the tepid urn.

"No more, thank you, aunt.... I will go now, if you please, and take all
my things out of your way ... and I shall make my closet so
comfortable!..."

"I dare say you will. But stay a moment, Agnes: if you find you have
more room than you want, do put my two best bonnet-boxes somewhere or
other among your things, so that I can get at them ... so that
Jerningham can get at them, I mean, easily."

"I will, if I can, aunt, but I am afraid there will hardly be room for
my chair. However, you shall come and see, if you please, yourself, and
then you will be the best judge; but I will go first, and get everything
in order."

"Very well, then, Agnes, you may tell Jerningham to separate everything
like mourning from my things, and give it all to you. And you must
contrive, my dear, to cut and make up everything to fit yourself, for I
really can be at no expense about it. It is perfectly incredible how
money goes in this part of the country, so different from our dear
Silverton!... However, I will not grumble about it, for I consider it
quite my duty to bring you out into the world, and I knew well enough
before I set out, that it could not be done for nothing. But it is a
sort of self-devotion I shall never complain of, if you do but turn out
well."

Agnes was standing while this affectionate speech was spoken, and having
quietly waited for its conclusion, again uttered her gentle "thank you,
aunt," and retired to arrange the longed-for paradise of her little
closet.

Darkness overtook her before she had fully completed her task; but,
perhaps, she wilfully lingered over it, for it kept her alone, and
permitted her bright and innocent spirit to indulge itself by recalling
all the delight she had felt in looking down upon the bold and beautiful
scenery of the Avon, and she blessed Heaven for the fund of happiness
she was now conscious existed within her, since the power of looking out
upon Nature seemed sufficient to produce a joy great enough to make her
forget aunt Barnaby, and everything else that gave her pain. A part,
too, of her hours of light, was spent in opening more than one of her
dear little volumes to seek for some remembered description of scenery
which she thought would be more intelligible to her now than heretofore;
and as Spencer happened to fall into her hands, it was no great wonder
if his flowery meads and forests drear, tempted her onwards till she
almost lost herself among them.

At length, however, she had done all that she thought she could do
towards giving a closet the appearance of a room; and having stowed her
tiny looking-glass out of the way, and placed pens, ink, and a book or
two, on the rickety little table in its stead, she looked round in the
dusky twilight with infinite satisfaction, and thought, that were she
quite sure of taking a long country walk about three times a week with
the Peterses, she should be very, very happy, let everything else go on
as it might.

Having come to this satisfactory conclusion, (for a walk three times a
week was an indulgence she might reasonably hope for,) she cast one fond
look round upon her dark but dear solitude, and then went to rejoin her
aunt in the drawing-room, and announce its state of perfection to her.
She found her seated at the open window.

"What have you been about, Agnes, all this time?" she said. "It is lucky
that my cheerful, happy temper, does not make solitude as dreadful to me
as it is to most people, or I should be badly off, living with you. You
are but a stupid, moping sort of a body, my dear, I must say, or you
would have guessed that there was more to see at the front of the house
than at the back of it. I declare I never saw such a delightful window
as this in my life. You would never believe what a mall there has been
here from the moment I took my place till just now, that it's got almost
dark; ... and even now, Agnes, if you will come here," ... she added in
a whisper, ... "but don't speak ... you may see one couple left, and
lovers they are, I'll be bound for them.... Here, stand here by me."

"No, thank you, aunt," said Agnes, retreating; "I don't want to see
them, and I think it is more comfortable by the fire."

"You don't choose to spoil sport, I suppose; ... but don't be such a
fool, and pretend to be wiser than your betters. Come here, I say; you
shall take one peep, I am determined."

And as this determination was enforced by a tolerably strong pull, Agnes
yielded, and found herself, greatly against her inclination, standing at
the open window, with her head obligingly thrust out of it by her
resolute aunt.

The lamps were by this time lighted, and at that moment a remarkably
tall, gentleman-like looking personage passed beneath one that stood
almost immediately below the window, receiving its full glare upon his
features. Beside him was a lady, and a young one, slight, tall, and
elegant-looking, who more than leaned upon his arm, for her head almost
reclined upon his shoulder; and, as they passed, Agnes saw his hand
raised to her face, and he seemed to be playing with her ringlets.

Agnes forcibly withdrew her head, while Mrs. Barnaby threw herself half
out of the window for a minute, then drew back, laughing heartily, and
shut down the sash.

"That's capital!..." she cried; "they fancied themselves so very snug.
But wasn't he a fine figure of a man, Agnes? I never saw a finer fellow
in my life. He's taller than Tate by half a head, I am sure. But you're
right about the fire too, for the wind comes over that down uncommonly
cold. I shall go to work for an hour, and then have a little bread and
cheese and a pint of beer."

Mrs. Barnaby suited the action to the word, and unlocked her work-box,
in which she found ready to her hand good store of work prepared for her
beloved needle.

"Now, only see, Agnes, what a thing it would have been for you, if you
had learned to work satin-stitch!" she said, "Here am I, happy and
amused, and before I go to bed I dare say I shall have done a good inch
of this beautiful collar.... And only look at yourself! What earthly use
are you of to anybody?... I wonder you are not ashamed to sit idle in
that way, while you see me hard at work."

"May I get a book, aunt?"

"Books, books, books!... If there is one thing more completely full of
idleness than another, it is reading,--just spelling along one line
after another.... And what comes of it? Now, here's a leaf done already,
and wait a minute and you'll see a whole bunch of grapes done in
spotting. There is some sense in that: but poring over a lot of
rubbishly words is an absolute sin, for it is wasting the time that
Heaven gives us, and doing no good to our fellow-creatures."

"And the grapes!" thought Agnes, but she said nothing.

"Why don't you answer when I speak to you, child?... Did that stupid
Mrs. Wilmot never tell you to speak when you were spoken to?... What a
different creature you would have been if I had had the placing you,
instead of that crooked, frumpish old maid!... But I am sadly afraid it
is too late now to hope that you will ever be good for much."

"I should be very glad to try to make myself competent for the situation
of a governess, aunt, as you once mentioned to me," replied Agnes.

"Oh! by the by, I want to speak to you about that. You are not to say
one word on that subject here, remember, nor indeed anywhere, till at
such time as I shall give you leave. It will be cruelly hard for me to
have the monstrous expense of maintaining you, exactly as if you were my
own child, and not have the credit of it. And, besides I don't feel
quite sure that I shall send you out as a governess ... it must depend
upon circumstances. Perhaps I shall get you married, and that might suit
me just as well. All you have to do is to keep yourself always ready to
go out at a minute's warning, if I say the word; but you need mention it
to nobody, and particularly not to my relations here."




"Very well, aunt.... I will say nothing about it. But in order to be
ready when you say the word, I think I ought to study a good deal, and I
am willing to do it if you will give me leave."

"How you do plague me, child, about your learning! Push the candles this
way, can't you, and snuff them, when you see me straining my poor eyes
with this fine work.... And do you know, miss, I think it's very likely
those books you are so mighty fond of are nothing in the world but
trumpery story-books, for I don't believe you'd hanker after them so, if
they were really in the teaching line. For, after all, Agnes, if I must
speak the truth, I don't believe you ever did pay attention to any
single thing that could be really useful in the way of governessing.
Now, music, for instance, nobody ever heard you say a word about that;
and you ought to sing too, if you wer'n't more stupid than anything ever
was, for both your father and mother sang like angels."

"I can sing a little, aunt," said Agnes.

"There, now, ... isn't it as plain as possible that you take no
pleasure in it?... though everybody said your poor dear mother could
have made her fortune by singing. But you care for nothing but books,
books, books!... and what profit, I should like to know, will ever come
of that?"

"But I do care very much indeed for music, aunt," said Agnes eagerly,
"only I did not talk about it, because I thought it might not be
convenient for you to have an instrument for me. But I believe I could
learn to get my bread by music, if I had a pianoforte to study with."

"Grant me patience!... And you really want me to go and get you a
pianoforte, which is just the most expensive thing in the world?... And
that after I had so kindly opened my heart to you about my fears of not
having money enough!... I do think that passes anything I ever heard in
my life!"

"Indeed, aunt, I never would have said a word about it if...."

"If?... if what, I should like to know? Heaven knows it is seldom I
lose my temper about anything, but it is almost too much to hear you
ask me to my face to ruin myself in that way, ... and you without a
chance of ever having a penny to repay me!"

"Pray forget it, aunt!... Indeed I do not wish to be an expense to you,
and will very gladly try to labour for my own living, if you will let
me."

"Mighty fine, to be sure!... Much you're good for, ar'n't you?... I wish
you'd get along to bed. My temper is too good to bear malice, and I
shall forget all about it to-morrow, perhaps; but I can't abide to look
at you to-night after such a speech as that ... there's the truth; ...
so get to bed, that's a good girl, as fast as you can.... There are some
things too much even for an angel to bear!"

Agnes crept to her little bed, and soon cried herself to sleep.




CHAPTER XVIII.

CONDITIONS OF AN AGREEMENT BETWEEN MRS. PETERS AND HER DAUGHTERS.--MRS.
BARNABY BEGINS HER FASHIONABLE CAREER UNDER THE PROTECTION OF MISS
ELIZABETH.--SHE REHEARSES A BALL IN HER HEART AS SHE EXAMINES THE
ROOM.--THE LIBRARY.


Mrs. Barnaby was quite right in thinking that the Peters family would be
very useful acquaintance; for prodigiously as Mrs. Peters disliked her
sister-in-law, she no sooner ceased to be galled by her unwelcome
presence in her house, than she recovered her good-humour, and felt as
much aware as any reasonable person could desire, of the claim her
brother's widow really had upon her and her family. These excellent
dispositions were assiduously fostered by her daughters, to whose wishes
she never turned a deaf ear. She found the eldest and the youngest very
seriously interested in Agnes, and earnest in their desire to see more
of her; while Elizabeth persevered in her belief that poor Mrs. Barnaby
was one of the very best-hearted women in the world, and very much to be
pitied, because nobody seemed to like her ... though she _did_ mean to
divide her fortune so generously amongst them.

"I hope, mamma," said the eldest Miss Peters, when the ladies of the
family were sitting round the drawing-room fire after dinner, "I hope
that you will overcome your terror of Mrs. Barnaby and her rouge
sufficiently before Tuesday night to permit her joining our party in the
ball-room, for I would not forsake that sweet Agnes upon such an
occasion for more than I will say."

"Why, I do feel my spirits revive, Mary, considerably, since I have felt
quite certain that none of my dear sister's amiable feelings were likely
to involve me in the necessity of enduring her presence in my house for
evermore. You may fancy you exaggerate, perhaps, when you talk of my
terrors; ... but no such thing, believe me. It was terror she inspired,
and nothing short of it."

"And Agnes, mamma?... what did she inspire?" said Mary.

"Pity and admiration," replied her mother.

"Very well, then," returned the petted girl, kissing her, "we shall not
quarrel this time; but I was half afraid of it. It would, in truth, have
been very foolish, and very unlike you, mamma, who understand the sort
of thing better than most people, I believe, if we had lost the great
pleasure of being kind to Miss Willoughby, and behaved extremely ill to
uncle Barnaby's widow into the bargain, solely because you don't like
tall massive ladies, with large black eyes, who wear rouge, and talk
fine; ... for you must confess, if you will be quite honest and speak
the truth, that Mrs. Peters is rather too well-established a person at
Clifton, to fear losing caste by being seen with a Mrs. Barnaby, even
had the association not been redeemed by the matchless elegance of her
beautiful niece."

"Did any one ever hear a mamma better scolded?" said Mrs. Peters,
turning to the younger girls.

"Mary is quite right, mamma," said Lucy. "Depend upon it we should have
broken into open rebellion, had you persevered in threatening to cut the
Barnaby connexion."

"Indeed I must say," added Elizabeth, "that I have thought you very
severe upon our poor aunt, mamma. Think of her kindness!"

"Our aunt!" sighed Mrs. Peters. "Is it absolutely necessary, beloveds!
that she should be addressed in public by that tender title?"

"Not absolutely, perhaps," replied Mary, laughing; "and I dare say
Elizabeth will make a bargain with you, mamma, never to call her aunt
again, provided you promise never to forget that she is our aunt, though
we may not call her so."

"And what must I do, young ladies, to prove my eternal recollection of
this agreeable tact?"

"You must be very civil to Agnes, and let them both join our party at
tea, and at all the balls, and never object to our calling upon the
Barnaby, for the sake of getting at the Willoughby, and ... now don't
start, and turn restive, mamma, ... you must ask them whenever we have
an evening party here with young people, that might be likely to give
Agnes pleasure."

"And must I embrace Mrs. Barnaby every time she comes into my presence,
and every time she leaves it?"

"No, ... unless you have done something so very outrageously rude
before, as to render such a penitentiary _amende_ necessary."

"Come here, Mary," said the gay mother, "and let me box your ears
immediately."

The young lady placed herself very obediently on the foot-stool at Mrs.
Peters's feet, who having patted each pretty cheek, said, "Now tell me,
Mary, if you can, what it is that has thus fascinated your affections,
hoodwinked your judgment, perverted your taste, and extinguished your
pride?"

"If you will let me turn your questions my own way, mother," replied
the daughter, "I will answer them all. My affection is fascinated, or, I
would rather say, won, by the most remarkable combination of beauty,
grace, talent, gentleness, and utter unconsciousness of it all, that it
has ever been my hap to meet with. And, instead of being hoodwinked, my
judgment, my power of judging, seem newly roused and awakened by having
so very fine a subject on which to exercise themselves. I never before
felt, as I did when listening to Agnes as she innocently answered my
prying questions concerning her past life, the enormous difference there
might be between one human mind and another. It was like opening the
pages of some holy book, and learning thence what truth, innocence, and
sweet temper could make of us. If admiring the uncommon loveliness of
this sweet girl with something of the enthusiasm with which one
contemplates a choice picture, be perversion of taste, I plead guilty,
for it is with difficulty that I keep my eyes away from her; ... and for
my pride, mamma, ... if any feeling of the kind ever so poisoned my
heart as to make me turn from what was good, in the fear that it might
lead me into contact with what was ungenteel, be thankful with me, that
this sweet 'light from heaven' has crossed my path, and enabled me to
see the error of my ways."

Mary spoke with great animation, and her mother listened to her till
tears dimmed her laughing blue eyes.

"You are not a missish miss, Mary, that is certain," said she, kissing
her, "and assuredly I thank Heaven for that. This pretty creature does
indeed seem by your account to be a pearl of price; but, _par malheur_,
she has got into the shell of the very vilest, great, big, coarse,
hateful oyster, that ever was fished up!... Fear nothing more, however,
from me.... You are dear good girls for feeling as you do about this
pretty Agnes, and I give you _carte blanche_ to do what you will with
her and for her."

The consequence of this was an early call made on the following morning
at Mrs. Barnaby's lodgings by the three Misses Peters. There were not
many subjects on which the aunt and niece thought or felt in common; but
it would be difficult to say which of the two was most pleased when
their visiters were announced.

"We are come--that is, Lucy and I--to make you take a prodigious long
walk with us, Agnes," said Miss Peters; "and Elizabeth, who is not quite
so stout a pedestrian as we are, is come with us, to offer her services
to you, Mrs. Barnaby, for a home circuit, if you like to make one. And
pray do not forget that Tuesday is the ball night, and that we shall
expect you to go, and join our party in the room."

"Dearest Mary!... dearest Elizabeth!... dearest Lucy! How good of you
all! Agnes, put on your bonnet, my dear, instantly, and never forget the
kindness of these dear girls.... I shall, indeed, be thankful to you,
Elizabeth, if you will put me in the way of getting a few trifles that
will be necessary for Tuesday.... Are your balls large?... Are there
plenty of gentlemen?..." &c. &c.

And where was Agnes's heavy sense of sadness now? The birds, whose
cheerful songs seemed to call her out, were not more light of heart than
herself, as she followed her friends down the stairs, and sprung through
the door to meet the fresh breeze from the down with a foot almost as
elastic as their own glad wings. We must leave the young ladies to
pursue their way, being joined at no great distance from the door by
James Peters, through a long and delightful ramble that took them along
"the wall," that forms the _garde fou_ to the most beautiful point of
Durdham Down, and so on amidst fields and villas that appeared to Agnes,
like so many palaces in fairy-land; and while thus they charm away the
morning, we must follow Mrs. Barnaby and the good-natured Elizabeth
through their much more important progress among the fashionable resorts
of the Clifton _beau monde_.

"And about tickets, my dear Elizabeth?" said the widow, as she offered
her substantial arm to her slight companion; "what is it the fashion to
do? To subscribe for the season, or pay at the door?"

"You may do either, Mrs. Barnaby; but if you wish your arrival to be
known, I believe you had better put your name on the book."

"You are quite right, my dear. Where is the place to do this? Cannot you
take me at once?"

"Yes, I could take you certainly, for it is almost close by; but perhaps
papa had better save you the trouble, Mrs. Barnaby?"

"By no means, my dear. His time is more valuable than mine. Let us go at
once: I shall like it best."

Elizabeth, though a little frightened, led the way; and as Mrs. Barnaby
entered the establishment that at its very threshold seemed to her
redolent of wax-lights, fiddles, and fine clothes, such a delightful
flutter of spirits came upon her, as drove from her memory the last
fifteen or sixteen years of her life, and made her feel as if she were
still one of the lightest and loveliest nymphs in the world. She
insisted upon seeing the ball-room, and paced up and down its ample
extent with a step that seemed with difficulty restrained from dancing;
she examined the arrangement for the music, looked up with exultation at
the chandeliers, and triumphed in anticipation at their favourable
influence upon rouge, eyes, feathers, and flowers. Had there been any
other man present beside the waiter, she would hardly have restrained
her desire to make a _tour de waltz_; and, as it was, she could not help
turning to the quiet young man, and saying with a condescending smile,
"The company must look very well in this room, sir?"

As they passed in their way out through the room in which the
subscription-books were kept, they met a gentleman, whose apparent age
wavered between thirty-five and forty, tall, stout, gaily dressed, fully
moustached, and with an eye that looked as if accustomed to active
service in reconnoitring all things. He took off his hat, and bowed
profoundly to Miss Peters, bestowing at the same time a very
satisfactory stare on the widow.

"Who is that, my dear?" said the well-pleased lady.

"That is Major Allen," replied Elizabeth.

"Upon my word, he is a very fine, fashionable-looking man. Is he
intimate with your family?"

"Oh no!... We only know him from meeting him sometimes at parties, and
always at the balls."

"Is he a man of fortune?"

"I am sure I don't know. He has got a smart horse and groom, and goes a
great deal into company."

"Then of course he cannot be a poor man, my dear. Is he a dancer?"

"No.... I believe he always plays cards."

"And where shall we go now, dearest?... I want you to take me,
Elizabeth, to all the smartest shops you know."

"Some of the best shops are at Bristol, but we have a very good milliner
here."

"Then let us go there, dear.... And did not your mamma say something
about a library?"

"Yes, there's the library, and almost everybody goes there almost every
morning."

"Then there of course I shall go. I consider it as so completely a duty,
my dear Elizabeth, to do all these sort of things for the sake of my
niece. My fortune is a very good one, and the doing as other people of
fortune do, must be an advantage to poor dear Agnes as long as she is
with me; ... but I don't scruple to say to you, my dear, that the
fortune I received from your dear uncle, will return to his family in
case I die without children.... And a truly widowed heart, my dear girl,
does not easily match itself again. But the more you know of me,
Elizabeth, the more you will find that I have many notions peculiar to
myself. Many people, if they were mistress of my fortune, would spend
three times as much as I do; but I always say to myself, 'Poor dear Mr.
Barnaby, though he loved me better than anything else on earth, loved
his own dear sister and her children next best; and therefore, as he
left all to me ... and a very fine fortune he made, I assure you ... I
hold myself in duty bound, as I spend a great deal of money with one
hand upon my own niece, to save a great deal with the other for his.'"

"I am sure you seem to be very kind and good to everybody," replied the
grateful young lady.

"That is what I would wish to be, my dear, for it is only so that we can
do our duty.... Not that I would ever pledge myself never to marry
again, my dear Elizabeth. I don't at all approve people making promises
that it may be the will of Heaven they should break afterwards; and
those people are not the most likely to keep a resolution, who vow and
swear about it. But I hope you will never think me stingy, my dear, nor
let anybody else think me so, for not spending above a third of my
income, or perhaps not quite so much; for, now you know my motives, you
must feel that it would be very ungenerous, particularly in your family,
to blame me for it."

"It would indeed, Mrs. Barnaby, and it is what I am sure that I, for
one, should never think of doing.... But this is the milliner's....
Shall we go in?"

"Oh yes!... A very pretty shop, indeed; quite in good style. What a
sweet turban!... If it was not for the reasons that I tell you, I should
certainly be tempted, Elizabeth. Pray, ma'am, what is the price of this
scarlet turban?"

"Four guineas and a half, ma'am, with the bird, and two guineas without
it."

"It is a perfect gem! Pray, ma'am, do you ever make up ladies' own
materials?"

"No, ma'am, never," replied the decisive _artiste_.

"Do you never fasten in feathers?... I should not mind paying for it, as
I see your style is quite first-rate."

"For our customers, ma'am, and whenever the feathers or the coiffure
have been furnished in the first instance by ourselves."

"You are a customer, Elizabeth, are you not?"

"Mamma is," replied the young lady. "You know Mrs. Peters of Rodney
Place, Mrs. Duval?"

"Oh yes!... I beg your pardon, Miss Peters. Is this lady a friend of
yours?"

"Mrs. Peters is my sister-in-law, Mrs. Duval, and I hope that will
induce you to treat me as if I had already been a customer. I should
like to have some feathers, that I mean to wear at the ball on Tuesday,
fastened into my toque, like these in this blue one here. Will you do
this for me?"

"Yes, ma'am, certainly, if you will favour us with your name on our
books."

"That's very obliging, and I will send my own maid with it as soon as I
get home."

"Is there anything else I can have the pleasure of shewing you, ladies?"

"I want some long white gloves, if you please, and something light and
elegant in the way of a scarf."

The _modiste_ was instantly on the alert, and the counter became as a
sea of many-coloured waves.

"Coloured scarves are sometimes worn in slight mourning, I believe, are
they not?"

"Oh yes! ma'am, always."

"What do you say to this one, Elizabeth?" said the widow, selecting one
of a brilliant geranium tint.

"For yourself, Mrs. Barnaby?"

"Yes, my dear.... My dress will be black satin, you know."

"I should think white would look better," said Elizabeth, recollecting
her mother's aversion to fine colours, and recollecting also the recent
weeds of her widowed aunt.

"Well, ... perhaps it might. Let me see some white, if you please."

"Perhaps you would like blonde, ma'am?" said the milliner, opening a
box, and displaying some tempting specimens.

"Beautiful indeed!... very!... What is the price of this one?"

"A mere trifle, ma'am.... Give me leave to begin your account with
this."

"Well, I really think I must.... I know they clean as good as new."

"What is Agnes to wear?" inquired Elizabeth.

"There is one of my troubles, my dear; she will wear nothing but the
deepest mourning. Between you and me, Elizabeth, I suspect it is some
feeling about her poor mother, or else for her father, who has never
been heard of for years, but whom we all suppose to have died abroad,--I
suspect it is some feeling of this sort that makes her so very obstinate
about it. But she can't bear to have it talked of, so don't say a word
to her on the subject, or she will be out of sorts for a week, and will
think it very cruel of me to have named it to you. I perfectly dote
upon that girl, Elizabeth, ... though, to be sure, I have my trials with
her! But we have all our trials, Elizabeth!... and, thank Heaven! I
have a happy temper, and bear mine, I believe, as well as most people.
But about that strange whim that Agnes has, of always wearing crape and
bombasin, you may as well just mention it to your mamma and sisters, to
prevent their taking any notice of it to her; for if they did, you may
depend upon it she would not go to the ball at all.... Oh! you have no
idea of the obstinacy of that darling girl!... These gloves will do at
last, I think.... Your gloves are all so remarkably small, Mrs.
Duval!... And that's all for this morning."

"Where shall I send them, ma'am, and to what name?"

"To Mrs. Barnaby, No. 1, Sion Row."

"Thank you, ma'am.... They shall be sent immediately."

"Now then, Elizabeth, for the library," said the widow with an
expressive flourish of the hand.

And to the library they went, which to Mrs. Barnaby's great
satisfaction was full of smart people, and, amongst others, she had to
make her way past the moustached Major Allen, in order to reach the
table on which the subscription-book was laid.

"I beg your pardon, madam, a thousand times!" said the Major; "I am
afraid I trod on your foot!"

"Don't mention it!... it is of no consequence in the world! The shop is
so full, it is almost impossible to avoid it."

The Major in return for this civil speech again fixed his broad, wide,
open eyes upon the widow, and she had again the satisfaction of
believing that he thought her particularly handsome.

Miss Peters found many of her acquaintance among the crowd, with whom
she conversed, while Mrs. Barnaby seated herself at the table, and
turned over page after page of autographs with the air of a person
deeply interested by the hope of finding the names of friends and
acquaintance among them, whereas it would have been a circumstance
little short of a miracle had she found there that of any individual
whom she had ever seen in her life; but she performed her part
admirably, smiling from time to time, as if delighted at an unexpected
recognition. Meanwhile many an eye, as she well knew, was fixed upon
her, for her appearance was in truth sufficiently striking. She was
tall, considerably above the average height, and large, though not to
corpulency; in short, her figure was what many people, like Mr. Peters,
would call that of a fine woman; and many others, like Mrs. Peters,
would declare to be large, ungainly, and vulgar. Her features were
decidedly handsome, her eyes and teeth fine, and her nose high and
well-formed; but all this was exaggerated into great coarseness by the
quantity of rouge she wore, and the redundance of harsh-looking,
coal-black ringlets which depended heavily down each side of her large
face, so as still to give a striking resemblance, as Agnes, it may be
remembered, discovered several years before, to the wax heads in a
hair-dresser's shop. This sort of face and figure, which were of
themselves likely enough to draw attention, were rendered still more
conspicuous by her dress, which, though, like herself, really handsome,
was rendered unpleasing by its glaring purpose of producing effect. A
bonnet of bright lavender satin, extravagantly large, and fearfully
thrown back, displayed a vast quantity of blonde quilling, fully planted
with flowers of every hue, while a prodigious plume of drooping feathers
tossed themselves to and fro with every motion of her head, and
occasionally reposed themselves on her shoulder. Her dress was of black
silk, but ingeniously relieved by the introduction of as many settings
off, of the same colour with her bonnet, as it was well possible to
contrive; so that, although in mourning, her general appearance was
exceedingly shewy and gay.

"Who is your friend, Elizabeth?" said a young lady, who seemed to have
the privilege of questioning freely.

"It is Mrs. Barnaby," replied Miss Peters in a whisper.

"And who is Mrs. Barnaby, my dear?.... She has quite the air of a
personage."

"She is the widow of mamma's brother, Mr. Barnaby of Silverton."

"Silverton?... That's the name of her place, is it?... She is a lady of
large fortune, I presume?"

"Yes, she is, Miss Maddox," replied Elizabeth, somewhat scandalized by
the freedom of these inquiries; "but I really wish you would not speak
so loud, for she must hear you."

"Oh no!... You see she is very busy looking for her friends. Good
morning, Major!" said the same fair lady, turning to Major Allen, who
stood close beside her, listening to all her inquiries and to the
answers they received. "Are we to have a good ball on Tuesday?"

"If all the world can be made to know that Miss Maddox will be there,
all the world will assuredly be there to meet her," replied the
gentleman.

"Then I commission you to spread the tidings far and near. I wonder if
there will be many strangers?"

"Some of the Stephenson and Hubert party, I hear--that is, Colonel
Hubert and young Frederick Stephenson--they are the only ones left. The
bridal party set off from the Mall this morning at eleven o'clock. Lady
Stephenson looked more beautiful than ever."

"Lady Stephenson?.... Oh! Emily Hubert.... Yes, she is very handsome;
and her brother is vastly like her."

"Do you think so?... He is so thin and weather-beaten ... so very like
an old soldier."

"I don't like him the worse for that," replied the lady. "He looks as if
he had seen service, and were the better for it. He is decidedly the
handsomest man at Clifton."

The Major smiled, and turned on his heel, which brought him exactly
_vis-à-vis_ to Miss Elizabeth Peters.

"Your party mean to honour the ball on Tuesday, I hope, Miss Peters?"

"I believe so, Major Allen. It is seldom that we are not some of us
there."

"Shall you bring us the accession of any strangers?" inquired the Major.

"Mrs. Barnaby and her niece will be with us, I think."

"I flatter myself that altogether we shall muster strong. Good morning!"
and with another sidelong glance at the widow, Major Allen walked out of
the shop.

Not a word of all this had been lost upon Mrs. Barnaby. She had thought
from the very first that Elizabeth Peters must be selected as her
particular friend, and now she was convinced that she would be
invaluable in that capacity. It was quite impossible that any one could
have answered better to questions than she had done. It was impossible,
too, that anything could be more fascinating than the general appearance
of Major Allen; and if, upon farther inquiry, it should prove that he
was indeed, as he appeared to be, a man of fashion and fortune, the
whole world could not offer her a lover she should so passionately
desire to captivate!

Such were the meditations of Mrs. Barnaby as she somewhat pensively sat
at her drawing-room window, awaiting the return of Agnes to dinner on
that day; and such were very frequently her meditations afterwards.


END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.








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