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                       THE WIDOW BARNABY.

                      BY FRANCES TROLLOPE,

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


    IN THREE VOLUMES.
    VOL. II.

    LONDON:
    RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.

    1839.

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




THE WIDOW BARNABY.




CHAPTER I.

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Perhaps what, child?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, thank you, aunt."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER II.

THE BALL.


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

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

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

"From your gown, aunt."

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nor was she mistaken, for thus it ran:

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

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

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

"Yes, very large fortune."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the Major had heard enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The angel in black?"

"Yes, Frederick."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I never dance, you know."

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER III.

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who?" said Agnes innocently.

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

"Twenty years?" said Agnes.

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

"Her father!" said Agnes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER IV.

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A set, were they?"

"Oh yes."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The Duke of Wellington!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER V.

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You were not born at Empton, then?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER VI.

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

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

Betty anticipated a scolding, and looked sulky.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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




CHAPTER VII.

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

    "Malignant Fate sat by and smiled"

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER VIII.

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


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

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

"Do you intend to go, dearest?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The good-humoured Frederick, mean time, though foiled in his hope of
engrossing her, quickly found consolation in listening to Miss Peters,
who confided to him all her doubts and fears respecting the possibility
of her friend's finding courage to sing before so large an audience.

"For God's sake, do not plague her about it," said he. "Though, to be
sure, such a voice as hers would be enough to embellish any concert in
the world."

"It is only on mamma's account," replied Mary, "that I am anxious for
it; ... she has been so disappointed about Miss Roberts!... I wish,
after Lucy's next duet with James, while Elizabeth is accompanying the
violoncello, that you would contrive to get near her, where she is
trying to keep out of the way, poor thing!... and tell her that my
mother wishes to speak to her."

Frederick readily undertook the commission, not ill pleased to be thus
confirmed in his belief that she had not run away from him, but for some
other reason which he had not before understood. Miss Peters was far
from imagining what an effectual means she had hit upon for making her
friend Agnes take a place among the performers. She had continued to
sit during the long duet, triumphing in the clever management that had
placed her out of the way of everybody, and perfectly aware ... though
she by no means appeared to watch him steadily ... that Colonel Hubert
did not feel at all more gay or happy than herself. But, lo! just at the
moment indicated by Mary, the smiling, bowing, handsome Frederick
Stephenson contrived civilly and silently to make his way between
crowded rows of full-dressed ladies to the place where Agnes fancied
herself in such perfect security. He delivered his message, but not
without endeavouring to make her understand how superlatively happy the
commission had made him.

This was too much.... To sit within the same room that held Colonel
Hubert, without his taking the slightest notice of her, and that, too,
after all the sweet delusive visions of the morning, was quite dreadful
enough, without having to find answers for words she did not hear, and
dress her face in smiles, when she was so very much disposed to weep. "I
will sing every song they will let me," thought she. "Ill or well, it
matters not now.... I will bear anything but being talked to!"

Giving the eager messenger nothing but a silent nod in return for all
his trouble, Agnes again rose, and made her way to Mrs. Peters.

It chanced that Mary, Lucy, and one or two other ladies were in
consultation with her at a part of the room exactly within sight of Mrs.
Barnaby, who, having found her neighbours civilly disposed to answer all
her questions, had thus far remained tolerably contented and quiet. But
the scene she now witnessed aroused her equally to jealousy and
astonishment. Mrs. Peters--who, from the moment she had deposited her on
the sofa, had never bestowed a single word upon her, but, on the
contrary, kept very carefully out of her way,--had hitherto been
supposed by her self-satisfied sister-in-law to be too much occupied in
arranging the progress of the musical performance to have any time left
to bestow upon her relations; yet now she saw her in the centre of the
room, devoting her whole attention to Agnes, evidently presenting her to
one or two of the most elegant-looking among her company, and finally
taking her by the hand, as if she had been the most important personage
present, and leading her with smiles, and an air of the most flattering
affection, to the pianoforte.

"Who is that beautiful girl, ma'am?" said one of Mrs. Barnaby's
talkative neighbours, thinking, perhaps, that she had a right, in her
turn, to question a person who had so freely questioned her.

"What girl, ma'am?" returned Mrs. Barnaby; for use so lessens marvel,
that she had become almost unconscious of the uncommon loveliness of her
niece; or, at any rate, was too constantly occupied by other concerns to
pay much attention to it.

"That young lady in black crape, whom Mrs. Peters has just led to the
instrument.... Upon my word, I think she is the most beautiful person I
ever saw!"

"Oh!... that's my niece, ma'am; ... and I'm sure I don't know what
nonsense my sister Peters has got in her head about her.... I hope she
is not going to pretend to play without asking my leave. It is time I
should look after her." And so saying the indignant Mrs. Barnaby arose,
determined upon sharing the notice at least, if not the favour, bestowed
upon her dependant kinswoman. But she was immediately compelled to
reseat herself by the universal "Hush!..." that buzzed around her; for
at that moment the superb voice of Agnes burst upon the room, and
"startled the dull ear" of the least attentive listener in it.

The effect was so wholly unlooked-for, and so great, that the
demonstration of it might naturally have been expected to overpower so
young a performer; Miss Peters, therefore, the moment the song was over,
hastened to her friend, expecting to find her agitated, trembling, and
in want of an arm to support her; but instead of this she found Agnes
perfectly tranquil ... apparently unconscious of having produced any
sensation at all in the company at large, and in fact looking, for the
first time since she entered the room, happy and at her ease.

The cause of this could only be found where Miss Peters never thought of
looking for it,--namely, in the position and countenance of Colonel
Hubert. He had not, indeed, yet spoken much to her; but enough, at
least, to convince her that he was not more indifferent than in the
morning, and, ... in short, enough to raise her from the miserable state
of dejection and annoyance which made her fly with such irritated
feelings from the attentions of Frederick, to such a state of joyous
hopefulness as made her almost giddily unmindful of every human being
around her, save one.

Though Agnes had restlessly left the place whence she had first seen
Colonel Hubert ensconce himself in a corner, apparently as far from her
as possible, she chose another equally convenient for tormenting herself
by watching him, and for perceiving also that nothing, save his own will
and pleasure, detained him from her. From this, as we have seen, she was
again driven by poor Frederick; and forgetting her shyness and all other
minor evils in the misery of being talked to when her heart was
breaking, she determined upon singing, solely to get out of his way.

Her false courage, however, faded fast as she approached the
instrument. She remembered, with a keenness amounting almost to agony,
those songs of the morning that she had since been rehearsing in spirit,
in the dear belief that they had charmed away his stately reserve for
ever; and she was desperately meditating the best mode of making a
precipitate retreat, when, on reaching the spot kept sacred to the
performers and their music-desks, she perceived Colonel Hubert in the
midst of them, who immediately placed himself at her side, (where,
according to rule, he had no business to be,) and asked her in a
whisper, if she meant to accompany herself.

The revulsion of feeling produced by this most unexpected address was
violent indeed. Her whole being seemed changed in a moment. Her heart
beat, her eyes sparkled with recovered happiness, and she literally
remembered nothing but that she was going to sing to him again. In
answer to his question, she said with a smile that made him very nearly
as forgetful of all around as herself, "Do you think I had better do
it?... Or shall I ask Elizabeth?"

"No, no; ask no one," he replied.

"And what shall I sing?" again whispered Agnes.

"The last song you sang this morning," was the reply.

Orpheus was never inspired by a more powerful feeling than that which
now animated the renovated spirit of Agnes, and she performed as she
never had performed before.

The result was a burst of applause, that ought, _selon les regles_, to
have been overpowering to her feelings; yet there she stood, blushing a
little certainly, but looking as light-hearted and as happy as the Peri
when readmitted into Paradise. Just at this moment, and exactly as
Colonel Hubert was offering his arm to lead her back again to a place
among the company, Mrs. Barnaby, feathered, rouged, ringleted, and
desperately determined to share the honours of the hour, made her way,
proud in the consciousness of attracting an hundred eyes, up to the
conspicuous place where Agnes stood. She had already taken Colonel
Hubert's arm, and for an instant he seemed disposed to attempt leading
her off in the contrary direction; but if he really meditated so bold a
measure, he was completely foiled, for Mrs. Barnaby, laying her hand on
his in a very friendly way, exclaimed in her most fascinating style of
vivacity,--

"No, no, Colonel ... you are vastly obliging; but I must take care of my
own niece, if you please!... She sings just like her poor mother, my
dear Mary," she added, changing her tone to a sentimental whine.... "I
assure you it is almost too much for my feelings;" and as she said this
she drew the unhappy Agnes away, having thrown her arm round her waist,
while she kissed her affectedly on the forehead.

Colonel Hubert hovered about her for a few minutes; but whatever might
be the fascinations that attracted him, they were apparently not strong
enough to resist another personal attack from Mrs. Barnaby.

"What a crowd!" she exclaimed, suddenly turning towards him. "Do,
Colonel, give me your arm, and we will go and eat some ice in the other
room;" upon which he suddenly retreated among the throng, and in two
minutes had left the house. It is true, that at the moment the widow so
audaciously asked for his arm, Frederick Stephenson was just presenting
his to Agnes, which it is possible might have added impulse to the
velocity of this sudden exit; but whichever was the primary feeling,
both together were more than he could bear; and accordingly, like many
other conquered heroes, he sought safety in flight.

Of what happened in that room during the rest of the evening, poor Agnes
could have given no account; to sing again she assured her friends was
quite beyond her power, and she looked so very pale and so very
miserable as she said this, that they believed she had really
over-exerted herself; and, delighted by the brilliant success of her one
song, permitted her to remain unmolested by further solicitations.

Frederick Stephenson also doubted not that the unusual effort she had
made before so large a party was one cause of her evident dejection,
though he could not but feel that the appearance and manner of her aunt
were likely enough to increase this; but, at all events, it was no time
to breathe into her ear the tale of love he had prepared for it; so,
after asking Miss Peters if he should be likely to find her friend at
Rodney Place on the following morning, and receiving from her a
cordial ... "Oh! yes, certainly," he also took his leave, more in love
than ever; and though mortified by the disappointment this long-expected
evening had brought him, as sanguine as ever in his hopes for the
morrow.

Mrs. Barnaby was one of the last guests that departed, as, next to the
pleasure of being made love to, the gratification of finding herself in
a large party, with the power of calling the giver of it her "dear
sister," ranked highest in her present estimation. Agnes was anxiously
waiting for her signal to depart; but no sooner was she shut up in the
_fly_ with her than she heartily wished herself back again, for a
torrent of scolding was poured forth upon her as unexpected as it was
painful.

"And it is thus, ungrateful viper as you are, that you reward my
kindness!... Never have you deigned to tell me that you could sing ...
no, you wicked, _wicked_ creature, you leave me to find it out by
accident; while your new friends, or rather new strangers, are made
your confidants,--while I am to sit by and look like a fool, because I
never heard of it before!..."

"It was only because there was a pianoforte there, aunt.... I cannot
sing without one."

"Ungrateful wretch!... reproaching me with not spending my last
shilling in buying pianofortes! But I will tell you, miss, what your
fine singing shall end in.... You shall go upon the stage ... mark my
words ... you shall go upon the stage, Miss Willoughby, and sing for
your bread. No husband of mine shall ever be taxed to maintain such a
mean-spirited, ungrateful, conceited upstart as you are!"

Agnes attempted no farther explanation; and the silent tears these
revilings drew, were too well in accordance with her worn-out spirits
and sinking heart to be very painful. She only longed for her closet,
and the unbroken stillness of night, that she might shed them without
fear of interruption. But this was destined to be a night of
disappointments, for even this melancholy enjoyment was denied her.

On arriving at their lodgings, the door was opened by the servant of
the house; and when Mrs. Barnaby imperiously demanded, "Where is my
maid?... where is Jerningham?" she was told that Jerningham had gone
out, and was not yet returned.

Now Jerningham was an especial favourite with her mistress, being a
gossip and a sycophant of the first order; and the delinquency of not
being come home at very nearly one o'clock in the morning, elicited no
expression of anger, but a good deal of alarm.

"Dear me!... what can have become of her?... Poor dear girl, I fear she
must have met with some accident!... What o'clock was it when she went
out?"... Such questionings lasted till the stairs were mounted, and the
lady had entered her bed-room.

But no sooner did she reach the commode and place her candle upon it,
than she uttered a tremendous scream, followed by exclamations which
speedily explained to Agnes and the servant the misfortune that had
befallen her. "I am robbed--I am ruined!... Look here!... look
here!... my box broken open, and every farthing of money gone.... All my
forks too!... all my spoons, and my cream-jug, and my mustard-pot!... I
am ruined--I am robbed!... But you shall be answerable,--the mistress of
the house shall be answerable.... You must have let the thieves in ...
you must, for the house-door was not broke open."

The girl of the house looked exceedingly terrified, and asked if she had
not better call up her mistress.

"To be sure you had, you fool!... Do you think I am going to sleep in a
room where thieves have been suffered to enter while I was out?... How
do I know but they may be lurking about still, waiting to murder me?"

The worthy widow to whom the house belonged speedily joined the group in
nightcap and bedgown, and listened half awake to Mrs. Barnaby's
clamorous account of her misfortune.

As soon as she began to understand the statement, which was a good deal
encumbered by lamentations and threats, the quiet little old woman,
without appearing to take the least offence at the repeated assertion
that she must have let the thieves in herself, turned to her servant
and said,--

"Is the lady's maid come in, Sally?"

"No, ma'am," said Sally; "she has never come back since she went out
with the gentleman's servant as comed to fetch her."

"Then you may depend upon it, ma'am, that 'tis your maid as have robbed
you," said the landlady.

"My maid!... What! Jerningham?... Impossible!... She is the best girl in
the world--an innocent creature that I had away from school.... 'Tis
downright impossible, and I never will believe it."

"Well, ma'am," said the widow, "let it be who it will, it won't be
possible to catch 'em to-night; and I would advise you to go to bed, for
the poor young lady looks pale and frightened; ... and to-morrow
morning, ma'am, I would recommend your asking Mr. Peters what is best to
be done."

"And how am I to be sure that there are no thieves in the house now?"
cried Mrs. Barnaby.... "Open the door of your closet, Agnes, and look
under the beds; ... and you, Mrs. Crocker, you must go into the
drawing-room, and down stairs and up stairs, and everywhere, before I
lay my poor dear head upon my pillow.... I don't choose to have my
throat cut, I promise you.--Good Heavens!... What will Major Allen say?"

"I don't think, ma'am, that we should any of us like to have our throats
cut," replied Mrs. Crocker; "and luckily there is no great likelihood of
it, I fancy.... Good night, ladies."

And without waiting for any further discussion, the sleepy mistress of
the mansion crept back to bed ... her hand-maiden followed her example,
and Agnes was left alone to receive upon her devoted head the torrent of
lamentations by which the bereaved Mrs. Barnaby gave vent to her sorrows
during great part of the night.

On the following morning the widow took Mrs. Crocker's very reasonable
advice, and repaired to Rodney Place in time to find Mr. Peters before
he set off on his daily walk to Bristol. Agnes, pale, fatigued, and
heavy-hearted, accompanied her, and so striking was the change in her
appearance from what it had been the day before, that those of the
party round the breakfast-table, who best loved her, were much more
pleased than pained, when they learned that the cause of her bad night
and consequent ill looks, was her aunt's having been robbed of nearly a
hundred pounds and a few articles of plate.

They were too judicious, however, to mention their satisfaction, and the
sorrows of the widow received from all the party a very suitable measure
of condolence. Mr. Peters indeed did much more than condole with her,
for he cordially offered his assistance; and it was soon settled, by his
advice, that Mrs. Barnaby should immediately accompany him to the mayor,
and afterwards proceed according to the instructions of a lawyer to whom
he immediately dispatched a note, requesting that he would meet them
forthwith before the magistrate. The carriage was then ordered: Agnes,
by the advice of all parties, was left at Rodney Place; and Mrs.
Barnaby, somewhat comforted, but still in great tribulation, set off in
her dear sister's _coach_ (her best consolation) to testify before the
mayor of Bristol, not only that she had been robbed, but that there
certainly was some reason to suppose her maid Jerningham the thief.

Mr. Peters found his lawyer ready to receive them, who, after hearing
the lady's statement, obtained a warrant for the apprehension of
Elizabeth Jacks and of William ---- (surname unknown), groom or valet,
or both, to Major Allen, lodging at Gloucester Row, Clifton. The widow
had very considerable scruples concerning the implication of this latter
individual; but having allowed that she thought he must be the
"gentleman's servant" spoken of by Mrs. Crocker's maid as having
accompanied Jerningham when she left the house, she was assured that it
would be necessary to include him; and she finally consented, on its
being made manifest to her that, if he proved innocent, there would be
no difficulty whatever in obtaining his release. Mrs. Barnaby was then
requested accurately to describe the persons of her maid and her
supposed companion, which she did very distinctly, and with the less
difficulty, because the persons of both were remarkable.

"There wasn't another man likely to be in her company, was there,
ma'am?" said a constable who was in attendance in the office.

"No," replied Mrs. Barnaby confidently, "I don't know any one at all
likely to be with her. I am almost sure that she had not any other
acquaintance."

"But the man might," observed another official.

"That's true," rejoined the first, "and therefore I strongly suspect
that I saw the girl and the man too enter a house on the quay just fit
for such sort of company; ... but there was another fellow along with
them."

"Then we will charge you with the warrant, Miles," said the magistrate.
"If you can succeed in taking them into custody at once, it is highly
probable that you may be able to recover the property."

This hint rendered the widow extremely urgent that no time should be
lost; and in case the constable should succeed in finding them at the
place he had named, she consented to remain in a room attached to the
office, that no time might be lost in identifying the parties.

"There will be no harm, I suppose, in taking the other fellow on
suspicion, if I find them still together?" said the constable; adding,
"I rather think I know something of that t'other chap already." He
received authority to do this, and then departed, leaving Mrs. Barnaby,
her faithful squire, Mr. Peters, and the lawyer, seated on three stools
in a dismal sort of apartment within the office, the lady, at least,
being in a state of very nervous expectation. This position was not a
pleasant one; but fortunately it did not last long, for in considerably
less than an hour they were requested to return into the office, the
three prisoners being arrived.

Mr. Peters gave the lady his arm, and they entered by a door exactly
facing the spot on which stood the three persons just brought in, with
the constable and two attendant officers behind them. The group, as
expected, consisted of two men and a girl, which latter was indeed the
tall and slender Betty Jacks, and no other; the man at her left hand was
William, the Major's civil groom; and he at her right was ... no, it was
impossible, ... yet she could not mistake ... it must be, and, in fact,
it was that pattern of faithful friendship, Captain Maintry!

Mrs. Barnaby's agitation was now, beyond all suspicion of affectation,
very considerable, and his worship obligingly ordered a glass of water
and a chair, which having been procured and profited by, he asked her if
she knew the prisoners.

"Yes!..." she answered with a long-drawn sigh.

"Can you point them out by name?"

"The girl is my maid Jer ... Betty Jacks ... that man is William, Major
Allen's groom ... and that other...."

"You had better stop there," interrupted the self-styled captain, "or
you may chance to say more than you know."

"You had better be silent, I promise you," said the magistrate. "Pray,
ma'am, do you know that person?... Did you ever see him before?"

"Yes, I have seen him before," replied Mrs. Barnaby, who was pale in
spite of her rouge; for the recollection of all the affectionate
intimacy she had witnessed between this man and her affianced Major
turned her very sick, and it was quite as much as she could do to
articulate.

"I should be sorry, ma'am, to trouble you with any unnecessary
questions," said the magistrate; "but I must beg you to tell me, if you
please, where it is you have seen him, and what he is called?"

"I saw him in the Mall at Clifton, sir," ... replied Mrs. Barnaby.

"And many an honest man besides me may have been seen in the Mall at
Clifton," said the _soi-disant_ Captain Maintry laughing.

"And you have never seen him anywhere else, ma'am?"

"No, sir, never."

"Pray, was he then in company with that groom?"

"No," ... replied the widow faltering.

Maintry laughed again.

"You cannot then swear that you suspect him of having robbed you?"

"No, sir."

Here the constable whispered something in the ear of the magistrate,
who nodded, and then resumed his examination.

"Did you hear this man's name mentioned, madam, when you saw him in the
Mall?"

"Yes, sir, I did."

"That has nothing to do with the present business," interrupted Maintry,
"and therefore you have no right to ask it."

"I suspect that you have called yourself in this city by more names than
one," replied the magistrate; "and I have a right to discover this if I
can.... By what name did you hear him called when you saw him at
Clifton, ma'am?"

"I heard him called Captain Maintry."

"Captain indeed!... These fellows are all captains and majors, I think,"
said the magistrate, making a memorandum of the name. Mrs. Barnaby's
heart sunk within her. She remembered the promise of marriage, and that
so acutely as almost to make her forget the business that brought her
there.

The magistrate and the lawyer, however, were less oblivious, and
proceeded in the usual manner to discover whether there were sufficient
grounds of suspicion against any of the parties to justify committal.
The very first question addressed to Betty Jacks settled the business,
for she began crying and sobbing at a piteous rate, and said, "If
mistress will forgive me I'll tell her all about it, and a great deal
more too; and 'twasn't my fault, nor William's neither, half so much as
Joe Purdham's, for he set us on;" and she indicated Joe Purdham with a
finger which, as her lengthy arm reached within an inch of his nose,
could not be mistaken as to the person to whom it intended to act as
index. But had this been insufficient, the search instituted on the
persons of the trio would have supplied all the proof wanted. Very
nearly all the money was discovered within the lining of Purdham's hat;
the pockets of Betty were heavy with forks and spoons, and the cream-jug
and mustard-pot, carelessly enveloped each in a pocket-handkerchief,
were lodged upon the person of William.

In a word, the parties were satisfactorily identified and committed to
prison; the property of Mrs. Barnaby was in a fair way of being
restored, and her very disagreeable business at Bristol done and over,
leaving nothing but a ride back in her sister's coach to be
accomplished.

Mr. Peters offered his arm to lead her out, and with a dash of honest
triumph at having so ably managed matters, said, "Well, madam ... I hope
you are pleased with the termination of this business?"

What a question for Mrs. Barnaby to answer!... Pleased!... Was she
pleased?... Pleased at having every reason in the world to believe that
she had given a promise of marriage to the friend and associate of a
common thief!... But the spirit of the widow did not forsake her; and,
after one little hysterical gasp, she replied by uttering a thousand
thanks, and a million assurances that nothing could possibly be more
satisfactory.

She was not, however, quite in a condition to meet the questionings
which would probably await her at Rodney Place; and as Mr. Peters did
not return in the carriage, she ordered the man to set her down at Sion
Row. She could not refuse to Mrs. Crocker the satisfaction of knowing
that Jerningham was the thief, that Jerningham was committed to prison,
and that she was bound over to prosecute; but it was all uttered as
briefly as possible, and then she shut herself in her drawing-room to
take counsel with herself as to what could be done to get her out of
this terrible scrape without confessing either to Mr. Peters or any one
else that she had ever got into it.

For the remainder of the day she might easily plead illness and fatigue
to excuse her seeing anybody; and as it was not till the day following
that she expected the return of the Major, she had still some hours to
meditate upon the ways and means of extricating herself.

Towards night she became more tranquil, for she had made up her mind
what to do.... She would meet him as fondly as ever, and then so play
her game as to oblige him to let her look at the promise she had given.
"Once within reach of my hand," thought she, "the danger will be over."
This scheme so effectually cheered her spirits, that when Agnes returned
home in the evening she had no reason whatever to suspect that her aunt
had anything particularly disagreeable upon her mind, ... for she only
called her a fool twice, and threatened to send her upon the stage three
times.




CHAPTER IX.

MAJOR ALLEN PAYS A VISIT AT BATH PRODUCTIVE OF IMPORTANT
RESULTS.--SYMPATHY BETWEEN HIMSELF AND THE WIDOW BARNABY.--EXCHANGE IS
NO ROBBERY.--VALEDICTORY COMPLIMENTS.


The adventures of Major Allen have no connexion with this narrative,
excepting as far as the widow Barnaby is concerned, and therefore with
his business at Bath, or anything he did there, we have nothing to do
beyond recording about ten minutes' conversation which he chanced to
have with one individual of a party with whom he passed the evening
after his arrival.

Among the many men of various ages who were accustomed to meet together
wherever those who live by their wits were likely to prosper, there was
on this occasion one young man who had but recently evinced the bad
ambition of belonging to the set. Major Allen had never seen him before;
but hearing him named as a famous fine fellow who was likely to do them
honour, he scrupled not to converse with perfect freedom before him. The
most interesting thing he had to record since the party last met, was
the history of his engagement with the widow Barnaby, whom he very
complacently described as extremely handsome, passionately in love with
him, and possessed of a noble fortune both in money and land.

The Nestor of the party asked him with very friendly anxiety if he had
been careful to ascertain what the property really was, as it was no
uncommon thing for handsome widows to appear richer than they were.

"Thank you for nothing, most sage conjuror," replied the gay Major; "age
has not thinned my flowing hair; but I'm not such a greenhorn neither as
to walk blindfold. In the first place, the lady is sister-in-law to old
Peters, one of the wealthiest of turtle-eaters, and it was from one of
his daughters that I learned the real state of her affairs,--an
authority that may be the better depended on, because, though they
receive her as a sister, and all that, it is quite evident that they are
by no means very fond of her.... In fact, they are rather a stiff-backed
generation, whereas my widow is as gay as a lark."

"Is she a Bristol woman?" inquired one of the party.

"No, she is from Devonshire," was the reply. "The name of her place is
'_Silverton Park_.'"

"Silverton in Devonshire?" said the young stranger. "May I ask the
lady's name, sir?"

"Her name is Barnaby," replied Major Allen briskly; "do you happen to
know anything about her?"

"The widow Barnaby of Silverton?... Oh! to be sure I do, and a fine
woman she is too,--no doubt of it. She is the widow of our apothecary."

"The widow of an apothecary?... No such thing, sir; you mistake
altogether," replied the Major. "Do you happen to know such a place as
Silverton Park?"

"I never heard of such a park, sir; but I know Silverton well enough,"
said the young man, "and I know her house, or what was her house, as
well as I know my own father's, which is at no great distance from it
neither. And I know the shop and the bow-window belonging to it, and a
very pretty decent dwelling-house it is."

Major Allen grew fidgety; he wanted to hear more, but did not approve
the publicity of the conversation, and contrived at the moment to put a
stop to it, but contrived also to make an appointment with his new
acquaintance to breakfast together on the following morning; and before
their allowance of tea and toast was dispatched, Major Allen was not
only fully disenchanted respecting Silverton Park, and the four
beautiful greys, but quite _au fait_ of the reputation for running up
bills which his charmer had enjoyed previous to her marriage with the
worthy apothecary.

It was this latter portion of the discourse which completed the
extinction of the Major's passion, and this so entirely, that he
permitted himself not to inquire, as he easily might have done, into
the actual state of the widow's finances; but, feeling himself on the
edge of a very frightful precipice, he ran off in the contrary direction
too fast to see if there were any safe mode of descending without a
tumble. It may indeed be doubted whether the snug little property
actually in possession of his Juno, would have been sufficient for his
honourable ambition, even had he been as sure of her having and holding
it, as she was herself; for, to say the truth, he rated his own price in
the matrimonial market rather highly,--had great faith in the power of
his height and fashionable _tournure_, and confidence unbounded in his
large eyes and _collier Grec_. It is true, indeed, that he had failed
more than once, and that too "when the fair cause of all his pain" had
given him great reason to believe that she admired him much;
nevertheless, his self-approval was in no degree lessened thereby, nor
was it likely to be, so long as he could oil and trim his redundant
whiskers without discovering a grey hair in them.

In short, what with his well-sustained value for himself, and his much
depreciated value for the widow, he left Bath boiling with rage at the
deception practised upon him, and arrived at Clifton determined to trust
to his skill for obtaining a peaceable restitution of the promise of
marriage, without driving his Juno to any measures that might draw upon
them the observation of the public, a tribunal before which he was by no
means desirous of appearing.

The state of Mrs. Barnaby's mind respecting this same promise of
marriage has already been described, wherefore it may be perceived that
when Major Allen made his next morning visit at Sion Row, a much greater
degree of sympathy existed between himself and the widow than either
imagined. It was in the tactics of both, however, to meet without any
appearance of diminished tenderness; and when he entered with the smile
that had so often gladdened her fond heart, she stretched out a hand to
welcome him with such softness of aspect as made the deluded gentleman
tremble to think how difficult a task lay before him.

Neither was Mrs. Barnaby's heart at all more at ease. Who could doubt
the sincerity of the ardent pressure with which that hand was held?...
Who could have thought that while gazing upon her in silence that seemed
to indicate feelings too strong for words, he was occupied solely in
meditating how best he could get rid of her for ever?

The conversation was preluded by a pretty, well-sustained passage of
affectionate inquiries concerning the period of absence, and then the
Major ejaculated ... "Yes, my sweet friend!... I have been well in
health, ... but it is inconceivable what fancies a man truly in love
finds to torment himself!"... Whilst the widow mentally answered him,...
"Perhaps you were afraid I might see your friend Maintry stuck up in the
pillory, or peeping at me through the county prison windows;" ... but
aloud she only said with a smile a little forced,... "What fancies,
Major?"

"I am almost afraid to tell you," he replied; "you will think me so
weak, so capricious!"

This word _capricious_ sounded pleasantly to the widow's ears ... it
seemed to hint at some change--some infidelity that might make her task
an easier one than she expected, and assuming an air of gaiety, she
said,--

"Nay ... if such be the case, speak out without a shadow of reserve,
Major Allen; for I assure you there is nothing in the world I admire so
much as sincerity."

"Sincerity!" muttered the half entrapped fortune hunter aside....
"Confound her sincerity!..." and then replied aloud,--"Will you
promise, dear friend, to forgive me if I confess to you a fond folly?"

Mrs. Barnaby quaked all over; she felt as if fresh grappling-irons had
been thrown over her, and that escape was impossible. "Nay, really,"
said she, after a moment's reflection; "I think fond follies are too
young a joke for us, Major; they may do very well for Agnes, perhaps ...
but I think you and I ought to know better by this time.... If I can but
make him quarrel with me," thought she, ... "that would be better
still!"

"If I can but once more coax her to let me have my way," thought he, ...
"the business would be over in a moment!"

"Beauty like yours is of no age!" he exclaimed; "it is immortal as the
passion it inspires, and when joined with such a heart and temper as you
possess becomes...."

"I do assure you, Major," said the widow, interrupting him rather
sharply, "you will do wrong if you reckon much upon my temper ... it
never was particularly good, and I can't say I think it grows better."

"Oh! say not so, for this very hour I am going to put it to the test....
I want you to...."

"Pray, Major, do not ask me to do anything particularly obliging; for,
to say the truth, I am in no humour for it.... It has occurred to me
more than once, Major Allen, since you set off so suddenly, that it is
likely enough there may be another lady in the case, and that the
promise you got out of me was perhaps for no other purpose in the world
but to make fun of me by shewing it to her."

"Hell and furies!" growled the Major inwardly, "she will stick to me
like a leech!"

"Oh! dream not of such villany!" he exclaimed; "it was concerning that
dear promise that I wished to speak to you, my sweet Martha.... Methinks
that promise...."

"I tell you what, Major Allen," cried the widow vehemently, "if you
don't let me see that promise this very moment, nothing on earth shall
persuade me that you have not given it in jest to some other woman."

"Good Heaven!..." he replied; "what a moment have you chosen for the
expression of this cruel suspicion! I was on the very verge of telling
you that I deemed such a promise unworthy a love so pure--so perfect as
ours; and therefore, if you would indulge my fond desire, you would let
each of us receive our promise back again."

The Major was really and truly in a state of the most violent
perturbation as he uttered these words, fearing that the fond and
jealous widow might suspect the truth, and hold his pledge with a
tenacity beyond his power to conquer. He had, however, no sooner spoken,
than a smile of irrepressible delight banished the frowns in which she
had dressed herself, and she uttered in a voice of the most unaffected
satisfaction,... "If you will really do that, Major Allen, I can't
suspect any longer, you know, that you have given mine to any one else."

"Assuredly not, most beautiful angel!" cried the delighted lover: "thus,
then, let us give back these paper ties, and be bound only by...."

The widow stretched out her hand for the document which he had already
taken from his pocket-book; but to yield this, though he had no wish to
keep it, was not the object nearest his heart; holding it, therefore,
playfully above his head, he said, "Let not one of us, dearest, seem
more ready than the other in this act of mutual confidence!... give
mine with one hand, as you receive your own with the other."

"Now then!..." said Mrs. Barnaby, eagerly extending both her hands, in
order at once to give and take.

"Now then!..." replied the Major joyously, imitating her action; and
the next instant each had seized the paper held by the other with an
avidity greatly resembling that with which a zealous player pounces
upon the king when she has the ace in the hand at "shorts."

"Now, Mrs. Barnaby, I will wish you good morning," said the gentleman,
bowing low as he tore the little document to atoms.... "I have been
fortunate enough, since I last enjoyed the happiness of seeing you, to
discover the exact locality of Silverton Park, and the precise pedigree
of your beautiful greys."

The equanimity of the widow was shaken for a moment, but no longer; she,
too, had been doing her best to annihilate the precious morsel of paper,
and, rising majestically, she scattered the fragments on the ground,
saying in a tone at least as triumphant as his own, "And I, Major Allen,
or whatever else your name may chance to be, have, since last I had the
felicity of seeing you, enjoyed the edifying spectacle of beholding your
friend Captain Maintry, alias Purdham, in the hands of justice, for
assisting your faithful servant William in breaking open my boxes and
robbing me.... Should the circumstance be still unknown to you, I fear
you may be disappointed to hear that both my money and plate have been
recovered. There may be some fanciful difference between Silverton Park
and a snug property at Silverton, ... but I rather suspect that, of the
two, I have gained most by our morning's work. Farewell, sir!... If you
will take my advice, you will not continue much longer in Clifton.... I
may feel myself called upon to hint to the magistrates that it might
assist the ends of justice if you were taken up and examined as an
accomplice in this affair."

The lady had decidedly the best of it, as ladies always should have; for
the crest-fallen Major looked as if he must, had he been poetically
inclined, have exclaimed in the words of Comus,--

    "She fables not, I feel that I do fear,"...

and without any farther attempt to carry off the palm of victory, he
made his way down stairs; and it is now many years since he has been
heard of in the vicinity of Clifton.




CHAPTER X.

A DISAGREEABLE BREAKFAST-TABLE.--MR. STEPHENSON GIVES HIS FRIEND COLONEL
HUBERT WARNING TO DEPART.--A PROPOSAL, AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.


Mrs. Barnaby and Major Allen were not the only persons to whom that
twenty-sixth of April proved an eventful day.

Colonel Hubert and his friend Stephenson met as usual at the
breakfast-table, and it would be difficult to say which of them was the
most pre-occupied, and the most unfit for ordinary conversation.
Stephenson, however, though vexed at not being already the betrothed
husband of his lovely Agnes, was full of hopeful anticipation, and his
unfitness for conversation arose rather from the fulness of his heart,
than the depression of his spirits.

Not so Colonel Hubert: it was hardly possible to suffer from a greater
feeling of melancholy dissatisfaction with all things than he did on the
morning after Mrs. Peters's concert.

That the despised Agnes, the niece of the hateful Mrs. Barnaby, had
risen in his estimation to be considered as the best, the first, the
loveliest of created beings, was not the worst misfortune that had
fallen upon him.

There was, indeed, a degree of perversity in the case that almost
justified his thinking himself the most unfortunate of mortals. After
having attained the sober age of thirty-seven years, if not untouched,
at least uninjured, by all the reiterated volleys which he had stood
from Cupid's quiver, it was certainly rather provoking to find himself
falling distractedly in love with a little obscure girl, young enough to
be his daughter, and perhaps, from the unhappy circumstance of her
dependence upon such a relative as Mrs. Barnaby, the very last person in
the world with whom he would have wished to connect himself. This was
bad enough; but even this was not all. With the airs of a senior and a
Mentor, he had taken upon himself to lecture his friend upon the
preposterous absurdity of giving way to such an attachment, thus
rendering it almost morally impossible for him under any imaginable
circumstances to ask the love of Agnes, even though something in his
inmost heart whispered to him that he should not ask in vain. Nor did
the catalogue of his embarrassments end here, for he was placed
_vis-a-vis_ to his open-hearted friend, who, he was quite certain, would
within five minutes begin again the oft-repeated confidential avowal of
his love; accompanied, probably, with renewed assurances of his
intentions to make proposals, which Colonel Hubert, from what he had
seen last night, fancied himself quite sure would never be accepted.

What a wretched, what a hopeless dilemma was he placed in! Was he to see
the man he professed to love expose himself to the misery of offering
his hand, in defiance of a thousand obstacles, to a woman who, he felt
almost sure, would reject him? Or could he interfere to prevent it, at
the very moment that his heart told him nothing but the pretensions of
Frederick could prevent his proposing to her himself.

Colonel Hubert sat stirring his coffee in moody silence, and dreading to
hear Frederick open his lips; but his worst fears as to what he might
utter, were soon realized by Stephenson's exclaiming,--

"Well, Hubert!... it is still to do. I was defeated last night, but it
shall not be my fault if I go to rest this, without receiving her
promise to become my wife. Her aunt is a horror--a monster--anything,
everything you may please to call her; but Agnes is an angel, and Agnes
must be mine!"

Colonel Hubert looked more gloomy still; but he continued to stir his
coffee, and said nothing.

"How can you treat me thus, Hubert?..." said the young man
reproachfully. "There is a proud superiority in this affected silence a
thousand times more mortifying than anything you could say. Begin again
to revile me as heretofore for my base endurance of a Barnaby ...
describe the vexation of my brother, the indignation of my sisters!...
this would be infinitely more endurable than such contemptuous silence."

"My dear, dear Frederick, I know not what to say," replied the agitated
Hubert.... "Had my words the power to make you leave this place within
the hour, I would use my last breath to speak them ... for certain am I,
Frederick,--I am most surely certain,--that this suit can bring you
nothing but misery and disappointment. Let me acknowledge that the young
lady herself is worthy of all love, admiration, and reverence; ... I
truly think so.... I believe it.... I am sure of it ... but" ... and
here Colonel Hubert stopped short, resumed his coffee-cup, and said no
more.

"This is intolerable, sir," said the vexed Frederick. "Go on, if you
please, say all you have to say, but stop not thus at unshaped
insinuations, more injurious, more insulting far, than anything your
eloquence could find the power to utter."

"Frederick, you mistake me.... I insinuate nothing.... I believe in my
inmost soul that Agnes Willoughby is one of the most faultless beings
upon earth.... But this will not prevent your suit to her from being a
most unhappy one.... Forget her, Frederick ... travel awhile, my dear
friend ... leave her, Stephenson, and your future years will be the
happier."

"Colonel Hubert, the difference in our ages is your only excuse for the
unnatural counsel you so coldly give. You are no longer a young man,
sir.... You no longer are capable of judging for one who is; and I
confess to you, that for the present I think our mutual enjoyment would
rather be increased than lessened were we to separate. If I remember
rightly, you purposed when we came here to stay only till your sister's
marriage was over. It is now a fortnight since that event took place,
and it is probably solely out of compliment to me that you remain here.
If so, let me release you.... In future times I hope we may meet with
pleasanter feelings than any we can share at present; and, besides, my
stay here,--which which for aught I know may be prolonged for
months,--will, under probable circumstances, throw me a good deal into
intimacy and intercourse with your detested Mrs. Barnaby, wherein I
certainly cannot wish or desire that you should follow me; and
therefore ... all things considered, you must hold me excused if I
say ... that I should hear of your departure from Clifton with pleasure."

Colonel Hubert rose from his seat and walked about the room. He felt
that his heart was softer at that moment than befitted the age with
which Frederick reproached him. He was desired to absent himself by one
for whose warm-hearted young love he had perhaps neglected the soberer
friendships of superior men, and that, too, at a moment when he felt
that he more than ever deserved a continuance of that love. Was he not
at that instant crushing with Spartan courage a passion within his own
breast which he believed ... secretly, silently, unacknowledged even to
his own heart, to be returned ... and this terrible sacrifice was made,
not because his pride opposed his yielding to it, but because he could
not have endured the idea of supplanting Frederick even when it should
be acknowledged that no shadow of hope remained for him. And for this
it was that he was thus insultingly desired to depart.

Generous Hubert!... A few moments' struggle decided him. He resolved to
go, and that immediately. He would not remain to witness the broken
spirit of his hot-headed friend after he should have received the
refusal which, as he so strongly suspected, awaited him, ... neither
would he expose himself to the danger of seeing Agnes afterwards.

Without as yet replying to Frederick, he rang the bell, and desired that
post-horses might immediately be ordered for his carriage, and his valet
told to prepare his trunks for travelling with as little delay as
possible. These directions given, the friends were once more
_tete-a-tete_, and then Colonel Hubert ventured to trust his voice, and
answer the harsh language he had received.

"Frederick," he said, "you have spoken as you would not have done had
you given yourself a little more time for consideration, ... for you
have spoken unkindly and unjustly. I would still prevail on you, if I
could, to turn away from this lovely girl without committing yourself
by making her an offer of marriage. I would strongly advise this--I
would strongly advise your remembering, while it is yet time, the pang
it may cost you should anything ... in short, believe me, you would
suffer less by leaving Clifton immediately with me, than by remaining
under circumstances which I am sure will turn out inimical to your
happiness.... Will you be advised, and let us depart together?"

"No, Colonel Hubert, I will not. I have no wish to detain you, ... I
have already said this with sufficient frankness; be equally wise on
your side, and do not attempt to drag me away in your train."

These were pretty nearly the last words which were exchanged between
them; Frederick Stephenson soon left the house to wander about till the
hour arrived for making his visit in Rodney Place; and in less than two
hours Colonel Hubert was driving rapidly through Bristol on his way to
London.

       *       *       *       *       *

As soon as Mrs. Barnaby and the friendly Mr. Peters were fairly off the
premises, and on their road to look after the thief, Mary called a
consultation on the miserably jaded looks of poor Agnes; and having her
own particular reasons for not choosing that she should look half
dead ... inasmuch as she was persuaded the promised visit of Frederick
was not intended to be for nothing ... she peremptorily insisted upon her
taking sal volatile, bathing her eyes in cold water, and then either
lying on the sofa or taking a walk upon the down till luncheon-time,
that being the usual hour of Mr. Stephenson's morning visits.

Agnes submitted herself very meekly to all this discipline, save the
depositing herself on the sofa, to which she objected vehemently,
deciding for the walk on the down as the only thing at all likely to
cure her head-ache. It was on their way to this favourite magazine of
fresh air that Mr. Stephenson met them. To Agnes the rencontre was an
extreme annoyance, for she wanted to be quite quiet, and this was what
Frederick Stephenson never permitted her to be. But she could not run
away; and so she continued to walk on till, just after passing the
turnpike, she discovered that Mary and Elizabeth Peters were
considerably in their rear. This _tete-a-tete_, however, caused her not
the slightest embarrassment; and if she was to be talked to, instead of
being permitted to sink into the dark but downy depths of meditation,
which was now her greatest indulgence, it mattered very little to her
who was the talker. She stopped, however, from politeness to her
friends, and a sort of natural instinct of _bienseance_ towards herself,
saying, "I was not aware, Mr. Stephenson, that we had been walking so
fast; I think we had better turn back to them."

"May I entreat you, Miss Willoughby," said the young man, "to remain a
few moments longer alone with me.... It is not that you have walked
fast, but your friends have walked slowly, for they, at least, I plainly
perceive, have read my secret.... And is it possible that you, Agnes,
have not read it also?... Is it possible that you have yet to learn how
fervently I love you?"

No young girl hears such an avowal as this for the first time without
feeling considerable agitation and embarrassment; but many things
contributed to increase these feelings tenfold in the case of Agnes ...
for first, which is rarely the case, the declaration was wholly
unexpected; secondly, it was wholly unwelcome; and, thirdly, it inspired
a feeling of acute terror lest, flattering and advantageous as she knew
such a proposal to be, it might tempt her friends ... or set on her
terrible aunt ... to disturb her with solicitations which, by only
hearing them, would profane the sentiment to which she had secretly
devoted herself for ever.

Greatly, however, as she wished to answer him at once and definitively,
she was unable to articulate a single word.

"Will you not speak to me, Agnes?" resumed Frederick, after a painful
pause. "Will you not tell me what I may hope in return for the truest
affection that ever warmed the heart of man?... Will you not even look
at me?"

Agnes now stood still as if to recover breath. She knew that he had a
right to expect an answer from her, and she knew that sooner or later
she should be compelled to speak it; so, making an effort as great
perhaps in its self-command as many that have led a hero to eternal
fame, she said, but without raising her eyes from the ground, "Mr.
Stephenson, I am very sorry indeed that you love me, because it is
quite, _quite_ impossible I should ever love you in return."

"Good God! Miss Willoughby, ... is it thus you answer me?... Do you know
that the words you utter so lightly, so coldly, must, if persisted in,
doom me to a life of misery? Can you hear this, Agnes, and feel no touch
of pity?"

"Pray do not talk in that way, Mr. Stephenson!... It gives me so very
much pain."

"Then you will unsay those cruel words?... You will tell me that time
and faithful, constant love may do something for me.... Oh! tell me it
shall be so."

"But I _cannot_ tell you so, Mr. Stephenson," said Agnes with the most
earnest emphasis. "It would be most wicked to do so because it would be
untrue. You are very young and very gay, Mr. Stephenson; and I cannot
think that what I have said can vex you long, particularly if you will
believe it at once, and talk no more about it. And now I think that we
had better walk back to Mary, if you please."

Having said this she turned about, and began to walk rapidly towards
Clifton.

"Can this be possible?..." said the young man, greatly agitated; "so
young, and seemingly so gentle, and yet so harsh and so determined. Oh!
Agnes, why did you not let me guess this end to all my hopes before they
had grown so strong? You must have seen my love--my adoration.... You
must have known that every earthly hope for me depended upon you!"

"No, no, no," cried Agnes, greatly distressed. "I never knew it--I never
guessed it.... How should I guess what was so very unlikely?"

"Unlikely!... Are you laughing at me, Agnes?... Unlikely! Ask your
friends--ask Miss Peters if she thought it unlikely."

"I do not believe so strange a thought ever entered her head, Mr.
Stephenson; for if it had, I am sure she would have put me on my guard
against it."

"On your guard against it, Miss Willoughby! What is there in my
situation, fortune, or character, that should render it necessary for
your friend to put you on your guard against me?... Surely you use
strange language."

"Then do not make me talk any more about it, Mr. Stephenson. It is very
likely that I may express myself amiss, for I am so sorry and so vexed
that indeed I hardly know what I say; ... but pray forgive me, and do
not be unhappy about me any longer."

"Agnes!... you love another!" suddenly exclaimed Frederick, his face
becoming crimson.... "There is no other way of accounting for such cold
indifference, such hard insensibility."

Agnes  as violently in her turn, and bursting into tears, said
with great displeasure, "That is what nobody in the world has a right to
say to me, and I will never, if I can help it, permit you to say it
again."

She now increased her speed, and had nearly reached the Misses Peters,
notwithstanding all the beautiful summer flowers they had found by the
way's side; saying no more in reply, either to the remonstrances or the
passionate pleadings of Mr. Stephenson, when at length he laid his hand
upon her arm, and detained her while he said, "Agnes, if you accept my
love, and consent to become my wife, I will release you from the power
of your aunt, place you in a splendid home, and surround you with
friends as pure-minded and as elegant as yourself. Is this nothing?...
Answer me then one word, and one word only.... Is your refusal of my
hand and my affection final?"

"Yes, sir," said Agnes, still weeping; for his accusation of her having
another love, continued to ring in her ears, and make her heart swell
almost to bursting.

"Speak not in anger, Agnes!..." said he mildly. "What I have felt for
you does not deserve such a return."

"I know it, I know it," replied Agnes, weeping more violently still,
"and I am very wrong, as well as very unhappy. Pray, Mr. Stephenson,
forgive me," and she held out her hand to him.

He took it, and held it for a moment between both his. "Unhappy,
Agnes?..." he said, "why should you be unhappy? Oh! if my love, my
devotion, could render you otherwise!... But you will not trust me?...
You will not let me pass my life in labouring to make yours happy?"

"Nothing can make me happy, Mr. Stephenson; pray do not talk any more
about it, for indeed, indeed, I cannot be your wife."

He abruptly raised her hand to his lips, and then let it fall. "May
Heaven bless and make you happy in your own way, whatever that may be!"
he cried, and turning from her, reached the verge of the declivity that
overhung the river, then plunging down it with very heedless haste, he
was out of sight immediately.

This was a catastrophe wholly unexpected by Miss Peters, who now
hastened to meet the disconsolate-looking Agnes. "What in the world can
you have said to him, my dear, to send him off in that style? I trust
that you have not quarrelled."

Most unfeignedly distressed and embarrassed was Agnes at this appeal,
and the more so because her friend Mary was not alone.... To her
perhaps she might have been able to tell the terrible adventure which
had befallen her, but before Elizabeth it was impossible; and, pressing
Mary's arm, she said in a whisper, "Ask me no questions, dearest Mary,
now, for I cannot answer them ... wait only till we get home."

But to wait in a state of such tormenting uncertainty was beyond the
philosophy of Mary, so she suddenly stopped, saying, "Elizabeth! walk on
slowly for a few minutes, will you?... I have something that I
particularly wish to say to Agnes."... And the good-natured Elizabeth
walked on, without ever turning her head to look back at them.

"What has happened?... what has he said to you?... and what have you
said to him?" hastily inquired the impatient friend.

"Oh, Mary!... he has made me so very unhappy ... and the whole thing is
so extremely strange.... I cannot hide anything from you, Mary, ... but
it will kill me should you let my aunt hear of it.... He has made me an
offer, Mary!"

"Of course, Agnes, I know he has.... But how does that account for his
running off in that strange wild way? and how does it account for your
crying and looking so miserable? Why did he run away as if he were
afraid to see us, Agnes? and when are you going to see him again?"

"I shall never see him again, Mary," said Agnes gravely.

"Then you _have_ quarrelled!... Good Heaven, what folly! I suppose he
said something about your aunt that you fancied was not civil; ... but
all things considered, Agnes, ought you not to have forgiven it?"

"Indeed, Mary, he said nothing that was rude about my aunt, and I am
sure he did not mean to be uncivil in any way ... though certainly he
hurt and offended me very much ... but perhaps he did not intend it."

"Hurt and offended you, Agnes?... Let me beg you to tell me at once what
it was he did say to you."

"I will tell you everything but one, and that I own to you I had rather
not repeat ... and it does not signify, for that was not the reason he
ran off so."

"And what was the reason?"

"A very foolish one indeed, and I am sure you will laugh at it ... it
was only because I said I could not marry him."

"You said that, Agnes?... You said you could not marry him?"

"Yes, I did! I do not wish to marry him; indeed, I would not marry him
for the world."

"And this is the end of it all!" exclaimed Miss Peters with much
vexation. "I have much mistaken you, Agnes.... I thought you were
suffering greatly from being dependent on your aunt Barnaby."

"And do you doubt it now, Mary?"

"How can I continue to think this, when you have just refused an offer
of marriage from a young man, well born, nobly allied, with a splendid
fortune, extremely handsome, and possessed, as I truly believe, of more
excellent and amiable qualities than often fall to the share of any
mortal. How can I believe after this that you really feel unhappy from
the circumstances of your present situation?"

"All that you say is very true, and I cannot deny a word of it; ... but
what can one do, Mary, if one does not happen to love a man?... you
would not have one marry him, would you?"

"How like a child you talk!... Why should you not love him? with manners
so agreeable, such excellent qualities, and a fortune beyond that of
many noblemen."

"But you don't suppose I could love him the better for his being rich,
do you, Mary?"

"You are a little fool, Agnes, and I know not what to suppose. Perhaps,
my dear, you think him too old for you? Perhaps you will not choose to
fall in love till you meet an Adonis about your own age?"

"It is you who are talking nonsense now," replied Agnes with some
warmth. "So far from his being too old, I think ... that is to say I
don't think.... I mean that I suppose everybody would think people a
great deal older, might be a great deal.... But this is all nothing to
the purpose, Mary.... I would not marry Mr. Stephenson if.... But let us
say no more on the subject ... only, for pity's sake, do not let my aunt
know anything about it!"

"She shall not hear it from me, Agnes," replied Miss Peters.... "But I
cannot understand you,--you have disappointed me.... However, I have no
right to be angry, and so, as you say, we will talk no more about it.
Come, let us overtake Elizabeth; we must not let her go all the way to
Clifton in solitary state."

And so ended the very promising trial at match-making, upon which the
pretty Mary Peters had wasted so many useless meditations! It was a
useful lesson to her, for she has never been known to interfere in any
affair of the kind since.




CHAPTER XI.

MRS. BARNABY FEELS CONSCIOUS OF IMPROVEMENT, AND REJOICES AT IT.--HOPES
FOR THE FUTURE.--A CONVERSATION IN WHICH MUCH GENEROUS SINCERITY IS
DISPLAYED.--A LETTER INTENDED TO BE EXPLANATORY, BUT FAILING TO BE SO.


Mrs. Barnaby's first feelings after the Major left her were agreeable
enough. She had escaped with little injury from a great danger, and,
while believing herself infinitely wiser than before, she was conscious
of no reason that should either lower her estimate of herself, or check
the ambitious projects with which she had set forth from her native town
to push her fortune in the world. But her views were improved and
enlarged, her experience was more practical and enlightened, and her
judgment, as to those trifling fallacies by which people of great
ability are enabled to delude people of little, though in no degree
changed as to its _morale_, was greatly purified and sharpened as to
the means to be employed. Thus, by way of example, it may be mentioned
that, during the hour of mental examination which followed Major Allen's
adieux, Mrs. Barnaby determined never again to mention Silverton Park;
and, if at any time led to talk of her favourite greys, that the
pastures they fed in, and the roads they traversed, should on no account
be particularly specified. Neither her courage nor her hopes were at all
lowered by this her first adventure; on the contrary, by setting her to
consider from whence arose the blunder, it led her to believe that her
danger had been occasioned solely by her own too great humility in not
having soared high enough to seek her quarry.

"In making new acquaintance," thus ran her soliloquy--"in making new
acquaintance, the rank and station of the party should be too
unequivocal to render a repetition of such danger possible.... I was to
blame in so totally neglecting the evident admiration of Colonel Hubert,
in order to gratify the jealous feelings of Major Allen.... That was a
man to whom I might have devoted myself without danger, his family and
fortune known to all the world ... and himself so every way calculated
to do me honour. But it is too late now!... His feelings have been too
deeply wounded.... I cannot forget the glances of jealous anger which I
have seen him throw on that unworthy Allen.... But my time must not be
wasted in regrets; I must look forward."

And look forward she did with a very bold and dashing vein of
speculation, although for the present moment her power of putting any
new plans in action was greatly paralyzed by her having been bound over
to prosecute Betty Jacks and her accomplices at the next Bristol
assizes. Now Bristol and its vicinity had become equally her contempt
and aversion. The Major had taught her to consider the trade-won wealth
of the Peterses as something derogatory to her dignity; and though she
still hoped to make them useful, she had altogether abandoned the notion
that they could make her great. During the time that it would be
necessary for her to remain at Clifton, however, she determined to
maintain as much intimacy with them as "their very stiff manners" would
permit, and carefully to avoid anything approaching to another affair of
the heart till she should have left their neighbourhood, and the scene
of her late failure, behind.

As soon as her spirits had recovered the double shock they had received
from the perfidies of Betty Jacks and Major Allen, she remembered with
great satisfaction the discovery made of Agnes's singing powers. Though
more than eighteen years had passed since her musical father and mother
had warbled together for the delight of the Silverton _soirees_, Mrs.
Barnaby had not forgotten the applause their performances used to
elicit, nor the repeated assurances of the best informed among their
auditors, that the voices of both were of very first-rate quality. The
belief that Agnes inherited their powers, now suggested more than one
project. In the first place, it would make the parties she was
determined to give extremely attractive, and might very probably be
sufficient to render her at once the fashion, either at Cheltenham,
which she intended should be the scene of her next campaign, or
anywhere else where it was her will and pleasure to display it. Nor was
this ornamental service the only one to which she thought it possible
she might convert the voice of Agnes. She knew that the exploits she
contemplated were hazardous, as well as splendid; and that, although
success was probable, failure might be possible, in which case she might
fall back upon this newly-discovered treasure, and either marry her
niece, or put her on the stage, or make her a singing mistress, as she
should find most feasible and convenient.

With these notions in her head, she attacked Agnes on the singular
concealment of her talent, as well as upon other matters, during
breakfast the morning after the unlamented Major's departure, which was
in fact the first time they had been alone together, Agnes having passed
the whole of the preceding day at Rodney Place.

In answer to her niece's gentle salutation, she said in a tone very far
from amiable, though it affected to be so,----

"Yes, yes, good morning, aunt!... that's all very well; ... and now,
please to tell me where I shall find another young lady living with a
generous relation to whom she owes her daily bread, who, knowing that
relation's anxiety about everything concerning her, has chosen to make a
secret of the only thing on earth she can do.... Tell me, if you can,
where I shall find anything like that?"

"If you mean my singing, aunt, I have told you already why I never said
anything about it.... My only reason was, because I did not like to ask
you for a piano."

"That's all hypocrisy, Miss Agnes; and let who will be taken in by you,
I am not ... and you may just remember that, miss, now and always. You
were afraid, perhaps, that I might make you of some use to me. But the
scheme won't answer. With the kindest temper in the world, I have plenty
of resolution to do just whatever I think right, and that's what I shall
do by you. I shall say no more about it in this nasty, vulgar,
merchandizing sort of a place; but as soon as we get among ladies and
gentlemen that I consider my equals, I shall begin to give regular
parties like other people of fashion, and then ... let me hear you
refuse to sing when I ask you ... and we shall see what will happen
next."

"Indeed, aunt, I believe you are mistaken about my voice," replied
Agnes; "I have never had teaching enough to enable me to sing so well as
you seem to suppose; and, in fact, I know little or nothing about it,
except what dear good Mr. Wilmot used to tell me; and I don't believe he
has heard any really good singing for the last twenty years."

"And I was not at Mrs. Peters's the other night, I suppose, Miss
Willoughby?... and I did not hear all the praise, and the rapture, and
the fuss, didn't I?... What a fool you do seem to take me for, Agnes!...
However, I don't mean to quarrel with you.... You know what sacrifices I
have made, and not all your bad behaviour shall prevent my making more
still for you.... You shall have a master, if I find you want one; and
when we get to Cheltenham, you shall be sure to have a pianoforte. Does
that please you?"

"I shall be very glad to be able to practice again, aunt, only...."

"Only what, if you please?"

"Why, I mean to say that I should be sorry you should expect to make a
great performer of me; ... for I am certain that you will be
disappointed."

"Stuff and nonsense!... Don't trouble yourself about my
disappointments--I'll take care to get what I want.... And there's
another talent, Miss Agnes, which I shall expect to find in you; and I
hope you have made a secret of that too, for I never saw much sign of
it.... I want you to be very active and clever, and to act as my maid
till I get one. Indeed, I'm not sure I shall ever get one again, they
seem to be such plagues; and if I find you ain't too great a fool to do
what I want, I have a notion that I shall take a tiger instead--it will
be much more respectable.... Pray, Agnes, have you any idea about
dressing hair?"

"I think I could do it as well for you, aunt, as Jerningham did,"
replied Agnes with perfect good-humour.

"And that's not quite so well as I want; but I suppose you know that as
well as I do, only you choose to shew off your impertinence.... And
there's my drawers to keep in order ... dunce as you are, I suppose you
can do that; and fifty other little things there will be, now that
good-for-nothing baggage is gone, which I promise you I do not intend to
do for myself."

Did Agnes repent having sent the enamoured possessor of seven thousand
a-year from her in despair, as she listened to this sketch of her future
occupations? No, not for a moment. No annoyances that her aunt could
threaten, no escape from them that Mr. Stephenson could offer, had the
power of mastering in her mind the one prominent idea, which, like the
rod of the chosen priest, swallowed up all the rest.

And this engrossing, this cherished, this secretly hoarded idea ... how
was it nurtured and sustained? Did the object of it return to occupy
every hour of her life by giving her looks, words, and movements to
meditate upon? No; Colonel Hubert appeared no more at Clifton; and
Agnes, notwithstanding the flashes of fond hope that, like the soft
gleaming of the glow-worm, had occasionally brightened the gloom of her
prospects, was left to suppose that he had taken his departure in
company with his offended friend, and that she should probably never
hear of him more. Was he then angry at her refusal? Was the notice he
had taken of her for his friend's pleasure rather than his own? Poor
Agnes! there was great misery in this thought. They had indeed both left
Clifton on the same day, though they had not left it together. But that
she knew not.... Colonel Hubert, as we have seen, was already on his way
to London when the impetuous Frederick staked all his dearest hopes upon
his sanguine, but most mistaken judgment of a young girl's heart; and
when the ill-fated experiment was over, he posted with all speed across
the country to Southampton, and there embarked to take refuge among the
hills and the orchards of Normandy.

The recollection of the manner in which he had driven Colonel Hubert
from him, was no slight aggravation of his unhappiness, when he gave
himself time to take breath, and to reflect a little. He felt deeply,
bitterly, the loss of Agnes, but perhaps he felt more bitterly still the
loss of his friend. The first, as he could not help confessing to
himself, was the loss of a good he had possessed only in his own fond
fancy; the last was that of the most substantial good that man can
possess ... a tried, attached, and honourable friend.

For many days, and many nights too, Frederick suffered sorely from the
battle that was going on between his pride and his consciousness of
having been wrong; but, happily for his repose, his pride at length gave
way, and the following letter was written and directed to the United
Service Club, whence, sooner or later, he knew it would reach the friend
to whom it was addressed.

     "Most men, my dear Hubert, would be too angry at the petulance
     I exhibited during our last interview even to receive an
     apology for it, ... but you are not one of them; and you will
     let me tell you, without receiving the confession too
     triumphantly, that I have never known a moment's peace from
     that day to this, nor ever shall till you send me your
     forgiveness as frankly as I ask it. You may do this with the
     more safety, dear Hubert, because we shall never again quarrel
     on the same occasion; and so perfectly have I found you to be
     right in all you said and all you hinted on that fair but
     unfortunate subject, that henceforward I think I shall be
     afraid to pronounce upon the colour of a lady's hair, or the
     tincture of her skin, till I have heard your judgment thereon.
     Let us, therefore, never talk again either of the terrible Mrs.
     Barnaby or her beautiful niece; but, forgetting that anything
     of the kind could breed discord between us, remember only that
     I am, and ever must be,

     "Your most affectionate friend,

     "FREDERICK STEPHENSON."

How many times did Colonel Hubert read over this letter before he could
satisfy himself that he understood it? This is a question that cannot be
answered, because he never did by means of these constantly repeated
readings ever arrive at any such conclusion at all. Had Mrs. Barnaby's
name been altogether omitted, he might have fancied that his own deep
but unacknowledged belief that Miss Willoughby would refuse his friend,
had been manifest in the dissuasive words he had spoken, notwithstanding
his caution. But this allusion to the widow, who had so repeatedly been
the theme of his prophetic warnings, left him at liberty to suppose that
Frederick's solitary and repentant rumination upon all he had propounded
on that fertile subject, had finally induced him to give up the pursuit,
and to leave Clifton without having proposed to her niece.

Anything more destructive to the tranquillity of Colonel Hubert than
this doubt can hardly be imagined. He had long persuaded himself, it is
true, that it was impossible, under any circumstances, he could ever
confess to Agnes what his own feelings were, as his friendship for
Stephenson must put it totally out of his power to do so.... The
frankness of Frederick's early avowal of his passion to him, and the
style and tone of the opposition with which he had met it, must
inevitably lay him under such an imputation of dishonour, if he
addressed her himself, as he could not bear to think of....
Nevertheless, he felt, or fancied, that he should be much more tranquil
and resigned could he have known to a certainty whether Stephenson had
proposed to her or not. It was long, however, ere any opportunity of
satisfying himself on this point arose. The reconciliation, indeed,
between himself and his friend, was perfect, and their letters breathed
the same spirit of affectionate confidence as heretofore; but how could
Colonel Hubert abuse this confidence by asking a question which could
not be answered in any way, without opening afresh the wound that he
feared still rankled in the breast of his friend?

It would be selfish and ungenerous in the extreme, and must not be
thought of; but this forbearance robbed the high-minded Hubert of the
only consolation that his situation left him,--namely, the belief that
the young Agnes, notwithstanding the disparity in their years, had been
too near loving him to accept the hand of another. Of the two
interpretations to which the letter of Frederick was open, this, the
most flattering to himself, was the one that faded fastest away from the
mind of Colonel Hubert, till he hardly dared remember that he had once
believed it possible; and he finally remained with the persuasion that
his too tractable friend had yielded to his arguments against the
marriage, without ever having put the feelings of Agnes to the test,
which he would have given the world to believe had been tried, and been
withstood.




CHAPTER XII.

A LUCKY ESCAPE.--A MELANCHOLY PARTING.--MRS. BARNABY SETTLES HERSELF AT
CHELTENHAM.--HER FIRST SORTIE.--BOARDING-HOUSE BREAKFAST.--A NEW
ACQUAINTANCE.--A MEDICAL CONVERSATION.


In addition to Mrs. Barnaby's pretty strong confidence in herself and
her own devices, she soon learned to think that she was very especially
favoured by fortune; for just as she began to find her idle and most
unprofitable abode at Clifton intolerably tedious, and that the recovery
of her property hardly atoned for the inconvenience of being obliged to
prosecute those who had stolen it, she received the welcome intelligence
that the trio had escaped by means of the superior ingenuity of Captain
Maintry, alias Purdham. The ends of justice being considerably less dear
to the widow's heart than the end of the adventures she promised herself
at Cheltenham, she welcomed the intelligence most joyfully, and set
about her preparations for departure without an hour's delay.

Several very elegant shops at Clifton had so earnestly requested the
honour of her name upon their books, that Mrs. Barnaby had found it
impossible to refuse; and the consequence was, that when she announced
her intended departure, so unexpected an amount of "mere nothings"
crowded in upon her, that she would have been very considerably
embarrassed, had not the manner of raising money during the last years
of her father's life been fresh in her memory, shewing her, as her
property was all in the funds, and, happily or unhappily, standing in
her own name, that nothing could be more easy than to write to her
broker, and order him to sell out a couple of hundreds.

Confidence in one's self,--the feeling that there is a power within us
of sufficient strength to reach the goal we have in view,--is in general
a useful as well as a pleasant state of mind; but in Mrs. Barnaby it was
very likely to prove otherwise. In all her meditations, in all her
plottings, in all her reasonings, she saw nothing before her but
success; the alternative, and all its possible consequences, never
suggested itself to her as possible, and therefore no portion of her
clever ingenuity was ever employed, even in speculation, to ward it off.

In a word, then, her bills, which, by the by, were wholly and solely for
her own dress, were all paid without difficulty or delay, and the day
was fixed for the departure of herself and Agnes by a stage-coach from
Bristol to Cheltenham.

Poor Agnes wept bitterly as she received the affectionate farewells of
her friends in Rodney Place; and Mary, who really loved her, wept too,
though it is possible that the severe disappointment which had attended
her matrimonial project for her, had a little dulled the edge of the
enthusiasm at first excited by the sweetness and beauty of the poor
motherless girl. But, under no circumstances, could the grief of Miss
Peters at losing sight of her have been comparable to that felt by Agnes
herself. How little had the tyranny of Mrs. Barnaby, and all the irksome
_desagremens_ of her home, occupied her attention during the month she
had spent at Clifton! How completely it had all been lost sight of in
the society of Mary, and the hospitable kindness of Rodney Place!

"But, Oh! the heavy change!"... That which had been chased by the happy
lightness of her young spirit, as a murky cloud is chased by the bright
sun of April, now rolled back upon her, looking like a storm that was to
last for ever! She knew it, she felt its approach, and, like a
frightened fawn, trembled as she gazed around, and saw no shelter near.

"You will write to me, dear Agnes!" said Mary. "I shall think of you
very often, and it will be a real pleasure to hear from you."

"And to write to you, Mary, will be by far the greatest pleasure I can
possibly have. But how can I ask you to write to me in return?... I am
sure my aunt will never let me receive a letter; ... and yet, would it
not be worth its weight in gold."

"Don't take up sorrow at interest, Agnes," replied Mary, laughing. "I
don't think your dragon will be so fierce as that either.... I can
hardly imagine she would refuse to let you correspond with me."

Agnes endeavoured to return her smile, but she blushed and faltered as
she said, "I mean, Mary, that she would not pay postage for me."

"Impossible!" cried Miss Peters, indignantly; "you cannot speak
seriously.... I know my mother does not believe a word about her _very_
large fortune, any more than she does her _very_ generous intention of
leaving it to us. But she says that my uncle must have left something
like a respectable income for her; and though we none of us doubt (not
even Elizabeth) that she will marry with all possible speed, and when
she has found a husband, with all her worldly goods will him endow;
still, till this happens, it is hardly likely she will refuse to pay the
postage of your letters."

"Perhaps she will not," said Agnes, blushing again for saying what she
did not think; "but, at any rate, try the experiment, dearest Mary....
To know that you have thought of me will be comfort inexpressible."

"And suppose Mr. Frederick Stephenson were to ramble back to Clifton,
Agnes, ... and suppose he were to ask me which way you are gone ... may
I tell him?"

"He never will ask you, Mary...."

"But an' if he should?" persisted Miss Peters.

"Then tell him that it would be a great deal more kind and amiable if he
never again talked about me to any one."

       *       *       *       *       *

Arrived at Cheltenham, Mrs. Barnaby set about the business of finding a
domicile with much more confidence and _savoir faire_ than heretofore. A
very few inquiries made her decide upon choosing to place herself at a
boarding-house; and though the price rather startled her, she not only
selected the dearest, but indulged in the expensive luxury of a handsome
private sitting-room.

"I know what I am about," thought she; "faint heart never won fair lady,
and sparing hand never won gay gentleman."

It was upon the same principle that, within three days after her
arrival, she had found a tiger, and got his dress (resplendent with
buttons from top to toe) sent home to her private apartments, and
likewise that she had determined to enter her name as a subscriber at
the pump-room.

The day after all this was completed, was the first upon which she
accounted her Cheltenham existence to begin; and having informed herself
of the proper hours and fitting costume for each of the various stated
times of appearing at the different points of re-union, she desired
Agnes carefully to brush the dust from her immortal black crape bonnet,
and with her own features sheltered by _paille de fantaisie_,
straw- ribbons, and Brussels lace, she set forth, leaning on the
arm of her niece, and followed by her tiger and parasol, to take her
first draught at the spring, at eight o'clock in the morning.

Her spirits rose as she approached the fount on perceiving the throng of
laughing, gay, and gossiping invalids that bon ton and bile had brought
together; and when she held out her hand to receive the glass, she had
more the air of a full-grown Bacchante, celebrating the rites of
Bacchus, than a votary at the shrine of Hygeia. But no sooner had the
health-restoring but nauseous beverage touched her lips, or rather her
palate, than, making a horrible grimace, she set down the glass on the
marble slab, and pushed it from her with very visible symptoms of
disgust. A moment's reflection made her turn her head to see if Agnes
was looking at her; ... but no ... Agnes indeed stood at no great
distance; but her whole attention seemed captivated by a tall,
elegant-looking woman, who, together with an old lady leaning on her
arm, appeared like herself to be occupied as spectators of the
water-drinking throng.

Satisfied that her strong distaste for the unsavoury draught had not
been perceived, Mrs. Barnaby backed out of the crowd, saying, as she
took the arm of her niece in her way, "This water must be a very fine
medicine, I am sure, for those who want it; but I don't think I shall
venture upon any more of it till I have taken medical advice ... it is
certainly very powerful, and I think it might do you a vast deal of
good, Agnes."

These words being spoken in the widow's audible tone, which she always
rather desired than not should make her presence known at some
distance ... excepting, indeed, when she was making love ... were very
distinctly heard by the ladies above mentioned; and the elder of them,
having witnessed Mrs. Barnaby's look of disgust as she sat down her
unemptied glass, laughed covertly and quietly, but with much merriment,
saying, though rather to herself than her companion, "Good!... very
good, indeed!... This will prove an acquisition."

A turn or two up and down the noble walk upon which the pump-room opens
was rendered very delightful to the widow by shewing her that even at
that early hour many dashing-looking, lace-frocked men, moustached and
whiskered "to the top of her bent," might be met sauntering there; and
having enjoyed this till her watch told her the boarding-house breakfast
hour was arrived, she turned from the fascinating promenade in excellent
spirits, and after a few minutes passed at the mirror in arranging her
cap and her curls, and refreshing her bloom, entered for the first time
the public eating-room, well disposed to enjoy herself in every way.

Having left the Peters family behind her, she no longer thought it
necessary to restrain her fancy in the choice of colours; and, excepting
occasionally on a provincial stage, it would be difficult to find a
costume more brilliant in its various hues than that of our widow as she
followed the obsequious waiter to the place assigned her. Agnes came
after her, like a tranquil moon-lit night following the meretricious
glare of noisy fireworks; the dazzled sight that had been drawn to Mrs.
Barnaby as she entered, rested upon Agnes, as if to repose itself, and
by the time they both were seated, it was on her fair, delicate face,
and mourning garb, that every eye was fixed. The vicarial crape and
bombasin which she wore in compliance with the arrangement of her too
sensitive aunt, did Agnes at least one service among strangers, for it
precluded the idea of any near relationship between her companion and
herself; and though no one could see them together without marvelling at
the discordant fellowship of two persons so remarkably contrasted in
manner and appearance, none explained it by presuming that they were
aunt and niece.

The party assembled and assembling at the breakfast-table consisted of
fourteen gentlemen and five ladies; the rest of the company inhabiting
the extensive and really elegant mansion preferring to breakfast in
their own apartments, though there were few who did not condescend to
abandon their privacy at dinner. Of the gentlemen now present, about
half were of that lemon tint which at the first glance shewed their
ostensible reason for being there was the real one. Of the other half it
would be less easy to render an account. The five ladies were well
dressed; and, two being old, and three young, they may be said for the
most part to have been well-looking. Any more accurate description of
them generally would but encumber and delay the narrative unnecessarily,
as such among them as may come particularly in contact with my heroine
or her niece will of necessity be brought into notice.

Our two ladies were of course placed side by side, Mrs. Barnaby being
flanked to the right by a staid and sober gentleman of middle age, who
happily acted as a wet blanket to the crackling and sparkling vivacity
of the widow, obliging her, after one or two abortive attempts at
conversation, and such sort of boarding-table _agaceries_ as the
participation of coffee and eggs may give room for, either to eat her
breakfast in silence, or to exercise her social propensities on the
neighbour of Agnes. This was an elderly lady, who, though like Mrs.
Barnaby, but just arrived for the season, had, unlike her, been a
constant visiter at Cheltenham for the last twelve years; and being an
active-minded spinster of tolerably easy means, and completely mistress
of them, was as capable of giving all sorts of local information as Mrs.
Barnaby was desirous of receiving it. Miss Morrison (such was her name)
being now, and having ever been, a lady of great prudence and the most
unimpeachable discretion, might probably have taken fright had she
chanced, at first meeting with our widow, to see her under full sail in
chase of conquest; but luckily this was not apparent at their first
interview, and the appearance and manner of Agnes offering something
like a guarantee for the respectability of the lady to whose charge she
was intrusted, she met Mrs. Barnaby's advances towards making an
acquaintance with great civility.

Before many sentences had been exchanged between them, the spinster had
the satisfaction of perceiving, that all her minute acquaintance with
Cheltenham and its ways gave her an immeasurable superiority over her
richly-dressed new acquaintance; while the widow with like facility
discovered that all she most particularly desired to know, might be
learned from the very respectable-looking individual near whom her good
fortune had placed her.

The consequence of this mutual discovery was so brisk an exchange of
question and answer as obliged Agnes to lean back in her chair, and eat
her breakfast by means of a very distant communication with the
table; ... but she was thankful her aunt had fallen upon a quiet though
rather singular-looking female of forty, instead of another whiskered
Major Allen, and willingly placed herself in the attitude least likely
to interrupt their conversation.

"Never been at Cheltenham before?... really!... Well, ma'am, I have
little doubt that you will soon declare it shall not be your last
visit, though it is your first," said Miss Morrison.

"Indeed, ma'am, I think you will prove right in that opinion," replied
Mrs. Barnaby, "for I never saw a place I admired so much. We are just
come from Clifton, which is called so beautiful, ... but it is not to be
compared to Cheltenham."

"You are just come from Clifton, are you, ma'am?... I understand it is a
very beautiful place, but terribly dull, I believe, when compared to
this.... If a person knows Cheltenham well, and has a little notion how
to take advantage of all that is going on, he may pass months and months
here without ever knowing what it is to have an idle hour.... I don't
believe there is such another place in the whole world for employing
time."

"I am sure that's a blessing," replied Mrs. Barnaby earnestly. "If there
is one thing I dread and hate more than another, it is having nothing to
do with my time. Idleness is indeed the root of all evil."

"I'm pleased to hear you say so, ma'am," said Miss Morrison, "because
it is so exactly my own opinion, and because, too, you will find
yourself so particularly well off here as to the avoiding it; and I
shall be very happy, I'm sure, if any advice of mine may put you in the
way of making the most of the advantages in that line that Cheltenham
offers."

"You are exceedingly kind and obliging, ma'am," returned Mrs. Barnaby
very graciously; "and I shall be very grateful for any counsel or
instruction you can bestow. With my handsome fortune I should consider
it quite a crime if I did not put my time to profit in such a place as
Cheltenham."

This phrase produced its proper effect; Miss Morrison eyed the speaker
not only with increased respect, but increased good-will.

"Indeed, my dear madam, you are quite right," she said; "and by merely
paying attention to such information as I shall be able to give you, I
will venture to say that you will never have the weight of an idle hour
upon your hands while you remain here; for what with the balls, and the
music at the libraries, and the regular hours for the walks, and
attendance at all the sales, (and I assure you we have sometimes three
in a day,) and shopping, and driving between the turnpikes, if you have
a carriage, and morning visits, and evening parties, and churches and
chapels, if you have a taste for them, and looking over the new names,
and the pump-room, and making new acquaintance, and finding out old
ones, there is not a day of the week, or an hour in the day, in which
one may not be well employed."

"I am sure, ma'am, it is perfectly a pleasure to a person of my active
turn of mind to listen to such a description; and it is a greater
pleasure still to meet with a lady like yourself, with taste and good
sense to value what is valuable, and to find out how and where to enjoy
it.... I hope we shall become better acquainted; I have a private
drawing-room here where I shall be delighted to see you.... Give me
leave to present you with my card."

A gilt-edged and deeply-embossed card, inscribed--

              MRS. BARNABY,
   _The ---- Hotel and Boarding House._
                 No. 5.

was here put into Miss Morrison's hand, who received it with an air of
great satisfaction, and reiterated assurances that she would by no means
fail of paying her compliments.

Unlike many vain persons who receive every civility under the persuasion
that it is offered for their own _beaux yeux_, Miss Morrison had
sufficient good sense and experience to understand that any convenience
or advantage she might derive from Mrs. Barnaby, or Mrs. Barnaby's
private drawing-room, must be repaid by accommodation of some sort or
other. All obligations of such kind were, for a variety of excellent
reasons, always repaid by Miss Morrison with such treasure as her own
lips could coin, aided by her wit and wisdom, without drawing on any
other exchequer; and now, having placed her little modest slip of
pasteboard, bearing in broad and legible, though manuscript
characters,--

               MISS MORRISON,
    _The ---- Hotel and Boarding House._

by the side of Mrs. Barnaby's buttered roll, she began at once, like an
honest old maid as she was, to pay the debt almost before it was
incurred.

"I don't know how they do those sort of things at Clifton, Mrs.
Barnaby," she said, "but here the medical gentlemen, or at least many of
them, always call on the new-comers; and though I hope and trust that
neither you nor this pretty young lady,--who, I suppose, is your
visiter,--though I hope with all my heart that you won't, either of you,
have any occasion in the world for physic or doctors, yet I advise you
most certainly to fix on one in your own mind beforehand, and just let
him know it. There are not more kind and agreeable acquaintances in the
world than gentlemen of the medical profession ... at least, I'm sure it
is so here. There are one or two apothecaries in particular,--surgeons,
though, I believe they are called,--who certainly are as elegant,
conversable gentlemen, as can be met with in London or anywhere, unless,
indeed, just in Paris, where I certainly found the apothecaries, like
everything else, in a very out-of-the-common-way style of elegance,
_toutafay par fit_, as we say on the Continent. Of course, you have
been abroad, Mrs. Barnaby?"

"No, Miss Morrison, I have not," replied the widow, making head against
this attack with great skill and courage. "I am obliged to confess that
the extreme comfort and elegance of my own home, have absolutely made a
prisoner of me hitherto; ... but since I have lost my dear husband I
find change absolutely necessary for my health and spirits, and I shall
probably soon make the tour of Europe."

"Indeed!... Oh dear! how I envy you!... But you speak all the languages
already?"

"Oh! perfectly."

"I'm so glad of that, Mrs. Barnaby, ... for, upon my word, I find it
quite out of my power to avoid using a French word every now and then
since I came from abroad, and it is so vexing when one is not
understood. A lady of your station has, of course, been taught by all
sorts of foreigners; but those who can't afford this indulgence never do
get the accent without going abroad.... I'm sure you'll find, before you
have been a week on the Continent, a most prodigious difference in your
accent, though I dare say its very good already. But, a _prop po_, about
the apothecaries and surgeons that I was talking about.... I hope you
will give orders at the door that, if Mr. Alexander Pringle calls, and
sends in his card, he shall be desired to walk up; and then, you know,
just a _prop po de nang_, you can talk to him about whatever you wish to
know; ... and you can say, if you like it, that Miss Morrison
particularly mentioned his name.... There is no occasion _do too_ that
you should give him any fee; but you may ask him a few questions about
the waters _cum sa_, and you will find him the most agreeable,
convenient, and instructive acquaintance _do mund_."

The breakfast was now so evidently drawing to its close, that the new
friends deemed it advisable to leave the table; and Mrs. Barnaby having
repeated her invitation, and Miss Morrison having replied to it by
kissing her fingers, and uttering "_Mercy! Mercy! O revor_," they
parted ... the widow to give orders, as she passed to her drawing-room,
that if Mr. Alexander Pringle called on her, he should be admitted; and
the spinster to invent and fabricate, in the secret retirement of her
attic retreat, some of those remarkably puzzling articles of dress, the
outline of which she had studied during a three weeks' residence in
Paris, and which passed current with the majority of her friends and
acquaintance for being of genuine Gallic manufacture.

The prediction of Miss Morrison was speedily verified; Mr. Alexander
Pringle did call at the hotel to leave his card for Mrs. Barnaby, and,
in consequence of the orders given, was immediately admitted to her
presence.

She was alone; for Agnes, though unfortunately there was no little dear
miserable closet for her, had received the welcome _conge_, now always
expressed by the words, "There, you may go to your lessons, child, if
you will," and had withdrawn herself to an out-of-the-way corner in
their double-bedded room, where already her desk, and other Empton
treasures, had converted about four feet square of her new abode into a
home. The sofa, therefore, with the table and its gaudy cover, adorned
with the widow's fine work-box, a boarding-house inkstand of bright
 china, and THE ALBUM (still sacred to the name of Isabella
d'Almafonte), had all been set in the places and attitudes she thought
most becoming by Mrs. Barnaby herself, and, together with her own
magnificent person, formed a very charming picture as the medical
gentleman entered the room; ... but it is probable Mr. Alexander Pringle
expected rather to find a patient than to be ushered into the presence
of a lady in a state of health apparently so perfect.

"Pray, sit down, sir!... Mr. Pringle, I believe?" said Mrs. Barnaby,
half rising, and pointing to a chair exactly opposite her place upon the
sofa.

Mr. Pringle took the indicated chair; but before he was well seated in
it, the idea that some mistake might be the source of this civility
occurred to him, and he rose again, made a step forward, and laid his
card, specifying his name, profession, and address, on the table
immediately before the eyes of the lady.

"Oh yes!" said she, smiling with amiable condescension, "I understand
perfectly; ... and should myself, or my young niece, or any of my
servants, require medical assistance, Mr. Pringle, this card (placing it
carefully in her work-box) will enable us to find it. But, though at
present we are all pretty well, I am really very glad to have an
opportunity of seeing you, sir.... Miss Morrison ... I believe you know
Miss Morrison?... (Mr. Pringle bowed).... Miss Morrison has named you to
me in a manner that made me extremely desirous of making your
acquaintance.... Gentlemen of your profession, Mr. Pringle, have so much
knowledge of the world, that it is a great advantage for a stranger, on
first arriving at a new place, to find an opportunity of conversing with
them. Will you afford me five minutes while I explain to you my very
peculiar situation?"

"Assuredly, madam," replied Mr. Pringle, "I shall be most happy to
listen to you."

"Well, then ... without farther apology I will explain myself. My name
is Barnaby.... I am a widow of good fortune, and without children ...
for I have lost both my little ones!" Here Mrs. Barnaby drew forth one
of her embroidered handkerchiefs, as she always did when speaking of
her children "which were not;" and this frequently happened, for she had
a great dislike to being considered as one unblessed by offspring,--a
peculiarity which, together with some others, displaying themselves in
the same inventive strain, proved an especial blessing to Agnes,
inasmuch as it made her absence often desirable. Having wiped her eyes,
and recovered her emotion, she continued: "I have no children; ... but
an elder sister ... so much older, indeed, as almost to be considered as
my mother, ... died several years ago, leaving an orphan girl to my
care. In truth, I am not a great many years older than my niece, and the
anxiety of this charge has been sometimes almost too much for me....
However, she is a good girl, and I am most passionately attached to her.
Nevertheless she has some peculiarities which give me pain, ... one is,
that she will never wear any dress but the deepest mourning, thus
consecrating herself, as I may say, to the memory of her departed
parents. Now this whim, Mr. Pringle, shews her spirits to be in a state
requiring change of scene, and it is on this account that I have left
my charming place in Devonshire, in the hope that variety, and a gayer
circle than is likely to be found in the immediate neighbourhood of a
large mansion in the country, might be of service to her."

"Indeed, ma'am, I think you are quite right," replied Mr. Pringle. "What
age is the young lady?"

"Just seventeen ... and I should have no objection whatever to take her
into company ... and this is indeed the point on which I most wish for
your advice. I came to Cheltenham, sir, fully expecting to find my
friends the Gordons ... near relations of the Duke, and persons of
first-rate fashion and consequence, who would at once have placed us in
the midst of all that is most elegant in the way of society here....
But, by a letter they sent to meet us at Clifton, I find that they are
absolutely obliged to pay a visit of some weeks to the Duchess of
Bedford, ... and thus I find myself here a perfect stranger, without any
means whatever of getting into society."

"A most vexatious _contretems_, certainly, madam," replied Mr. Pringle;
"but there can be no doubt of your obtaining quite as much society as
you wish, for Cheltenham is extremely full just now, and a lady in your
situation of life can hardly fail of meeting some of your
acquaintance.... Of course you will go to the pump-room, Mrs. Barnaby,
and look over the subscription-books, and I doubt not you will soon find
there are many here whom you know.... Besides, I will myself, if you
wish it, take care to make it known that you intend to enter into
society ... and probably intend to receive...."

"Indeed, sir, you will oblige me.... On my own account I should
certainly never particularly desire to make acquaintance with strangers,
but there is nothing I would not be willing to do for this dear girl!...
Of course I shall make a point of subscribing to everything, and
particularly of taking my poor dear niece to all the balls.... She is
really very pretty, and if I can but contrive to get suitable partners
for her, I think dancing may be of great service. Are there many of the
nobility here at present, Mr. Pringle?"

"Yes, madam, several, and a great deal of good company besides."

"That gives us a better chance of finding old acquaintance certainly....
But there is another point, Mr. Pringle, on which I am anxious to
consult you.... My niece is decidedly very bilious, and I feel quite
convinced that a glass of the water every morning would be of the most
essential benefit to her.... Unfortunately, dear creature, she is quite
a spoiled child, and I do not think she will be prevailed on to take
what is certainly not very pleasant to the taste, unless ordered to do
it by a medical man."

"I must see the young lady, ma'am," replied Mr. Pringle, "before I can
venture to prescribe for her in any way."

Mrs. Barnaby internally wished him less scrupulous, but feeling that it
would be better he should send in a bill and charge a visit, than that
she should lose a daily excuse for visiting the delightful pump-room,
and, moreover, feeling more strongly still that, in order to make Agnes
swallow the dose instead of herself, it would be good economy to pay for
half a dozen visits, she rose from the sofa, and said with a
fascinating smile.... "I will bring her to you myself, my dear sir, but
I hope you will not disappoint me about prescribing the Cheltenham
waters for her. I know her constitution well, and I venture to pledge
myself to you, that she is exactly the subject for the Cheltenham
treatment.... So bilious, poor girl!... so dreadfully bilious!"

Mrs. Barnaby left the room, and presently returned with Agnes, who was
considerably surprised at being told that it was necessary a medical man
should see her; for, in the first place, save a heaviness at her heart,
she felt quite well; and in the second, she had never before, since she
left Empton, perceived any great anxiety on the part of her aunt as to
her being well or ill. However, she yielded implicit obedience to the
command which bade her leave the letter she was writing to Miss Peters,
and meekly followed her imperious protectress to their sitting-room.

Mr. Alexander Pringle was decidedly a clever man, and clever men of his
profession are generally skilful in discerning diagnostics of various
kinds. He had expected to see a yellow, heavy-eyed girl, looking either
as if she were ready to cry with melancholy, or pout from perverseness;
instead of which, he saw a lovely, graceful creature, with a step
elastic with youth and health, and an eye whose clear, intelligent
glance, said as plainly as an eye could speak, "What would you with
me?... I have no need of you."

He immediately perceived that the amiable child-bereaved widow had quite
misunderstood the young lady's case.... It might be, perhaps, from her
too tender affection; but, let the cause be what it would, it was not to
solve any professional doubts that he took her delicate hand to feel the
"healthful music" of her pulse. Nevertheless, Mr. Pringle, who had seven
promising children, knew better than to reject the proffered custom of a
rich widow who had none; so, looking at his beautiful patient with much
gravity, he said,--

"There is little or nothing, madam, to alarm you. The young lady is
rather pale, but I am inclined to believe that it rather proceeds from
the naturally delicate tint of her complexion than from illness. It will
be proper, however, that I should see her again, and, mean time, I would
strongly recommend her taking about one-third of a glass of water
daily. If more be found necessary, the dose must be increased; but I am
inclined to hope that this will prove sufficient, with the help of a few
table-spoonfuls of a mixture ... by no means disagreeable, my dear young
lady ... which I will not fail to send in." And so saying, Mr. Pringle
rose to take leave, but was somewhat puzzled by Agnes saying, with a
half smile in which there was something that looked very much as if she
were quizzing him,--

"You must excuse me, sir, if I decline taking any medicine whatever till
I feel myself in some degree out of health."

Mr. Pringle, who was very near laughing himself, answered with great
good-humour,... "Well then, Mrs. Barnaby, I suppose we must do without
it, ... and I don't think there will be much danger either." He then
took his departure, leaving Mrs. Barnaby quite determined that Agnes
should drink the water, but not very sorry that she was to have no
physic to pay for ... whilst Agnes was altogether at a loss to guess
what this new vagary of her aunt might mean.

"What made you think I was ill, aunt?" said she.

"Ill?... Who told you, child, that I thought you ill?... I don't think
any such thing, ... but I did not choose you should drink the waters
till I had the opinion of the first medical man in the place about it.
There is no expense, no sacrifice, Agnes, that I am not ready to make
for you."

"But I don't mean to drink the waters at all, thank you, aunt," replied
Agnes.

"Don't mean, miss?... you don't mean?... And perhaps you don't mean to
eat any dinner to-day? and perhaps you don't mean to sleep in my
apartment to-night?... Perhaps you may prefer walking the streets all
night?... Pretty language, indeed, from you to me!... And now you may
take yourself off again, and, as you like to stick to your lessons, you
may just go and write for a copy, 'I must do as I'm bid.'"

Agnes quitted the room in silence, and Mrs. Barnaby prepared to receive
her new friend, Miss Morrison, who she doubted not would call before
the hour she had named as the fashionable time for repairing to the
public library; nor was she at all displeased by this abrupt departure,
as, for obvious reasons, it was extremely inconvenient for her to have
Agnes present when she felt inclined to enter upon a little
autobiography. But, while anticipating this agreeable occupation, she
recalled, as she set herself to work upon one of her beautiful collars,
the scrape she had got into respecting her park, and firmly resolved not
even to mention a paddock to Miss Morrison by name, whatever other
flights of fancy she might indulge in.

"This has been no idle day with me as yet," thought she, as she
proceeded with her elegant "satin-stitch".... "I have got well stared
at, though only in my close straw-bonnet, at the pump-room,--have made a
capital new acquaintance, and,"--remembering with a self-approving smile
all she had said to Mr. Pringle,--"I know I have not been sowing seed on
barren ground.... I have not forgotten how glad my poor dear Barnaby was
to get hold of something new.... He will repeat it every word, I'll
answer for him."




CHAPTER XIII.

THE ACQUAINTANCE RIPENS INTO FRIENDSHIP.--USEFUL INFORMATION OF ALL
SORTS.--AN EXCELLENT METHOD OF TALKING FRENCH, ATTENDED WITH LITTLE
LABOUR AND CERTAIN SUCCESS.--A COLLECTOR.--A SALE-ROOM.--A PEER OF THE
REALM.


The visit of Miss Morrison, which quickly followed, was long and
confidential. Mrs. Barnaby very condescendingly explained to her all the
peculiar circumstances of her position, which rendered her the most
valuable friend in the world, and also the most eligible match extant
for a man of rank and fortune; but all these latter particulars were
communicated under the seal of secrecy, never, upon any account, to be
alluded to or mentioned to any one; and in return for all this, Miss
Morrison gave the widow a catalogue _raisonnee_ of the most
marriageable men at present in Cheltenham, together with the best
accounts of their rent-rolls and expectancies that it had been in the
power of pertinacious questionings to elicit. But it would be
superfluous to narrate this part of the conversation at length, as the
person and affairs of many a goodly gentleman were canvassed therein,
who, as they never became of much importance to Mrs. Barnaby, can be of
none to those occupied by the study of her character and adventures.
There were other points, however, canvassed in this interview, which
were productive of immediate results; and one of these was the great
importance of attending the sales by auction, which, sometimes preluded
by soft music, and always animated as they went on by the most elegant
conversation, occupied the _beau monde_ of Cheltenham for many hours of
every day.

"Your descriptions are delightful, Miss Morrison!" exclaimed the
animated widow. "I could almost fancy myself there already, ... and go I
will constantly, you may depend upon that; ... and I want to consult you
about another thing, Miss Morrison.... There's my niece, you know--the
little girl you saw at breakfast ... do you think it would be quite the
thing to make her leave her books and lessons, and all that, to waste
her time at the sales?... And besides, baby as she is, she gets more
staring at than I think at all good for her."

"_Jay non doot paw_," replied Miss Morrison, "for she is divinely
handsome, _say toon bow tay par fit_, as they say at Paris; and my
belief is, that if you wish to be the fashion at Cheltenham, the best
thing you can do is to let her be seen every day, and all day long. That
face and figure must take, _say clare_."

Mrs. Barnaby fell into a reverie that lasted some minutes. That she did
wish to be the fashion at Cheltenham was certain, but the beauty of
Agnes was not exactly the means by which she would best like to obtain
her wish. She had hoped to depend solely on her own beauty and her own
talents, but she was not insensible to the manifest advantage of having
two strings to her bow; and as the ambition, which made her determine
to be great, was quite as powerful as the vanity which made her
determine to be beautiful, the scheme of making Agnes a partner in her
projects of fascination and conquest was at least worthy of
consideration.

"I must think about it, Miss Morrison," she replied; "there is no
occasion to decide this minute."

"_Poing do too_," said Miss Morrison; "I always like myself to walk
round a thing, as I call it, before I decide to take it. Besides, my
dear madam, a great deal depends upon knowing what is your principal
object.... _Bo coo depong de sell aw...._ If you intend to be at all the
parties, to be marked with a buzz every time you enter the pump-room,
the ball-room, or the sales, I would say, dress up that young lady in
the most elegant and attractive style possible, and you will be sure to
succeed ... _paw le mowyndra doot de sell aw_.... But if, on the other
hand, your purpose is to marry yourself, _set o tra shews_, and you must
act altogether in a different way."

"I understand you, my dear Miss Morrison, perfectly," replied the widow,
greatly struck by the sound sense and clear perception of her new
friend; "and I will endeavour, with the most perfect frankness, to make
you understand all my plans, for I feel sure that you deserve my full
confidence, and that nobody can be more capable of giving me good
advice.... The truth is, Miss Morrison, that I do wish to marry again.
My fortune, indeed, is ample enough to afford me every luxury I can wish
for; ... but a widowed heart, my dear Miss Morrison ... a widowed heart
is a heavy load to bear, where the temper, like mine, is full of the
softest sensibility and all the tenderest affections.... Therefore, as I
said, it is my wish to marry again; but God forbid I should be weak and
wicked enough to do so in any way unbecoming my station in society,--a
station to which I have every right, as well from birth as fortune. No
attachment, however strong, will ever induce me to forget what I owe to
my family and to the world; and unless circumstances shall enable me
rather to raise than debase myself in society, I will never, whatever
my feelings may be, permit myself to marry at all."

"_Crowyee moy vous avay raisong share dam!_" exclaimed Miss Morrison.

"Such being the case," resumed the widow, "it appears to me evident,
that the first object to be attended to is the getting into good
society; and if, in order to obtain this, I find it necessary to bring
forward Agnes Willoughby, it must certainly be done ... especially as
her singing is much more remarkable, I believe, than even the beauty of
her person."

"_Et he po-se-ble?_" said Miss Morrison, joyfully. "Then, in that case,
_share a me_, there is nothing in the whole world, of any sort or kind,
that can prevent your being sought out and invited to every fashionable
house in the place. An ugly girl, that sings well, may easily get
herself asked wherever she chooses to go; but a beautiful one, _aveck
ung talong samblabel_, may not only go herself, but carry with her as
many of her friends as she pleases."

"Really!..." said Mrs. Barnaby, thoughtfully. "This is a great
advantage; ... and you feel sure, Miss Morrison, that if I do make up
my mind to bring her forward, this will be the case?"

"_O we_," replied her friend confidently, "_set ung fay certaing_ ...
there is no doubt about it; and if you will, I am ready to make you a
bet of five guineas, play or pay, that if you contrive to make her be
seen and heard once, you will have your table covered with visiting
cards before the end of the week ... _nong douty paw_."

"Well!... we must consider about it, Miss Morrison; ... but I should
like, I think, to go first to some of these crowded places that you talk
about without her, just to see ... that is, if you would be kind enough
to go with me."

"Most certainly I will," replied Miss Morrison, "_aveck leplu grang
plesire_.... Suppose we go to the sale-rooms this morning? There is a
vast variety of most useful and beautiful things to be sold to-day, and
as they always go for nothing, you had better bid a little. It is
thought stylish."

"And must certainly draw attention," said Mrs. Barnaby, with vivacity.

"You are quite right ... _say sa_, ... and it is just about time to get
ready.... All our gentlemen will be there, you may be sure; and perhaps,
you know, some one of them may join us, which is a great advantage, ...
for nothing makes women look so much like nobody as having no man near
them.... As to marriage, I don't think of it for myself ... _jay pre
<DW41> party_; ... but I confess I do hate to be anywhere without the
chance of a man's coming to speak to one ... _mays, eel foh meytra <DW41>
shappo ... o reyvoyr!_"

Mrs. Barnaby now found herself at last obliged to confess she did not
understand her.

"Of course I know French perfectly," she said; "but as I have never been
in the country, and not much in the habit of speaking it, even at home,
I cannot always follow you.... I would give a great deal, Miss Morrison,
to speak the language as beautifully as you do!"

"It is a great assistance in society, certainly," replied Miss Morrison,
very modestly; "but I do assure you that it is quite impossible for
anybody in the world to speak it as I do without being in the country,
and taking the same incessant pains as I did. As to learning it from
books, it is all nonsense to think of it ... how in the world is one to
get the accent and pronunciation?... But I must say that I believe few
people ever learned so much in so short a time as I did. I invented a
method for myself, without which I should never have been able to speak
as I do. I never was without my pencil and paper in my hand, and I wrote
down almost every word I heard, in such a manner as that I was always
able to read it myself, without asking anybody. The English of it all I
got easily afterwards, for almost everybody understands me when I read
my notes according to my own spelling, especially English people; and
these translations I wrote down over against my French, which I call
making both a grammar and dictionary entirely of my own invention, ...
and I have often been complimented upon it, I assure you."

"And I'm sure you well deserve it. I never heard anything so clever in
my life," replied Mrs. Barnaby. "But how soon shall we begin our walk?"

"Now directly, if you please.... I will go and put on my hat ... that
was what I said to you in French.... _Eel foh meytra <DW41> shappo._"

Mrs. Barnaby then repaired to her toilet; and having done her very
utmost to make herself as conspicuously splendid and beautiful as
possible, turned to Agnes, who was still writing in her dark corner, and
said,... "You had better finish what you are about, Agnes, and I hope it
is something that will improve you.... I am going out with Miss Morrison
on business ... and if the evening is fine, I will take you a walk
somewhere or other."

Agnes again blessed their rencontre with this valuable new friend, and
saw the satin and feathers of her aunt disappear with a feeling of great
thankfulness that she was spared the necessity of attending them.

       *       *       *       *       *

On leaving Mrs. Barnaby, Mr. Alexander Pringle paid a visit to his good
friend and patient Lady Elizabeth Norris, (the aunt of Colonel Hubert,)
who, as usual, was passing a few weeks of the season at Cheltenham, as
much for the sake of refreshing her spirits by the variety of its
company, as for the advantage of taking a daily glass of water at its
spring. The worthy apothecary was as useful by the information and
gossippings he furnished on the former subject, as by his instructions
on the latter, and was invariably called in, the day after her
ladyship's arrival, however perfect the state of her health might be;
and given moreover to understand that a repetition of a professional
visit would be expected at least three times a week during her stay.

He now found the old lady sitting alone; for Sir Edward and Lady
Stephenson, who were her guests, were engaged in one of their favourite
morning expeditions, exploring the beautiful environs of the town, a
pleasure which they enjoyed as uninterruptedly as the most sentimental
newly-married pair could desire, as, by a strange but very general
spirit of economy, few of the wealthy and luxurious visitants of
Cheltenham indulge themselves in the expense of a turnpike.

"Soh! Pringle ... you are come at last, are you?" said Lady
Elizabeth.... "I have been expecting you this hour ... the Stephensons'
are off and away again to the world's end, in search of wild flowers and
conjugal romance, leaving me to my own devices--a privilege worth little
or nothing, unless you can add something new to my list here for next
Wednesday."

"Perhaps I may be able to assist your ladyship," returned her
Esculapius; "that is, provided Lady Stephenson knows nothing about it,
for I fear she has not yet forgiven my introduction of Mr. Myrtle and
the two Misses Tonkins."

"Stuff and nonsense!... What does it signify, now she is married and out
of the way, what animals I get into my menagerie?... But I don't think,
Pringle, that you are half such a clever truffle-dog as you used to
be.... What a time it is since you have told me of anything new!"

"Upon my word, my lady, it is not my fault," replied the apothecary,
laughing; "I never see or hear anything abroad without treasuring it in
my memory for your ladyship's service; and I am now come expressly to
mention a new arrival at the ----, which appears to promise well."

"I rejoice.... Is it male or female?"

"Female, my lady, and there are two."

"Of the same species, and the same race?"

"Decidedly not; but the contrast produces a very pleasant effect; and,
moreover, though infinitely amusing, they are quite _comme il faut_. I
understand the elder lady is sister to Mrs. Peters of Clifton."

Mr. Pringle then proceeded to describe his visit to Mrs. Barnaby, and
did justice to the florid style of her beauty, dress, and conversation.
But when he came to speak of the young girl who was _vouee au noir_, and
of her aunt's pertinacious resolution that she should take the waters
and be treated as an invalid, notwithstanding the very excellent state
of her health, the old lady rubbed her hands together, and exultingly
exclaimed, "Good!... admirable!... You are a very fine fellow, Pringle,
and have hit this off well. Why, man, I saw your delightful widow this
morning at the Pump, rouge, ringlets, and all;... I saw her taste the
waters and turn sick; and now, because she must have a reason for
shewing herself at the Pump, she is going to make the poor girl drink
for her.... Capital creature!... I understand it all ... poor little
girl!... And so the widow wants acquaintance, does she?... I offer
myself, my drawing-room shall be open to her, Pringle.... And now, how
can I manage to get introduced to her?"

"You will not find that very difficult, Lady Elizabeth, depend upon
it.... I will undertake to promise for this Mrs. Barnaby, that she will
be visible wherever men and women congregate. At the ball, for instance,
to-morrow night; does your ladyship intend to be there?"

"Certainly.... And if she be there, I will manage the matter of
introduction, with or without intervention, and so obtain this
full-blown peony for my shew on Wednesday next."

       *       *       *       *       *

Whilst fate and Mr. Pringle were thus labouring in one quarter of the
town to bring Mrs. Barnaby into notice, she was herself not idle in
another in her exertions to produce the same effect. The sale-room, to
which the experienced Miss Morrison led her, was already full when they
entered it; but the little difficulty which preceded their obtaining
seats was rather favourable to them than otherwise; for, as if on
purpose to display the sagacity of that lady's prognostications, two of
the gentlemen who had made part of their company at breakfast, not only
made room for them, but appeared well disposed to enter into
conversation, and to offer every attention they could desire.

"Mr. Griffiths, if I mistake not," said Miss Morrison, bowing to one of
them; "I hope you have been quite well, sir, since we met last year....
Give me leave to introduce, Mr. Griffiths, Mrs. Barnaby."

"I am happy to make your acquaintance," said the gentleman, bowing low.
"Your young friend whom I saw with you this morning is not here ... is
she?"

"No, sir," replied Mrs. Barnaby, in the most amiable tone imaginable;
"the dear girl is pursuing her morning studies at home."

"Introduce me, Griffiths," whispered his companion.

"Mr. Patterson, Mrs. Barnaby; Mr. Patterson, Miss Morrison," and a very
social degree of intimacy appeared to be immediately established.

"Oh! what a lovely vase!" exclaimed Mrs. Barnaby. "What an elegant set
of candle-sticks!" cried Miss Morrison, as the auctioneer brought
forward the articles to be bid for, which being followed by a variety of
interesting observations on nearly all the people, and nearly all the
goods displayed before them, afforded Mrs. Barnaby such an opportunity
of being energetic and animated, that more than one eye-glass was turned
towards her, producing that reciprocity of cause and effect which it is
so interesting to trace; for the more the gentlemen and ladies looked at
her, the more Mrs. Barnaby talked and laughed, and the more Mrs. Barnaby
talked and laughed, the more the gentlemen and ladies looked at her.
Flattered, fluttered, and delighted beyond measure, the eyes of the
widow wandered to every quarter of the room; and for some time every
quarter of the room appeared equally interesting to her; but at length
her attention was attracted by the almost fixed stare of an individual
who stood in the midst of a knot of gentlemen at some distance, but
nearly opposite to the place she occupied.

"Can you tell me, sir, who that tall, stout gentleman is in the green
frock-coat, with lace and tassels?... That one who is looking this way
with an eye-glass."

"The gentleman with red hair?" returned Mr. Patterson, to whom the
question was addressed.

"Yes, that one, rather sandy, but a very fine-looking man."

"That is Lord Mucklebury, Mrs. Barnaby.... He is a great amateur of
beauty; and upon my word he seems exceedingly taken with some fair
object or other in this part of the room."

The sight of land after a long voyage is delightful ... rest is
delightful after labour, food after fasting; but it may be doubted if
either of these joys could bear comparison with the emotion that now
swelled the bosom of Mrs. Barnaby. This was the first time, to the best
of her knowledge and belief, that she had ever been looked at by a lord
at all ... and what a look it was!... No passing glance, no slight
unmeaning regard, directed first to one and then to another beauty, but
a long, steady, direct, and unshrinking stare, such as might have made
many women leave the room, but which caused the heart of Mrs. Barnaby to
palpitate with a degree of ecstasy which she had never felt before--no,
not even when the most admired officer of a new battalion first fixed
his looks upon her in former days, and advanced in the eyes of all the
girls to ask her to dance; ... for no Lord _anything_ had ever done so;
and thus, the fulness of her new-born joy, while it had the vigorous
maturity of ripened age, glowed also with the early brightness of youth.
It might indeed have been said of Mrs. Barnaby at that moment, that,
"like Mrs. Malaprop and the orange-tree, she bore blossom and fruit at
once."

One proof of the youthful freshness of her emotion was the very naive
manner in which it was betrayed. She could not sit still ... her eyes
rose and fell ... her head turned and twisted ... her reticule opened
and shut ... and the happy man who set all this going must have had much
less experience than my Lord Mucklebury, if he had not immediately
perceived the effect of himself and his eye-glass.

Could Mrs. Barnaby have known at that moment the influence produced by
the presence of Miss Morrison, she would have wished her a thousand
fathoms deep in the ocean; for certain it is, that nothing but her
well-known little quizzical air of unquestionable Cheltenham
respectability, prevented the noble lord from crossing the room, and
amusing himself, without the ceremony of an introduction, in conversing
with the sensitive lady, whose bright eyes and bright rouge had drawn
his attention to her. As it was, however, he thought he had better not,
and contented himself by turning to his ever-useful friend Captain
Singleton, and saying in a tone, the familiarity of which failed not to
make up for its imperiousness, "Singleton!... go and find out who that
great woman is in the green satin and pink feathers ... there's a good
fellow."

Mrs. Barnaby did not hear the words, but she saw the mission as plainly
as my Lord Mucklebury saw her, and her heart thereupon began to beat so
violently, that she had no breath left to demand the sympathy of her
friend under circumstances so pregnant with interest. But though she
hardly knew where she was, nor what she did, she still retained
sufficient presence of mind to mark how the obedient envoy addressed
himself (and, alas! in vain) first to one lounger, and then to another,
who all replied by a shake of the head, which said with terrible
distinctness, "I don't know."

"Gracious heaven, how provoking!" murmured Mrs. Barnaby, as she pressed
her delicately-gloved hand upon her heart to still its beating.... "He
will leave the room without finding out my name!"... Had she been only a
few hours longer acquainted with Mr. Patterson, it is highly probable
she would have desired him, if asked by the little gentleman in black,
so actively making his way through the crowd, what her name was, just to
have the kindness to mention that it was Barnaby. But though very civil,
Mr. Patterson was rather ceremonious; and the unsuccessful messenger had
returned to his lord, and delivered all the shakes of the head which he
had received condensed into one, before she could resolve on so frank a
mode of proceeding. For a few moments longer, however, the amused
nobleman continued his fascinating gaze; and then, giving a signal with
his eye to Singleton that it was his pleasure to move, that active
personage cleared the way before him; and the fat viscount, with his
hands in his waistcoat-pockets, stalked out of the room, but not without
turning his head, and giving one bold, final, open-eyed, steady look at
the agitated widow.

"That man is my fate!" she softly whispered to her soul, as the last
frog on the hinder part of his coat has passed from her eye; ... and
then, like the tender convolvolus when the sunbeam that reached it has
passed away, she drooped and faded till she looked more like a sleeping
picture of Mrs. Barnaby than Mrs. Barnaby herself.

"Do you not find the room very close, Miss Morrison?" said she, after
enduring for a minute or two the sort of vacuum that seemed to weigh
upon her senses.

"_Poing do too_," replied Miss Morrison, speaking through her nose,
which was one method by which she was wont to convey the true Parisian
accent, when she desired that it should be particularly perfect....
"_Poing do too_, Mrs. Barnaby, ... however, I am quite ready to go if
you like it, for I don't think I shall buy anything this morning, and I
don't see many acquaintance here."

Mrs. Barnaby immediately rose; the two civil gentlemen made way for
them, and the widow, followed by her friend, walked out a more pensive,
though not, perhaps, a less happy woman, than when she walked in.




CHAPTER XIV.

A CHELTENHAM BALL.--AN INTRODUCTION.--A CONQUEST.


A great deal of profound meditation was bestowed by Mrs. Barnaby on the
occurrences of that morning before the time arrived for the toilet,
preparatory to the ball of the succeeding night. All these will shew
themselves in their results as they arise; and for the present it will
be only necessary to mention, that, in providing for this toilet,
everything approaching to the sordid cares dictated by economy was
banished. The time was too short to admit of her ordering a new dress
for this occasion; though the powerful feeling at work within her caused
a white satin, decorated in every possible way with the richest blonde,
to be bespoken for the next. Every other article that Cheltenham could
furnish, (and it being the height of the season, Paris itself could
hardly do more for her,) every other species of expensive decoration,
short of diamonds and pearls, was purchased for this important ball, at
which something within her--speaking with the authority of an
oracle--declared that she should become acquainted with Lord Mucklebury.
Busy as were the afternoon and morning which intervened, she found time
for the very necessary business of ordering her broker (he had been her
father's broker too) to sell out five hundred pounds stock for her; and
this done, and her letter safely deposited in the boarding-house
letter-bag, she turned her thoughts towards Agnes.

She had certainly, to use her own language when reasoning the point with
herself, the very greatest mind in the world not to take her to the ball
at all. But this mind, great as it was, was not a settled mind, and was
presently shaken by a sort of instinctive consciousness that there was
in Agnes, independent of her beauty, a something that might help to give
consequence to her _entree_. "As to her dress," thought she, "I am
perfectly determined that it shall be the same she wore at Clifton, ...
not so much on account of the expense ... at the present moment it would
be madness to permit such a consideration to have any effect; ... but
because it gives her an air more distinguished, more remarkable than any
one else; ... and besides ... who knows but that the contrast of style,
beautiful as she is, may be favourable to me?... I have not forgotten
our fellow-traveller from Silverton ... she seemed to freeze him. And
let her freeze my adorable viscount too, so that I".... But here her
thoughts came too rapidly to dress themselves in words, and for a few
minutes her reverie was rather a tumult than a meditation.

"Yes, she shall go!" she exclaimed at last, rising from the sofa, and
collecting a variety of precious parcels, the result of her shopping;
"Yes, she shall go to the ball; and should any mischief be likely to
follow, I will make her go out to service before the end of the week."

Having thus at last come to a determination, and upon reasonings which
she felt were not likely to be shaken, she mounted to her sleeping
apartment, and after indulging herself by spreading forth various
articles of newly-purchased finery upon the bed, she turned to the
corner in which Agnes, her tiny table, her books, and writing apparatus,
were all packed away together in the smallest possible space, and said,
"Come here, Agnes ... you must have done lessons enough for to-day, and
I have great news for you. Where do you think I mean to take you
to-night?"

Agnes cast her eyes upon the bed, and immediately anticipating some
public display of which she was doomed to be a witness, replied in a
tone that was anything but joyful,--

"I don't know, aunt."

"I don't know, aunt!" retorted Mrs. Barnaby indignantly, mimicking her
tone. "What an owl of a girl you are, Agnes!... Oh! how unlike what I
was at the same age.... You don't know?... I suppose you don't, indeed.
There is not another woman under the sun besides myself who would do for
a dependant, penniless girl, all I am doing for you. I sacrifice
everything for you ... my feelings, my health, my money, and yet you
look exactly as if I was going to take you to school again, instead of
to a ball!"

Agnes sighed; she thought of her last ball, of all its pains and all its
pleasures; and feeling but too sure that it was as impossible she should
escape the former, as improbable that she should find the latter, she
replied mournfully enough, "I would rather not go, if you please,
aunt ... I do not like balls.'"

"Upon my honour, Agnes, if I had not a temper that was proof against
everything, I should be tempted to box your ears.... Is it possible to
see anything more disgustingly hypocritical, than a girl of seventeen
screwing herself up, and saying, '_I do not like balls_'.... I wonder
what you do like, Miss Prim? But, I promise you, I do not intend to ask
your leave for what I do; and as long as you eat my bread, you will do
as I bid you ... or else, turn out, and provide for yourself at once.
Let me hear no more such stuff, if you please; but take care to make
yourself decent, and be ready to get into the carriage exactly at nine
o'clock.... Do you hear?"

Agnes meekly turned to her travelling magazine of sable suits, and was
considerably surprised by being told that she must instantly get ready
to go out for the purpose of buying satin shoes, white gloves, and one
or two other trifles, which the newly-enlarged views of her aunt now
rendered necessary. All this was done. Miss Morrison engaged to join
their party, the labours of the hair-dresser were completed, and a
toilet of two hours' duration was brought to a most satisfactory
conclusion within ten minutes of the early hour she had named, and to
the ball-room they repaired considerably before any other person entered
it.

"I told you it would be so, my dear Mrs. Barnaby," said Miss Morrison,
looking rather disconsolately round her: "_noo sum tro toe_; ... but
never mind: let us sit down comfortably on this sofa, and I dare say I
shall be able to tell you the names of most of the principal people.
Cheltenham is so very delightful, that almost everybody comes over and
over again: _say too ta fey law mode_."

A few straggling strangers began to enter almost immediately, and in
about half an hour, the well-pleased Miss Morrison was enabled to redeem
her promise by pointing out some scores of well-dressed individuals by
name. But still Lord Mucklebury came not, and the widow's heart grew
sad, till, happily, she heard a young partnerless lady say as she swept
by,--"What a bore it is that all the best men come so late!" In a moment
hope was rekindled in Mrs. Barnaby's eye, and with renewed interest she
listened to the catalogue of names which her friend poured into her ear.

"Oh! here comes the bride, Lady Stephenson.... What a handsome man her
husband is!... I have seen her here often with her aunt, Lady Elizabeth
Norris, before she was married.... The old lady dotes upon Cheltenham,
they say.... I wish you knew some more people ... but, _name port_, it
will all come by and by, I dare say, and I will introduce you to Lady
Elizabeth if I can; ... but I must ask her first, or she may take
miff.... _Ell hay ung pew fear._"

"Stephenson?..." said Mrs. Barnaby,--"is it Sir Edward Stephenson?"

"Yes, Sir Edward, that's his name: do you know him, Mrs. Barnaby?"

"We were most intimately acquainted with his brother at Clifton, ... and
with Colonel Hubert too; that's her brother, you know. Pray, is he here
too?"

How Agnes trembled as she waited for the answer!

"I don't know ... I have not seen him yet," replied Miss Morrison, "and
it is impossible to overlook him--_set hun um seuperb_!... but _comb
heel hay fear_!... Perhaps he will come in presently: he is always _ung
pew tar_ at the balls, for he never dances."

"Oh! I know that," said Mrs. Barnaby.... "I know him perfectly well, I
assure you ... he is a most elegant person; but I suspect he is rather
of a violent and jealous temper.... However, I'm sure I wish he was
here, and his friend Frederick Stephenson too.... He's a charming young
man, and used to walk to Bristol with us, and dance three times a night
with Agnes."

"Dear me! you don't say so!" exclaimed Miss Morrison, to whom the
intelligence was extremely agreeable, as it removed at once all doubts
and fears respecting Mrs. Barnaby's real station in society.... "Well,
then, I'm sure you ought to know Lady Elizabeth Norris; and I really
must, somehow or other, contrive to let her hear of your acquaintance
with her nephew Colonel Hubert. They say she dotes upon him, and that he
is to be her heir ... and that's almost a pity, for he has a noble
fortune of his own already. Do you happen to know how much his sister
had, Mrs. Barnaby?... Some say twenty, some thirty, some fifty
thousand."

"Young Stephenson never happened to say anything about it that I
recollect," replied the widow.... "But, look! Lady Elizabeth is coming
this way.... You had better step forward, Miss Morrison, that she may
see you."

But there was no occasion for any contrivance on the part of Miss
Morrison in order to obtain the notice of Lady Elizabeth; for that lady
having descried and recognised the party, she immediately decided that
Miss Morrison, whose acquaintance she had cultivated for several
successive seasons on account of her admirable French, should be for
her the medium of introduction to the pompous widow, who was clever
enough to make her niece drink the waters instead of herself.

It was, therefore, by a straight and direct line that, supported by the
arm of Sir Edward Stephenson, and followed by his lady, she crossed the
room from her own place to that occupied by those whom (in her own
particular manner) she delighted to honour.

Miss Morrison's surprise was as great as her satisfaction when she
perceived this to be the case; and she felt her triumph doubled by her
fine new acquaintance being the witness of it.

"_Bon jour_, Miss Morrison," said the old lady, holding out her hand;
"_toujours en bonne sante j'espere_?"

Amidst smiles and bows, and blushes and courtesies, Miss Morrison
replied in her favourite jargon,--

"_Mey we, me ladee_ ... and I hope your ladyship is the same."

"A good many old faces here, Miss Morrison, and a good many new ones
too. You have friends with you whom I do not remember to have seen
before.... You must introduce me."

This request threw the good-natured spinster into a twitter of delight
which almost deprived her of the power of obeying it: first she made a
little movement with one hand, and then with the other; while the ample
Mrs. Barnaby stood in happy smiling expectation, and the tall,
stiff-looking old lady continued gazing at the group through her
half-closed eyes, and determined on no account to hasten a process from
which she derived so great amusement.

At length the respective names were pronounced in their proper order,
that of the blushing Agnes being included. The old lady gave her a look
in which something of surprise was mingled with curiosity, and suddenly
turning round to Lady Stephenson who stood behind her, she said,--

"Come, Emily, you must be introduced too.... Miss Willoughby ... Lady
Stephenson."

Mrs. Barnaby had prepared another smile, and another majestic bend for
the presentation of herself to the fair bride; but it did not follow; a
disappointment for which she was soon consoled by Lady Elizabeth's
sitting down, and graciously intimating, by an action of her hand, that
the widow might sit beside her.

Agnes meanwhile stood trembling from head to foot with her eyes timidly
fixed on the beautiful countenance of Colonel Hubert's sister. As it was
quite impossible her ladyship could understand the cause of the
agitation she inspired, so neither was she at all aware of its strength;
but she saw that the beautiful girl before her, notwithstanding the
quiet, unstudied grace of her appearance, was not at her ease, and could
only account for it by supposing that she was suffering from extreme
shyness. Lady Stephenson had not yet forgotten the time when she, too,
had hardly dared to look up unless her paternal brother, as she was wont
to call him, stood very near to sustain her carriage, and sympathising
with a weakness that was in some degree constitutional in herself, she
felt disposed to take more notice of the fair stranger than she usually
bestowed upon persons introduced to her by the whimsical caprices of
her aunt.

Lady Stephenson was, however, altogether mistaken.... Agnes was not at
that moment suffering from shyness; there was timidity certainly in the
pleasure with which she listened to the voice and gazed at the features
of Colonel Hubert's sister; but still it was pleasure, and very nearly
the most lively she had ever experienced.

"You are at Cheltenham for the first time, Miss Willoughby?" said the
bride.

"Yes," replied Agnes; "we only arrived two days ago."

There was not much opportunity of indicating feeling of any kind by
these words; nevertheless, the manner in which they were spoken, and the
sweet expression of the beautiful eyes that were raised to hers,
convinced Lady Stephenson that however shy her new acquaintance might
be, she greatly liked to be spoken to, and accordingly continued the
conversation, which, to her own surprise, warmed so much as it
proceeded, that at length her aunt being evidently settled down for an
elaborate development of the absurdities, whatever they might be, of her
new acquaintance, she offered her arm, inviting her to take a turn round
the room.

Could this be real?... Was it possible that she was walking round the
Cheltenham ball-room on the arm of Colonel Hubert's sister? But though
the happy Agnes asked herself this question again and again, neither the
asking nor the answering it prevented her bearing her part in a
conversation that made her so exquisitely happy with all the pretty
earnestness of one interested in every word that was said to her, and
too young and fresh-minded to conceal the pleasure she felt.

Lady Stephenson was unexpectedly pleased with her young companion; there
was no mixture of _niaiserie_ in the simplicity of Agnes; and though her
ladyship in no degree shared her aunt's extravagant passion for
originals, she had in her own quiet way a reasonably strong liking for
whatever appeared to her untainted by affectation. The beauty of Agnes
might perhaps have had some share in the pleasure she gave; but certain
it is, that, after taking two or three turns together instead of one,
and perceiving Lady Elizabeth about to move her quarters in search of
fresh amusement, she shook hands with Agnes before parting with her so
cordially, that she felt called upon to offer some reason for it to her
husband, who had quitted her during her promenade, but was now returned.

"That is by far the most enchanting girl, Edward, in person, mind, and
manners, that I ever remember to have met with.... How very strange that
she should belong to one of my aunt's collection."

"She is vastly beautiful, Emily," replied Sir Edward, "and I suspect
that covers a multitude of sins in your eyes; for I observe you never
fail to pick out the beauties, go where you will: I declare I think your
eyes are infinitely sharper than mine in this way.... Having once found
out the fairest of the fair, I do not feel so much interest as I used to
do in looking about me."

"A very pretty speech, Sir Edward," returned the lady, laughing; "but
that sweet girl's beauty is not her greatest fascination. I must ask
Lady Elizabeth whether she found the magnificent lady to whom she has
been devoting herself answer her expectations."

When this question was put to the old lady, however, she bluntly
answered, "No, not at all.... She is as dull as a prize-ox decorated
with ribbons at a fair."

"I am sorry to hear it," observed Lady Stephenson, "for I have lost my
heart to the fair girl in black whom she seems to lead about as a
contrast to her radiant self.... I marvel what the connexion can be....
It is plain they are not related, from the deep mourning of the one and
the rainbow brilliance of the other."

"Your inference is altogether wrong, my Lady Stephenson; ... one of this
Madam Barnaby's long stories was about this melancholy miss, who is her
niece, and who will wear mourning in spite of her.... I must watch them
at the pump, just to see if the girl makes up for her disobedience in
this respect by swallowing the waters which Pringle says the aunt is
determined she shall take, ... and after that I shall trouble myself no
more about them.... The great woman does not answer; she is a vulgar,
pompous, everyday bore."

"Pray do not give her quite up, aunt, for my sake," said Lady
Stephenson; "for I have set my fancy upon seeing a great deal more of
her niece ... who, by the way, for so pertinacious a mourner, is
wonderfully sprightly; ... but I must flatter myself she found
consolation in my society. I must beg you to cultivate the acquaintance
a little farther."

"This is something quite new, Emily," replied the old lady. "It is the
first time, I believe, that you ever condescended to take any interest
in my menagerie.... Far be it from me, my dear, to check so happy a
symptom of an improving intellect.... I have already asked the expansive
widow and her delicate shadow for Wednesday; and if your fever for
cementing a friendship with the latter should happen to continue, yield
to it by all means.... You know, Emily, I never wish to control
anybody's set of favourites, provided always that nobody interferes with
my own."

The only pleasure which the rest of the evening afforded Agnes arose
from studying the features, and still more the countenance, of Lady
Stephenson, whenever she was fortunate enough to be within sight of her.
No one asked her to dance, and no word was uttered within her hearing
that gave her the least amusement. One single circumstance cheered the
tedious hours during which she was doomed to sit, with her aunt Barnaby
before her eyes, in a terror which increased every moment lest she
should draw the eyes of every one else in the room upon her. This single
circumstance was, that the sister of Colonel Hubert, when standing at
three feet of distance from her, turned her head and said, with a smile
of strong family affinity to his own,--

"I find that I am to have the pleasure of seeing you on Wednesday at my
aunt's, Miss Willoughby ... I am very glad of it.... Good night!"... and
soon afterwards the party left the room.

Far different was the fate of Mrs. Barnaby. The evening began for her
very gloriously, for she had been spoken to by a Lady Elizabeth; but it
ended in rapture, ... for, before its close, Lord Mucklebury made his
appearance, stared at her again with the most marked impertinence,
inquired and learned her name from Mr. Pringle, by whom he was at his
express desire presented, and finally he placed himself beside her on
the sofa, where he remained for at least twenty minutes, talking to her
in a style that might be said without the slightest exaggeration to have
thrown her into a state of temporary delirium.

Nor had it failed to produce some emotion in the noble lord; nay, it is
probable it might have lasted longer, had it amused him less; for when
he look his leave of the widow, expressing his hope that he should be
happy enough to meet her again, he moved with a step rather quicker than
ordinary to ensconce himself among a knot of men who were amusing
themselves by communicating to each other the most ludicrous remarks on
the company, in a distant corner of the room.

"Have you really torn yourself away from that magnificent specimen of
womanhood, Mucklebury?" said one of the group as he approached them....
"She is evidently magnetic, by the manner in which you have been
revolving round her for some time; and if magnetic, and the power at all
proportioned to the volume, it is a miracle that you ever left her side
again."

"I never would leave her side again," replied Lord Mucklebury, laughing
immoderately, "did I not fear that I should fall at her feet in a
fit.... Oh! she is glorious!"

"Who and what is she, in God's name?" said another.

"Who is she?... Barnaby!... Bless her!--Mistress Barnaby!... What is
she?... A widow.... Darling creature!... a widow, fair, fat, and
forty ... most fat!--most fair!... and, oh! a pigeon, a dove,--a very
turtle-dove for kindness!"

"She is really handsome, though ... isn't she, Mucklebury?" said one.

"Yes, upon my soul she is!" replied the Viscount more seriously, "and
bears looking at too remarkably well, notwithstanding the pot-full of
coarse rouge that it pleases her to carry about on each of her beautiful
cheeks."

"And by what blessed chance has your lordship been favoured with an
introduction?... Or did your lordship so far overcome your
constitutional timidity as to introduce yourself?"

"Alarm not your spirit on that score, Digby," replied Lord Mucklebury.
"The medium of introduction was illustrious, ... but my passion was
anterior to it, ... for the history of our loves was in this wise. It is
said of me ... I know not how truly ... that my taste in beauty tends
somewhat towards the Blowzabella order.... Be this as it may, it is
certain that yesterday morning between the hours of two and three, being
actively employed for the good of myself and my country in Johnson's
sale-room, I felt myself penetrated, perforated, pierced, and transfixed
by the very bright eyes of this remarkable lady; ... whereupon,
overpowering my constitutional timidity, Digby, I fixed my regards,
eye-glass and all, upon her; ... but the result was astonishing.... Did
any of you, gentlemen, ever happen to watch the effect of the sun's rays
when thrown upon some soft substance (a pound of butter for example)
through the medium of a burning-glass?... Such and so great was that
produced by the rays of my right eye when sent through my eye-glass
upon this charming creature.... She warmed, trembled, yea, visibly
melted under it. I inquired her name on the spot, but in vain. This
evening I have been more successful, and now I have the inexpressible
felicity of being enrolled as an acquaintance of this inimitable widow."

"A very interesting narrative," said one of his auditors; "and may I ask
your lordship what it can be that has now induced you to leave her fair
side all unguarded?"

"Ecstasy, Tom!... I had not strength to witness the emotions I
inspired.... I tell you, I must have fallen at her feet had I continued
near her."

       *       *       *       *       *

The conversation of these merry gentlemen went on for some time longer
in the same strain, forming a contrast, perhaps not very uncommon, to
the solemn and serious meditations of Mrs. Barnaby on the very same
circumstances which caused their mirth. Far, however, from exaggerating
the effect he had produced, Lord Mucklebury had little or no idea of
its strength and reality. He fancied the lady inflammable, and easily
touched by any appearance of admiration; but it never entered his head
to suppose that his flourishing speeches and audacious eyes had given
birth in her mind to the most sanguine hope, and the most deliberate
intention, of becoming Viscountess Mucklebury.

Sudden as the formation of these hopes and intentions may appear, it
would be doing injustice to Mrs. Barnaby were the reader suffered to
believe that they were permitted to take possession of her heedlessly.
She remembered Major Allen ... she remembered the agony of the moment in
which she beheld his friend Maintry appear in the character of a thief;
and sweet to her ears as was the title of her new conquest, she did not
suffer it to charm away her resolution of discovering whether he were
poor or rich. Every inquiry tended to prove that she was safe in the
direction which her ambition and her love had now taken. Lord Mucklebury
was a widower, with an only son very nobly provided for, and as capable
of making a good jointure, if he married again, as a widow's heart could
wish.

Now then all that remained to be done was to foster the admiration she
had inspired into a passion strong enough to induce the noble Viscount
to settle that jointure upon her. Nothing could be more just than her
reasoning--nothing more resolute than her purpose. She knew she was
handsome, she felt it to be advisable that she should appear rich; and
with the devoted feeling of a warrior who throws away his scabbard as he
rushes to the onslaught, Mrs. Barnaby heroically set herself to win her
way to victory--_coute qui coute_.




CHAPTER XV.

NEW HOPES BEGET A NEW STYLE OF EXISTENCE--A PARTY.--AGNES HAS SOME
SUCCESS, WHICH MRS. BARNABY DOES NOT QUITE APPROVE.--LORD MUCKLEBURY
ENTERS INTO EPISTOLARY CORRESPONDENCE WITH THE WIDOW, BY WHICH HER HOPES
ARE RAISED TO THE HIGHEST PITCH.--BUT LORD MUCKLEBURY LEAVES CHELTENHAM.


Lord Mucklebury was a gay man in every sense of the word. He loved a
jest almost as well as a dinner, and would rather have been quoted as
the sayer of a good thing than as the doer of a great one. He had
enjoyed life with fewer drawbacks from misfortune than most men; and
having reached the age of forty, had made up his mind, as soberly as he
could do on any subject, that the only privilege of the aristocracy
worth valuing was the leisure they enjoyed, or might enjoy if they chose
it, for amusing themselves. Nature intended him for a good-tempered
man, but fun had spoiled him; having laughed with everybody for the
first twenty years of his life, he learned during the second that it was
a better joke still to laugh at them; and accordingly the principal
material for the wit on which his reputation rested was derived, at the
time Mrs. Barnaby made his acquaintance, from an aptitude to perceive
the absurdities of his fellow creatures, and a most unshrinking audacity
in exposing them.

Having pointed out Mrs. Barnaby to a set of his clever friends as the
joke in which he meant to indulge during the three or four weeks of
Cheltenham discipline to which he annually submitted, it became
necessary to his honour that he should prove her to be ridiculous enough
to merit the distinction; and he knew well enough that all she required
to make her perfect in this line was as much nonsense from himself as
would keep her vanity afloat. The occupation suited him exactly; it
threatened little fatigue, and promised much amusement; so that by the
time Mrs. Barnaby had made up her mind to win and wear his lordship's
coronet, he had decided with equal sincerity of purpose to render her
the jest of the season to his Cheltenham acquaintance.

An hour's close examination of Miss Morrison concerning the _maniere
d'etre_ of the _beau monde_ during the season, sufficed to convince the
widow that, expensive as the boarding-house had appeared to her, it was
far from being all that was necessary for her present purpose. She must
have a carriage, she must have a tall footman, she must have a smart
lady's-maid; and great was the credit due to the zeal and activity of
this invaluable friend for the promptitude and dispatch with which these
indispensable articles were supplied. Some idea of this may be gathered
from the fact, that the carriage which conveyed them to the house of
Lady Elizabeth Norris, was one hired, horses, coachman, and all, for the
season; while the first applicant of six feet high who appeared, in
consequence of the earnest requisition for such an individual made at
half a dozen different shops, followed the widow in a full suit of
livery the following Sunday to church.

Agnes looked on at first with wonder, which a little reflection
converted into great misery. She knew absolutely nothing as to the
amount of her aunt's fortune; but there was a wild heedlessness of
expense in her present manner of proceeding that, despite her ignorance,
made her tremble for the result. The idea that she might by persevering
industry render herself fit to become a governess, was that which most
tended to console her; but Agnes's estimate of what was required for
this was a very high one; and greatly did she rejoice to find that her
aunt permitted her to be wholly mistress of her time, seldom inviting
her to go out, and receiving her apologies for declining to do so with a
degree of complacency which plainly enough shewed they were not
unwelcome.

Lady Elizabeth Norris's party was five days after the ball; and before
it arrived Mrs. Barnaby had persuaded herself into the firmest possible
conviction of Lord Mucklebury's devoted attachment and honourable
intentions. Had his lordship not been one of the invited guests, Mrs.
Barnaby would unquestionably have given up the engagement, though but a
few short days before it had appeared to her very like a permission to
enter the gates of paradise; but her estimate of all things was changed;
she was already a viscountess in all her reasonings, and perhaps the
only person who held an unchanged value was the poor Agnes, whose
helpless dependance could not place her in a position of less
consideration than it had done before.

"Pray, Miss Agnes, is it your pleasure to go to Lady Elizabeth Norris's
this evening?" said Mrs. Barnaby, while watching her new maid's
assiduous preparations for her own toilet.

"Oh! yes, aunt, if you have no objection.... I should like to go very
much indeed."

"Nay, child, you may go if you wish it.... I imagine it will prove but a
humdrum sort of thing.... Wear the same dress that you did at the
ball.... My maid shall arrange your hair for you."

Yet notwithstanding all this increase of dignity, Agnes never for a
moment guessed what was going on; she had never seen Lord Mucklebury
excepting at the ball, and her imagination had not suggested to her the
possibility that so casual an acquaintance could be the cause of all
she saw and heard.

Had Agnes been as light-hearted as when she used to sit upon her
travelling trunk in her closet at Clifton, listening to the lively
gossip of her friend Mary, the party at Lady Elizabeth's would have been
pregnant with amusement. But as it was, she sat very sadly alone in a
corner; for during the first portion of the evening Sir Edward
Stephenson and his lady were not present, having dined out, where they
were detained much beyond the hour at which the majority of Lady
Elizabeth's guests assembled.

But the lively old woman wanted no one to assist her in the task of
entertaining her company, for in truth she was not particularly anxious
about their entertainment, her sole object in bringing them all together
being to amuse herself, and this she achieved in a way less agreeable,
perhaps, to one who, like Agnes, was a mere passive spectator, than to
those who were expected to take a more active part. During the early
part of the evening, few persons appeared excepting such as she had
expressly desired to come early, and there was not one of these
undistinguished by some peculiarity from which the whimsical old lady
derived amusement.

It was her custom to place herself immoveably in a huge arm-chair, with
a small table before her, on which was placed her tea, coffee, ice,
biscuits, or anything else she might choose, with quite as little
ceremony as if alone. A book or two also, with a pair of wax-lights
having a green shade over them, never failed to make part of the
preparation for her evening's amusement, and to these she never scrupled
to address herself, if "her people" proved less entertaining than she
expected.

Every one as they entered approached this throne to pay their
compliments, and then seated themselves at some distance, one single
chair alone being permitted to stand near her. To this place all those
whom she wished to listen to, were called in succession, and dismissed
when she had had enough of them, with the same absence of all ordinary
civility as she was sure to display to all those who were so
ill-advised as to appear at her unceremonious bidding.

Both her nephew and niece had often remonstrated with her on the subject
of these strange _reunions_; but she defended herself from the charge of
behaving rudely to those who, in accepting her invitations, had a right
to expect civility, by saying, "I am as civil as they deserve. My title
is the '_Duc ad me_' that calls fools into my circle, and till I cease
to be Lady Elizabeth, they get what they come for."

For the most part, the company were rather odd-looking than elegant, and
the newly-awakened grandeur of Mrs. Barnaby was a little wounded by
observing how few persons there were present whose dress entitled them
to the honour of meeting her and her dress. Lady Elizabeth, moreover,
received her very coldly, though to Agnes she said, "How d'ye do, my
dear? Lady Stephenson will be here presently."

"What vulgar ignorance!" thought the widow, as she retreated to a sofa
commanding a perfect view of the door by which the company entered....
"Notwithstanding her title, that woman must have been wretchedly brought
up.... Should I in my second marriage be blessed with offspring, I shall
make it my first object to teach them manners befitting their rank."

The absurdities of Lady Elizabeth's guests on this evening were not
sufficiently piquant to justify a detailed description.... One old
gentleman was summoned to THE chair that he might recount how many
habitual drunkards, both male and female, he had converted into happy
water-drinkers by the simple process of making them take an oath;
another amused her ladyship for several minutes by what she called
"_saying his peerage_,"--that is, by repeating a catalogue of noble
names, all of which he stated to belong to his most familiar friends.
One lady was had up for the purpose of repeating her own poetry; and
another that she might, by a little prompting, give vent to some
favourite metaphysical doctrine, which it was her _forte_ to envelop in
words of her own construction. Miss Morrison, too, was courted into
talking of Paris in her own French; but altogether the meeting was not
successful, and Lady Elizabeth was in the act of arranging the shade of
her lights, so as to permit her reading at her ease, when her eye, as
she looked round the room, chanced to fall upon Agnes. She was on the
point of calling to her by name; but there was a modest tranquillity in
her delicate face, that the imperious old lady felt no inclination to
startle, and instead of speaking to her, she addressed her aunt.

"Pray, Mrs. Barnaby, does your young lady play or sing? We are mighty
drowsy, I think, to-night, all of us; and if she does, I should be
really much obliged if she will favour us. Lady Stephenson's instrument
is a very fine one."

Mrs. Barnaby was so little pleased by her reception, and so completely
out of sorts at the non-arrival of Lord Mucklebury, that she answered as
little graciously as it was well possible, "I don't think there is any
chance of her amusing your ladyship."

Great was the widow's surprise when she saw the quiet unpresuming Agnes
rise from her distant chair, walk fearlessly across the circle to that
of Lady Elizabeth, and heard her say in a low voice, but quite
distinctly,--

"I do sing and play a little, Lady Elizabeth; and if it be your
ladyship's wish that I should make the attempt now, I shall be happy to
obey you."

Perhaps Lady Elizabeth was as much surprised as Mrs. Barnaby; but though
she understood not the feeling that had prompted this wish to oblige
her, she was pleased by it, and rising for the first time that evening
from her chair, she took Agnes by the arm, and led her to the
pianoforte.

"Does your ladyship love music?" said Agnes, trembling at her own
temerity, but longing irresistibly to be noticed by the aunt of Colonel
Hubert.

"Yes, my dear, I do indeed," replied the old lady. "It is one of our
family failings,--I believe we all love it too well."

"Which does your ladyship prefer, old songs or new ones?" said Agnes.

"Old ones most decidedly," she replied. "But at your age, my dear, and
in the present state of musical science, it is hardly likely you should
be able to indulge my old-fashioned whim in this respect."

"My practice has been chiefly from the old masters," replied Agnes,
turning over the leaves of a volume of Handel.

"Say you so, my little girl?... Then I will sit by you as you play."

The delighted Agnes, wondering at her own audacious courage, assiduously
placed a chair for the old lady, and with a flutter at her heart that
seemed almost like happiness, turned to the song that she had seen
produce on Colonel Hubert an effect never to be forgotten. It had
brought tears to the eyes of the gallant soldier, and given to his
features such dangerous softness, that the poor minstrel had never
recovered the effects of it. To sing it again to the ear of his aunt was
like coming back towards him; and the alleviation this brought to the
terrible fear of having lost sight of him for ever, not only gave her
the courage necessary to bring her to the place she now occupied, but
inspired her with animation, skill, and power, to sing with a perfection
she had never reached before.

The pleased attention of Lady Elizabeth had been given in the first
instance to reward the ready effort made to comply with her wishes; but
long before the song was ended, she had forgotten how she had obtained
it, had forgotten everything save her own deep delight, and admiration
of the beautiful siren who had caused it. Silent and motionless she
waited till the last chord of the concluding symphony had died away; and
then rising from her chair she bent down over Agnes, and having gazed
earnestly in her face for a moment, kissed her fair forehead once,
twice, and again with a cordiality that thanked her better than any
words could have done.

Agnes was greatly touched, greatly gratified, and forgetting the
inexpediency of giving way to feelings that it was neither possible nor
desirable should be understood, she seized the good lady's hand, pressed
it to her bosom, and looking up to her with eyes swimming in tears of
joy, said in a voice of deep feeling, ... "I am so very glad you like
me!"

"Why, what a precious little creature you are!" exclaimed Lady
Elizabeth, half aroused and half softened; "as original to the full as
any of my queer company here, and quite as remarkable for sweetness and
talent as they for the want of it.... Where did you grow, fair
lily-flower?... And how came you to be transplanted hither by so.... But
never mind all this now; if we get on well together we shall get better
acquainted. What shall I call you, pretty one?"

"Agnes, if you please, Lady Elizabeth ... Agnes Willoughby," replied the
happy girl, becoming every moment more delighted at the result of the
bold measure she had taken.

"You must come to me to-morrow morning, Agnes, while I am at breakfast,
at ten o'clock remember, for then I am alone.... And you must come
prepared, my child, to talk to me about yourself, ... for I can't
understand it at all ... and I never choose to be puzzled longer than I
can help it upon any subject.... But listen to my monsters! If they are
not presuming to be noisy behind my back!...

    Then lull me, lull me, charming air,
      My senses wrap in wonder sweet.
    Like snow on wool thy footsteps are,
      Soft as a spirit's are thy feet,"--

exclaimed the old lady in a whisper close to the ear of Agnes...." Sing
to me again, my child, and I will send a message to them in words
borrowed from the famous epitaph on Juan Cabeca, ... 'Hold your tongues,
ye calves!'"... and turning herself round she beckoned to a servant who
had just entered with refreshments, saying to him in a voice which might
have been heard by most of those in the apartment, "Set down the tray,
Johnstone; nobody wants it; ... and go round the room begging they will
all be silent while this lady sings."

It was in the middle of the song which followed that Sir Edward and Lady
Stephenson returned. The door opened without Agnes being aware of it;
and her rich voice swelling to a note at the top of its compass, and
sustaining it with a power given to few, filled the chamber with a
glorious volume of sound that held Colonel Hubert's sister transfixed as
she was about to enter. Unconscious that there was another of the race
near her, whom she would have almost breathed her soul away to please,
Agnes warbled on, nor raised her eyes from the page before her till the
strain was ended. Then she looked up and perceived Lady Stephenson, who
had noiselessly crept round to ascertain whom the gifted minstrel might
be, immediately opposite, and looking at her with a most gratifying
expression of surprise and pleasure. A very cordial greeting and shaking
of hands followed; while Lady Elizabeth, her hand resting on her new
favourite's shoulder, said almost in a whisper,--

"Who would have thought, Emily, that I should come at last to take
lessons from you as to the selection of my natural curiosities?... But
you have made a hit that does you immortal honour ... this little
singing bird is worth all the monsters I ever got together.... Your
ladyship need not look so grave, however," she added in a voice still
lower. "I do not intend to treat her as if she were stolen from the
Zoological Gardens.... She is to come to me to-morrow morning, and then
we shall know all about her.... I wish your fastidious brother were
here!... Do you remember what he said the other day about some miss he
had heard at Clifton? I fancy we might have a chance of correcting his
outrageous judgment concerning her.... What think you?"

Lady Stephenson answered by expressing the most cordial admiration of
Agnes's voice, but added.... "There are many people coming in now, dear
aunt.... If Miss Willoughby will have the kindness to come to us
to-morrow, we shall enjoy hearing her much more than we can now, ... and
I think she would like it better too."

Agnes gave her a very grateful look, and whispering an earnest "Thank
you!" as she passed, glided back to the place she had left beside her
aunt.

"Upon my word, Miss Agnes, your are improving fast in impudence," said
Mrs. Barnaby in her ear.... "I desire, if you please, that next time you
will wait till I bid you sing."

Agnes did not reply. Nothing that it was in the power of her aunt to say
could in that happy moment have caused her the slightest serious
uneasiness. She was blessed beyond the reach of scolding, which was the
more fortunate, as the widow had seldom been in a more irritable mood.
Quarter after quarter had heavily struck upon her ear from the
time-piece on the marble slab behind her; eleven o'clock (the hour at
which her carriage was ordered) approached with fearful strides, and
yet Lord Mucklebury came not.... Had her toilet upon this occasion been
less fearfully expensive she could have endured it better; but that all
the charms a milliner could give should have been freely ventured on,
and HE not see it, was hard to bear.

It is true that, with the dogged firmness of a resolute purpose, Mrs.
Barnaby scorned to shrink or tremble as she played her desperate game;
nevertheless she knew that selling out stock three times within a
fortnight _was_ a strong measure; and anything that seemed to check her
approach to the goal she felt so sure of reaching, did produce a
disagreeable sort of spasm about her heart. There was no help for it,
however; go she must, as nearly all the rest of the company had gone
before her, with nothing to console her but an indifferently civil nod
from Lady Elizabeth, and the surprise, less agreeable perhaps than
startling, of seeing her dependant niece parted with in a manner that
shewed she was considered of infinitely greater importance than herself,
notwithstanding her carriage, her tall footman, and her magnificent
attire.

Miss Morrison was accommodated with a seat in the carriage she had so
actively exerted herself to procure, and the first words spoken after
they drove off were hers.

"_Nest paw que jay raisong?..._ Did I not say so, Mrs. Barnaby?... Did I
not tell you, my dear madam, that you need do nothing but make this
young lady sing in order to become the fashion at Cheltenham?... You
have no idea what a number of visits you will have to-morrow.... _Noo
verong._"

"Really, Miss Morrison," replied the widow tartly, "I am surprised to
hear a person of your good sense speak so foolishly.... How can you
suppose that a person in my station of life could desire the visits of
such a set of people as we met to-night?... And as to making this poor
penniless girl talked of as a singer, I should be ashamed to think of
such a thing. Remember, miss, if you please, that from this time forward
I never will permit you to sing again, ... unless, indeed, you mean to
get your bread by it, ... and I'm sure I won't undertake to say but what
you may want it.... I can answer for nobody but myself; and I don't
think it probable that others may be inclined to shew the same devoted
generosity that I have done to a girl that never shewed the slightest
affection for me in return."

And so she ran on till she fell asleep ... but her words fell like rain
on a water-proof umbrella; they made a noise, but they could not reach
the head which they seemed destined to deluge. Agnes was wrapped in
armour of proof, and nothing could do her harm.

Happily for her, one of the facetious Lord Mucklebury's modes of
extracting amusement from the widow was by writing her notes, which
elicited answers that often threw him into a perfect ecstasy, and which
he carefully preserved in an envelope endorsed "Barnaby Papers," lodging
them in a corner of his writing-desk, from whence they were not
unfrequently drawn for the delectation of his particular friends. One of
these notes, intended to produce an answer that should add a gem to his
collection, was delivered to Mrs. Barnaby as she passed from the
breakfast-table of the boarding-house to her own sitting-room. The
emotions produced by these notes were always very powerful, and on the
present occasion more so than ordinary, for there were apologies for not
appearing last night, and hopes for an interview that morning, which
were to be answered instantly, for the servant waited.

Mrs. Barnaby, panting with haste and gladness, seated herself at her
table, opened her writing-desk, seized a pen, and was in the very act of
venturing the words "My dear Lord," when Agnes drew near, and said, "May
I go out, aunt, to call on Lady Elizabeth?"

"Gracious Heaven!... what a moment to torment me! Go!... go where you
will ... plague of my life as you are! Get along at once, can't you?"

Agnes vanished,--a Barnaby paper was written; and while the niece was
enjoying three hours of the most flattering and delightful intercourse
with the nearest relations of Colonel Hubert, the aunt, with a degree of
felicity hardly less perfect, was receiving a _tete-a-tete_ visit from
Lord Mucklebury, in which he as carefully studied her looks, attitudes,
and words, as if their effect on him were all she believed them to be.
Nor did either interview pass without producing some important results.
His lordship carried away with him wherewithal to keep half-a-dozen of
his friends who dined with him on that day in a continued roar for
nearly an hour.... Mrs. Barnaby was left with a sweet assurance that all
was going well, which led to the purchase of a richly-laced mantelet and
a new bonnet ... while Agnes, inspired by so strong a wish to please as
to make her follow the lead of her new friends, and converse with them
of all her little history just as they wished to make her, created in
them both an interest too strong to be ever forgotten, and she left them
with a confidence in their kindness that made her endure much subsequent
suffering with firmness; for it was long ere she wholly lost the hope
that they might meet again in future years.

During the next fortnight this agreeable intercourse was very frequently
repeated; for there were few hours of the day in which Mrs. Barnaby was
not in some way or other so occupied by the sentiment that engrossed
her, either by the presence of its object, or the anticipation of his
presence, or meditation upon it when it was passed, that she was well
pleased to have Agnes out of the way; and Lady Elizabeth and her
charming niece were, on the contrary, so well pleased to have her, that
scarcely a day passed without some hours of it being devoted to them.

Lady Stephenson in particular seemed to study her character with
peculiar attention. There was a fond devotion in the gratitude which
their kindness had produced that could not be mistaken, and which, from
one so artless and so every way interesting, could not fail of producing
affection in return. From such a friend it was impossible for Agnes to
conceal, even if she had wished it, that her home was a very wretched
one; and they often conversed together on the possibility of her
releasing herself from it by endeavouring to obtain some sort of
independence by her own exertions. Lady Elizabeth was repeatedly a party
in these consultations, but uniformly gave it as her opinion that any
home was better for such a girl as Agnes, than an attempt to support
herself, which must inevitably expose her to a degree of observation
more dangerous than any annoyance from her aunt Barnaby. Agnes by no
means clearly understood the grounds upon which this sturdy opposition
to her wishes was founded; and as Lady Stephenson, who seemed more able
to sympathise with her actual sufferings, listened without venturing to
answer these mysterious threatenings of something remote, she at length
took courage herself and said, ...

"Will you tell me, dear Lady Elizabeth, what it is you think would
happen to me if I went into a family as a governess?"

"You are a little fool, Agnes," replied the old lady, unable to repress
a smile; "but as I do really believe that your ignorance is genuine, I
will tell you.... Don't be frightened, my poor child; but the fact is,
that you are a great deal too handsome for any such situation."

Agnes blushed instantly a most celestial rosy red, and felt shocked and
ashamed at having drawn forth such an answer; but, though she said
nothing in reply, she at once decided that Lady Elizabeth Norris should
never have reason to believe that she was capable of neglecting her
friendly caution. All hopes from her power of teaching ended for ever,
and the next time her aunt Barnaby was particularly cross (which
happened that night while they were undressing to go to bed) Agnes very
seriously began to revolve in her altered mind the possibility of
learning so late in life the profitable mystery of satin-stitch.

Once, and once only, during the many hours Agnes passed with his
relations, did she venture to pronounce the name of Colonel Hubert. She
had often determined to do it, but had never found courage and
opportunity till one morning, after an hour or two passed in singing
duets with his sister, Lady Elizabeth again alluded to the _Clifton
miss_ that her nephew had so vaunted, and whose voice must, she was
sure, be so immeasurably inferior to that of Miss Willoughby.

It was under cover of this observation that Agnes ventured to say, ...
"I knew Colonel Hubert a little when I was at Clifton."

"Did you?"... said the old lady briskly; "then I'll bet my life he heard
you sing."

"Once or twice he did."

"Oh! hah!... that explains it all.... You need not blush so about it,
my dear; why did you not tell me so at once?"

"I do not think it is quite certain," returned Agnes, attempting to
smile, "that Colonel Hubert spoke of me."

"Don't you, my dear ... but I do, and I know him best, I suppose.... And
what was it you sang to him, Agnes?"

Agnes mentioned the songs; but her voice trembled so, that she
grievously repented having brought on herself questions that she found
it so difficult to answer.

Her embarrassment was not greatly relieved by perceiving,--when at
length she looked up to save herself from the awkwardness of
pertinaciously looking down,--that the eyes of Lady Stephenson were
earnestly fixed upon her.

"Did you ever see Frederick Stephenson with my brother?" said her
ladyship; "they were at Clifton together this summer.... Perhaps you
don't know that I was married there, Agnes?... and Sir Edward and I left
our two brothers there together."

This change of subject was a considerable relief; and Agnes answered
with tolerable composure,--"Oh yes!... I did know you were married
there, for I heard it mentioned several times; ... and I saw you too,
Lady Stephenson, the evening before you were married, walking up and
down Gloucester Row with ... with your brother."

"Did you indeed?--Were you walking there, Agnes?"

"No ... we were at the drawing-room window, and my aunt made me look out
to see your brother."

"Why particularly to see my brother?" inquired Lady Stephenson with a
smile.

"Because ... because he was so tall, I believe," replied Agnes, looking
considerably more silly than she had ever done in her life.

"And so you watched us walking up and down, did you, Agnes?"

"Yes, once or twice," answered Agnes, again blushing violently.

"And did you hear what we said, my dear?"

"No!... but I am sure it was something very interesting, you seemed to
be talking so earnestly."

"It was very interesting ... it was about Frederick.... You knew him
too, did not you?"

"Oh yes!... very well."

"Really!... I wonder you never told me so before."

It was impossible to look at Agnes at this moment, as Lady Stephenson
now looked at her, without perceiving that there must be some cause for
the agitation she evinced. It immediately occurred to her that it was
likely enough Frederick might have laid his heart at her feet, or
perhaps stopped short before he did so from the effect of that very
conversation of which Agnes had been an eye, though not an ear, witness.

"Poor little thing!"... thought Lady Stephenson; "if this be so, and if
she has given her young heart in return, how greatly is she to be
pitied!"

No sooner had this idea struck her, which many trifling circumstances
tended to confirm, than Lady Stephenson determined to drop the subject
for ever; and much as Agnes secretly but tremblingly wished it, no
allusion was ever made to the two gentlemen again.

       *       *       *       *       *

Days and weeks rolled on till the time fixed by Lord Mucklebury for his
departure arrived. His collection of the Barnaby papers was quite as
copious as he wished it to be; and having indulged himself and his
friends with as many good stories as any one lady could be the heroine
of, without being fatiguing, he parted with the widow on Saturday
evening, assuring her, with a thousand expressions of passionate
admiration, that he should be early on the walks to look for her on the
morrow, and by noon on Sunday was on his road to London behind four
gallopping post-horses.

During the whole of that fatal Sunday Mrs. Barnaby roamed through all
the public walks of Cheltenham with the disconsolate air of a pigeon
whose mate has been shot.... She was sad, cross, tender, and angry by
turns; but never for a moment during that long dismal day did she ever
once conceive the terrible idea that her intended mate was flown for
ever. Nay, even on the morrow, when in answer to an inquiry at the
reading-room, of whether Lord Mucklebury had been there that morning,
the man replied,--"I believe his lordship has left the town,
ma'am!"--not even then did her mind receive the terrible truth.

It was from the hand of her friend Miss Morrison that the blow came at
last.... That lady on Wednesday evening entered her room, bringing a
London newspaper with her; she was much irritated.

"_Mong Dew_, Mrs. Barnaby!" she cried, "look here."

The widow seized the paper with a trembling hand, and before she fainted
read as follows:--

"Lord Viscount Mucklebury arrived this morning at Mivart's Hotel from
Cheltenham. It is rumoured that his lordship is about to depart in a few
days for the Continent, in order to pass the winter at Rome, but rather
with the intention of kissing the hands of the beautiful Lady M----
S---- than the toe of his holiness."


END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Widow Barnaby, by Frances Trollope

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