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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. III.

    LONDON:
    RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.

    1839.

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




THE WIDOW BARNABY.




CHAPTER I.

MRS. BARNABY LOSES HER SENSES, AND RECOVERS THEM.--SHE TAKES A DESPERATE
RESOLUTION.--MISS MORRISON PROVES HERSELF A FRIEND IN NEED.--AGNES FINDS
CONSOLATION IN SORROW.


Mrs. Barnaby's horror on recovering her senses (for she really did fall
into a swoon) was in very just proportion to the extent of the outlay
her noble vision had cost her. To Miss Morrison, who had listened to all
her hopes, she scrupled not to manifest her despair, not, however,
entering into the financial part of it, but leaving it to be understood
by her sympathizing friend, that her agony proceeded wholly from
disappointed love.

"What a Lovelace!... what a Lothario!... what a finished deceiver!...
_Keloreur!..._" exclaimed the pitying spinster.... "And how thankful
ought I to be that no man can ever again cause me such terrible
emotion.... _Nong jammy!_"

"Gracious Heaven! what is to become of me?" cried Mrs. Barnaby,
apparently but little consoled by this assurance of her friend's
exemption from a similar misfortune; "what ought I to do, Miss
Morrison?... If I set off instantly for London, do you think I could
reach it before he leaves it for Rome?"

Miss Morrison, having turned to the newspaper, examined its date, and
read the fatal paragraph again, replied, "You certainly could, my dear
Mrs. Barnaby, if this statement be correct; but I would not do it, if I
were you, without thinking very seriously about it.... It is true I
never had a lord for a lover myself, but I believe when they run
restive, they are exceedingly difficult to hold; and if you do go after
him, and fail at last to touch his cruel heart, you will be only worse
off than you are now.... _Say clare._"

"That may be all very true in one sense, Miss Morrison," replied the
unhappy widow; "but there is such a thing as pursuing a man lawfully for
breach of promise of marriage, and ... though money is no object to
me ... I should glory in getting damages from him, if only to prove to
the world that he is a scoundrel!"

"That is quite another thing, indeed," said the confidant, "_toot a
fay_; and, if you mean to bring an action against him, I am pretty sure
that I could be very useful to you; for my brother is an attorney in
London, and is reckoned particularly clever about everything of the
kind. But have you any proof, my dear lady?... that is what my brother
will be sure to say to you.... I know you have had lots of letters; and
if you have kept them all, it is most likely my brother may find out
something like proof.... _Eel ay see abeel!_"

"Proof?... To be sure I have proof enough, if that's all that's wanted;
and I'll go to your brother at once, Miss Morrison, for revenge I'll
have ... if nothing else."

"Then of course you'll take all his love letters with you, Mrs.
Barnaby; and I think, if you would let me look over them, I should be
able to tell you whether they would answer the purpose or not.--_Jay me
coney ung pew._"

"I should have no objection in the world to your seeing them every one,"
replied the outraged lady; ... "but I am thinking, Miss Morrison, that I
have an immense deal of business to do, and that I shall never get
through it without your friendly help ... I am thinking...."

And Mrs. Barnaby was thinking, and very much to the purpose too. She was
thinking, that though she had squandered about seventy or eighty pounds
in trifling purchases, by far the greater part of the expenses her noble
lover had induced her to run into, were still in the shape of debts, the
money with which she proposed to discharge them being as yet paying her
interest in the funds. Could she contrive to leave the heaviest of these
debts unpaid till she knew the result of her intended attack upon Lord
Mucklebury's purse, it would be very convenient. Perhaps some vague
notion that she, too, might visit the continent, and thus escape the
necessity of paying them at all, might mix itself with her meditations;
but at any rate she very speedily decided upon leaving Cheltenham the
following day without mentioning her intention to her milliner, mercer,
tailor, shoemaker, hosier, perfumer, livery-stable keeper, librarian, or
even to her hair-dresser. If she got damages, she should certainly
return and pay them all with great _eclat_; if not ... circumstances
must decide what it would be most advisable for her to do.

Great as was her esteem and affection for Miss Morrison, she did not
think it necessary to trouble her with all these trifling details, but
resumed the conversation by saying,--

"Yes, my dear Miss Morrison, I am thinking that the best thing I can do
will be to go to London for a day or two, see your brother, put all my
documents into his hands, and then return to Cheltenham for the
remainder of the season, for I am sure I should be more likely to
recover my spirits in your friendly society than anywhere else."

"Indeed I approve your resolution altogether," replied Miss Morrison;
"and I will write a line by you to my brother, telling him that whatever
he does to assist you, I shall take as a personal favour to myself."

"I cannot thank you enough!" said the widow, pressing her hand.... "We
shall be able to get everything ready to-night I hope; and when my
coachman comes as usual for orders at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning,
tell him, my dear friend, to drive you about wherever you like to go....
And you may mention, if you please, that I shall want him to take us a
long drive on Saturday to see the Roman Pavement.... I mean to return on
Friday night ... for what will be the use, you know, of my staying in
town?"

"None in the world ... but I think you had better name Monday for the
drive ... for fear you should be too tired on Saturday."

"Well, just as you please about that ... but you had better go and write
your letter, and I'll speak to Agnes and my maid about packing."

"Perhaps you will not like to take Miss Willoughby.... I will take the
greatest care of her, if you will leave her in my charge."

"How _very_ kind!... But I would rather take her.... I can't do without
somebody to lace my stays and fasten my dress, and I want my maid to
finish the work she is about.... She is an exquisite darner, and I have
set her to mend the rent that hateful Lord Mucklebury made in my India
muslin.... So I don't mean to take her."

       *       *       *       *       *

Nothing of any kind occurred to interfere with the execution of this
hastily, but by no means unskilfully, imagined plan. The ready-money
expenditure of Mrs. Barnaby had been so lavish, that she had bought
golden opinions from master, mistress, men, and maids throughout the
establishment; and when she summoned Mr. ----, the landlord, to her
presence, and informed him that she was going to London for a couple of
days on business, but should not give up her rooms, as she should take
neither of her servants with her, he received the communication with
great satisfaction, and promised that no one but her own people should
enter her drawing-room till her return.

This preliminary business happily settled, Mrs. Barnaby mounted the
stairs to her bed-room, where, as usual, she found Agnes busily occupied
in her corner, the hour for an evening engagement made with Lady
Stephenson not having yet arrived.

For some reason or other Mrs. Barnaby never enjoyed any flirtation so
much in the presence of Agnes as without her; and it was for this reason
that at Cheltenham, as well as at Clifton, she had encouraged her making
acquaintance for herself; thus her constant intercourse with Lady
Elizabeth Norris and Lady Stephenson had never in any degree been
impeded by her aunt.

Mrs. Barnaby was aware that Agnes had engaged to pass this evening with
them; and when she looked at her tranquil face as she entered the room
she felt greatly disposed to plague her by saying that she must stay at
home to pack, and could not go.... But a moment's reflection suggested
to her that the less fuss she made about this packing the better, and
therefore only told her that she was obliged to set off by seven o'clock
the next morning for London, on business that would detain her for a day
or two ... that she meant to take her, and leave her maid; and that
before she set off upon her gossiping visit, it would be necessary to
pack her trunk.

Agnes laid down her book, and looked surprised.

"Don't stare so like a fool, Agnes.... Do what I bid you instantly."

"There will be no occasion for me to pack much, aunt, if we are only to
stay a day or two," said Agnes.

"When I tell you to pack your trunk, miss, I mean that your trunk shall
be packed, and I won't trouble you to give me any opinion on the
subject."

"Am I to put everything into it, aunt?"

"Plague of my life, yes!" replied Mrs. Barnaby, whose vexed spirit
seemed to find relief in speaking harshly.

Without further remonstrance Agnes set about obeying her; and the little
all that formed her mourning wardrobe was quickly transferred from the
two drawers allowed her to the identical trunk which aunt Betsy had
provided for her first journey from Silverton to Empton.

"And my books, aunt?..." said Agnes, fixing her eyes on the heated
countenance of the widow with some anxiety.

Mrs. Barnaby hesitated, and Agnes saw she did. It was not because the
little library of her niece formed the chief happiness of her life that
she scrupled at bidding her leave them behind, but because she suspected
that they, and their elegant little case, were of some marketable
value.... "You may take them if you will," she said at length.... "I
don't care a straw what you take, or what you leave ... only don't
plague me.... You must know, I suppose, if you are not quite an idiot,
that when people go to London on business, it is possible they may stay
longer than they expect."

Agnes asked no more questions, but quietly packed up everything that
belonged to her; and when the work, no very long one, was completed, she
said,--

"Can I be of any use to you, aunt, before I go out?"

"I should like to know what use you are ever likely to be of to
anybody," ... was the reply. "Take yourself off, in God's name!--the
sooner the better."

The very simple toilet of Agnes was soon arranged; and having left
everything in perfect order for departure, she uttered a civil but
unanswered "Good-b'ye, aunt," and went away.

It so chanced that a little volume of poems, lent to her by Lady
Stephenson, had been left in the drawing-room, and Agnes, wishing to
return it before leaving Cheltenham, entered the room to look for it. As
a good many circulating-library volumes were lying about, it was some
minutes before she found it; and just as she had succeeded, and was
leaving the apartment, Miss Morrison appeared at the door. She had a
letter in her hand, and a bustling, busy look and manner, which led
Agnes to suppose that she had something of consequence to say to her
aunt.

"Shall I run up stairs and desire my aunt to come to you, Miss
Morrison?" said she.

"No, thank you, my dear ... you are very kind, but I think I had better
go up to her; I only stepped in first to see if she was here.... She is
very busy packing, I suppose, and perhaps I can help her."

"Then you know, Miss Morrison, that she is going to London to-morrow?"
said Agnes.

"Oh! dear, yes: I believe it was I put it into her head first, ... and
this is the letter she is to take to my brother. I am sure I hope she'll
succeed with all my heart; and I should like to hear that Lord
Mucklebury had ten thousand pounds to pay her for damages."

"Damages!" repeated Agnes; "what for?"

"What for, my dear child?.... Why, for having used her so abominably
ill, to be sure ... there is nobody that saw them together as I did,
but must have supposed he intended to marry her."

"And if he has used her ill, Miss Morrison," said Agnes, looking greatly
alarmed, "will it not be exposing herself still more if she goes to law
about it? Indeed, Miss Morrison, you should not advise her to do
anything so very wrong and disagreeable."

"Don't blame me, my dear, I beg of you ... the idea was quite her own
_toot a fay_, I assure you, and all I have done to further it was just
writing this letter to my brother for her. He is a very clever lawyer,
and I'm sure she could not do better."

"It would be much better, Miss Morrison, if she did not do anything,"
said Agnes, while tears started to her eyes at the idea of this fresh
exposure.

"I don't think, my dear Miss Agnes, that you can be much of a judge,"
retorted the adviser. "However, as you do choose to give an opinion upon
the subject, and seem to be so very much afraid that she should expose
herself, I must just tell you that you owe it to me if she does not go
galloping after Lord Mucklebury all the way to Rome.... She had the
greatest possible inclination to do so, I assure you.... However, I
think that I have put it out of her head by talking to her of
damages.... But you are going down stairs, and I am going up ... so,
good-bye.... Don't frighten yourself more than is needful; it is as
likely as not that you will never be called into court.... _O revor!_"

Agnes, sick at heart, and trembling for the future, repaired to the
house of Lady Elizabeth. Lady Stephenson was at the pianoforte, and the
old lady reading near a window; but as soon as her young guest was
announced, she closed her volume, and said, "You are late, little
girl ... we have been expecting you this hour, and this is the last
evening we shall have quietly to ourselves; for Colonel Hubert writes us
word that he is coming to-morrow, and he is a much more stay-at-home
person than Sir Edward."

Colonel Hubert coming to Cheltenham the very day she was to leave it!...
These were not tidings to cheer her spirits, already agitated and
depressed, and when she attempted to speak, she burst into tears. Lady
Stephenson was at her side in a moment. "Agnes!..." she said, "what
ails you?... You are as white as a ghost.... Had you heard any agitating
news before you came here?"

Struck by the accent with which this was spoken, and perceiving in a
moment that Lady Stephenson thought the mention of Colonel Hubert's
arrival had caused her emotion, she hastened to reply, and did so
perhaps with more frankness than she might have shewn had she not been
particularly anxious to prove that there were other and very sufficient
reasons for her discomposure.

"News most painful and most sad to me, Lady Stephenson," she said.... "I
believe you have heard my aunt Barnaby's foolish flirtation with Lord
Mucklebury spoken of.... Lady Elizabeth was laughing about it the other
day."

"And who was not, my dear?... The saucy Viscount has made her, they say,
the subject of a ballad.... But is it for this you weep?... Or is it
because he is gone away, and that there's an end of it?"

"Alas! Lady Elizabeth, there is not an end of it, and it is for that I
weep ... though indeed I ought to beg your pardon for bringing such
useless sorrow here; ... but I find that my aunt fancies she has a claim
upon him--a legal claim, and that she is going to London to-morrow to
bring an action against him."

"Is it possible?" exclaimed the old lady, looking at poor Agnes with
very genuine compassion.... "God knows you may well weep, my poor
child.... I shall begin to think I gave but sorry advice, Agnes, when I
told you to stay with her. It may, after all, be better to run some risk
in leaving her, than brave certain disgrace and ridicule by remaining to
reside in her family."

"Is she going to take you to town with her, Agnes?" inquired Lady
Stephenson with a look of deep concern.

"Yes, Lady Stephenson, I am to go with her."

There was a very painful silence of a minute or two. Both the admiring
friends of Agnes would have done much to save her from being a sharer in
such an enterprize; but to interfere with the indisputable authority of
such a woman as Mrs. Barnaby in her arrangements concerning a niece, who
had no dependence but on her, was out of the question, and the
conviction that it was so kept them silent.

"How did you hear this strange story, my dear?" said Lady Elizabeth....
"Did your aunt explain to you her ridiculous purpose herself?"

"No, Lady Elizabeth ... she only bade me prepare my trunk for going to
London with her.... It was Miss Morrison, whom I met by chance as I came
out, who told me the object of the journey; ... and dreadful as this
going to law would be, it is not the worst thing I fear."

"What worse can there be, Agnes?" said Lady Stephenson.

"I am almost ashamed to tell you of such fears, ... but when I uttered
something like a reproach to Miss Morrison for having advised this
journey, and writing a letter about it to her brother, who is a lawyer
in London, she told me that I ought to be grateful to her for preventing
my aunt's following Lord Mucklebury all the way to Rome, for that such
was her first intention ... and" ... continued Agnes, bursting anew into
tears, "I greatly, greatly suspect that she has not given up this
intention yet."

The two ladies exchanged glances of pity and dismay, and Lady Elizabeth,
making her a sign to come close to her, took her kindly by the hand,
saying, in accents much more gentle than she usually bestowed on any
one, "My poor, dear girl, what makes you think this? Tell me, Agnes,
tell me all they have said to you."

Agnes knelt down on the old lady's foot-stool, and gently kissing the
venerable hand which held hers, said, "It is very, _very_ kind of you to
let me tell you all, ... and your judgment will be more to be trusted
than mine as to what it may mean; but my reason for thinking that my
aunt is going to do more than she confesses to Miss Morrison is, that
she has publicly declared her intended absence will be only for two
days; and yet, though she told me this too, she ordered me to pack up
everything I had, ... even the little collection of books I told you of,
Lady Stephenson, ... and, moreover, instead of letting her maid put up
her things, I left her doing it herself, and saw her before I came away
putting a vast variety of her most valuable things in a great travelling
trunk that she could never think of taking, if it were really her
intention to stay in London only two days, and then return to
Cheltenham."

"Very suspicious ... very much so indeed," said the old lady; "and all I
can say to you in reply, my poor child, is this. _You must not go abroad
with her!_ I am not rich enough to charge myself with providing for you,
nor must your friend Emily here frighten her new husband by talking of
taking possession of you, Agnes, ... but ... you must not go abroad with
that woman. Governess you must be, I suppose, if things go on in this
way; and instead of opposing it, I will try if I cannot find a
situation in which you may at least be safer than with this aunt
Barnaby. Whatever happens, you must let us hear from you; and remember,
the moment you discover that she really proposes to take you abroad, you
are to put yourself into a Cheltenham coach, and come directly to me."

What words were these for Agnes to listen to!... Colonel Hubert was to
take up his residence in that house on the morrow; and she was now told
in a voice of positive command, that if what she fully expected would
happen, did happen, she was at once to seek a shelter there! She dared
not trust her voice to say, "I thank you," but she ventured to raise her
eyes to the hard-featured but benignant countenance that bent over her,
and the kiss she received on her forehead proved that though her silence
might not be fully understood, her gratitude was not doubted.

The evening was not, like many others recently passed there, so happy,
that Mrs. Barnaby's footman often came to escort her home before she
thought the time for parting could be half arrived. They had no music,
no scraps of poetry in Italian or in English, as touch-stones of taste
and instruction, with which Lady Stephenson loved to test the powers of
her young favourite; but the conversation rested almost wholly upon the
gloomy and uncertain future. At length the moment came in which she was
to bid these valued friends adieu; they embraced and blessed her with
tenderness, nay, even with tears; but little did they guess the tumult
that swelled the breast of Agnes. It was Hubert's sister to whom she
clung ... it was Hubert's aunt--almost his mother--who hung over her,
looking as if she were her mother too!... and on the morrow he would be
with them, and he would hear her named; for notwithstanding their
unmeasured superiority to her in all ways, they could not forget her so
soon, ... he would hear of her sorrows, of the dangers that surrounded
her; and he would hear too, perhaps, of the shelter offered her in the
very house he dwelt in.

All these thoughts were busy in her head as she uttered the last
farewell, and turned again in passing through the door to look once
more on those who would so soon be looked at by him.

There was certainly a strange pleasure mixed with all this sadness, for
though she wept through half the night, she would not have exchanged the
consciousness of having been brought nearer to him, even by the act of
having mingled tears in parting with his nearest relations, for all the
enjoyment that a tranquil spirit and a calm night's rest could offer in
exchange for it.




CHAPTER II.

MRS. BARNABY EFFECTS HER RETREAT FROM CHELTENHAM.--SHE CARRIES WITH HER
A LETTER.--ITS EFFECT.--AN AMIABLE ATTORNEY.--SPECIMENS OF A NOBLE STYLE
OF LETTER-WRITING.--CONSOLATION.


Though the baggage of Mrs. Barnaby was strangely disproportionate to the
period she had named for her absence, it seemed not to excite suspicion,
which might, perhaps, be owing to the well known splendour of her
elaborate toilet, which she not unfrequently changed four times in a
day, requiring--as all who thought on the subject must be aware--an
extent of travelling equipment much exceeding the portion assigned to
ordinary ladies.

So she passed forth unchallenged, and unchallenged saw her treasures
deposited on roof and in rumble-tumble till all were stowed away; and
then, having affectionately squeezed the hand of Miss Morrison, who
accompanied her to the stage, she climbed into it, followed by the pale
and melancholy Agnes.

Our widow was now beginning to be an experienced traveller, and her
first care on reaching London was to secure rooms in a private
lodging-house. Notwithstanding the noble visions with which she had
recreated her fancy during the last month, she now with great good sense
sent them all to the moon, knowing she could easily call them back again
if all went well with her; but determined that they should in no way
interfere with her enjoyment of the more substantial goods that were
still within her reach; so, she commissioned the maid of the house to
procure her three dozen of oysters and a pot of porter, with which,
while Agnes wept herself to sleep, she repaid herself for her day's
fatigue, and wisely laid in a stock of strength for the morrow.

Her first object, of course, was to hold communication with the brother
of her friend, "Magnus Morrison, Esq. attorney-at-law, Red Lion
Square." Such was the address the letter entrusted to her bore; and at
breakfast the following morning she sat gazing at it for some minutes
before she could decide whether it would be better to convey it herself,
or prepare the lawyer to receive her by letting it precede her for a few
hours. She finally decided to send it before her;--the wisdom of which
determination will be evident upon the perusal of the letter, such an
introduction being well calculated to ensure all the zealous attention
she desired.

Miss Morrison's letter ran thus:--

     "MY DEAR BROTHER,

     "I never fail, as you well know, to catch all the fish for your
     net that comes in my way ... _crowyee sellaw too jure_ ... and
     I now send you a client whom I have little doubt you will find
     answer in every way. She is a most charming woman, and my most
     particular friend.... I don't know a more charming person
     anywhere, not even in my dear Paris, ... so rich, so free in
     all her expenses, so remarkably obliging, and so very handsome
     for all those who admire tall, large beauties. But you are too
     good a lawyer to listen to all this when business is in hand,
     and so I must come _o fay_. And now, Magnus, be sure to attend
     to every word. Mrs. Barnaby--this charming friend of mine--has
     for the last month been receiving the most marked and the most
     tender attentions from Lord Mucklebury. He is a viscount, my
     dear Magnus, and--observe--as rich as a Jew. This nobleman has
     given her, poor dear lady! every reason in the world to believe
     that his dearest wish, hope, and intention was to marry her;
     and she, good, tender-hearted creature! perfectly adored him,
     devoting every hour of the day to the finding out where he was
     to be seen, and the going there to see him. She had no secrets
     whatever from me the whole time, and I knew everything that was
     going on from the first moment he ever kissed her hand to the
     most tender interviews that ever passed between them. And how
     do you think it has all ended?... Oh! Magnus, it is impossible
     to deny that the male sex--lords and all--are most dreadfully
     deceitful and false-hearted. All this devoted love, going on,
     as I tell you, for a whole month, has just ended in nothing. My
     lord set off in his travelling carriage, with four horses and
     an out-rider, as we subsequently ascertained, without even
     taking any leave of the lady at all, or explaining himself the
     least bit either one way or the other. You may easily guess her
     feelings.... Her first idea, poor thing, was to follow him to
     the world's end--for there is no doubt in the world that her
     attachment was of the most sincere kind; but luckily she
     confided this romantic thought to me, and it struck me
     directly, Magnus, that the best thing in the world for her to
     do would be to put the whole affair into your hands. She has
     got quantities of his letters ... they are very little letters,
     to be sure, folded up sometimes not much bigger than a
     shilling; but still letters are letters, you know; and I can't
     but think that, with your cleverness, something might be made
     of an action for damages. Of course, it is natural to suppose
     that I am a little partial to this sort of measure, because I
     can't well have forgotten yet that the best part of my snug
     little fortune came to me in the same way, thanks to the good
     management of our dear good father, Magnus.... The dear lady
     listened to reason in a minute, and consented to put herself in
     your hands, for which reason she is going to set off for London
     to-morrow morning. She will bring all Lord Mucklebury's letters
     with her, and it will be for you to judge what use can be made
     of them;--only it is but right to mention, that there is no
     doubt in the world but that Mrs. Barnaby is quite rich enough
     to pay handsomely, whether she gains the cause or loses it.

     "I am, my dear Magnus,

     "Your affectionate sister,

     "SARAH MORRISON."

Mrs. Barnaby enclosed this letter in an envelope, in which she wrote,--

     "Mrs. Barnaby presents her compliments to Mr. Magnus Morrison,
     and will be happy to see him on the business to which the
     enclosed letter refers at any hour he will name."

     "No. 5, Half-moon Street, Piccadilly."

Having consigned her packet to the post, the widow declared to her
anxious companion that she did not mean to waste her time as long as she
remained in London; but should walk to every part of the town, and
should expect her to do the same.

"Will there not be danger of losing ourselves, aunt?" said Agnes.
"London, you know, is so much bigger than any place you ever saw."

"And what's the good of that piece of wisdom, Miss Solomon? Perhaps you
don't know that I have a tongue in my head, and that the Londoners speak
English?... Come, and put on your bonnet, if you please, and I'll
promise not to leave you in any of the gutters, but bring you safe home
again to _No. 5, Half-moon Street, Piccadilly_. There, you see, I shall
know what place to ask for. Won't that do for you?"

Agnes felt that all remonstrance would be in vain, and submitted; though
the idea of being dragged through the streets of London by her aunt
Barnaby, dressed in the identical green satin gown and pink feathers
which had first attracted Lord Mucklebury's attention, was by no means
an agreeable prospect.

The expedition, however, fatiguing and disagreeable as it proved, was
achieved without any very disastrous results. Mrs. Barnaby, indeed, was
twice very nearly knocked down by a cab, while staring too eagerly about
her when crossing the streets; and friendly as was the old black crape
veil of poor Agnes, it could not wholly save her from some tolerably
obvious efforts to find out whether the face it sheltered was worthy the
graceful symmetry of the person who wore it; ... but they nevertheless
reached their Half-moon Street without any positive injury to life or
limb.

At eight o'clock in the evening, while Mrs. Barnaby and her weary
companion were taking tea, the drawing-room door opened, and Mr. Magnus
Morrison was announced, and most cordially welcomed by the widow, who
not only saw in him the lawyer from whom she hoped to learn how to
replenish her waning finances, but also the brother of her dear Miss
Morrison, and the only acquaintance she could hope at this trying moment
to find or make in London.

But now, as heretofore, the presence of Agnes was inconvenient, which
she took care to signify by saying to the lawyer, "I am greatly indebted
to you, Mr. Morrison, for your early attention to my note; and I shall
be very glad to talk with you on the business that brings me to
London ... but not quite yet ... we really must be quite by ourselves,
for it will be necessary that I should have your whole attention. Will
you, in the mean time, permit me to offer you tea?"

Before Mr. Morrison could reply Agnes was on her feet, and asking her
aunt in a whisper if she would give her leave to go to bed. "Yes, if you
like it, my darling!..." replied Mrs. Barnaby, whose tenderness for her
niece was always awakened by the presence of strangers. "I am sure you
look tired to death.... But bring down first, my dear, my writing-desk;
and remember, my love, to take care that I have warm water when I come
up; ... and don't forget, Agnes, to put my bonnet and shawl, and all
that, nicely away ... and see that I have paper for curling my hair
ready on the dressing-table; ... and don't go to bed till you have put
out my lilac silk for to-morrow; and just put a stitch in the blonde of
my bonnet-cap, for I pulled it almost off."

All this was said by the widow in a coaxing sort of half whisper, with
an arm round her victim's waist, and a smile of the most fascinating
kindness on her own lips.

The desk was brought, and the consulting parties left alone; while
Agnes, as she performed the different tasks imposed on her, and which
her great fatigue rendered heavy, could not for an instant banish from
her mind the question that had incessantly haunted her from the hour she
left the drawing-room of Lady Elizabeth.... "Will she go abroad?...
Shall I be obliged to return to Cheltenham without her?... Shall I be
obliged to go to the house where he is living?"

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Magnus Morrison was by no means an ill-looking man, and though a
bachelor of thirty-five, had as little of quizzical peculiarity about
him as a careful attorney of that age, unpolished by a wife, can be
expected to have. Mrs. Barnaby, though a little his senior, was still,
as we know, a lady _a pretention_, and never permitted any gentleman to
approach her without making an experiment upon him with her fine eyes.
Their success in the present instance was neither so violent as in the
case of Major Allen, nor so instantaneous as in that of the
false-hearted peer; nevertheless enough was achieved to throw an
agreeable sort of extraneous interest into the business before them, and
the widow disdained not as it proceeded to decorate her narrative and
herself with such graces as none but a Mrs. Barnaby can display.

Having given her own version, and with such flourishes as her nature
loved, of Lord Mucklebury's violent passion for her, she asked her
attentive and somewhat captivated auditor what species of testimony was
required to prove a promise of marriage in such a manner as to secure
large damages, "for without being quite certain of obtaining such, you
must be aware, my dear sir, that a woman of my station, connexions, and
fortune, could not think of appearing in court."

"Assuredly not," replied Mr. Magnus Morrison fervently. "Such a measure
is never to be resorted to unless the evidence is of a nature that no
cross-examination can set aside. My sister tells me, madam, that you
have letters...."

"Yes, Mr. Morrison, I have many ... though I am sorry to say that many
more have been destroyed. (This was a figure of poetry, and of a kind
that the widow often adopted to give strength to the narrative portion
of her conversation.)

"That is greatly to be regretted, Mrs. Barnaby ... though we must hope
that among those which remain sufficient proof of this very atrocious
case will be found to answer the purposes of justice. Was there any
principle of selection in the manner in which some were preserved and
others destroyed?"

"I can hardly say," replied the lady, "that it was done on any
principle, unless the feeling can be so called which leads a woman of
delicacy to blush and shrink from preserving the effusions of a passion
so vehement as that expressed in some of the letters of Lord
Mucklebury."

"They were, then, the most ardent declarations of his attachment that
you destroyed, Mrs. Barnaby?"

"Most certainly," said the widow, throwing her eyes upon the carpet.

"It is unfortunate, very unfortunate," observed the lawyer, "though it
shews a delicacy of mind that it is impossible not to admire. Will you
give me leave, madam, to peruse such of the letters as you have
preserved?"

"Undoubtedly," replied Mrs. Barnaby, unlocking her writing-desk, "and
though I know not how to regret the existence of such feelings, Mr.
Morrison, I will not deny that, for the sake of honour and justice, I am
sorry now that what I have to shew you is so much the least explicit
part of the correspondence."

She then drew forth the packet which contained (be it spoken in
confidence) every syllable ever addressed to her by the laughter-loving
Viscount; and greatly as Mr. Magnus Morrison began to feel interested in
the case, and much as he would have liked to bring so charming a client
into court, he very soon perceived that there was nothing in these
highly-scented, but diminutive _feuilles volantes_, at all likely to
produce any effect on a jury approaching to that elicited by the
evidence of the learned and celebrated Sergeant Buzfuz on an occasion
somewhat similar. He continued to read them all, however, and they were
numerous, with the most earnest attention and unwearied industry,
permitting little or no emotion of any kind to appear on his countenance
as he proceeded, and determined to utter no word approaching to an
opinion till he had carefully perused them all. Important as Mrs.
Barnaby flattered herself these little letters might eventually prove,
and interesting as her lawyer found every word of them, the whole
collection might perhaps be considered as somewhat wearisome, full of
repetition, and even trifling, by the general reader, for which reason a
few only shall be selected as specimens, taken at hazard, and without
any attention either to their dates or the particular events which led
to them.

       *       *       *       *       *

No. 1.

     "PRIMA DONNA DEL MUNDO![1]

     "Walk you to-day?... At three be it ... at which hour my
     station will be the library.

     "M."

[Footnote 1: Lord Mucklebury had been assured, on the authority of Mrs.
Barnaby herself, that her favourite language was the Italian.]

No. 2.

     "BELLISSIMA!

     "Should I appear to-day (you may guess where) with a friend on
     my arm, let it not change the sweet demeanour of my charming
     widow. He is an excellent fellow, but one whom I always treat
     as if he were not in existence;--for in truth, being almost as
     dreadfully in love as myself, he neither sees nor hears.

     "M."


No. 3.

     "BELLA DONNA!

     "It is three days since I have received a line from the fairest
     lady in Cheltenham! Write me a whole page, I beseech you, ...
     and let it be such a one as shall console me under the
     necessity of dining and passing the whole evening with half a
     dozen he-fellows, when the champagne will but ill atone for the
     sparkling eyes whose light I shall lose by being among them.
     But if I have one of your exquisite billets in my
     waistcoat-pocket, I shall bear the loss better.

     "M."


No. 4.

     "VEDOVA MARAVIGLIOSA!

     "Should I find the Barnaby disengaged in her saloon, were my
     audacious feet to bear me across its threshold this evening?

     "M."

Such, and such like, were the manuscripts submitted by Mrs. Barnaby to
the inspection of her lawyer. When he had carefully and deliberately
gone through the whole collection, he tied them all up again with a bit
of rose-coloured ribbon, as he had found them, and pushing them back to
her across the table, said with something like a sigh,--

"It is greatly to be lamented, madam, that some of these little notes
had not been consigned to the flames instead of the letters you have
described to me, ... for my judgment decidedly is, that although every
one of these documents tends to prove the admiration of their author for
the lady to whom they are addressed, there is not one of them which can
be said to contain a positive promise of marriage, or even, I fear, any
implied intention of making a proposal ... so that I am afraid we should
not get a verdict against my Lord Mucklebury on the strength of any
evidence contained therein; nevertheless, if you have witnesses to prove
that such proposal and such promise have been actually made to you by
his lordship, I think these letters might help us to make out a very
pretty case, and one which, if it did not eventually bring you a large
sum of money, would at least be exceedingly vexatious to his lordship--a
circumstance which might in some degree tend to soothe the naturally
outraged feelings of so charming a lady, so villanously treated."

Mr. Morrison said this with his eyes fixed steadily on the widow's face,
intending to ascertain what chance there might be of her wishing to
spend a few hundred pounds for the pleasure of plaguing her perfidious
deluder; but he could make out nothing from this scrutiny. Nevertheless,
the mind of Mrs. Barnaby was busily at work; so many schemes, however,
were battling together in her brain, that the not being able to discover
which preponderated, shewed no want of skill in the lawyer.

First, she had a very strong inclination for a personal interview with
Lord Mucklebury, in order to see how a little passionate grief might
affect him. Secondly, she greatly desired to profit by the present
occasion for seeing some of those London sights which country ladies
and gentlemen so love to talk about. Thirdly, she very ardently wished
to avoid the necessity of paying the debts which his lordship's base
delusions had induced her to contract at Cheltenham. Fourthly, and
lastly, the project of a journey to Rome was beginning to take a very
decided shape in her fancy; but amidst all this there remained not the
smallest wish or intention of trying to revenge her wrongs by the
assistance of the law.... She was beginning to be too well aware of the
melting nature of money in the funds, to wish that the villanous
Viscount should lead her to expend another shilling upon him.

After the silence of a few minutes, Mrs. Barnaby raised her eyes from
the ground, and fixing them with a soft, gentle, resigned smile upon Mr.
Morrison, said,--

"I thank you gratefully, Mr. Morrison, for your frank opinion, given
too in so gentleman-like a manner as to make me feel that I am indeed
rather in the hands of a friend than a lawyer; ... and in return I will
use the same frankness with you. I have loved Lord Mucklebury most
sincerely!... loved him with all the pure disinterested ardour of my
character; but the same warm heart, Mr. Morrison, which thus surrenders
itself without suspicion or restraint, is precisely of the nature most
prompt to reject and forget a being proved to be unworthy of it....
Therefore I may now truly say, that this poor bosom (pressing her two
hands upon it) suffers more from the void within it, than from tender
regret; and I am greatly inclined, since I cannot benefit by your able
services as a lawyer, to urge my friendship with your dear sister as a
claim upon your kindness as a gentleman. Will you assist to cure the
painful void I speak of by giving me your help in my endeavours to see
all that is best worth looking at in London?... I am sure it would do me
good; not to mention that it might give pleasure to the dear child whom
you saw with me when you entered. She is quite my idol, and I should
delight in procuring her an amusement which I know she would so
particularly enjoy."

Mr. Morrison, who was a shrewd, quick-sighted man, thought there was
considerable food for speculation in this speech, and, had leisure
served him, he might have reasoned upon it in a spirit not much unlike
that of Benedict.... "Will you assist to cure the painful void?...
which is as much as to say..." and so on.... He waited not, however, to
give this all the attention it merited, but remembering clearly his
sister's statement respecting the widow's fortune, replied with most
obliging readiness,--

"There is nothing, my dear madam, that I would not joyfully do to prove
my wish of serving a lady so highly esteemed by my sister; and one also,
permit me to add, so deserving the admiration of all the world," replied
the gallant attorney.

"Well, then, my dear sir," rejoined the widow, in accents of renewed
cheerfulness, "I throw myself entirely upon you, and shall be quite
ready to begin to-morrow to go here, there, and everywhere, exactly as
you command."

A scheme for St. Paul's and the Tower in the morning, and one of the
theatres at night, was then sketched out; and the gentleman departed, by
no means certain that this adventure might not terminate by being one of
the most important of his life.




CHAPTER III.

A BOLD MEASURE.--A TOUR DE FORCE ON THE PART OF MRS. BARNABY, AND OF
SAVOIR FAIRE ON THAT OF LORD MUCKLEBURY.--SIGHT-SEEING.--THE WIDOW
RESOLVES UPON ANOTHER JOURNEY.


Mr. Morrison, who really had a little business, though not very much,
had named two o'clock as the earliest hour at which he should be able to
come to Half-moon Street for the purpose of escorting the ladies in a
hackney-coach to the city; and it was during the hours that intervened
between her breakfast and this time, that the active-minded Mrs. Barnaby
determined upon making a private visit to Mivart's Hotel, in the hope of
seeing Lord Mucklebury.

She had quite made up her mind to the worst, as may be seen from the
projects already maturing themselves in her brain, as the consequence;
nevertheless she thought it was just possible that his lordship might
be unable to resist the expression of sorrow in eyes he had so
vehemently admired; and, at any rate, there was something so ... so
touching in the idea of this final interview, that she could not refuse
herself the satisfaction of making the experiment.

Telling Agnes that she had a little shopping to do before their
sight-seeing began, and that she would not take her, for fear she should
be as stupidly fatigued as on the night before, she mounted to her
bed-room, adorned herself in the most becoming costume she could devise,
and with somewhat less rouge than usual, that the traitor might see how
sorrow worked, set forth on her expedition.

Having reached Piccadilly, she called a coach, and in a few minutes was
safely deposited before Mivart's door.

"Is Lord Mucklebury here?..." she inquired in a voice of authority of
the first official she encountered.

"Yes, ma'am," was the answer. "His lordship is at breakfast."

"I must see him, if you please, directly!"

"Is it by appointment, ma'am?" questioned the discreet waiter, looking
at her keenly.... "His lordship is just going to set off, and is too
busy, I believe, to see anybody."

"He is not too busy to see me--I must see him directly!"

"Is it an appointment?" repeated the man, in an accent not the most
respectful.

"Yes, it is," ... replied the unblushing widow.

"Better call his own man, Joe," said another napkined functionary,
attracted by the appearance of the lady.

"You had better take this sovereign," said Mrs. Barnaby in a whisper.

Apparently the man thought this advice the best; for taking the coin
with such practised dexterity as hardly to make the action perceptible,
he gave the lady a look with his knowing eye that said, "Follow me!..."
and slid away among passages and stairs till he had marshalled her to
the door of Lord Mucklebury's apartments. Being probably somewhat
doubtful whether the office he had performed would be as gratefully
requited by the gentleman as by the lady, he waited not to open the
door, but saying, "There's his room," disappeared, leaving Mrs. Barnaby
to announce her ill-used self.

She was a little frightened, but still resolute; and, after pausing for
one moment to recover breath, threw open the door and entered.

The waiter's account was strictly true, for his lordship was at
breakfast, and his lordship was packing. _En robe de chambre_, with a
cup of coffee in one hand, and a bunch of keys in the other, he was
standing beside his valet, who knelt before a carriage-seat he was
endeavouring to close. Lord Mucklebury was facing the door, and raised
his eyes as it opened. The sight that greeted them was assuredly
unexpected, but the nerve with which he bore it did honour to his
practised philosophy.

"Mrs. Barnaby!" he exclaimed, with a smile, in which his valet seemed to
take a share, for the fellow turned his head away to conceal its effect
upon him.... "Mrs. Barnaby!... How very kind this is.... But I grieve
such obliging benevolence should be shewn at a moment when I have so
little leisure to express my gratitude.... My dear lady, I am this
instant starting for the continent."

"I know it, sir.... I know it but too well!" replied the widow,
considerably embarrassed by his easy tone.... "Permit me, however, to
speak to you for one moment before you set out."

"Assuredly!... Place yourself on this sofa, Mrs. Barnaby.... How deeply
I regret that moments so delightful.... Confound you, Rawlins, you'll
break those hinges to pieces if you force them so.... My dear lady!... I
am shocked to death; ... but, upon my soul, I have not a moment to
spare!"

"I wish to speak to you, my lord, without the presence of your servant."

"My dearest Mrs. Barnaby, you need not mind Rawlins any more than the
coffee-pot!... You have no idea what a capital fellow he is!... true as
steel ... silent as the grave.... That's it, Rawlins!... I'll set my
foot upon it while you turn the key ... here! it is this crooked one."

"Lord Mucklebury!... you must be aware," ... began the widow.

"Aware!... Good Heaven, yes!... To be sure, I am! But what can I do, my
dearest Mrs. Barnaby?... I must catch the packet, you see.... How is
dear, good Miss Morrison?... Now for the dressing-case, Rawlins!...
don't forget the soap--I've done with it!... For goodness' sake, don't
tell my excellent friend, Miss Morrison, how very untidy you have found
everything about me.... She is so very neat, you know!... I'm sure
she'd.... Mind the stoppers, Rawlins--put a bit of cotton upon each of
them!"

"Is it thus, Lord Mucklebury, that you receive one who...."

"I know what you would say, my charming friend!" interrupted his
lordship, handing her a plate of buttered toast, ... "that I am the
greatest bear in existence!... No! you will not eat with me?... But you
must excuse me, dear friend, for I have a long drive before me." And,
so saying, Lord Mucklebury seated himself at the table, replenished his
coffee-cup, broke the shell of an egg, and seriously set about eating an
excellent breakfast.

The widow was at a loss what to do or say next. Had he been rude or
angry, or even silent and sullen, or in any other mood in the world but
one of such very easy good humour, she could have managed better. But a
painful sort of conviction began to creep over her that Lord
Mucklebury's present conduct, as well as all that had passed before, was
merely the result of high-breeding and fashionable manners, and that
lords and ladies always did so to one another. If this were so, rather
than betray such rustic ignorance as to appear surprised at it, she
would have consented to live without a lover for weeks and weeks to
come; ... and the terrible idea followed, that by having ignorantly
hoped for too much she might have lost a most delightful opportunity of
forming an intimate friendship with a peer of the realm, that might have
been creditable and useful to her, either abroad or at home.

Fortunately Lord Mucklebury was really hungry, and he ate so heartily
for a minute or two, that the puzzled lady had time to settle her
purpose, and take the new tone that her ambition suggested to her, which
she did with a readiness that his lordship really admired.

"Well!... I see how it is, my lord," said she; "I come here to ask you
to do a commission for me at Rome, where the papers told me you were
going; but you are too busy and too hungry to spare a moment to an old
acquaintance."

"No! upon my soul!..." said Lord Mucklebury, throwing some of his
former homage into his eyes as he bowed to her. "There is no commission
in the world you could give me, from New York to Jerusalem, that I would
not execute with the fidelity of a western or an eastern slave. What are
your commands, bewitching Mrs. Barnaby?"

"Merely, my lord, that you would buy a set of shells for me--as nearly
like Lady Stephenson's as possible; and I dare say," she added, very
cleverly drawing out her purse, to avoid any misconception respecting
the object,--"I dare say your lordship, who has travelled so much, may
be able to tell me pretty nearly what the price will be.... About ten
pounds, I think."

And ten golden sovereigns were immediately thrown from the purse upon
the table.

Lord Mucklebury, perfectly delighted by this brilliant proof of the
versatility of her powers, gaily took her purse from her hand, and
replacing the money in it, said--

"It is not so that I execute the commissions of my fair friends, Mrs.
Barnaby.... I will note your orders in my pocket-book, thus.... 'A set
of the handsomest shells in Rome for the charming Mrs. Barnaby. See!...
I can hardly overlook it; and when I have the pleasure of presenting
them, we will settle about the price."

He replaced her purse in her hand, which he kissed with his best air of
Cheltenham gallantry; upon which she wisely rose, and saying, with
every appearance of being perfectly satisfied with her reception,
"Adieu, my lord! forgive my intrusion, and let me hope to have the
pleasure of seeing you when you return," she took her departure,
perfectly convinced that her new-born conjecture was right, and that
lords had privileges not accorded to other men.

This persuasion, however, as well as the interview which gave rise to
it, she determined to keep to her own breast; not sorry, perhaps, that
some of her friends might go to their graves with the persuasion that,
though deserted by him, she once had a nobleman for her lover, and
vastly well satisfied with herself for having found out her plebeian
blunder in time to prevent the loss of so very valuable a friend as she
still thought Lord Mucklebury might be.

She returned in good time to rest and refresh herself with a draught of
her favourite beverage (porter) before Mr. Morrison arrived.

If she had thought this gentleman worthy of some little _agaceries_
before her definitive interview with her noble friend, she certainly
did not think him less so afterwards, and the morning and the evening
passed away with great appearance of enjoyment to both the gentleman and
lady. Mrs. Barnaby began to think, as upon former occasions of the same
kind, that it would be vastly more agreeable if Agnes were not of the
party.

The same idea had occurred to the suffering girl herself more than once
in the course of the day. Whether her own wish was father to the
thought, or that her aunt had purposely permitted her feelings to be
seen, it matters not to inquire; but when, on the following morning,
Agnes complained of head-ache, and expressed a timid wish to be left at
home, Mrs. Barnaby, without hesitation, replied,--

"I think you are right, Agnes.... You have no strength for that sort of
thing ... so it is very lucky you brought your books, and you may unpack
them, if you will, and set to work."

This release was hailed with thankfulness.... Lady Stephenson and Miss
Peters were both written to during the leisure it afforded, and though
she could give no very satisfactory intelligence to either, there was a
pleasure in writing to them that no other occupation could give her.

After this time several days elapsed, during which Mrs. Barnaby was
scarcely at home at all, except for the purpose of eating her dinner,
which meal Mr. Morrison regularly partook with them.

More than a week passed in this manner; Mrs. Barnaby becoming every day
more convinced that, although every sensible woman ought to marry a
lord, if she can get one, yet, nevertheless, that an active,
intelligent, obliging friend, full of admiration, and obedient to
command, was an excellent substitute for everything else during an
interregnum between the more violent attachments by which the career of
all distinguished women must necessarily be marked. And Mr. Morrison, as
he on his side remarked how freely the lady hired her flies and her
hackney chariots,--how little she thought of the price of tickets for
plays, operas, and that realization of all her dreams of elegant
festivity, Vauxhall,--how liberally wine and even brandy flowed at the
savoury little dinners in her drawing-room,--as he remarked on all this,
he could not but reason with himself on the greatly superior felicity of
being the husband of such a lady, and living without any trouble at all
upon her fortune, to the remaining a bachelor in Red Lion Square, under
the necessity of working whenever work could be had in order to pay his
rent, settle his tailor's bill, and find wherewithal to furnish commons
for himself and his one domestic.

It is certain, however, that up to this time no serious idea of marrying
Mr. Magnus Morrison had entered the widow's head; on the contrary, she
was fully determined that, as soon as she had seen London "well," she
would see Paris too, and was not without a vague notion that there might
be something very elegant and desirable in becoming the wife of a French
grandee. But these ruminations interfered not at all with the amiable
amenity of her demeanour to her assiduous attendant.... Agnes was as
little in their way as it was possible she could be ... the weather was
remarkably fine ... and, on the whole, it may be doubted if any lady of
thirty-seven ever made her first debut in the metropolis of the united
kingdoms with more perfect satisfaction to herself.

Mrs. Barnaby reached London on a Thursday evening; the first Sunday
shewed her the Foundling, all the little children, and a popular
preacher, which together constituted one of Mr. Morrison's favourite
lions. The Sunday following, being the last, according to her own secret
determination, that she would pass in England, she was left during the
early part of the day to her own devices, Mr. Morrison having a deed to
draw, which could no longer be safely postponed; and she therefore
obligingly asked Agnes if she should not like to go to church with her.
Agnes willingly assented, and they went to the morning service at St.
James's. In returning thence our gaily-dressed widow, full of animation,
and the hope of finding Mr. Morrison ready to take luncheon with her
previous to their projected walk in Kensington Gardens, remarked, as she
gracefully paced along the crowded pavement, that one individual among
the many who eyed her appeared to follow her movements with particular
attention. Mrs. Barnaby was never stared at without feeling delighted by
the compliment she thought it implied, and simpered and frolicked with
her parasol in her best manner, till at length, having no one else to
whom she could point out the flattering circumstance, she said to Agnes,
as they turned down Half-moon Street ... into which the admiring
individual turned too.... "Do look at that man, Agnes.... He has never
ceased to follow and stare at me since we left the church.... There,
now, he is going to pass us again.... Is he not an impudent fellow?"

"Perhaps he knows you, aunt," said Agnes, raising her eyes as the man
passed them.... "I think I have seen him at Cheltenham."

This suggestion heightened Mrs. Barnaby's colour so considerably that it
was perceptible through all her rouge.

"You have seen him at Cheltenham?... Where, pray?"

"I do not well remember; in a shop, I think."

Mrs. Barnaby asked no more questions, but knocked rather hastily at the
door of her lodgings; but though the person had crossed the street, and
in doing so passed close to her, he made no attempt to speak to her, but
passed on his way, not, however, before he had so refreshed her memory
respecting her Cheltenham debts as to make her suddenly decide upon
leaving London on the morrow.

She found Mr. Magnus Morrison waiting for her, as well-looking and as
devoted as ever; so she did all but quite forget her recent alarm, its
only effect being, when Agnes, as usual, declined her invitation to go
out with them, to say in a whisper to her in the window recess farthest
removed from her waiting gentleman, "I think I shall leave London
to-morrow night, so you may employ yourself in getting everything ready
for packing, Agnes...." She then turned gaily to her escort, and they
set off together.

During the whole of this tedious week Agnes had used every means within
her very limited power to ascertain what her aunt's plans were for the
future; and this not only to satisfy her own natural curiosity on the
subject, but also that she might have sufficient information to justify
her writing another letter to Lady Stephenson. But all her inquiries had
been so vaguely answered, that she was quite as ignorant of what her
next movement might be as when she arrived, and was living in a very
torturing sort of suspense, between hope that fate by some means or
other would oblige her to return to Cheltenham, and fear lest the
mystery that veiled the future might only be elucidated when too late
for her to obey the command which, _in case of the worst_, was to send
her there.

So weary was she both of her present position and of the doubt which
concealed the termination of it, that she joyfully set herself to obey
the parting injunction of her aunt; and having rapidly gone through this
task, began her second letter to her Cheltenham friends, stating exactly
all she knew, and all she did not know, and at length leaving her letter
unfinished, that her postscript, as she said, might contain, according
to the imputed custom of all ladies, the essential part of her letter.

The fine bonnets and smart waistcoats of Kensington Gardens, together
with a bag-ful of queen-cakes, with which she had provided herself for
her own refreshment and that of her companion during a promised hour of
repose in one of the alcoves, so pleasantly beguiled the hours, that it
was near seven before they returned to dinner; when the widow confessed
herself too tired for anything more that day; and at an hour much
earlier than usual Mr. Morrison took his departure, well informed, as it
seemed, of the lady's intentions for the morrow, for Agnes heard him
say,--

"Well, then, Mrs. Barnaby ... one more delightful excursion
to-morrow--the Surrey Gardens will delight you!... and at two o'clock I
will be here.... Sorry am I to think for the last time ... at least for
the present." A cordial hand-shaking followed, and the door closed after
him.

"I have done what you bid me, aunt," said Agnes; "all your things are
got ready for you to place them as you like, and one of the boxes half
filled, just as you did before.... Shall I write the directions, aunt?"

"We can do that to-morrow.... I am tired to death. Ring the bell....
No--run down yourself, for the girl looks as cross as two sticks ... run
down, Agnes, and tell her to get my porter directly; and I think you
must bring it to me in bed, for I can't keep my eyes open."

"Will you tell me, aunt, where we are going?" said Agnes timidly, as she
took up one of the candles to light her steps down two flights of
stairs.

"Don't plague me now, Agnes," was the reply; "I have told you that I am
tired to death, and nobody but you would think of teazing one with such
a question now. You know well enough, though you have not had the grace
to thank me for it, that I never take you anywhere that it is not most
delightful to go to.... What other country-girl in the world is there at
your age that has had the advantages you have.... Exeter.... Clifton....
Cheltenham.... London; and if you don't provoke me too much, and make
me turn you out of house and home, I'll take you now ... but it's no
matter where--you'll know soon enough to be grateful, if there's such a
thing as gratitude in your heart.... But I am a fool to expect it, and
see you standing there when I've begged, as if my life depended upon it,
that you would _please_ to order me a little beer."

Agnes said no more; but went to bed that night with her fears most
reasonably strengthened that she should not learn Mrs. Barnaby's
destination till it was too late to avoid sharing it, let it be in what
direction it might.




CHAPTER IV.

AN ADVENTURE.--ANOTHER LETTER FROM MISS MORRISON PRODUCTIVE OF A
POWERFUL EFFECT UPON HER BROTHER.--HE FORSAKES HIS CLIENT AND HIS
FRIEND.--AGNES IS LEFT ALONE, AND EMPLOYS SOME OF HER LEISURE IN WRITING
A LETTER TO MISS COMPTON.


The following day was an eventful one. For the first time since they had
been in London, Agnes, on seeing her aunt preparing to go out, asked
permission to go with her, and "You may go if you will," was the answer;
but before her bonnet was tied on, Mrs. Barnaby changed her mind,
saying, "Put down your bonnet, Agnes ... upon second thoughts I don't
choose to take you.... Look at all these things of mine lying about
here!... I have told you that it is likely enough we may set off by a
night coach, and I have got, as you know, to go out with Mr. Morrison;
so I should be much obliged if you would please to tell me how all my
packing is to get done?"

"If you would let me go with you now, aunt, I shall have plenty of time
to do all that remains while you are out with Mr. Morrison," replied
Agnes.

"Agnes, you are, without exception, the most impertinent and the most
plaguing girl that ever a widowed aunt half ruined herself to provide
for.... But I won't be bullied in this way either.... Stay at home, if
you please, and do what I bid you, or before this time to-morrow you may
be crying in the streets of London for a breakfast.... I should like to
know who there is besides me in the wide world who would undertake the
charge of you?... Do you happen to know any such people, miss?... If you
do, be off to them if you please--the sooner the better; ... but if not,
stay at home for once without grumbling, and do what you're bid."

There was just sufficient truth mixed with the injustice of these harsh
words to go to the heart of poor Agnes. Her aunt Compton, in reply to a
letter of Mrs. Barnaby, written in a spirit of wanton impertinence, and
in which she made a formal demand of one hundred pounds a-year for the
expenses of Agnes, answered in great wrath, that she and Agnes both had
better take care not to change their residence so often as to lose a
parish settlement, for they might live to find _that_ a much better
dependence than anything they would obtain from her. This pettish
epistle, received the day before they left Silverton, was carefully
treasured by Mrs. Barnaby, and often referred to when she was anxious to
impress on her niece a sense of her forlorn condition and helpless
dependence. So all hope from that quarter seemed to be for ever shut
out.... And could she forget that even at the moment when the dangers of
her situation had so forcibly struck Lady Elizabeth Norris, as to make
her approve what she had before declared to be worse than _any
home_,--that even at that moment she had explicitly declared that
neither herself nor her niece could _take charge of her_?

These were mournful thoughts; and it was no great proof of Agnes's
wisdom, perhaps, that, instead of immediately proceeding to the
performance of her prescribed task, she sat down expressly to ruminate
upon them. But the meditation was not permitted to be long; for hardly
had she rested her elbow upon the table, and her cheek upon her hand, in
the manner which ladies under such circumstances always do, than she was
startled by a violent knocking and simultaneous ringing at the
street-door, followed, as soon as it was opened, by a mixture of two or
three loud and angry voices, amidst which she clearly distinguished that
of her aunt; and the moment after she burst into the room, accompanied
by the gentleman who had appeared to admire her so greatly in the street
the day before, together with two other much less well-looking
personages, who stuck close upon the heels of Mrs. Barnaby, with more
appearance of authority than respect.

"You shall live to repent this treatment of a lady," cried Mrs. Barnaby,
addressing the hero of her yesterday's adventure, who was no other than
the keeper of the livery-stable from whom she had hired the carriage and
horses which had dignified her existence for the last month. "You shall
be taught to know what is due from a trumpery country tradesman like
you, to a person of my fortune and station. What put it into your head,
you vile fellow, instead of waiting my return to Cheltenham, to follow
me to London in this abominable manner, and to arrest me in the public
streets?"

"It is no difficult matter to tell you that, Mrs. Barnaby, if that's
your name," replied the man; "and you'll find that I am not the only
vile fellow holding himself ready to pay you the same compliment; though
I, knowing the old saying 'first come, first served,' took some trouble
to be the first."

"And do you really pretend to fancy, you pitiful creature," cried Mrs.
Barnaby, in a voice in which terror and rage were struggling,--"do you
really pretend to believe that I am not able to pay your
twopenny-halfpenny bill a thousand times over?"

"Can't say indeed, ma'am," replied the man; "I shall not stand upon
sending you to prison if you will discharge the account as here we
stand, paying fees and expenses of course, as is fitting... Here are the
items, neither many nor high.--

                                                 L.  s. d.

    Carriage and horses one month, twenty-five}
      shillings per diem                      }  37  0  0
    Coachman's livery, board, and wages          20  0  0
    Footman's ditto, hired to order              25  0  0
                                                 --------
                                               L 82  0  0
                                                 --------
          Deduct liveries, if returned           12  0  0
                                                 --------
                                  Remains      L 70  0  0
                                                 --------

And all our expenses and fees added won't make it above 77_l._ or 78_l._
altogether; so, ma'am, if you are the great lady you say, you won't find
no great difficulty in giving me a write-off for the sum, and my good
friends here shall stay while I run and get it cashed, after which I
will be ready to make you my bow, and say good morning."

The anger of Mrs. Barnaby was not the less excited because what Mr.
Simmons, the livery-stable keeper, said was true; and she seized with
considerable quickness the feature of the case which appeared the most
against him.

"Your vulgar mode of proceeding at Cheltenham, Mr. Simmons, is, I am
happy to say, quite peculiar to yourselves; for though, for my age, I
have lived a good deal in the world, I certainly never saw anything like
it. Here have I, like a woman of fortune as I am, paid nobly, since I
have been in your trumpery town, for every single thing for which it is
customary to pay ready money; and when a job like yours, which never
since the creation of the world was paid except from quarter to quarter,
has run up for one month, down comes the stable-man post haste after me
with a writ and arrest. I wonder you are not ashamed of yourself."

"I dare say I should, ma'am, you talking so fine as you do, if I hadn't
nothing to put forward in return. I don't believe, Mrs. Barnaby, but
what you, or any other rich-seeming lady like you,... I don't believe
but what any such might have come to Cheltenham, and have run up debts
to the tune of a thousand pounds, and not one of us taken fright at it,
provided the lady had stayed quiet and steady in the town, where one had
one's eyes upon her, and was able to see what she was about. But just
do now look at the difference. 'The season's pretty fullish,' says one,
'and trade's brisk!...' 'That's true,' says another, 'only some's going
off, and that's never a good sign, specially if they go without
paying....' 'And who's after that shabby trick?' says another:...
'Neither more nor less than the gay widow Barnaby!' is the answer....
'The devil she is!' says one; 'she owes me twenty pounds....'--'I hope
you are out there neighbour,' says another, 'for she owes me thirty....
'And me ten'--'and me fifty'--'and me nineteen'--'and me forty,' and so
on for more than I'll number. And what, pray, is the wisest among them
likely to do in such a case? Why, just what your humble servant has
done, neither more nor less."

"And what right have you, audacious man! to suppose that I have any
intention of not returning, and paying all I owe, as I have ever and
always done before?"

"Nothing particular, except your just saying, ma'am, that you should be
back in two days, and nevertheless not making yourself be heard of in
ten, and your rooms kept, and your poor maid kept in 'em all the time
too."

"This man talks like one who knows not what a lady is," said Mrs.
Barnaby, her eyes flashing, and her face crimson; "but I must beg to ask
of you, sir," turning to one of the Bow-street officials, "whether I am
not to have time allowed for sending to my lawyer, and giving him
instructions to settle with this fellow here?"

"Why, by rights, ma'am, you should go to a sponging-house without loss
of time, that we might get the committal made out, and all regular; but
if you be so inclined as to make it worth while to my companion and me,
I don't think we shall object to keeping guard over you here instead,
while you send off for any friends you choose to let into the secret."

"The friends I shall send to are my men of business, fellow!" replied
Mrs. Barnaby, with the strongest expression of disdain that she could
throw into her countenance. "You don't, I hope, presume to imagine that
I would send for any one of rank to affront them with the presence of
such as you?"

"Fair words butter no parsnips, is a good saying and a true one;... but
I'll add to it, that saucy ones unlock no bolts; and if you expect to
get out of this scrape by talking big, it's likely you may find yourself
mistaken."

"A bill must be a good deal longer than this is, man, before the paying
it will be much of a scrape to me," said the widow, affecting to laugh.
"What a fool you are, Agnes," she continued, turning to the corner of
the room into which the terrified girl had crept, "what a prodigious
fool, to be sure, you must be, to sit there looking as white as a sheet,
because an insolent tradesman chooses to bring in a bill of a month's
standing, with a posse of thief-takers to back it.... Get up, pray, and
bring my desk here... I wish to write to my attorney."

In obedience to this command, Agnes rose from her chair, and attempted
to cross the room to fetch the desk, which was at the other extremity of
it; but not all her efforts to arouse her strength sufficed to overcome
the sick faintness which oppressed her. "Do, for God's sake, move a
little faster, child," said Mrs. Barnaby; but Agnes failed in her
habitual and meek obedience, not by falling into a chair, but by sitting
down in one, conscious that her fainting at such a moment must greatly
increase her aunt's embarrassment.

"I'll get the desk, miss," said one of the terrible men, in a voice so
nearly expressive of pity, that tears started to her own eyes in pity of
herself, as she thought how wretched must be the state of one who could
inspire such a feeling in such a being; but she thanked him, and he
placed the lady's desk before her--that pretty little rosewood desk that
had been and indeed still was the receptacle of my Lord Mucklebury's
flattering if not binding effusions; and as the thought crossed the
brain of Mrs. Barnaby that she had hoped to make her fortune by these
same idle papers, she felt for the very first time in her life, that
perhaps, after all, she had not managed her affairs quite so cleverly as
she might have done. It was a disagreeable idea; but even as she
conceived it her spirit rose to counteract any salutary effect such a
notion might produce; and with a toss of the head that indicated
defiance to her own common sense, she opened her desk with a jerk, and
began editing an epistle to Mr. Magnus Morrison.

But this epistle, though it reached the lawyer in a reasonably short
time after it was written, was not the first he received that day, ...
for the Cheltenham post had brought him the following:

     "DEAR BROTHER,

     "Don't blame me if the gay widow I introduced to you the week
     before last, should prove to be a _flam_, as my dear father
     used to call it.... I am sorry to say there are great
     suspicions of it going about here. She left us telling
     everybody that she should be back in two days; and it is now
     more than ten since she started, and no soul has heard a word
     about her since. This looks odd, and bad enough, you will
     think; but it is not the worst part of the story, I'm sorry to
     say, _paw de too_, as you shall hear. When she first came to
     Cheltenham she took very good rooms ... a separate
     drawing-room, which always looks well ... and dress, and all
     that, quite corresponding, but no servants nor carriage, nor
     anything of the high-flying kind.... Now observe, Magnus, what
     follows, and then I think that you will come to a right notion
     of what sort of person you have got to deal with. No sooner did
     Mrs. Barnaby get acquainted with Lord Mucklebury then she set
     off living at the rate of some thousands a-year; and the worst
     is, as far as I am concerned, that she coaxed me to go round
     bespeaking and ordering everything for her. I know you will
     tell me, Magnus, that my father's daughter ought to have known
     better, and so I ought; but, upon my word, she took me in so
     completely that I never felt a single moment's doubt about the
     truth of all she said.... And I believe, too, that the superior
     sort of elegant look of that beautiful Miss Willoughby went for
     something with me. Having told you all this, it won't be
     necessary, I fancy, to say much more in respect to putting you
     on your guard.... Of course, you will take care to do nothing
     in the way of standing bail, or anything of that sort ... _paw
     see bate_, you will say. All Cheltenham is talking about it;
     and I was told at breakfast this morning that Simmons, who
     furnished the carriage, horses, and servants, is gone to London
     to look after her; and that Wright the mercer, and several
     others, talk of doing the same. _Too sell aw man we_; but it
     can't be helped.... So many people, too, come to me for
     information, just as if I knew any more about her than anybody
     else at the boarding table.... That queer Lady Elizabeth Norris
     sent for me yesterday, begging I would call upon her; and when
     I got there I found it was for nothing in the world but to ask
     me questions about this Mrs. Barnaby. And there was that
     noble-looking Colonel Hubert, who sat and listened to every
     word I uttered just as if he had been as curious an old woman
     as his aunt: _maize eel foe dear_, Magnus, that men are
     sometimes quite as curious as women.... However, they neither
     of them got much worth hearing out of me; and yet I almost
     thought at one time that the high and mighty Colonel was
     writing down what I said, for he had got his gold pencil-case
     in his hand; and though it was on the page of a book that he
     seemed to be scribbling, I saw plain enough by his eye that he
     was listening to me. You know, brother, I am pretty sharp, and
     I have got a few presents out of this fly-away lady, let what
     will come of it. But I could not help thinking, Magnus,--and if
     it was in a printed book it would be called a _fine
     observation_,--I could not help thinking how such a vulgar
     feeling as curiosity spoils the elegance of the manners. Lady
     Elizabeth, who has often told me that I speak the most
     exquisite French she ever heard, and who always before
     yesterday seemed delighted to have the opportunity of
     conversing with me in this very genteel language, never said
     one word in it all the time I stayed; and once when, as usual,
     I spoke a few words, she looked as cross as a bear, and said,
     'Be so good as to speak English just now, Miss Morrison.' Very
     impertinent, I thought, _may set eh gal_. Don't think the worse
     of me for this unfortunate blunder.... Let me hear how you are
     going on, and believe me

     "Your affectionate sister,

     "SARAH MORRISON."

Mr. Magnus Morrison had by no means recovered the blow given him by this
most unpleasing news, when a note from Mrs. Barnaby to the following
effect was put into his hands.

     "MY DEAR SIR,

     "A most ridiculous, but also disagreeable circumstance, has
     happened to me this morning. A paltry little tradesman of
     Cheltenham, to whom I owe a few pounds, has taken fright
     because I did not return to my apartments there at the moment
     he expected me ... the cause of which delay you must be aware
     has been the great pleasure I have received from seeing London
     so agreeably.... However, he has had the incredible insolence
     to follow me with a writ, and I must beg you to come to me with
     as little delay as possible, as your bail, I understand, will
     prevent my submitting to the indignity of being lodged in a
     prison during the interval necessary for my broker (who acts as
     my banker) to take the proper measures for supplying me with
     the trifling sum I want. In the hope of immediately seeing you,

     "I remain, dear Sir,

     "Most truly yours,

     "MARTHA BARNABY."

Mr. Magnus Morrison was not "so quick," as it is called, as his sister
Sarah, and in the present emergency felt totally unable to fabricate an
epistle, or even to invent a plausible excuse for an absence, which he
nevertheless finally determined should be eternal. He was ill-inspired
when he took this resolution, for had he attended the lady's summons, he
might, with little trouble, have made a more profitable client of her
yet than often fell to his lot. But he was terror-struck at the word
BAIL; and forgetting all the beef-steaks, cheesecakes, porter, and black
wine that he had swallowed at the widow's cost, he very cavalierly sent
word by the sheriff's officer, who had brought her note, that he was
very sorry, but that it was totally out of his power to come.

On receiving this message, delivered, too, with the commentary of a
broad grin, even Mrs. Barnaby turned a little pale; but she speedily
recovered herself on recollecting how very easy and rapid an operation
the selling out stock was; so, once more raising her dauntless eye, she
said, with an assumption of dignity but little mitigated by this
rebuff,... "I presume you will let me wait in my own apartments till I
can send to my broker?"

"Why, 'tis possible, ma'am, you see, that it may be totally out of his
power too, like this t'other gentleman ... and we can't be kept waiting
all day.... You'll have a trifle to pay already for the obligingness we
have shewn, and so you must be pleased to get ready without more ado."

"You don't mean to take me to prison, fellow, for this trumpery debt!"

"'Tis where ladies always do go when they keep carriages without paying
for them, unless indeed they have got husbands as can go for them; and
as that don't seem to be your case, ma'am, we must really trouble you to
make haste."

"Gracious Heaven!... It is incredible!..." cried the widow, now really
in an agony. "Why, fellow, I tell you I have thousands in the funds that
I can sell out at an hour's warning!"

"So much the better, ma'am--so much the better for us all, as, in that
case, we shall be sure to get our own at last; and if the thing can be
settled so easily, it is quite beneath such a clever lady as you to make
a fuss about lodging at the king's charge for a night or so.... Pray,
miss, can you help the gentlewoman to put up a night-cap, and such like
little comforts, ... not forgetting a small provision of ready money, if
I might advise, for that's what makes the difference between a bad
lodging and a good one where we are going.... Dick ... run out and call
a coach, will you?"

All further remonstrance proved useless; and Mrs. Barnaby, alternately
scolding and entreating, was forced at last to submit to the degradation
of being watched by a bailiff's officer as she went to her chamber to
prepare herself for this terrible change of residence. The most bitter
moment of all, perhaps, was that in which she was told that she must go
alone, for that they had no orders to permit the attendance of any one.
It was only then that she felt, in some degree, the value of the gentle
observant kindness which had marked every word and look of Agnes from
the moment when--her first feeling of faintness over--she assiduously
drew near her, put needle-work into her hands, set herself to the same
employment, and, with equal ingenuity and sweet temper, contrived to
make the long interval during which they had to endure the presence of
two of the men, while the third was dispatched to Mr. Morrison,
infinitely more tolerable than could have been hoped for. But on this
point the officials were as peremptory as in the commands they
reiterated that she should get ready, promising, however, that
application should be made for leave to let the young lady be with her,
if she liked it.

"You may save yourselves the trouble, brutes as you are," cried Mrs.
Barnaby, as, with something very like a sob, she returned the kiss of
Agnes. "I'll defy you to keep me in your vile clutches beyond this time
to-morrow.... Take care that this letter is put into the post directly,
Agnes; but I will give it to the maid myself.... It will reach my broker
by four or five o'clock, I should think; and I'll answer for his not
neglecting the business; but it may, however, be near dinner-time before
I get back--so don't be frightened, my dear, if it is; and here is the
key of the money-drawer, you know, if you want to pay anything."

"Better divide the money drawer with the young lady, at any rate," said
one of the men, laughing.

"That you may pick my pockets, perhaps?" replied the vexed prisoner.

"Have you enough money with you, aunt?" whispered Agnes in her ear.

"Plenty, my dear; and more than I'll spend upon them, depend upon it,"
she replied aloud.... This drew on a fresh and not very gentle
declaration that they must be gone directly; and the unlucky Mrs.
Barnaby, preceded by one and followed by two attendants, descended the
stairs, and mounted the hackney-coach.

It was then that Agnes for the first time began to understand and feel
the nature of her own situation. Alone, utterly alone in lodgings in the
midst of London, totally ignorant of the real state of her aunt's
affairs, and, unhappily, so accustomed to hear her utter the most
decided falsehoods upon all subjects, that nothing she had said on this
gave her any confidence in the certainty either of her speedy return, or
of her being immediately able to settle all claims upon her. What, then,
was it her duty to do? During the first few moments of meditation on her
desolate condition, she thought that the danger of being taken abroad
could not have been greater than that which had now fallen upon her, and
consequently that Lady Elizabeth would be ready to extend to her the
temporary shelter she had told her to claim, in case of what then
appeared the worst necessity. But a very little calmer reflection made
her shrink from this; and the fact that Colonel Hubert was now with her,
which, under other circumstances, would have made such an abode, if
enjoyed only for a day or two, the dearest boon that Providence could
grant her, now caused her to decide, with a swelling heart, that she
would not accept it.

The nature and degree of the disgrace which her aunt had now brought
upon her was so much worse than all that either her vanity or her
coquetry had hitherto achieved, that she felt herself incalculably more
beneath him than ever, and felt during these dreadful moments that she
would rather have begged her bread back to Empton, than have met the
doubtful welcome of his eye upon seeing her under such circumstances.

This thought of Empton recalled the idea of the person whose liberal
kindness had for years bestowed on her this only home that she had ever
loved. Was it possible, that if made acquainted with her present
deplorable situation, she could refuse to extend some sort of protection
to one whose claim upon her she had formerly acknowledged so freely, and
who had never forfeited it by any act of her own?... "I will write to
her!" said Agnes, suddenly rousing herself, as it occurred to her that
she was now called upon to act for herself. "God knows," thought she,
"what my unfortunate and most unwise aunt Barnaby may have written or
said to provoke her; but now, at least, without either rebellion or
deceit, I may myself address her."

This idea generated a hope that seemed to give her new life, and with a
rapid pen she wrote as follows:

     "I can hardly dare to expect that a letter from one whom you
     have declared you never would see again should be very
     favourably received; and yet, my dear aunt Betsy (permit me
     once more to call you so), how can I believe that the same
     person who took such generous pity on my miserable ignorance
     six years ago would, without any fault on my part, permit me
     to fail in my hope of turning the education she bestowed into a
     means of honourable existence, and that solely from the want of
     her protection? Alas! aunt Compton, I am most miserably in want
     of protection now. My aunt Barnaby, of whose pecuniary affairs
     I, in truth, know nothing, was this morning arrested and taken
     away to prison for debt. Her style of expense has been very
     greatly increased during the last few weeks, and I have reason
     to believe that she entertained a hope of being married to a
     nobleman, with whom she made acquaintance at Cheltenham, but
     who left it, about a fortnight ago, without taking any leave of
     her. I am not much in her confidence; but she has so repeatedly
     mentioned before me her determination to be revenged on this
     Lord Mucklebury, as well as her certainty of recovering damages
     from him, that I have no doubt her coming to London was with a
     view to bringing an action for breach of promise of marriage.
     What confirms this is, that the only person we have seen is a
     lawyer; and the same spirit of conjecture, which has made me
     guess what I have told you, leads me to suspect also, that this
     lawyer has persuaded her to give the project up; for not only
     do I hear no more of it, but she has seemed for the last week
     to be devoted wholly to seeing the sights of London in company
     with this lawyer. I have not accompanied them, not being very
     well, nor very happy in a mode of life so much less tranquil
     than what I have been used to at Empton.

     "I tell you all these particulars, aunt Compton, that you may
     know exactly what my situation is. I am, at this moment, alone
     in a London lodging; my aunt Barnaby in prison; and with no
     little danger, as far as I am able to judge, that when she has
     settled this claim for her carriage and horses, many others may
     come upon her.

     "My petition to you, therefore, is, that you would have the
     _great, great_ goodness to permit my travelling back into
     Devonshire to put myself under your protection; not idly to
     become a burden to you, but that I might be so happy as to feel
     myself in a place of respectability and safety till such time
     as my kind friend, Mrs. Wilmot, may hear of some situation as
     governess, or teacher at a school, such as she might think me
     fit for. I have very diligently kept up my reading and writing
     in French and Italian, with the hope of one day teaching both.
     They tell me, too, that I have a good voice for singing, as my
     poor mother had ... perhaps I might be able to teach that.

     "I shall remain here (unless removed by my aunt Barnaby, of
     which I would give you notice) till such time as the Silverton
     post can bring me an answer. Have pity upon me, dear aunt
     Betsy!... Indeed I want it as much now as when you found I
     could not read a line of English in your pretty bower at
     Compton Basett.

     "How often I have thought of your flowers and your bees, aunt
     Betsy, and wished I could be there to wait upon them and upon
     you!

     "Your dutiful and grateful niece,

     "AGNES WILLOUGHBY."

     "5, Half-Moon Street, Piccadilly, London."

Having finished this letter, Agnes completed one she had before been
writing to Lady Stephenson, and then took her solitary way to a
letter-box, of which she had learned the situation, at no great
distance. She heard her important dispatch to Compton Basett drop into
the box, with a conviction that her fate wholly depended on the manner
in which it was received; and having walked back as slowly as possible,
that she might benefit by the mild western breeze that blew upon her
feverish cheek, she remounted the dark stairs to the solitary
drawing-room, totally incapable of enjoying that solitude, though it had
so often appeared to her the one thing needful for happiness.

Happy was it for her that she had turned her thoughts to her aunt
Compton; for, uncertain as was the result of her application, there was
enough of hope attached to it to save her from that feeling of utter
desolation that must at this moment have been her portion without it.
The more she thought of receiving aid from the pity of Colonel Hubert's
family, the less could she feel comfort from the idea. When it had been
offered as a protection against the notice which they had imagined her
likely to excite, it was soothing to all her feelings; but, required or
accorded as mere ordinary charity, it was intolerable. A melancholy
attempt at dining occupied a few minutes, and then hour after hour
passed over her, slowly and sadly, till the light faded. But she had not
energy for employment; not one of all her best-loved volumes could have
fixed her attention for a moment. She called for no candles, but lying
on the sofa, her aching head pillowed by her arm, she suffered herself
to dwell on all the circumstances of her situation, which weighed most
heavily upon her heart; and assuredly the one which brought the greatest
pang with it was the recollection of having won the affection of Colonel
Hubert's family, just at the moment when disgrace so terrible had fallen
on her own, as to make her rather dread than wish to see him again.




CHAPTER V.

AGNES RECEIVES AN UNEXPECTED VISITER, AND AN IMPORTANT
COMMUNICATION.--SHE ALSO RECEIVES A LETTER FROM CHELTENHAM, AND FROM HER
AUNT BARNABY.


Agnes was roused from this state of melancholy musing by a double knock
at the door.

"Is it possible," she said, starting up, "that she spoke truly, and that
she is already released?"

The street-door was opened, but the voice of Mrs. Barnaby did not make
its way up the stairs before her--a circumstance so inevitable upon her
approach,--that, after listening for it in vain for a moment, the
desolate girl resumed her attitude, and endeavoured to recover the train
of thought that had been broken. But she was not destined to do so, at
least for the present, for the maid threw open the drawing-room door,
and announced "A gentleman."

Agnes, as we have said, was sitting in darkness, and the girl very
judiciously placed her slender tallow-candle in its tin receptacle on
the table, saying, as she set a chair for "the gentleman," "I will bring
candles in a minute, miss," and then departed.

Agnes raised her eyes as the visiter approached, and had the light been
feebler still she would have found no difficulty in discovering that it
was Colonel Hubert who stood before her. He bowed to the angle of the
most profound respect, and though he ventured to extend his hand in
friendly greeting, he took hers with the air of a courtier permitted to
offer homage to a sovereign princess.

Agnes stood up, she received his offered hand, and raised her eyes to
his face, but uttered no word either of surprise or joy. Her face was
colourless, and traces of very recent tears were plainly visible; she
trembled from head to foot, and Colonel Hubert, frightened, as a brave
man always is when he sees a woman really sinking under her sex's
weakness, replaced her on the sofa almost as incapable of speaking as
herself.

"Do not appear distressed at seeing me, dearest Miss Willoughby," said
he, "or I shall be obliged to repent having ventured to wait on you. I
should not have presumed to do this, had not your friends, your truly
attached friends, my aunt and sister, authorized my doing so."

"Oh! what kindness!" exclaimed poor Agnes, bursting into a flood of most
salutary tears. "Do not think me ungrateful, Colonel Hubert, if I could
not say ... if I did not speak to you.... Do you, indeed, come to me
from Lady Elizabeth?"

"Here are my credentials," he replied, smiling, and presenting a letter
to her. "We learned that your foolish aunt ... forgive me, Miss
Willoughby; but the step I have taken can only be excused by explaining
it with the most frank sincerity ... we learned that Mrs. Barnaby,
having quitted Cheltenham suddenly, (the ostensible reason for doing
which was bad enough), had left a variety of debts unpaid; and that her
creditors, alarmed at her not returning, were taking active measures to
secure her person.... Is this true?... Is your aunt arrested?"

"She is," replied Agnes faintly.

"Good God!... You are here, then, entirely alone?"

"I am quite alone," was the answer, though it was almost lost in the sob
that accompanied it.

"Oh! dearest Agnes!" cried Colonel Hubert, in a burst of uncontrolable
emotion, "I cannot see you thus, and longer retain the secret that has
been hidden in my heart almost from the first hour I saw you!... I love
you, Agnes, beyond all else on earth!... Consent to be my wife, and
danger and desertion shall never come near you more!"

What a moment was this to hear such an avowal!... Human life can
scarcely offer extremes more strongly marked of weal and woe than those
presented by the actual position of Agnes, and that proposed to her by
the man she idolized. But let De la Rochefoucault say what he will,
there are natures capable of feeling something nobler than the love of
self; ... and after one moment of happy triumphant swelling of the heart
that left no breath to speak, she heaved a long deep sigh that seemed to
bring her back from her momentary glimpse of an earthly paradise to
things as they are, and said slowly, but with great distinctness, "No!
never will I be your wife!... never, by my consent, shall Colonel
Hubert ally himself to disgrace!"

Had this been said to a younger man, it is probable that he would not
have found in it anything calculated to give a mortal wound to his hopes
and wishes; but it fell with appalling coldness on the heart of the
brave soldier, who had long kept Cupid at defiance by the shield of
Mars, and who had just made the first proposal of marriage that had ever
passed his lips. It was her age and his own that rose before him as she
uttered her melancholy "No, never!..." and Agnes became almost the
first object to whom he had ever, even for a moment, been unjust. He
gave her no credit ... no, not the least, for the noble struggle that
was breaking her heart, and meant most sincerely what he said, when he
replied,--

"Forgive me, Miss Willoughby.... Had I been a younger man, the offer of
my hand, my heart, my life, would not have appeared to you, as it
doubtless must do now,--the result of sober, staid benevolence, desirous
of preserving youthful innocence from unmerited sorrow.... Such must my
love seem.... So let it seem; ... but it shall never cost one hour's
pain to you."... He was silent for a moment, and had to struggle, brave
man as he was, against feelings whose strength, perhaps, only shewed his
weakness.... "But even so," he added, making a strong effort to speak
steadily, "even so; let me not be here in vain: listen to me as a friend
and father."

Poor Agnes!... this was a hard trial. To save him, worshipped as he
was, from a marriage that must be considered as degrading, she could
have sacrificed herself with the triumphant courage of a proud martyr;
but to leave him with the idea that she was too young to love him!...
to let that glowing, generous heart sink back upon itself, because it
found no answering warmth in her!... in her! who would have died only
to purchase the light of owning that she never did, and never could,
love any man but him!... It was too terrible, and the words "Hubert!
beloved Hubert!" were on her lips; but they came no farther, for she had
not strength to speak them. Another effort might have been more
successful, and they, or something like them, might have found way, had
not the gentleman recovered his voice first, and resumed the
conversation in a tone so chillingly reserved, that the timid,
broken-spirited girl, had no strength left "to prick the sides of her
intent," and lay her innocent heart open before him.

"In the name of Lady Elizabeth Norris let me entreat you, Miss
Willoughby, not to remain in a situation so every way objectionable," he
said. "My aunt and sister both are full of painful anxiety on your
account, and the letter I have brought contains their earnest entreaties
that you should immediately take up your residence with my aunt. Do not
refuse this from any fear of embarrassment ... of persecution from
me.... I shall probably go abroad.... I shall probably join my friend
Frederick at Paris. He did you great justice, Miss Willoughby; ... and,
but for me, perhaps.... Forgive me!... I will no longer intrude on
you!--forgive me!--tell me you forgive me, for all the pain I have
caused you, and for more injury, perhaps, than you will ever know! I
never knew how weak--I fear I should say how unworthy--my character
might become, till I knew you; ... and to complete the hateful
retrospect," he added, with bitterness, and rising to go, "to complete
the picture of myself that I have henceforth to contemplate, I was
coxcomb enough to fancy.... But I am acting in a way that I should scorn
a youth for who numbered half my years.... Answer my aunt's letter,
Miss Willoughby ... answer it as if her contemptible nephew did not
exist ... he shall exist no longer where he can mar your fortune or
disturb your peace!"

Agnes looked at him as if her heart would break at hearing words so
harsh and angry, when, losing at once all sense of his own suffering,
Colonel Hubert reseated himself, and, in the gentlest accent of
friendship, alluded to the propriety of her immediately leaving London,
and to the anxiety of her friends at Cheltenham to receive her.

"They are very, _very_ good to me," said Agnes meekly; "and I shall be
most thankful, Colonel Hubert, to avail myself of such precious
kindness, if the old aunt, to whom I have written, in Devonshire, should
refuse to save me from the necessity of being a burden on their
benevolence."

"But shall you wait for this decision here, Miss Willoughby?"

"I have promised to do so," replied Agnes; "and as I may have an answer
here on Thursday, I think, at latest, I would not risk the danger of
offending her by putting it out of my power immediately to obey her
commands, if she should be so kind as to give me any."

The eyes of Agnes were fixed for a moment on his as she concluded this
speech, and there was something in the expression of that look that
shook the sternness of his belief in her indifference. He rose again,
and making a step towards her, said, with a violence of emotion that
entirely changed the tone of his voice,--

"Agnes!... Miss Willoughby!... answer me one question.... Should my
aunt herself plead for me ... could you, would you, be my wife?"

Agnes, equally terrified lest she should say too little or too much,
faltered as she replied, "If it were possible, Colonel Hubert ... could
I indeed believe that your aunt, your sister, would not hate and scorn
me...."

"You might!... You will let me believe it possible you could be brought
to love me?... To love me, Agnes?... No! do not answer me ... do not
commit yourself by a single word!... Stay, then, here; ... but do not
leave the house!... Stay till.... Yet, alas! I dare not promise it!...
But you will not leave this house, Miss Willoughby, with any aunt,
without letting me ... my family, know where you may be found?"

"Oh no!..." said Agnes with a reviving hope, that if they must be
parted, which this reference to her aunt and his own doubtful words made
it but too probable would be the end of all, at least it would not be
because he thought she was too young to love him.... "Oh no!" she
repeated; "this letter will not be left without an answer."

"And you will not stir from these rooms alone?" he replied, once more
taking her hand.

"Not if you think it best," she answered, frankly giving hers, and with
a smile, moreover, that ought to have set his heart at ease about her
thinking him too old to love. And for the moment perhaps it did so, for
he ventured to press a kiss upon that hand, and uttering a fervent
"Heaven bless and guard you!" disappeared.

And Agnes then sat down to muse again. But what a change had now come
o'er the spirit of her dream!... Where was her abject misery? Where the
desolation that had made her almost fear to look around and see how
frightfully alone she was? Her bell was rung, her candles brought her,
tea was served; and though there was a fulness and palpitation at the
heart which prevented her taking it, or eating the bread and butter
good-naturedly intended to atone for her untasted dinner, quite in the
tranquil, satisfactory, and persevering manner that might have been
wished, everything seemed to dance before her eyes _en coleur de rose_,
till at last, giving up the attempt to sit soberly at the tea-table, she
rose from her chair, clasped her hands with a look of grateful ecstasy
to heaven, and exclaimed aloud, "He loves me! Hubert loves me!... Oh,
happy, happy Agnes!"

"Did you call, miss?" said the maid entering, from having heard her
voice as she passed up the stairs.

Agnes looked at her and laughed. "No, Susan," she replied; "I believe I
was talking to myself."

"Well, that is funny," said the girl; "and I'm sure it is a pity such a
young lady as you should have no one else to talk to. Shall I take the
things away, miss?"

Once more left to herself, Agnes set about reading the letter, which
hitherto had lain untouched upon the table, blushing as she opened it
now, because it had not been opened before.

The first page was from Lady Elizabeth, and only expressed her commands,
given in her usual peremptory tone, but nevertheless mixed with much
kindness, that Agnes should leave London with as little delay as
possible, and consider her house as her home till such time as an
eligible situation could be found, in which her own excellent talents
might furnish her with a safer and more desirable manner of existence
than any her aunt Barnaby could offer. The remainder of the letter was
filled by Lady Stephenson, and expressed the most affectionate anxiety
for her welfare; but she too referred to the hope of being able to find
some situation that should render her independent; so that it was
sufficiently evident that neither of them as yet had any idea that this
independence might be the gift of Colonel Hubert.

"It is nonsense to suppose they will ever consent to it," thought
Agnes; and this time her spirits were not so exalted as to make her
breathe her thoughts aloud; "but I never can be so miserable again as I
have been ... it is enough happiness for any one person in this life ...
that everybody says is not a happy one ... it is quite enough to know
that Hubert loves me ... Oh Hubert!... noble Hubert! how did I dare to
fix my fancy on thee?... Presumptuous!... But yet he loves me!"

And with this balm, acting like a gentle opiate upon her exhausted
spirits, she slept all night, and dreamed of Hubert.

The four o'clock delivery of the post on the following day brought her
this letter from her aunt Barnaby.

     "DEAR AGNES,

     "The brutality of these Cheltenham people is perfectly
     inconceivable. Mr. Crayton my broker, and my poor father's
     broker before me, came to me as early as it was possible last
     night; and I explained to him fully, and without a shadow of
     reserve, the foolish scrape I had got into, which would have
     been no scrape at all if I had not happened to fall into the
     hands of a parcel of rascals. He undertook to get the sum
     necessary to release me by eleven o'clock this morning, which
     he did, good man, with the greatest punctuality ... paid that
     villanous Simmons, got his receipt, and my discharge, when,
     just at the very moment when I was stepping into the coach that
     was to take me from this hateful place, up come the same two
     identical fellows that insulted us in Half-Moon Street, and
     arrest me again at the suit of Wright.... Such nonsense!... As
     if I could not pay them all ten times over, as easy as buy a
     pot of porter. But they care no more for reason than a pig in a
     sty; so here I am, shut up again till that dear old man Crayton
     can come, and get through all the same tedious work again. You
     can't conceive how miserably dull I am; and what's
     particularly provoking, I gave over trying to have you in with
     me as soon as old Crayton told me I should be out by noon
     to-day; and therefore, Agnes, I want you to set off the very
     minute you receive this, and come to me for a visit. You may
     come to me for a visit, though I can't have you in without
     special leave. Mind not to lose your way; but it's uncommonly
     easy if you will only go by what I say. Set out the same way
     that we went to the church, you know, and keep on till you get
     to the Haymarket, which you will know by its being written up.
     Then, when you've got down to the bottom of it, turn sharp
     round to your left, and just ask your way to the Strand; and
     when you have got there, which you will in a minute, walk on,
     on, on, till you come to the bottom of a steep hill, and then
     stop and ask some one to shew you the way to the Fleet Prison.
     When you get there, any of the turnkeys will be able to shew
     you to my room; and a comfort I'm sure it will be to see you in
     such a place as this.... And do, Agnes, buy as you come along
     half a dozen cheesecakes and half a dozen queen-cakes, and a
     small jar, for about four or five shillings, of brandy
     cherries.... And what's a great comfort, I may keep you till
     it's dark, which is what they call shutting-up time, and then
     you can easy enough find your way back again by the gaslight,
     which is ten times more beautiful than day, all along the
     streets from one end of the town to the other.... Only think of
     that dirty scoundrel Morrison never coming near me ... after
     all that passed too, and all the wine he drank, shabby
     fellow!... There is one very elegant-looking man here that I
     meet in the passage every time I go to my bed-room. He always
     bows, but we have not spoken yet. Bring five sovereigns with
     you, and be sure set off the moment you get this.

     "Your affectionate aunt,

     "MARTHA BARNABY."

It needs not to say the sort of effect which the tone of this letter
produced on a mind in itself delicate and unsunned as the bells of the
valley lily, and filled to overflowing with the image of the noble
Hubert. Yet there were other feelings that mingled with this deep
disgust; she pitied her aunt Barnaby, and could any decent or womanly
exertion have done her good, or even pleasure, she would not have shrunk
from making it. But what she asked was beyond her power to perform; and,
moreover, she had promised Colonel Hubert not to leave the house. How
dear to her was the recollection of this injunction!... how delightful
the idea that his care and his commands protected her from the horrors
of such a progress as that sketched out by her aunt Barnaby. To obey her
was therefore altogether out of the question; but she sat down to write
to her, and endeavoured to soften her refusal by pleading her terror of
the streets at any hour, and her total want of strength and courage to
undertake such an expedition; adding, that she supposed by her account
there could be no doubt of their meeting in Half-Moon Street on the
morrow.

But the morrow and its morrow came, without bringing Mrs. Barnaby. In
fact, writ after writ had poured in upon her, but hoping still to evade
those yet to come, she only furnished herself with what each one
required, and so prolonged her imprisonment to the end of the week. Her
indignation at Agnes's refusal to come to her was excessive, and she
answered her letter by a vehement declaration that she would never again
inhabit the same house with her. This last epistle ended thus:--

     "If you don't wish to be turned neck and heels into the street
     the moment I return, look out for a nursery-maid's or a
     kitchen-maid's place if you will ... only take care never to
     let me set eyes upon you again. Ungrateful wretch!... What is
     Morrison's ingratitude to yours? For nearly seven months you
     have eaten at my cost, been lodged at my cost, travelled at my
     cost, ay, and been clothed at my cost too. And what is the
     return?... I am in prison for debts, which, of course, were
     incurred as much for you as for myself; and you refuse to come
     to me!... Never let me see you more--never let me hear your
     name, and never again turn your thoughts or hopes to your for
     ever offended aunt,

     "MARTHA BARNABY."

Little as Agnes wished to continue under the protection of Mrs. Barnaby,
this peremptory dismissal was exceedingly embarrassing. She had declined
immediately accepting the invitation of Lady Elizabeth in a manner that
made her very averse to throwing herself upon it, till a positive
refusal of assistance from her aunt Compton obliged her to do so; and
being absolutely penniless (excepting inasmuch as she was entrusted with
the key that secured the widow's small stock of ready money), her only
mode of not undergoing, to the letter, the sentence which condemned her
to wander in the streets, was remaining where she was till she received
an answer from Miss Compton.

It is certain that she submitted to thus seizing upon hospitality with
the strong hand the more readily, as by doing so she was enabled to obey
the parting injunction of Colonel Hubert; and bracing her courage to
the meeting that must take place should Mrs. Barnaby's release precede
her own, she suffered the heavy interval of doubt to steal away with as
little of the feverish restlessness of impatience as possible.




CHAPTER VI.

AGNES RECEIVES ANOTHER UNEXPECTED VISIT.--MRS. BARNABY RETURNS TO HER
LODGINGS AND CATCHES THE VISITER THERE.


The seven or eight months elapsed since the reader parted from Miss
Compton, passed not over the head of the secluded spinster as lightly as
the years which had gone before ... for her conscience was not quite at
rest. For some time the vehemence of the indignation and disgust excited
by Mrs. Barnaby, during their last interview, sustained her spirits,
much as a potent but noxious dram might have done; and during this time
the fact of Agnes being her inmate and companion, was quite sufficient
to communicate such a degree of contamination to her, as made the
choleric old lady turn from all thought of her with most petulant
dislike. The letter of Mrs. Barnaby, demanding an allowance for Agnes,
reached her just when all this violence was beginning to subside, and
acting like turpentine on an expiring flame, made her anger and hatred
rage again with greater fury than ever. This demand was refused, as we
have seen, in the harshest manner possible, and the writing this
insulting negative was a considerable relief to the spinster's feelings.
But when this was done, and all intercourse, as it should seem, finally
closed between herself and the only human being concerning whom she was
capable of feeling any lively interest, her anger drooped and faded, and
her health and spirits drooped and faded too. She remembered, when it
was too late, that it was not Agnes's fault that she was living with
Mrs. Barnaby; and conscience told her, that if she had come forward, as
she might and ought to have done, at the time of her brother's death,
the poor child might have been saved from the chance of any moral
resemblance to the object of her aversion, however much she might
unhappily inherit the detestable Wisett beauty. Then, too, came the
remembrance of the beautiful vision, whose caresses she had rejected
when irritated almost to madness by the tauntings of Mrs. Barnaby; and
the idea that the punishment allotted to her in this world for this
flagrant act of injustice, was the being doomed never to behold that
fair young creature more, lay with a daily increasing weight of
melancholy on her spirits.

It was on the afternoon of a fine September day that the letter of Agnes
reached her. As usual, she was sitting in her bower, and her flowers
bloomed and her bees hummed about her as heretofore, but the sprightly
black eye that used to watch them was greatly dimmed. She had almost
wholly lost her relish for works of fiction, and reading a daily portion
of the Bible, which she had never omitted in her life, was perhaps the
only one of all her comfortable habits that remained unchanged.

It would be no easy matter to paint the state into which the perusal of
Agnes's letter threw her. Self-reproach was lost in the sort of ecstasy
with which she remembered how thriftily she had hoarded her wealth, and
how ample were the means she possessed to give protection and welcome to
the poor orphan who thus sought a refuge in her bosom. All the strength
and energy she had lost seemed to rush back upon her as her need called
for them, ... and there was more of courage and enterprize within that
diminutive old woman than always falls to the lot of a six-foot-two
dragoon.

Her resolution as to what she intended to do was taken in a moment, and
without any weakening admixture of doubts and uncertainties as to when
and how; but she knew that she should want her strength, and must
therefore husband it. Her step was, therefore, neither hurried nor
unsteady as she returned to the house, and mounted to her sitting-room.
The first thing she did on entering it was to drink a glass of water,
the next to endite a note to the postmaster at Silverton, ordering a
chaise and four horses to be at Compton Basett by daybreak to take her
the first stage towards London. She then rang her bell, gave her note
to Peggy Wright, the farmer's youngest daughter, who was her constant
attendant, and bade her request that her father, if in the house, would
come to her immediately. There was enough in the unusual circumstances
of a letter received, and a note sent, to excite the good farmer's
curiosity, and he was in the presence of his landlady as quickly as she
could herself have wished.

"Sit down, Farmer Wright," said Miss Compton, and the farmer seated
himself.

"I must leave Compton Basett to-morrow morning, Farmer Wright," she
resumed. "My niece--my great niece, I mean, Miss Willoughby, has written
me a letter, which determines me to go to London immediately for the
purpose of taking charge of her myself."

"Sure-ly, Miss Compton, you bean't goen' to set off all by your own self
for Lunnun?" exclaimed the farmer.

"Not if I can manage before night to get a couple of servants to attend
me."

Farmer Wright stared; there was something quite new in Miss Betsy's
manner of talking.

"You are a very active man, farmer, in the haymaking season," continued
Miss Compton with a smile; "do you think, that to oblige and serve me,
you could be as much on the alert for the next three or four hours as if
you had a rick to save from a coming storm of rain?"

"That I wool!" replied Wright heartily. "Do you but bid me do, Miss
Betsy, and I'll do it."

"Then go to your sister Appleby's, and inquire if her son William has
left Squire Horton's yet."

"I need not go so far for that, Miss Compton; Will is down stairs with
my missus at this very minute," said the farmer.

"That is fortunate!... He is not likely to go away directly, is he?"

"No, not he, Miss Betsy; he is come to have a crack with our young 'uns,
and it's more likely he'll stay all night than be off in such a hurry."

"Then, in that case, have the kindness, Farmer Wright, to saddle a
horse, while I write a line to the bank.... I want you to ride over to
Silverton for me, to get some money."

"And I'll do it," replied her faithful assistant, leaving the room.

Fortunately for her present convenience, Miss Compton always kept a
deposit of about one hundred pounds in the bank at Silverton in case of
need, either for the purpose of making the loans which have been already
mentioned as a principal feature in her works of charity, or for any
accidental contingency. Beyond this, however, she had no pecuniary
transactions there, as her habitual secrecy in all that concerned her
money affairs made it desirable that her agent should be more distant.
This fund, however, was quite sufficient for the moment, for, as will be
easily believed, Miss Compton had no debts.

Farmer Wright speedily re-appeared, equipped for his ride.

"You will receive ninety-seven pounds sixteen and two-pence, Wright,"
said the spinster, giving her draught.

"Would it suit you best to receive the rent, Miss Betsy, before you set
off?" said the farmer. "It will make no difference, you know, ma'am, if
I pays it a fortnight beforehand."

"Not an hour, upon any account, Wright," replied his punctilious
landlady. "I will leave written instructions with you as to what you are
to do with it, and about all my other affairs in which you are
concerned. And now send William Appleby to me."

This young man, the nephew of her tenant, and the ex-footman of a
neighbouring family, had been favourably known to her from his
childhood; and a very few minutes sufficed to enrol him as her servant,
with an understanding that his livery was to be ordered as soon as they
reached London.

This done, Mrs. Wright was next desired to attend her; and with very
little waste of time or words, it was agreed between them, that if
"father" made no objection, (which both parties were pretty sure he
would not,) Peggy should be immediately converted into a waiting-maid to
attend upon herself and Miss Willoughby. This last arrangement produced
an effect very likely to be destructive to all Miss Betsy's quiet,
well-laid plans for preparation, for the news that Peggy was to set off
next morning for London very nearly turned the heads of every individual
in the house.

The mother of the family, however, so far recovered her senses as to
appear again in Miss Compton's room at the end of an hour, but with a
heated face, and every appearance of having been in great activity.

"I ax your pardon, Miss Betsy, a thousand times!" said the good woman,
wiping her face; "but Peggy's things, you know, Miss Compton, can't be
like yours, all nicely in order in the drawers; and we must all wash and
iron too before she can be ready. But here I am now to help you, and I
can get your trunk ready in no time."

"I shall take very little with me, Mrs. Wright," replied the old lady,
who seemed as much _au fait_ of what she was about as if she had been in
the habit of visiting London every year of her life; "nor must Peggy
take much," she added gently, but with decision; "and getting her things
washed and ironed must be done after we are gone. I shall let you know
as soon as I can where the luggage that must follow us, shall be
addressed; and instead of washing and ironing, Mrs. Wright, I want you
and one of the elder girls to assist me in making an inventory of
everything I leave behind ... orders concerning which you will also
receive by the post."

Miss Compton, though a very quiet inmate, and one whose regular habits
gave little trouble, was nevertheless a person of great importance at
Compton Basett; and her commands, thus distinctly expressed, were
implicitly obeyed; so that before the usual hour of retiring for the
night, everything was arranged both for going and staying exactly as
she had determined they should be.

It was singular to see with what unvacillating steadiness this
feeble-looking old lady pursued her purpose; no obstacle appeared of
consequence sufficient to draw aside a thought from the main object she
had in view, but was either removed or passed over by an impulse that
seemed as irresistible as the steam that causes the train to rush along
the rail-road, making the way clear, if it does not find it so.

At daybreak the Silverton post-chaise, with four good horses and two
smart post-boys, were at the door; and within ten minutes afterwards all
adieux had been spoken, all luggage stowed, and Miss Compton, who had
never yet left her native county, was proceeding full gallop towards the
metropolis.

"As you drive, so you will be paid," said William to the boys as they
set off; and they did drive as boys so bargained with generally do. Miss
Compton had shewn equal quickness and good judgment in having secured
the services of this William, for he had repeatedly travelled with his
late master and mistress to London, was apt, quick, and intelligent; and
fully justified the expectation his new lady had formed, that, with
_carte blanche_ in the article of expense, he would manage her journey
as expeditiously, and with as little trouble to herself, as if she had
been attended with half a dozen outriders.

At Exeter she dined, and reposed herself for a couple of hours, during
which William undertook to hire a carriage for the journey, furnished
with a dickey behind, and all other conveniences; an arrangement which
greatly lessened the fatigue to all parties, and enabled the
active-minded old lady to proceed as far as Salisbury that night.
Daybreak again found her _en route_; and by means of William's
conditional mode of payment to the postilions, Miss Compton arrived at
Ibertson's Hotel by two o'clock in the afternoon.

It might be supposed, from the exertion used to reach the wide city in
which she knew poor Agnes stood alone, that Miss Compton would drive
directly to Half-Moon Street, and save her, as early as possible, from
all farther anxiety; but such was not her plan.... There was something
still wanting to prove her repentance and her love, before she could
present herself before the forsaken Agnes. All her schemes, all her
wishes, were explained to her efficient aide-de-camp; and while she and
the wondering Peggy reposed themselves, he was sent in search of
handsome private lodgings, which must be such as his master the member
for Silverton might have approved for his own family.... And then he was
to proceed to livery-stables where he was known, and hire for her, by
the week, a carriage and horses _fit for ladies to use_. Such were Miss
Compton's vague, but very judicious orders; and the result was, that by
the time she had dined and taken an hour's nap upon the sofa, a very
respectable equipage was at the door awaiting her orders. In and about
this the light luggage she had brought with her was arranged, and ten
minutes' drive brought her to handsome, airy lodgings, near the top of
Wimpole Street, where William thought he should be able to breathe
himself, and where his mistress and Peggy, new as they were to the smoke
and dust, might have as good a chance of doing so too as in any other
street he could think of.

Miss Compton was pleased, greatly pleased, with her new confidant's
promptitude and ability. The carriage pleased her, the horses, the
coachman, the house, the furniture, and the obsequious landlady too, all
pleased her; and she felt a degree of happiness as she set her Peggy to
make arrangements for the especial comfort and accommodation of Agnes,
such as she had never known before. It cured all fatigue, it overpowered
every feeling of strangeness in her new and most unwonted abode, and
gave a gaiety to her spirits, and lightness to her heart, that made her
look, as she stepped from room to room, like one of the little benignant
old fairies of which we read in French story books.

By eight o'clock all her preparations were complete, the tea-things
placed on the drawing-room table, Peggy given to understand that she was
to consider herself more as Miss Willoughby's personal attendant than
her own, and the carriage again at the door to convey her to the
longed-for yet almost dreaded meeting in Half-Moon Street.

Agnes had written to Miss Compton on Monday, and calculated that she
might receive an answer to her letter on Thursday morning. But Thursday
morning was past, and no letter arrived; and when about half-past eight
on that same evening she heard a carriage stop, and the knocker thunder,
the only idea that suggested itself was, that her aunt Barnaby was
returned, and that she should have to plead for a night's lodging under
her roof.

Her spirits were weakened by disappointment ... she had heard nothing
from Cheltenham since Colonel Hubert's visit; and this, together with
the non-arrival of any Devonshire letter, had caused a degree of
depression to which she very rarely gave way.

"What shall I say to her?... How shall I dare to meet her?" she
exclaimed. "Oh! if she keeps her word, what, what will become of me?"

She heard steps approaching, and feeling convinced it was her aunt
Barnaby, attempted in her terror to open the door that communicated
with the other room, but found it locked; and trembling like a hunted
fawn, obliged to turn to bay, she cast her eyes towards the dreaded
door, and saw Miss Compton gently and timidly entering by it.

"Aunt Betsy!" she cried, springing towards her, and falling
involuntarily upon her knees, "Oh! dear, dear aunt Betsy!... Is it
indeed possible that you are come for me?"

The poor old lady's high-wrought energies almost failed her now; and had
not a chair stood near, she would hardly have saved herself from falling
on the floor beside her niece. "Agnes!... poor child!" she said, "you
thought I was too hard and too cruel to come near you?... I have been
much to blame ... oh! frightfully to blame!... Will you forgive me, dear
one?... My poor pale girl!... You look ill, Agnes, very, very ill....
And is it not a fitting torment for me to see this fair bloodless
cheek?... for did I not hate you for your rosy health?"

Agnes was indeed pale; and though not fainting, was so near it, that
while her aunt uttered this passionate address, she had no power to
articulate a word. But she laid her cheek on the old lady's hands; and
there was something so caressing and so helpless in her attitude as she
did this, that poor Miss Compton was entirely overcome and wept aloud.

No sooner, however, had this first violent burst of emotion passed away,
than the happiness such a meeting was calculated to afford to both of
them, was most keenly and delightfully felt. Miss Compton looked at
Agnes, as the blood beautifully tinged her delicate cheek again, with
such admiration and delight, that it seemed likely enough,
notwithstanding her strong good sense on many points, that she might now
fall into another extreme, and idolize the being she had so harshly
thrust from her ... while the object of this new and unhoped-for
affection seemed to feel it at her very heart, and to be cheered and
warmed by it, like a tender plant receiving the first beams of the
morning sun after the chilling coldness of the night.

At length Miss Compton remembered that she was not come there only to
look at Agnes; and withdrawing her arms, which she had thrown around
her, she said.... "Come, my own child ... this is no roof for either of
us. Have you much to remove? Is there more than a carriage can take,
Agnes?"

"And will you take me with you now, aunt Betsy?" cried the delighted
girl, springing up. "Wait but one moment, and all I have shall be
ready ... it is not much.... My books are packed, and my trunk
too ... the maid will help me."

"Ring the bell then, love, and let my servant take your packages down."
Agnes obeyed ... her trunk ... aunt Betsy's original trunk, and the dear
Empton book-box, were lodged on the driving-seat and the dickey of the
carriage; and William was just mounting the stairs to say that all was
ready, when another carriage was heard to stop, and another knocking
resounded against the open street-door.

"Oh! it is aunt Barnaby!" cried Agnes in a voice of terror.

"Is it?" replied Miss Compton, in the lively tone of former days. "I
shall be exceedingly glad to see her."

"Can you be in earnest, aunt Betsy?" said Agnes, looking very pale.

"Perfectly in earnest, my dear child," answered the old lady. "It will
be greatly more satisfactory that she should be an eye-witness of your
departure with me, than that you should go without giving her notice....
Perhaps she would say you had eloped and robbed the premises."

"Hush!..." cried Agnes ... "she is here!"

Mrs. Barnaby's voice, at least, was already with them. It was, indeed,
the return of this lady which they had heard; and no sooner had she
dismissed her hackney-coachman than she began questioning the servant of
the house, who was stationed at the open door, expecting Miss Compton
and her niece to come down.

"What carriage is that?... Whose servant is that upon the stairs?...
You have not been letting the lodgings, I hope?" were the first words of
the widow.

"Oh! dear no, ma'am!" replied the maid; "everything is just as you left
it."

"Then who is that carriage waiting for?"

"For a lady, ma'am, who is come to call on your young lady."

"MY young lady!... unnatural hussy!... And what fine friends has she
found out here, I wonder, to visit her?... Be they who they will, they
shall hear my opinion of her." And with these words, Mrs. Barnaby
mounted the last stair, and entered the room.

The two unsnuffed tallow candles which stood on the table did not enable
her at the first glance to recognize her aunt, who was wrapped in a long
silk cloak, much unlike any garment she had ever seen her wear; but the
sable figure of Agnes immediately caught her eye, and she stepped
towards her with her arm extended, very much as if about to box her
ears. But it seemed that the action was only intended to intimate that
she was instantly to depart, for, with raised voice and rapid
utterance, she said, "How comes it, girl, that I find you still here?...
Begone!... Never will I pass another night under the same roof with one
who could so basely desert a benefactress in distress!... And who may
this be that you have got to come and make merry with you, while I ...
and for your expenses too.... Whoever it is, they had better shew no
kindness to you, ... or they will be sure to repent of it."

Mrs. Barnaby then turned suddenly round to reconnoitre the unknown
visiter. "Do you not know me, Mrs. Barnaby?" said Miss Compton demurely.

"My aunt Betsy!... Good God! ma'am, what brought you here?"

"I came to take this troublesome girl off your hands, Mrs. Barnaby: is
not that kind of me?"

"That's the plan, is it?" retorted the widow bitterly. "Now I understand
it all. Instead of coming to comfort me in my misery, she was employing
herself in coaxing another aunt to make a sacrifice of herself to her
convenience. Take her; and when you are sick and sorry, she will turn
her back upon you, as she has done upon me!"

"Oh! do not speak so cruelly, aunt Barnaby!" cried Agnes, greatly
shocked at having her conduct thus described to one whose love she so
ardently wished to gain.... "Tell my aunt Compton what it was you asked
of me, and let her judge between us."

"Shut the door, Agnes!..." said Miss Compton sternly; and then,
re-seating herself, she addressed Mrs. Barnaby with an air of much
anxiety and interest: "Niece Martha, I must indeed beg of you to tell me
in what manner this young girl has conducted herself since she has been
with you, for, I can assure you, much depends upon the opinion I shall
now form of her. I have no longer any reason to conceal from you that my
circumstances are considerably more affluent than anybody but myself and
my man of business is aware of.... Nearly forty years of strict economy,
niece Martha, have enabled me to realize a very respectable little
fortune. It was I, and not my tenant, who purchased your poor father's
moiety of Compton Basett; and as I have scarcely ever touched the rents,
a little study of the theory of interest and compound interest will
prevent your being surprised, when I tell you that my present income is
fifteen hundred per annum, clear of all outgoings whatever."

"Is it possible!" exclaimed Mrs. Barnaby, with an accent and a look of
reverence, which very nearly destroyed the gravity of her old aunt.

"Yes, Mrs. Barnaby," she resumed, "such is my income. With less than
this, a gentlewoman of a good old family, desirous of bringing forward a
niece into the world in such a manner as to do her credit, could not
venture to take her place in society; and I have therefore waited till
my increasing revenues should amount to this sum before I declared my
intentions, and proclaimed my heiress. Such being the case, you will not
be surprised that I should be anxious to ascertain which of my two
nieces best deserves my favour. I do not mean to charge myself with
both.... Let that be clearly understood.... The doing so would entirely
defeat my object, which is to leave one representative of the Compton
Basett family with a fortune sufficient to restore its former
respectability."

"And everybody must admire such an intention," replied Mrs. Barnaby, in
an accent of inexpressible gentleness; "and I, for one, most truly hope,
that whoever you decide to leave it to, may deserve such generosity, and
have a grateful heart to requite it with."

"That is just what I should wish to find," returned the spinster; "and
before you came in, I had quite made up my mind that Agnes Willoughby
should be the person; but I confess, Mrs. Barnaby, that what you have
said alarms me, and I shall be very much obliged if you will immediately
let me know what Agnes has done to merit the accusation of having
_deserted her benefactress_?"

"It is but too easy to answer that, aunt Compton," replied the widow,
"and I am sorry to speak against my own sister's child; ... but truth is
truth, and since you command me to tell you what I meant when I said
she had deserted me, I will.... I have been arrested, aunt Compton, and
that for no reason on the earth but because I was tempted to stay three
or four days longer in London than I intended. Of course, I meant to go
back to that paltry place, Cheltenham, and pay every farthing I owed
there, the proof of which is that I _have_ paid every farthing, though
it would have served them right to have kept them a year out of their
money, instead of a month; ... but that's neither here nor there ...
though there was no danger of my staying in prison, I WAS there for
three days, and Agnes could not tell but I might have been there for
ever; ... yet, when I wrote her a most affectionate letter, begging her
only to call upon me in my miserable solitude, she answered my petition,
which might have moved a heart of stone, with a flat refusal.... Ask her
if she can deny this?"

"What say you, Agnes?... Is this so?" said the old lady, turning to the
party accused.

"Aunt Betsy!..." said Agnes, and then stopped, as if unwilling, for
some reason or other, to say more.

"YES or NO?" demanded Mrs. Barnaby, vehemently. "Did you refuse to come
to me, or not?"

"I did," replied Agnes.

"I hope you are satisfied, aunt Compton?" cried the widow
triumphantly.... "By her own confession, you perceive that I have told
you nothing but the truth."

Agnes said nothing in reply to this, but loosening the strings of a silk
bag which hung upon her arm, she took from it a small packet, and placed
it in the hands of Miss Compton. "What have we got here?" said the
spinster sharply.... "What do you give me this for, child?"

"I wish you to read what is there, if you please, aunt," said Agnes.
Miss Compton laid it on the table before her, while she sought for her
spectacles and adjusted them on her nose; but, while doing this, she
kept her eyes keenly fixed upon the little packet, and not without
reason, for, had she turned from it for a single instant, Mrs. Barnaby,
who shrewdly suspected its contents, would infallibly have taken
possession of it.

"My coachman and horses will get tired of all this, I think," said Miss
Compton; "however, as you say, niece Martha, truth is truth, and must be
sought after, even if it lies at the bottom of a well.... This is a
letter, and directed to you, Miss Agnes; ... and this is the back of
another, with some young-lady-like scrawling upon it.... Which am I to
read first, pray?"

"The letter, aunt Betsy," replied Agnes.

"So be it," said the spinster with an air of great indifference; and
drawing one of the candles towards her, and carefully snuffing it, she
began clearly and deliberately reading aloud the letter already given,
in which Mrs. Barnaby desired the presence of Agnes, and gave her
instructions for her finding her way to the Fleet Prison. Having
finished this, she replaced it quietly in its cover without saying a
word, or even raising her eyes towards either of her companions; and
taking the other paper, containing Agnes's reasons for non-compliance,
read that through likewise, exactly in the same distinct tone, and
replaced it with an equal absence of all commentary, in the cover. She
then rose, and walking close up to her elder niece, who proffered not a
word, looking in her face with a smile that must have been infinitely
more provoking than the most violent indignation, said, "Niece
Martha!... the last time I saw you, if I remember rightly, you offered
me some of your old clothes; but now you offer me none, which I consider
as the more unkind, because, if you dressed as smart as you are now
while in prison, you must most certainly wear very fine things when you
are free.... And so, as you are no longer the kind niece you used to be,
I don't think I shall come to see you any more. As for this young lady
here, it appears to me that you have not been severe enough with her,
Mrs. Barnaby.... I'll see if I can't teach her to behave better.... In
prison or out of prison ... if I bid her come, we shall see if she dare
look about her for such plausible reasons for refusing as she has given
you. If she does, I'll certainly send her back to you, Mrs. Barnaby.
Ring the bell, naughty Agnes!"

The maid seemed to have been very near the door, for it instantly
opened. "Tell my servants that I am coming," said the whimsical
spinster, enacting the fine lady with excellent effect; and making a
low, slow, and most ceremonious courtesy to the irritated, but perfectly
overpowered Mrs. Barnaby, she made a sign to Agnes to precede her to the
carriage, and left the room.




CHAPTER VII.

AGNES ELOPES WITH HER AUNT BETSY.


"Is it possible!" cried Agnes, the moment that the door of the carriage
was closed upon them, "is it possible that I am really under your
protection, and going to your home, aunt Betsy?"

"To my temporary home, dear child, you are certainly going," said the
old lady, taking her hand; "but I hope soon to have one more comfortable
for you, my Agnes!"

"Where I shall find the bower and the bees? Is it not so, aunt?"

"Not exactly ... at least not at present.... But tell me, Agnes, don't
you think I was very gentle and civil to Mrs. Barnaby?"

"It was certainly very wise not to reproach her, poor woman, more
directly.... But, oh! dearest aunt Betsy, how well you know her!... If
you had studied for a twelvemonth to find out how you might best have
tormented her, you could have discovered no method so effectual as the
making her first believe that you had a great fortune, and then that her
own conduct had robbed her of your favour. Poor aunt Barnaby!... I
cannot help pitying her!"

"You are tender-hearted, my dear, ... and a flatterer too.... You give
me credit, I assure you, for a vast deal more cleverness than I possess:
excepting on the subject of the old clothes which she offered me when we
met in the cottage of dame Sims, I attempted no jestings with her....
But tell me, Agnes, have you not suffered dreadfully from the tyranny
and vulgar ignorance of this detestable woman? Has she not almost broken
your young heart?"

"I have not been very happy with her, aunt Betsy," replied Agnes
gently; ... "but she speaks only truth when she says I have lived at her
cost, and this ought to close my lips against speaking more against her
than may be necessary to clear my own conduct in your eyes."

Perhaps the old lady was a little disappointed at finding that she was
to have no good stories concerning the absurdities of the apothecary's
high-flying widow, as she called her; but, despite all the oddities of
Miss Compton, there was quite enough of the innate feeling of a
gentlewoman within her to make her value Agnes the more for her promised
forbearance. She threw her arm round her, and pressing her to her bosom,
said,--

"Let this feeling of Christian gentleness be extended to me also,
Agnes, ... for I have great need of it. This Martha Wisett the second,
poor soul, was the first-born of her mother, and seems to have taken as
her birth-right all the qualities, bodily and mental, of her vulgar and
illiterate dam.... But I have no such excuse, my child, for the
obstinate prejudice with which my heart has been filled, and my judgment
absolutely confounded. All you have suffered with this woman, Agnes,
ought, in truth, to be laid to my charge.... I knew what she was, and
yet I suffered you.... Let us try to forget it; and only remember, if
you can, that I turned away from you for no other reason upon earth than
because I feared you were not ... exactly what I now find you. But here
we are at home. How greatly must you want the healing feeling that home
should bring! Poor dear!... When have you ever felt it?"

"At Empton, aunt!" answered Agnes eagerly; and even though the carriage
door was open, and the step let down, she added, "The only home I ever
loved I owed to you."

Hastily as this word was said, it sunk with very healing effect into the
heart of the self-reproaching old lady ... it was answered by a cordial
"God bless you!" and hand in hand the very happy pair walked up the
staircase together. The accomplished William had preceded them, and
thrown open the door of aunt Betsy's handsome drawing-room; and no
apartment could offer an aspect of more comfort. The evening had all the
chilliness of September when its sun is gone; and the small bright fire,
with a sofa placed cosily near it, looked cheerily. Wax-lights on the
chimney and tea-table, gave light sufficient to shew a large,
exceedingly well-fitted up room; and a pretty young woman, neatly
dressed, came forward to offer her services in the removal of cloaks and
shawls.

Agnes looked round the room, and then turned to her aunt, as if tacitly
demanding an explanation of what she saw. Miss Compton smiled, and
answered the appeal by saying, "Did you expect, dearest, that I should
be able to bring my farm-house and my bees with me?"

"No, aunt Compton," replied Agnes, very gravely, "I did not expect
that; ... but...."

"Aunt BETSY--you must always call me aunt Betsy, Agnes. That was the
appellation that your dear voice uttered so joyously when I entered the
dark den in which I found you, and I shall never like any other as
well.... But don't be frightened because I have somewhat changed my mode
of living, my dear child. I will not invite you to ramble through the
streets of London, in order to visit me when I am in prison for debt. I
know what my means are, Agnes--few ladies better--and I will never
exceed them."

This was said very gravely, and the assurance was by no means
unimportant to the tranquillity of the young heiress. The scenes she had
recently passed through would have reconciled her to a farm-house, a
cottage, a hut; so that the air of heaven blew untainted round it, and
no livery-stable keepers, or bailiff's followers, could find entrance
there. But Miss Compton's words and manner set her heart at rest on that
score, though they could not remove her astonishment, the involuntary
expression of which, on her beautiful face, was by no means disagreeable
to the novel-read aunt Betsy. It was just as it should be ... beauty,
goodness, misery, ill-usage, and all; and she felt most happily
convinced that, if there were but a lover in the case, and such a one
as, despite all obstacles, she could approve, she should to her dying
day have the comfort of thinking that the moment which she had chosen
for ceasing to accumulate, and beginning to spend, was the very best
possible.

And this lover in the clouds.... Would Agnes open her heart to her on
such a subject?... Had she any right to hope it?... Not yet, certainly
not yet, thought Miss Compton as, the services of William over, and the
tea-things removed, they drew nearer the fire; and she fixed her eyes
anew on the beautiful face she so greatly loved to contemplate, partly
because it was so beautiful, and partly because she could not trace in
it the slightest resemblance to any member of the Wisett race.

But soft and peaceful as was now the expression of that face, there
might occasionally be seen by an accurate observer that indescribable
look of thoughtfulness in the eyes which never arises till the mind has
been awakened, upon some subject or other, to emotions of deep interest.
Miss Compton was a very accurate observer, and saw, as plainly as
Lavater himself could have done, that Agnes had learned to feel.

The romantic old lady would have given her right hand to possess her
confidence, but she was determined not to ask for it.

"Do you think we shall be happy together, Agnes?" said she, in a voice
which, when its cheerful tone was not exaggerated into the ironical
levity in which she sometimes indulged, was singularly pleasing. "Do
you think that you shall like to be my darling?"

"Yes, I do," replied Agnes, with the sudden bluntness of sincerity; "but
I think I shall plague you sometimes, aunt Betsy."

"You have made up your mind to that already, have you?" returned Miss
Compton, delighted at the playful tone in which she spoke; "then, in
that case, I must make up my mind too, and contrive to make a pleasure
of what you call a plague. How do you mean to begin, Agnes?... What will
you do first?... Will you cry for the moon?"

"Will you try to get it for me if I do, aunt Betsy?" said Agnes,
laughing.

"Yes, I will ... that is, if you will let me know what sort of moon it
is, and to what part of the heavens I must turn to find it. Jupiter, you
know, has...."

"Oh! my moon is the highest and brightest of them all!..." said Agnes,
with a sigh; and, after remaining silent for a moment, she added, ...
"Aunt Betsy, may I tell you everything that has happened to me?"

"If you love me well enough to do this, my child," said the delighted
old lady, while, nevertheless, a tear glistened in her clear black
eye,--"if you love me well enough, I shall feel that I have not given up
my bees and my flowers for nothing."

Agnes drew nearer, and, after a moment's hesitation, began.

"I believe that all young ladies' histories have something about a
gentleman in them, and so has mine...."

"A _young_ gentleman, I hope, Agnes?" interrupted the aunt, with a
smile.

Agnes coloured a little, but replied, "He is not so very young, aunt
Betsy, as to make his youth his most remarkable quality."

"Very well, that is all quite right; he ought to be older than you, my
dear.... Go on."

"When I was at Clifton, aunt Betsy, I was often in company with Colonel
Hubert...."

"A colonel?... That sounds very respectable; he was the father, I
suppose, of THE gentleman?"

"No, indeed," replied Agnes, with some vexation; "he is himself the only
gentleman that I have anything to say about, ... and his sister says
that he will be a general next month."

"Indeed!... A general?... General Hubert!... a very eligible
acquaintance, I have no doubt.... I should hardly have hoped you could
have had the good luck to meet with such among the friends of your aunt
Barnaby."

"An eligible acquaintance!... Oh! aunt, you don't understand me at
all!... But I will tell you everything. Colonel Hubert is ... I can't
describe him.... I hope you will see him, aunt Betsy, and then you will
not wonder, perhaps, that I should have thought him, from the very first
moment I saw him, the only person in the world...."

Agnes stopped short; but Miss Compton seemed to think she had finished
her phrase very properly.

"And what did he think of you, my dear?... this young colonel?"

"Colonel Hubert never said anything about it at Clifton," replied Agnes,
blushing; "but yet I thought--I hoped he liked me, though I knew it did
not signify whether he did or not, for he is one of a very
distinguished family, ... who could never, I imagined, think seriously
of any one living with ... with my aunt Barnaby. But at Cheltenham I
became acquainted with his aunt, Lady Elizabeth Norris, and his sister,
Lady Stephenson, and they were very, _very_ kind to me; and when I came
to London with my aunt Barnaby in this wild manner, they were very
anxious about me, and made me promise to write to them.... But before I
thought they could know anything about her being taken to prison ... the
very day indeed that she went there, in the evening, while I was sitting
in that dismal room, just as you found me to-night ... Colonel
Hubert.... Oh! aunt Betsy ... the sight of you did not surprise me
more.... Colonel Hubert walked in."

"That was hardly right, though, Agnes, if he knew you were alone."

"He brought a letter from his aunt and sister, most kindly asking me to
take shelter with them immediately; ... and I am quite sure that when he
came he had no intention of speaking of anything but that.... But I
believe I looked very miserable, and his generous heart could not bear
it, so he told me that he loved me, and asked me to be his wife."

"It _was_ generous of him at such a dreadful moment," said the spinster,
her eyes again twinkling through tears.... "And how did you answer him,
my love?"

"I told him," replied Agnes, trembling and turning pale as she spoke, "I
told him that I could never be his wife!"

"Why, my dear, I thought you said," ... cried the old lady, looking much
disappointed, ... "I thought you said you admired him of all things, and
I am sure he seems to have deserved it; but I suppose you thought he was
too old for you?"

"No! no! no!" replied Agnes vehemently.... "He is young enough for me to
love him, oh! so dearly!... It was because I could not hear that he
should marry so beneath himself ... it was because I thought his aunt
and sister would resent it...."

"Humph!... That was very generous on your part too; but I suppose he
knows best.... And what did he say then, Agnes?"

"Oh! aunt Betsy!... he said exactly as you did ... he said that he was
too old for me to love him; ..." and, remembering the agony of that
moment, she hid her face in her hands and wept.

Miss Compton looked at her with pitying eyes; and, after a moment, said,
"And so you parted, Agnes?"

"Yes!" she replied, removing her hands. "It was almost so, and yet not
quite.... I could not tell him, you know, how dearly, how very dearly I
loved him!... that was impossible!... but I said something about his
sister and his aunt; and then ... oh! I shall never forget him!...
something like hope ... pray, do not think me vain, aunt Betsy,--but it
_was_ hope that shot into his eye again, and changed the whole
expression of his face; ... yet he said no more about his love, and only
asked me to promise never to leave the shelter of that roof till I heard
from his aunt again.... And I did promise him.... But could I keep it,
aunt?... It would have been obeying him in words, and not in spirit....
And now I'm coming to my reason for telling you all this so very
soon.... What shall I say to them now? How shall I write to them?"

It seemed that Miss Compton did not find this a very easy question to
answer, for she took many minutes to consider of it. At length she
said, ... "As to setting right the love part of the affair, you need not
alarm yourself, my dear ... there will be no great difficulty in
that.... If you know your own mind, and really are in love with a
general, instead of an ensign, I don't see why you should be
contradicted, though it is a little out of the common way.... He is a
gentleman, and that is the only point upon which I could have been very
strict with you.... But there is another thing, Agnes, in which you must
please to let me have my own way.... Will you promise me?"

"How can there be any way but yours in what concerns me, dear aunt
Betsy?"

"Bless you, my dear!... I will not be a tyrant ... at least not a very
cruel tyrant; but my happiness will be injured for the rest of my life,
Agnes, if the next time you see this gentleman and his family, it is
not in such a manner as to make them perceive, without the necessity of
their listening to an old woman's long story about it, that you are not
an unworthy match for him in any way.... Let this be managed, and
everything will end well.... There will be no risk of your witnessing,
either in the words or looks of these noble ladies whom you call your
friends, any struggle between their partiality for you and their higher
hopes for him. HE will ever remember with pleasure that he waited not
for this to offer you his hand and heart; and trust me YOU will never
remember with sorrow that you did wait for it before you accepted him.
Do you agree with me?"

"Indeed I do!" fervently replied Agnes. "But could they see me at this
moment, would not your wish be answered? Could they doubt for a moment,
while seeing you, and seeing the style of all about you, that I am
something more than the poor hopeless dependant of Mrs. Barnaby?"

"That is not it.... That would not do at all, child," replied the old
lady, sharply. "It shall not be the poor dependant of anybody that this
noble-hearted Colonel Hubert shall come to woo. Love him as much as you
will, the world may say, and his family may think too, that his rank and
station led you to accept him. I will save you both from this danger.
Colonel Hubert shall not try his chance with you again till you are the
independent possessor of fifteen hundred pounds a-year. When I die,
Agnes, if you behave well in the interim, I will bequeath my bees to
you, and all the furniture of my two pretty rooms at Compton Basett, as
well as all the reserved rents in the shape of allowances, coals, wood,
attendance, and the like, which will be mine while I live. This, my
dear, shall come to you in the way of legacy, in case I continue to be
pleased with your behaviour; but there is no way for me to atone for the
injury I have done to the representative of my family by suffering her
to remain six months with Mrs. Barnaby, but making her at once the
independent possessor of the Compton property."

"My dear, dear aunt!" said Agnes, most unfeignedly distressed, "there
can be no occasion at this moment to talk of your doing what, in my
poor judgment, would be so very wrong.... Should I be so happy as to
make Colonel Hubert known to you, I would trust to him to discuss such
subjects.... Oh! what delight, aunt Betsy, for you to have such a man
for your friend!... and all owing to me!"

There was something so ingenuous, so young, so unquestionably sincere in
this burst of feeling, that the old lady was greatly touched by it. "You
are a sweet creature, Agnes," she replied, "and quite right in telling
me not to discuss any matters of business with you.... I shall touch on
no such subjects again, for I see they are totally beyond your
comprehension. Nevertheless, I must have my way about not introducing
myself to Colonel Hubert's family, or himself either, in lodgings. Write
to your kind friends, my dear; tell them that your old aunt Compton has
left her retirement to take care of you, and tell them also that she
feels as she ought to do.... But, no; you write your own feelings, and I
will write mine.... But this must be to-morrow, Agnes; ... it is past
twelve o'clock, love. See! that gay thing on the chimney-piece attests
it.... I must shew you to your room, my guest; hereafter I shall be
yours, perhaps."

Peggy being summoned, the two ladies were lighted to the rooms above....
These were in a style of great comfort, and even elegance; but one being
somewhat larger than the other, and furnished with a dressing-room, it
was in this that Agnes found her trunk and book-box; and it was here
that, after seeing that her fire burned brightly, and that Peggy was
standing ready to assist in undressing her, the happy Miss Compton
embraced, blessed, and left her to repose.

It was a long time, however, before Agnes would believe that anything
like sleep could visit her eyes that night. What a change, what an
almost incredible transition, had she passed through since her last
sleep! It was more like the operation of a magician's wand than the
consequence of human events. From being a reprobated outcast, banished
from the roof that sheltered her, she had become the sole object of
love and care to one who seemed to have it in her power to make life a
paradise to her. How many blissful visions floated through her brain
before all blended together in one general consciousness of happy
security, that at last lulled her to delicious sleep! She was hardly
less sensible than her somewhat proud aunt of the pleasure which a
reunion with her Cheltenham friends, under circumstances, so changed,
would bring; and her dreams were of receiving Lady Elizabeth Norris and
her niece in a beautiful palace on the shores of a lovely lake, while
Colonel Hubert stood smiling by to watch the meeting.




CHAPTER VIII.

AGNES APPEARS LIKELY TO PROFIT BY THE CHANGE OF AUNTS.


The first waking under the consciousness of new, and not yet familiar
happiness, is perhaps one of the most delightful sensations of which we
are susceptible. Agnes had closed her eyes late, and it was late when
she opened them, for Peggy had already drawn her window curtains; and
the gay hangings and large looking-glasses of the apartment met her eyes
at the first glance with such brilliant effect, that she fancied for an
instant she must still be dreaming. But by degrees all the delightful
truth returned upon her mind. Where was the blank, cold isolation of the
heart, with which her days were used to rise and set? Where were the
terrors amidst which she lived, lest her protectress should expose
herself by some monstrous, new absurdity? Where was the hopeless future,
before which she had so often wept and trembled? Was it possible that
she was the same Agnes Willoughby who had awoke with such an aching
heart, but four-and-twenty hours ago?... All these questions were asked,
and gaily answered, before she had resolution to spring from her bed,
and change her delightful speculations for a more delightful reality.

Notwithstanding the various fatigues of the preceding day, Miss Compton
was not only in the drawing-room, but her letter to Lady Elizabeth
Norris was already written on the third side of a sheet of letter paper,
thus giving Agnes an opportunity of explaining everything before her own
lines should meet her ladyship's eye.

The meal which has been slandered as "lazy, lounging, and most
unsocial," was far otherwise on the present occasion. The aunt and niece
sat down together, each regaling the eyes of the other with a
countenance speaking the most heart-felt happiness; and while the old
lady indulged herself with sketching plans for the future, the young one
listened as if her voice were that of fate, declaring that she should
never taste of sorrow more.

"The carriage will be here at twelve, Agnes," said Miss Compton, to
"take us into what our books tell us is called THE CITY, as if it were
the city of cities, and about which I suppose you and I are equally
ignorant, seeing that you never did take that pleasant little walk the
dowager Mrs. Barnaby so considerately sketched out for you. So now we
shall look at it together. But don't fancy, my dear, that any such idle
project as looking at its wonders is what takes me there now.... I have
got a broker, Agnes, as well as the widow, and it is quite as necessary
to my proceedings as to hers that I should see him. But we must not go
till our partnership letter is ready for the post. Here is my share of
it Agnes ... read it to me, and if it meets your approbation, sit down
and let your own precede it."

The lines written by Miss Compton were as follow:--

     "MADAM,

     "Permit a stranger, closely connected by the ties of blood to
     Agnes Willoughby, to return her grateful thanks for kindness
     extended to her at a moment when she greatly needed it. That
     she should so have needed it, will ever be a cause of
     self-reproach to me; nor will it avail me much either in my own
     opinion, or in that of others, that the same qualities in our
     common kinswoman, Mrs. Barnaby, which produced the distress of
     Agnes, produced in me the aversion which kept me too distant to
     perceive their effects on her respectability and happiness.

     "I am, Madam,

     "Your grateful and obedient servant,

     "ELIZABETH COMPTON."

Agnes wrote:--

     "MY KIND AND GENEROUS FRIENDS!

     "Lady Elizabeth!... Lady Stephenson! I write to you, as I never
     dared hope to do, from under the eye and the protection of my
     dear aunt Compton. It is to her I owe all the education I ever
     received, and, I might add, all the happiness too, ... for I
     have never known any happy home but that which her liberal
     kindness procured for me during five years spent in the family
     of my beloved instructress Mrs. Wilmot. For the seven months
     that have elapsed since I quitted Mrs. Wilmot, my situation, as
     you, my kind friends, know but too well, has been one of very
     doubtful respectability, but very certain misery. My aunt
     Compton blames herself for this, but you, if I should ever be
     so happy as to make you know my aunt Compton, will blame me.
     Her former kindness ought to have given me courage to address
     her before, even though circumstances had placed me so entirely
     in the hands of Mrs. Barnaby as to make the separation between
     us fearfully wide. But, thank God! all this unhappiness is now
     over. I _did_ apply to her at last, and the result has been the
     converting me from a very hopeless, friendless, and miserable
     girl (as I was when you first saw me) into one of the very
     happiest persons in the whole world. I have passed through some
     scenes, from the remembrance of which I shall always shrink
     with pain; but there have been others ... there have been
     points in my little history, which have left an impression a
     thousand times deeper, and dearer too, than could ever have
     been produced on any heart unsoftened by calamity. And must it
     not ever be accounted among my best sources of happiness, that
     the regard which can never cease to be the most precious, as
     well as the proudest boast of my life, was expressed under
     circumstances which to most persons would have appeared so
     strongly against me?

     "My generous friends!... May I hope that the affection shewn to
     me in sorrow will not be withdrawn now that sorrow is past?...
     May I hope that we shall meet again, and that I may have the
     great happiness of making my dear aunt known to you? She is all
     kindness, and would take me to Cheltenham, that I might thank
     you in person for the aid so generously offered in my hour of
     need, but I fear poor Mrs. Barnaby's adventures will for some
     time be too freshly remembered there for me to wish to revisit
     it...."

When Agnes had written thus far, she stopped. "Where shall I tell them,
aunt Betsy, that we are going to remain?" she said.... "If ... if
Colonel Hubert" ... and she stopped again.

"If Colonel Hubert ... and what then, Agnes?"

"Why, if Colonel Hubert _were_ to pay us a visit, aunt Betsy, I cannot
help thinking that he would understand me better now, than when I was so
dreadfully overpowered by the feeling of my desolate condition.... Don't
you think so?"

"I think it very probable he might, my dear; ... and as to your sensible
question, Agnes, of where we are going to be, I think you must decide it
yourself. We have both declared against Cheltenham, and for reasons
good.... Where then should you best like to go?"

"To Clifton, aunt Betsy!... It was there I saw him first, and there,
too, I was most kindly treated by friends who, I believe, pitied me
because ... because I did not seem happy, I suppose.... Oh! I would
rather go to Clifton than any place in the world ... excepting Empton."

"And to Empton we cannot go just at present, Agnes ... it would be too
much like running out of the world again, which I have no wish at all to
do. To Clifton, therefore, we will go, dear child, and so you may tell
your good friends."

Agnes gave no other answer than walking round the table and imprinting a
kiss upon the forehead of her happy aunt.... Then resuming her writing,
she thus concluded her letter:--

     "My aunt Compton, as soon as she has concluded some business
     which she has to settle in London, will go to Clifton, where, I
     believe, we shall stay for some months; and should any of your
     family happen again to be there, I may perhaps be happy enough
     to see them. With gratitude to all, I remain ever your attached
     and devoted

     "AGNES WILLOUGHBY."

Poor Agnes!... She was terribly dissatisfied with her letter when she
had written it. Not all her generalizations could suffice to tell him,
THE him, the only mortal him she remembered in the world,--not all her
innocent little devices to make it understood that _he_ was included in
all her gratitude and love, as well as in her invitation to
Clifton,--made it at all clear that she wanted Colonel Hubert to come
and offer to her again.

Yet what could she say more?... She sat with her eye fixed on the paper,
and a face full of meaning, though what that meaning was, it might not
be very easy to decide.

"What is my girl thinking of?" said Miss Compton.

"I am thinking," replied Agnes, and she shook her head, "I am thinking
that Colonel Hubert will never understand from this letter, aunt Betsy,
how very much I want to see him again."

"That is very true, my dear."

"Is there anything else I could say to make him know how greatly he
mistook me when he fancied I said NO from my want of love?"

"Oh yes! my dear, certainly."

"Tell me then, my dear, dear, aunt!... I feel as if I had no power to
find a word.... Tell me what I shall say to him."

"You may say many things ... for instance, ... you may say, Tell my
beloved Colonel Hubert...."

"Oh! aunt Betsy!... aunt Betsy! you are laughing at me," cried Agnes,
looking at her very gravely, and with an air of melancholy reproach.

"So I am, my dear: an old spinster of three score is but a poor
confidant in matters of this sort.... But if you seriously ask for my
advice, I will give it, such as it is. Let our letter go just as it is,
without any addition or alteration whatever. If Colonel Hubert sees this
letter, as you seem to expect, and if he loves you as you deserve to be
loved, he will find food enough for hope therein to carry him further
than from one end of Gloucestershire to the other.... If he does _not_
see it, put what you will in it, he would learn nothing thereby.... But
if, seeing it, he determines to sit quietly down under your refusal ...
then let him; I, for one, should feel no wish to become better
acquainted with the gentleman."

Agnes said no more, but folded the letter, and directed it to Lady
Elizabeth Norris, Cheltenham.

"Now, aunt, I have folded up Colonel Hubert, and put him out of sight
till he shall choose to bring himself forward again.... I will tease you
no more about him.... Shall I put my bonnet on?... The carriage has
been waiting for some time."

"My darling Agnes!..." said the old lady, looking fondly at her, "how
little I deserve to find you so exactly what I wished you should be!...
You are right; we will talk no more of this Colonel Hubert till he has
himself declared what part he means to play in the drama before us. We
shall be at no loss for subjects.... Remember how much we have to settle
between us!... our establishment, our equipage, our wardrobes, all to
be decided upon, modelled, and provided. Get ready, dearest; the sooner
we get through our business, the earlier we shall be at Clifton; ... and
who knows which part of our _dramatis personae_ may arrive there first?"

A happy smile dimpled the cheek of Agnes as she ran out of the room to
equip herself, and in a few minutes the two ladies were _en route_
towards the city.

"What makes you wear such very deep mourning, my dear?" said Miss
Compton, fixing her eyes on the perennial black crape bonnet of her
companion. "Is it all for the worthy apothecary of Silverton?... But
that can't be either, for now I think of it, his charming widow had half
the colours of the rainbow about her.... What does it mean, Agnes?"

Agnes looked out of the window to conceal a smile, but recovering her
composure answered,... "I have never been out of mourning, aunt, since
Mr. Barnaby died.... There was a great deal of black not worn out, ...
and as it made no difference to me...."

"Oh! monstrous!..." interrupted Miss Compton. "I see it all: ... while
she wantons about like a painted butterfly, she has thrown her
chrysalis-case upon you, my pretty Agnes, in the hope of making you look
like a grub beside her.... Is it not so?"

"Oh no!... my aunt Barnaby loves dress certainly, ... and greatly
dislikes black, and so...."

"And so you are to wear it for her?... Well, Agnes, you shan't abuse
her, if you think it a sin.... God forbid!... But do not refuse to let
me into a few of her ways.... Did she ever ask you to put on her
widow's cap, my dear? It might have saved the expense of night-caps at
least."

       *       *       *       *       *

It was almost a cruelty in Agnes to conceal the many characteristic
traits of selfish littleness which she had witnessed in her widowed
aunt, from the caustic contemplation of her spinster one, for she would
have enjoyed it. But it was so much in her nature to do so, that dearly
as she would have loved to amuse aunt Betsy, and give scope to her
biting humour on any other theme, she gave her no encouragement on this;
so, by degrees, all allusion to Mrs. Barnaby dropped out of their
discourse; and if, from time to time, some little sample of her
peculiarities peeped forth involuntarily in speaking of the past, the
well-schooled old lady learned to enjoy them in silence, and certainly
did not love her niece the less for the restraint thus put upon her.

       *       *       *       *       *

Considering how complete a novice our spinster practically was as to
everything concerning the vast Babylon called London, she contrived to
go where she wished and where she willed with wonderfully few blunders.
It was all managed between William and herself, and Agnes marvelled at
the ease with which much seemingly important business was transacted.

The carriage was stopped before a very dusky-looking mansion at no great
distance from the Exchange, within the dark passage of which William
disappeared for some moments, and then returning, opened the carriage
door, and, without uttering a word, gave his arm to assist Miss Compton
to descend.

"I will not keep you waiting long, my dear," she said, and, without
further explanation, followed her confidential attendant into the house.
In about half an hour she returned, accompanied by a bald-headed,
yellow-faced personage, who, somewhat to the surprise of Agnes, mounted
the carriage after her, and placed himself as _bodkin_ between them. "To
the Bank," was the word of command then given, and in a moment they
again stopped, and Agnes was once more left alone.

The interval during which she was thus left was this time considerably
longer than the last, and she had long been tired of watching the goers
and comers, all bearing, however varied their physiognomy, the same
general stamp of busy, anxious interest upon their brows, before the
active old lady and her bald-headed acquaintance re-appeared.

The old gentleman handed her into the carriage, and then took his leave
amidst a multitude of obsequious bows, and assurances that her commands
should always be obeyed at the shortest notice, _et cetera, et
cetera, et cetera_.

"Agnes!..." said the old lady, as soon as she had exchanged a few words
with William as to where she next wished to go, "Agnes! I look to you to
supply the place of my bees and my flowers, and I do not much fear that
I shall lament the exchange; but you must not continue to be dight in
this grim fashion; it might be soothing to the feelings of Mr. Barnaby's
fond widow, but to me it is very sad and disagreeable.... And so, my
dear, here is wherewithal to change it."

During the whole of this speech Miss Compton had been employed in
extracting a pocket-book of very masculine dimensions from her pocket;
and having at length succeeded, she opened it, drew forth two
bank-notes of twenty-five pounds each, and laid them in the lap of her
niece.

Agnes took them up, and looked at them with unfeigned astonishment. "My
dear aunt," she said, "I am afraid you will find me a much younger and
more ignorant sort of girl than you expected.... I shall no more know
what to do with all this money than a child of five years old. You
forget, aunt Betsy, that I never have had any money of my own since I
was born, and I really do not understand anything about it."

"This is a trouble of a new and peculiar kind, my dear, and I really
don't remember, in all my reading, to have found a precedent for it....
What shall we do, Agnes?... Must you always wear this rusty-looking
black gown, because you don't know how to buy another?"

"Why, no, aunt.... I don't think that will be necessary either; but
don't you think it would be better for you to buy what you like for
me?... It won't be the first time, aunt Betsy. I have not forgotten when
my pretty trunk was opened by Mrs. Wilmot, ... or how very nicely
everything was provided for the poor ragged little girl who never
before, as long as she could remember, had possessed anything beside
thread-bare relics, cobbled up to suit her dimensions.... It was you who
thought of everything for me then ... and I'm quite sure you love me a
great deal better now;" and Agnes placed the notes in Miss Compton's
hands as she spoke.

"I had prepared myself for a variety of new occupations," replied the
spinster, "but choosing the wardrobe of an elegant young lady was
certainly not one of them.... However, my dear, I have no objection to
shew you that my studies have prepared me for this too.... Nothing like
novel-reading, depend upon it, for teaching a solitary recluse the ways
of the world. You shall see how ably I will expend this money, Agnes;
but do not turn your head away, and be thinking of something else all
the time, because it is absolutely necessary, I do assure you, that a
young lady in possession of fifteen hundred a year should know how to
buy herself a new bonnet and gown."

The value of Miss Compton's literary researches was by no means lowered
in the estimation of Agnes by the results of the three hours which
followed; for though there were moments in which her thoughts would
spring away, in spite of all she could do to prevent it, from
discussions on silks and satins to a meditation on her next interview
with Colonel Hubert, she was nevertheless sufficiently present to what
was passing before her eyes to be aware that an old lady, who has
herself lived in a "grogram gown" for half a century, may be capable of
making a mighty pretty collection of finery for her niece, provided that
she has paid proper attention to fashionable novels, and knows how to
ask counsel, as to what _artistes_ to drive to, from so intelligent an
aide-de-camp as William.

In short, by the united power of the money and the erudition she had
hoarded, Miss Compton contrived, in the course of a fortnight, to make
as complete a change in the equipments of Agnes as that performed of
yore upon Cinderella by her godmother. Nor was her own wardrobe
neglected; she had no intention that the rusticity of her spinster aunt
should draw as many eyes on Agnes as the gaudiness of her widowed one,
and proved herself as judicious in the selection of sable satins and
velvets for herself, as in the choice of all that was most becoming and
elegant for the decoration of her lovely niece.

Never, certainly, was an old lady more completely happy than the
eccentric, proud, warm-hearted aunt Betsy, as, with a well-filled purse,
she drove about London, and found everything she deemed suitable to the
proper setting forth of her heiress ready to her hand or her order. She
could not, indeed, have a carriage built for her ... she could not
afford time for it; ... but William, the indefatigable William,
ransacked Long Acre from one end to the other, till he had discovered an
equipage as perfect in all its points as any order could have made it;
and on this the well-instructed Miss Compton, whose heraldic lore was
quite sufficient to enable her with perfect accuracy to blazon her own
arms, had her lozenge painted in miniature; which being all that was
required to render the neat equipage complete, this portion of their
preparation did not cause any delay.

To Miss Peters Agnes wrote of all the unexpected good which had befallen
her, with much freer confidence than she could indulge in when
addressing the relations of Colonel Hubert. Her friend Mary already knew
the name of "Miss Compton, of Compton Basett," and no fear of appearing
boastful rendered it necessary for her to conceal how strangely the
aspect of her worldly affairs was changed.

To her, and her good-natured mother, was confided the task of choosing
lodgings for them; and so ably was this performed, that exactly in one
fortnight and three days from the time Colonel Hubert had left Agnes so
miserably alone in Mrs. Barnaby's melancholy lodgings in Half-Moon
Street, she was established in airy and handsome apartments in the Mall
of Clifton, with every comfort and elegance about her that thoughtful
and ingenious affection could suggest to make the contrast more
striking.

The happiness of this meeting with the kind friends who had conceived so
warm an affection for her, even when presented by Mrs. Barnaby, was in
just proportion to the hopeless sadness with which she had bid them
farewell; and the reception of her munificent aunt among them, with the
cordial good understanding which mutually ensued, did all that fate and
fortune could do to atone for the suffering endured since they had
parted.




CHAPTER IX.

BRINGS US BACK, AS IT OUGHT, TO MRS. BARNABY.


It may be thought, perhaps, that the vexed, and, as she thought herself,
the persecuted Mrs. Barnaby, had sufficiently tried what a prison was,
to prevent her ever desiring to find herself within the walls of such an
edifice again; but such an opinion, however likely to be right, was
nevertheless wrong; for no sooner had the widow recovered from the fit
of rage into which the triumphant exit of Miss Compton had thrown her,
and settled herself on her solitary sofa, with no better comforter or
companion than a cup of tea modified with sky-blue milk, than the
following soliloquy (though she gave it not breath) passed through her
brain.

"Soh!... Here I am then, after six months' trial of the travelling
system, and a multitude of experiments in fashionable society, just
seven hundred pounds poorer than when I set out, and without having
advanced a single inch towards a second marriage.... This will never
do!... My youth, my beauty, and my fortune will all melt away together
before the object is obtained, unless I change my plans, and find out
some better mode of proceeding."

Here Mrs. Barnaby sipped her vile tea, opened her work-box that she had
been constrained to leave so hastily, ascertained that the exquisite
collar she was working had received no injury during her absence, and
then resumed her meditations.

"Heigh ho!... It is most horribly dull, sitting in this way all by
one's-self ... even that good-for-nothing, stupid, ungrateful Agnes was
better to look at than nothing; ... and even in that horrid Fleet there
was some pleasure in knowing that there was an elegant, interesting man,
to be met in a passage now and then ... whose eyes spoke plainly enough
what he thought of me.... Poor fellow!... His being in misfortune ought
not to produce ill-will to him in a generous mind!... How he looked as
he said 'Adieu, then, madam!... With you vanishes the last ray of light
that will ever reach my heart!'... And I am sure he said exactly what
he felt, and no more.... Poor O'Donagough!... My heart aches for him!"

And here she fell into a very piteous and sentimental mood, indeed. Had
her soliloquy been spoken out as loud as words could utter it, nobody
would have heard a syllable about love, marriage, or any such nonsense;
her heart was at this time altogether given up to pity, compassion, and
a deep sense of the duties of a Christian; and before she went to bed
she had reasoned herself very satisfactorily into the conviction that,
as a tender-hearted woman and a believer, it was her bounden duty, now
that she had got out of trouble herself, to return to the Fleet for the
purpose of once more seeing Mr. O'Donagough, and inquiring whether it
was in her power to do anything to serve him before she left London.

Nothing more surely tends to soothe the spirits and calm the agitated
nerves than an amiable and pious resolution, taken, as this was done,
during the last waning hours of the day, and just before the languid
body lays itself down to rest. Mrs. Barnaby slept like a top after
coming to the determination that, let the turnkeys think what they
would of it, she would call at the Fleet Prison, and ask to see Mr.
O'Donagough, the following morning.

The following morning came, and found the benevolent widow stedfast in
her purpose; and yet, to her honour be it spoken, it was not without
some struggles with a feeling which many might have called shame, but
which she conscientiously condemned as pride, that she set forth at
length upon her adventurous expedition.

"Nothing, I am sure," ... it was thus she reasoned with herself, ...
"nothing in the whole world could induce me to take such a step, but a
feeling that it was my duty. Heaven knows I have had many follies in my
day--I don't deny it; I am no hardened sinner, and that blessed book
that he lent me has not been a pearl thrown to swine. '_The Sinner's
Reward!_' ... what a comforting title!... I don't hope ever to be the
saint that the pious author describes, but I'm sure I shall be a better
woman all my life for reading it; ... and the visiting this poor
O'Donagough is the first act by which I can prove the good it has done
me!"

Then came some doubts and difficulties respecting the style of toilet
which she ought to adopt on so peculiar an occasion. "It won't do for a
person looking like a woman of fashion to drive up to the Fleet Prison,
and ask to see such a man as O'Donagough.... He is too young and
handsome to make it respectable.... But, after all, what does it signify
what people say?... And as for my bonnet, I'll just put my Brussels lace
veil on my black and pink; that will hide my ringlets, and make me look
more matronly."

In her deep lace veil then, and with a large silk cloak which concealed
the becoming gaiety of her morning dress, Mrs. Barnaby presented herself
before the gates she had so lately passed, and in a very demure voice
said to the keeper of it, "I wish to be permitted to see Mr.
O'Donagough."

The fellow looked at her and smiled. "Well, madam," he replied, "I
believe there will be no difficulty about that. Walk on, if you
please.... You'll find them as can send you forward."

A few more barriers passed, and a few more well-amused turnkeys
propitiated, and Mrs. Barnaby stood before a door which she knew as well
as any of them opened upon the solitary abode of the broken-hearted but
elegant Mr. O'Donagough. The door was thrown open for her to enter; but
she paused, desiring her usher to deliver her card first, with an
intimation that she wished to speak to the gentleman on business. She
was not kept long in suspense, for the voice of the solitary inmate was
heard from within, saying in soft and melancholy accents, "It is very
heavenly kindness! Beg her to walk in." And in she walked, the room-door
being immediately closed behind her.

Mr. O'Donagough was a very handsome man of about thirty years of age,
with a physiognomy and cerebral developement which might have puzzled
Dr. Combe himself; for impressions left by the past, were so evidently
fading away before the active operation of the present, that to say
distinctly from the examining eye, or the examining finger, what manner
of man he was, would have been exceedingly difficult. But the powers of
the historian and biographer are less limited, and their record shall be
given.

Mr. Patrick O'Donagough was but a half-breed, and that a mongrel half,
of the noble species which his names announce. He was the natural son of
an Englishman of wealth and consequence by a poor Irish girl called Nora
O'Donagough; and though his father did what was considered by many as
very much for him, he never permitted him to assume his name. The young
O'Donagough was placed as a clerk to one of the police magistrates of
the metropolis, and shewed great ability in the readiness with which he
soon executed the business that passed through his hands. He not only
learned to know by sight every rogue and roguess that appeared at the
office, but shewed a very uncommon degree of sagacity as to their
innocence or guilt upon every new occasion that enforced their
appearance there. His noble father never entirely lost sight of him; and
finding his abilities so remarkable, he was induced again to use his
interest in those quarters where influence abides, and to get him
promoted to a lucrative situation in a custom-house on the coast, where
he made money rapidly, while his handsome person and good address gave
him access to the society of many people greatly his superiors in
station, who most of them were frequenting a fashionable watering-place
at no great distance from the station where he was employed.

This lasted for a few years, much to the satisfaction of his illustrious
parent; and it might have continued till an easy fortune was assured to
him, had he not unluckily formed too great an intimacy with one or two
vastly gentleman-like but decidedly sporting characters. From this point
his star began to descend, till, step by step, he had lost his money,
his appointment, his father's favour, and his own freedom. Having lain
in prison for debt during some weeks, he found means again to touch the
heart of his father so effectually, as to induce him to pay his debts,
and restore him to freedom, upon condition, however, of his immediately
setting off for Australia with five hundred pounds in his pocket, and
with the understanding that he was never more to return. The promise was
given, and the five hundred pounds received; but the young man was not
proof against temptation; he met some old acquaintance, lost half his
money at _ecarte_, and permitted the vessel in which he was to sail to
depart without him. This was a moment of low spirits and great
discouragement; but he felt, nevertheless, that a stedfast heart and
bold spirit might bring a man out of as bad a scrape even as that into
which he had fallen.

Some people told him to apply again to his father, but he thought he had
better not, and he applied to a gentleman with whom he had made
acquaintance in prison instead. This person had, like himself, been
reduced to great distress by the turf; but having fortunately found
means of satisfying the creditor at whose suit he was detained, he was
now doing exceedingly well as preacher to an independent congregation of
ranting fanatics. He bestowed on his old associate some excellent advice
as to his future principles and conduct, giving him to understand that
the turf, even to those who were the most fortunate, never answered so
well as the line of business he now followed; and assured him, moreover,
that if he would forthwith commence an assiduous study of the principles
and practice of the profession, he would himself lend him a helping hand
to turn it to account. O'Donagough loved change, novelty, and
excitement, and again manifested great talent in the facility with
which he mastered the mysteries of this new business. He was soon seen
rapidly advancing towards lasting wealth and independence: one of the
wealthiest merchants in London had offered him the place of domestic
prayer and preacher at his beautiful residence at Castaway-Saved Park,
when an almost forgotten creditor, who had lost sight of him for many
years, unluckily recognised him as he was delivering a most awakening
evening lecture in a large ware-room, converted into a chapel near Moor
Fields. Eager to take advantage of this unexpected piece of good
fortune, the tailor (for such was his profession) arrested the inspired
orator in the first place, and then asked him if he were able to settle
his account in the next. Had the manner of transacting the business been
reversed, it is probable that the affair would have been settled without
any arrest at all; for Sir Miles Morice, of Castaway-Saved Park, was one
of the most pious individuals of the age, and would hardly have
permitted his chaplain elect (elect in every sense) to have gone to
prison for thirty-seven pounds, nine shillings, and eight pence; but
being in prison, O'Donagough was shy of mentioning the circumstance to
his distinguished patron, and was employed, at the time Mrs. Barnaby
first made acquaintance with him, in composing discourses "on the
preternatural powers over the human mind, accorded to the chosen vessels
called upon to pour out the doctrine of the new birth to the people."
There is little doubt that these really eloquent compositions would have
sold rapidly, and perfectly have answered the object of their clever
author. But accident prevented the trial from being made, for before the
projected volume was more than half finished, success of another kind
overtook Mr. O'Donagough.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. Barnaby, on entering, found the poor prisoner she had so charitably
come to visit seated at a writing-desk, with many sheets of
closely-written manuscript about it. He rose as she entered, and
approached her with a judicious mixture of respectful deference and
ardent gratitude.

"May Heaven reward you, madam, for this blessed proof of christian
feeling.... How can I suitably speak my gratitude?"

"I do assure you, Mr. O'Donagough, that you are quite right in thinking
that I come wholly and solely from a christian spirit, and a wish to do
my duty," said Mrs. Barnaby.

Mr. O'Donagough looked extremely handsome as he answered with a
melancholy smile, "Alas! madam ... what other motive could the whole
world offer, excepting obedience to the will of Heaven, sufficiently
strong to bring such a person as I now look upon voluntarily within
these fearful walls?"

"That is very true indeed!... There _is_ nothing else that could make
one do it. Heaven knows I suffered too much when I was here myself, to
feel any inclination for returning; ... but I thought, Mr. O'Donagough,
that it would be very unfeeling in me, who witnessed your distress, to
turn my back upon you when my own troubles are past and over; and so I
am come, Mr. O'Donagough, to ask if I can be of any use to you in any
way before I set off upon my travels, ... for I intend to make a tour to
France, and perhaps to Rome."

The widow looked at Mr. O'Donagough's eyes, to see how he took this
news; for, somehow or other, she could not help fancying that the poor
young man would feel more forlorn and miserable still, when he heard
that not only the walls of the Fleet Prison, but the English Channel,
was to divide them: nor did the expression of the eyes she thus
examined, lessen this idea. A settled, gentle melancholy seemed to rise
from his heart, and peep out upon her through these "_windows_ of the
soul."

"To France!... To Rome!..." A deep sigh followed, and for a minute or
two the young man remained with his eyes mournfully fixed on her face.
He then rose up, and stepping across the narrow space occupied by the
table that stood between them, he took her hand, and in a deep, sweet
voice, that almost seemed breaking into a sob, he said,--"May you be
happy whithersoever you go!... My prayers shall follow you.... My ardent
prayers shall be unceasingly breathed to heaven for your safety; ... and
my blessing ... my fervent, tender blessing, shall hover round you as
you go!"

Mrs. Barnaby was exceedingly affected. "Don't speak so!... Pray, don't
speak so, Mr. O'Donagough!" she said, in a voice which gave her very
good reason to believe that tears were coming. "I am sure I would pray
for you too, when I am far away, if it would do you any good," and here
one of her worked pocket-handkerchiefs was really drawn out and applied
to her eyes.

"IF, Mrs. Barnaby!" exclaimed the young man fervently, "IF ... oh! do
not doubt it ... do not for a moment doubt that I should feel the
influence of it in every nerve. Let me teach you to understand me, Mrs.
Barnaby, ... for I have made an examination into the effects of
spiritual sympathies the subject of much study.... Lay your hand upon my
heart ... nay, let it rest there for a moment, and you will be able to
comprehend what I would explain to you. Does not that poor heart beat
and throb, Mrs. Barnaby?... and think you that it would have fluttered
thus, had you not said that you would pray for me?... Then can you doubt
that if, indeed, you should still remember the unhappy O'Donagough as
you pursue your jocund course o'er hill and vale ... if, indeed, you
should breathe a prayer to Heaven for his welfare, can you doubt that it
will fall upon him like the soft fanning of a seraph's wing, and heal
the tumult of his soul, e'en in this dungeon?"

There was so much apparent sincerity, as well as tenderness, in what the
young man uttered, that a feeling of conviction at once found its way to
the understanding of Mrs. Barnaby; and little doubt, if any, remained on
her mind as to the efficacy of her prayers.... "Indeed, Mr. O'Donagough,
I will pray for you then, ... and I'm sure I should be a very wicked
wretch if I did not.... But is there nothing else I could do to comfort
you?"

Mr. O'Donagough had often found his handsome and expressive countenance
of great service to him, and so he did now. No answer he could have
given in words to this kind question, could have produced so great
effect as the look with which he received it. Mrs. Barnaby was
fluttered, agitated, and did not quite know what to do or say next: but
Mr. O'Donagough did. He rose from his chair, and raising his arms above
his head to their utmost length, he passionately clasped his hands, and
stood thus,--his fine eyes communing with the ceiling,--just long enough
to give the widow time to be aware that he certainly was the very
handsomest young man in the world; ... and then ... he drew his chair
close beside her, took her hand, and fixed those fine eyes very
particularly upon hers.

"Comfort me!..." he murmured in a soft whisper, which, had it not been
breathed very close to her ear, would probably have been lost....
"Comfort me!... you ask if you could comfort me?... Oh! earth, Oh!
heaven, bear witness as I swear, that to trace one single movement of
pity on that lovely face, would go farther towards healing every sorrow
of my soul, than all the wealth that Plutus could pour on me, though it
should come in ingots of gold heavy enough to break the chains that hold
me!"

"Oh! Mr. O'Donagough!..." was all Mrs. Barnaby could utter; but she
turned her face away, nor was the fascinating prisoner again indulged
with a full view of it, though he endeavoured to make his eyes follow
the way hers led, till he dropped down on his knees before her, and by
taking possession of both her hands, enabled himself to pursue his
interesting speculations upon its expression, in spite of all she could
do to prevent it. This brought the business for which Mrs. Barnaby
came, ... namely, the inquiry into what she could do to be serviceable
to Mr. O'Donagough, before she left London, ... to a very speedy
termination; for with this fair index of what he MIGHT say before his
eyes, the enterprising prisoner ventured to hint, that nothing would so
effectually soothe his sorrows as the love of the charming being who had
already expressed such melting pity for him. He moreover made it
manifest that if she would, with the noble confidence which he was sure
made a part of her admirable character, lend him wherewithal to
liquidate the paltry debt for which he had been so treacherously
arrested, he could find means again to interest his noble father in his
behalf, and by giving him such a guarantee for his future steadiness as
an honourable attachment was always sure to offer, he should easily
induce him to renew his intention of fitting him out handsomely for an
expedition to Australia, to which, as he confessed, he was more strongly
inclined than even to persevere in listening to the call he had received
to the ministry.

Notwithstanding the tender agitation into which such a conversation
must inevitably throw every lady who would listen to it, Mrs. Barnaby
did not so completely lose her presence of mind, as not to remember that
it would be better to look about her a little before she positively
promised to marry and accompany to Australia the captivating young man
who knelt at her feet. But this praiseworthy degree of caution did not
prevent her from immediately deciding upon granting him the loan he
desired; nay, with thoughtful kindness, she herself suggested that it
might be more convenient to make the sum lent 40_l._ instead of 37_l._
9_s._ 8_d._; and having said this with a look and manner the most
touching, she at length induced Mr. O'Donagough to rise; and after a few
such expressions of tender gratitude as the occasion called for, they
parted, the widow promising to deliver to him with her own fair hands on
the morrow the sum necessary for his release; while he, as he fervently
kissed her hand, declared, that deeply as he felt this generous
kindness, he should wish it had never been extended to him, unless the
freedom thus regained were rendered dear to his soul by her sharing it
with him.

"Give me time, dear O'Donagough!... Give me time to think of this
startling proposal, ... and to-morrow we will meet again," were the
words in which she replied to him; and then, permitting herself for one
moment to return the tender glances he threw after her, she opened the
room-door and passed through it, too much engrossed by her own thoughts,
hopes, wishes, and speculations, to heed the variety of amusing grimaces
by which the various turnkeys hailed her regress through them.

It would be unreasonable for any one to "desire better sympathy" than
that which existed between my heroine and Mr. O'Donagough when they thus
tore themselves asunder; he remaining in durance vile till such time as
fate or love should release him, and she to throw herself into a hackney
coach, there to meditate on the pleasures and the pains either promised
or threatened by the proposal she had just received.

The sympathy lay in this, ... that both parties were determined to
inform themselves very particularly of the worldly condition of the
other, before they advanced one step farther towards matrimony, for
which state, though the gentleman had spoken with rapture, and the lady
had listened with softness, both had too proper a respect to think of
entering upon it unadvisedly.




CHAPTER X.

GIVES SOME ACCOUNT OF COLONEL HUBERT'S RETURN TO CHELTENHAM.


We must now follow Colonel Hubert to Cheltenham, to which place he
returned in a state of mind not particularly easy to be described. The
barrier he had placed before his heart, the heavy pressure of which he
had sometimes felt to be intolerable, was now broken down; and it was a
relief to him to remember that Agnes knew of his love. But, excepting
this relief, there was little that could be felt as consolatory, and
much that was decidedly painful in his state of mind. He knew but too
well that not all the partial affection, esteem, and admiration
entertained for him by his aunt, would prevent her feeling and
expressing the most violent aversion to his marrying the niece of Mrs.
Barnaby; he knew, too, what sort of reception the avowal of such an
intention was likely to meet from his amiable but proud brother-in-law,
and remembered, with feelings not very closely allied to satisfaction,
the charge he had commissioned Lady Stephenson to give him, that he
should keep watch over his thoughtless younger brother, in order to
guard him, if possible, from bringing upon them the greatest misfortune
that could befall a family such as theirs--namely, the introducing an
inferior connexion into it.... Neither could he forget the influence he
had used, in consequence of this injunction, to crush the ardent,
generous, uncalculating attachment of his confiding friend Frederick for
her whom, in defiance of the wishes of his whole family, he was now
fully determined to make his wife. All this gave materials for very
painful meditation; and when, in addition to it, he recalled those
fearful words of Agnes, "I will never be your wife!" it required all the
power of that master passion which had seized upon his heart to keep him
steady to his resolution of communicating his wishes and intentions to
Lady Elizabeth, and to sustain his hopes of engaging her actively to
assist him in obtaining what he felt very sure she would earnestly
desire that he should never possess.

With all these heavy thoughts working within him, he entered the
drawing-room of his aunt, and rejoiced to find her _tete-a-tete_ with
his sister, Sir Edward being absent at a dinner-party of gentlemen. They
both welcomed him with eager inquiries concerning their young favourite,
the tone of which at once determined him to enter immediately upon the
tremendous subject of his hopes and wishes; and the affectionate
interest expressed for her, warmed him into a degree of confidence which
he was far from feeling when he entered the room.

"Pretty creature!" exclaimed Lady Elizabeth; "and that wretched woman
has actually left her alone in London lodgings?... Why did you not make
her return with you, Montague?... It was surely no time to stand upon
etiquette."

"I dared not even ask it," replied Colonel Hubert, his voice faltering,
and his manner such as to make the two ladies exchange a hasty glance
with each other.

"You dared not ask Agnes Willoughby, poor little thing, to come down
with you to my house, Colonel Hubert?" said the old lady. "You surely
forget that you went up to London with an invitation for her in your
pocket?"

"My dear aunt," replied Colonel Hubert, hesitating in his speech, as
neither of his auditors had ever before heard him hesitate, "I have much
to tell you respecting both Agnes Willoughby ... and myself...."

"Then tell it, in Heaven's name!" said Lady Elizabeth sharply. "Let it
be what it may, I would rather hear it than be kept hanging thus by the
ears between the possible and impossible."

Colonel Hubert moved his chair; and seating himself beside Lady
Stephenson, took her hand, as if to shew that she too was to listen to
what he was about to say, though it was their aunt to whom he addressed
himself. "From suspense, at least, I can relieve you, Lady Elizabeth,
and you too, my dear Emily, who look at me so anxiously without saying a
word ... at least I can relieve you from suspense.... I love Miss
Willoughby; and I hope, with as little delay as possible, to make her
my wife."

Lady Stephenson pressed his hand, and said nothing; but a deep sigh
escaped her. Lady Elizabeth, who was not accustomed to manifest her
feelings so gently, rose from her seat on the sofa, and placing herself
immediately before him, said, with great vehemence, "Montague Hubert,
son of my dead sister, you are come to years of discretion, and a trifle
beyond.... Your magnificent estate of thirteen hundred a year, and ... I
beg your pardon ... some odd pounds, shillings, and pence over, is all
your own, and you may marry Mrs. Barnaby herself, if you please, and
settle it upon her. No one living that I know of has any power to
prevent it.... But, sir, if you expect that Lady Elizabeth Norris will
ever receive as her niece a girl artful enough to conceal from me and
from your sister the fact that she was engaged to you, and that, too,
while receiving from both of us the most flattering attention ... nay,
such affection as might have opened any heart not made of brass and
steel ... if you expect this, you will find yourself altogether
mistaken."

This harangue, which her ladyship intended to be overpoweringly severe,
was, in fact, very nearly the most agreeable one that Colonel Hubert
could have listened to, for it touched only on a subject of offence that
he was perfectly able to remove. All embarrassment immediately
disappeared from his manner; and springing up to place himself between
his aunt and the door, to which she was approaching with stately steps,
he said, in a voice almost of exultation, "My dearest aunt!... How like
your noble self it is to have made this objection before every other!...
And this objection, which would indeed have been fatal to every hope of
happiness, I can remove by a single word.... Agnes was as ignorant of my
love for her as you and Emily could be till last night ... I have loved
her ... longer, it may be, than I have known it myself ... perhaps I
might date it from the first hour I saw her, but she knew nothing of
it.... Last night, for the first time, I confessed to her my love....
And what think you, Lady Elizabeth, was her answer?"

"Nay, Mr. Benedict, I know not.... 'I thank you, sir,' and a low
courtesy, I suppose."

"I was less happy, Lady Elizabeth," he replied, half smiling; adding a
moment after, however, with a countenance from which all trace of gaiety
had passed away, "The answer of Miss Willoughby to my offer of marriage
was ... Colonel Hubert, I can never be your wife."

"Indeed!... Then how comes it, Montague, that you still talk of making
her so?"

"Because, before I left her, I thought I saw some ground for hope that
her refusal was not caused by any personal dislike to me."

"Really!..." interrupted Lady Elizabeth.

"Nay, my dear aunt!" resumed Hubert, "you may in your kind and
long-enduring partiality fancy this impossible; but, unhappily for my
peace at that moment, I remembered that I was more than five-and-thirty,
and she not quite eighteen."

"But she told you I suppose that you were still a very handsome
fellow.... Only she had some other objection,--and pray, what was it,
sir?"

"She feared the connexion would be displeasing to you and Lady
Stephenson."

"And you assured her most earnestly, perhaps that she was mistaken?"

"No, Lady Elizabeth, I did not. There are circumstances in her position
that MUST make my marrying her appear objectionable to my family; and
though my little independence is, as your ladyship observes, my own, I
would not wish to share it with any woman who would be indifferent to
their reception of her. All my hope, therefore, rests in the confidence
I feel that, when the first unpleasing surprise of this avowal shall
have passed away, you ... both of you ... for there is no one else whose
approbation I should wait for ... you will suffer your hearts and heads
to strike a fair and reasonable balance between all that my sweet Agnes
has in her favour and all she has against her. Do this, Lady Elizabeth,
but do it as kindly as you can.... Emily will help you ... to-morrow
morning you shall tell me your decision.... I can resolve on nothing
till I hear it."

Colonel Hubert, as soon as he had said this left the room, nor did they
see him again that night.

The morning came, and he met Lady Stephenson at the breakfast table, but
Lady Elizabeth did not appear, sending down word, as was not unusual
with her, that she should take her chocolate in her own room. Sir Edward
was not in the room when he entered, and he seized the opportunity to
utter a hasty and abrupt inquiry as to the answer he might expect from
herself and their aunt.

"From me, Montague," she replied, "you cannot fear to hear anything very
harshly disagreeable. In truth, I have been so long accustomed to
believe that whatever my brother did, or wished to do, was wisest--best,
that it would be very difficult for me to think otherwise now; besides,
I cannot deny, though perhaps it hardly ought to be taken into the
account, that I too am very much in love with Agnes Willoughby, and
that ... though I would give my little finger she had no aunt Barnaby
belonging to her ... I never saw any woman in any rank whom I could so
cordially love and welcome as a sister."

In reply to this, Colonel Hubert clasped the lovely speaker to his
heart; and before he had released her from his embrace, or repeated his
inquiry concerning Lady Elizabeth, Sir Edward Stephenson entered, and
the conversation became general.

For many hours of that irksome morning Colonel Hubert was kept in the
most tantalizing state of suspense by the prolonged absence of the old
lady from the drawing-room. But at length, after Sir Edward and his lady
had set off for their second morning ramble without him, he was cheered
by the appearance of the ancient maiden, who was his aunt's tirewoman,
bringing in her lap-dog, and the velvet cushion that was its appendage;
which having placed reverently before the fire, she moved the favourite
_fauteuil_ an inch one way, and the little table that ever stood beside
it an inch the other, and was retiring, when Colonel Hubert said, ...
"Is my aunt coming immediately, Mitchel?"

"My lady will not be long, Colonel.... But her ladyship is very poorly
this morning," and with a graceful swinging courtesy she withdrew.

The Colonel trembled all over, "very poorly," as applied to Lady
Elizabeth Norris, having from his earliest recollection always been
considered as synonymous to "very cross."

"She will refuse to see her!" thought he, pacing the room in violent
agitation.... "and in that case she will keep her word.... She will
never be my wife!"

"Bless me!... How you do shake the room, Colonel Hubert," said a very
crabbed voice behind him, just after he had passed the door in his
perturbed promenade. "If you took such a fancy early in the morning,
when the house maid might sweep up the dust you had raised, I should not
object to it, for it is very like having one's carpet beat;... but just
as I am coming to sit down here, it is very disagreeable indeed."

This grumble lasted just long enough to allow the old lady (who looked
as if she had been eating crab apples, and walked as if she had suddenly
been seized with the gout in all her joints,) to place herself in her
easy chair as she concluded it, during which time the Colonel stood
still upon the hearth-rug with his eyes anxiously fixed upon the
venerable but very hostile features that were approaching him. A
moment's silence followed, during which the old Lady looked up in his
face with the most provoking expression imaginable; for cross as it was,
there was a glance of playful malice in it that seemed to say,--

"You look as if you were going to cry, Colonel."

He felt provoked with her, and this gave him courage.--"May I beg of
you, Lady Elizabeth, to tell me what I may hope from your kindness on
the subject I mentioned to you last night?" said he.

"Pray, sir, do you remember your grandfather?" was her reply.

"The Earl of Archdale?... Yes, madam, perfectly."

"You do.... Humph!... And your paternal grandfather, with his pedigree
from Duke Nigel of Normandy; did you ever hear of him?"

"Yes, Lady Elizabeth," replied the Colonel in a tone of indifference; "I
have heard of him; but he died, you know, when I was very young."

There was a minute's silence, which was broken by another question from
Lady Elizabeth.

"And pray, sir, will you do me the favour to tell me who was the
grandfather of Miss Willoughby?"

"I have little, or indeed no doubt, Lady Elizabeth, that Miss Willoughby
is the granddaughter of that Mr. Willoughby, of Greatfield Park, in
Warwickshire, who lost the tremendous stake at piquet that you have
heard of, and two of whose daughters married the twin sons of Lord
Eastcombe.... I think you cannot have forgotten the circumstances."

Lady Elizabeth drew herself forward in her chair, and fixing her eyes
stedfastly on the face of her nephew, said, in a voice of great
severity, "Do you mean to assert to me, Colonel Montague Hubert, that
Agnes Willoughby is niece to Lady Eastcombe and the Honourable Mrs.
Nivett?"

"I mean to assert to you, madam, that it is my firm persuasion that such
will prove to be the fact. But I have not considered it necessary, Lady
Elizabeth Norris, for the son of my father to withhold his affections
from the chosen of his heart, till he was assured he should gain all the
honour by the selection which a union with Lady Eastcombe's niece could
bestow;... nor should I have mentioned my belief in this connexion, by
way of a set-off to the equally near claim of Mrs. Barnaby, had you not
questioned me so particularly."

Had Colonel Hubert studied his answer for a twelvemonth, he could not
have composed a more judicious one: there was a spice of hauteur in it
by no means uncongenial to the old lady's feelings, and there was, too,
enough of defiance to make her take counsel with herself as to whether
it would be wise to vex him further. It was, therefore, less with the
accent of mockery, and more with that of curiosity, that she recommenced
her interrogatory.

"Will you tell me, Montague, from what source you derived this knowledge
of Miss Willoughby's family?... Was it from herself?"

"Certainly not. If the facts be as I have stated, and as I hope and
believe they will be found, Miss Willoughby will be as much surprised by
the discovery as your ladyship."

"From whom, then, did you hear it?"

"From no one, Lady Elizabeth, as a matter of fact connected with Agnes.
But something, I know not what, introduced the mention of old
Willoughby's wild stake at piquet at the club the other day.... The name
struck me, and I led old Major Barnes to talk to me of the family. He
told me that a younger son, a gay harum-scarum sort of youth, married
some girl, when he was in country quarters, whom his family would not
receive; that, ruined and broken-hearted by this desertion, he went
abroad almost immediately after his marriage, and has never been heard
of since."

"And this is the foundation upon which you build your hope, that Mrs.
Barnaby's niece is also the niece of Lady Eastcombe?... Ingenious
certainly, Colonel, as a theory, but somewhat slight as an edifice on
which to hang any weighty matter.... Don't you think so?"

"I hang nothing on it, Lady Elizabeth. If I did not feel that Miss
Willoughby was calculated to make me happy without this supposed
relationship, I certainly should not think her so with it. However, that
your ladyship may not fancy my imagination more fertile than it really
is, I must add, that when at Clifton, I did hear from the Misses Peters,
whom I have before mentioned to you, that the father of Agnes went
abroad after his marriage, and moreover that no news of him in any way
ever reached his wife's family afterwards."

Lady Elizabeth for some time made no reply, but seemed to ponder
upon this statement very earnestly. At length she said, in a tone
from which irony and harshness, levity and severity, were equally
banished,--"Montague!... there are some of the feelings which you have
just expressed, in which I cannot sympathise; but a very little
reflection will teach you that there is no ground of offence to you in
this ... for it would be unnatural that I should do so. You tell me that
your father's son need not deem the honour of a relationship to
Viscountess Eastcombe necessary to his happiness in life. So far I am
able to comprehend you, although Lady Eastcombe is an honourable and
excellent personage, whose near connexion with a young lady would be no
contemptible advantage (at least in my mind) upon her introduction into
life. But we will pass this.... When, however, you proceed to tell me
that your choice in marriage could in nowise be affected by the rank and
station of those with whom it might bring you in contact, and that,
too, when the question is, whether a Mrs. Barnaby, or a Lady Eastcombe,
should be in the foreground of the group, you must excuse me if I cannot
follow you."

Nothing is so distressing in an argument as to have a burst of
grandiloquent sentiment set aside by a few words of common sense.
Colonel Hubert walked the length of the drawing-room, and back again,
before he answered; he felt that, as his aunt put the case, he was as
far from _following_ his assertion by his judgment as herself; but ere
his walk was finished, the image of the desolate Agnes, as he had seen
her the night before, arose before him, and resumed its unconquerable
influence on his heart. He took a hint from her ladyship, threw aside
all mixture of heat and anger, and replied.--

"Heaven forbid, Lady Elizabeth, that I should attempt to defend any such
doctrine:... believe me, it is not mine. BUT, in one word, I love Miss
Willoughby; and if I can arrive at the happiness of believing that I am
loved in return, nothing but her own refusal will prevent me from
marrying her. This is my statement of facts; I will attempt no other,
and throw myself wholly upon your judgment to smooth, or render more
rugged, the path which lies before me."

The old lady looked at him and smiled very kindly. "Montague," said she,
"resolve my doubts. Is it the mention of your pleasant suspicions
respecting Miss Willoughby's paternal ancestry,... or your present
unvarnished frankness, that has won upon me?... Upon my honour, I could
not answer this question myself;... but certain it is that I do feel
more inclined to remember what a very sweet creature Agnes is at this
moment, than I ever thought I should again when our conversation began."

Colonel Hubert kneeled down upon her foot-stool, and kissing her hand,
said, in a voice that spoke his happiness, "It matters not to me what
the cause is, my dearest aunt.... I thank Heaven for the effect!... and
now ... do not think that I am taking an unfair advantage of this
kindness, if I ask you to remember the position of Miss Willoughby at
this moment. With such views for the future as I have explained to you,
is it not my duty to remove her from it?"

"What then do you propose to do?" demanded Lady Elizabeth.

"_I_ can do nothing,"... he replied;... "whatever aid or protection can
be extended to her, must come from you ... or Lady Stephenson;... and
that I should rather it came from you, who have long been to me as a
mother, can hardly surprise you. Sir Edward is an excellent young
man,... but he has prejudices that I should not like to battle with on
this occasion. It is from you, and you only, Lady Elizabeth, that I
either hope or wish to find protection for my future wife."

Again Lady Elizabeth pondered. "Did not Agnes tell us," she said at
length, "did she not say in her letter to Lady Stephenson, that she had
applied to some aged relation in Devonshire, by whom she hoped to be
extricated from her present terrible embarrassment?"

"It is very likely," replied Colonel Hubert, "for she spoke to me of
such a one, and hoped that Thursday ... that is to-morrow, is it not?...
would bring an answer to her application."

"Then, Montague, we must wait to hear what this Thursday brings forth
before we interfere to repeat the offer of protection which it is
possible she may not want.... And Heaven grant it may be so,... for if
she is to be your wife, Colonel Hubert, and it is pretty plain she will
be, will it not be better that you should follow her with your addresses
to the lowliest roof in Devonshire, than that she should take refuge
here, where every gossip's finger will be pointed at her?"

It was impossible to deny the truth of this, and Colonel Hubert cared
not to avow that all the favour she had bid him hope for was but
conditional, and that till the avowal of his love should be sanctioned
by his aunt and sister, he was still to hold himself as a rejected man.
He dared not tell her this, lest the feelings he had conquered with so
much difficulty should return, upon learning that it was not yet too
late to encourage them.

As patiently as he could, therefore, he awaited the expected letter from
Agnes, and well was he rewarded for doing so. The letter itself, modest
and unboastful as it was, gave a sufficiently improved picture of her
condition to remove all present anxiety on her account; and though he
certainly had no idea of the transformation she had undergone, from a
heart-broken, penniless dependant, into a petted, cherished heiress, he
was soothed into the belief that it would now cost his aunt and sister
infinitely less pain than he had anticipated, to extend such a degree of
favour to his Agnes as might lead her to confirm the hope on which he
lived.

But it was not the letter of Agnes that produced the most favourable
impression upon Lady Elizabeth; the postscript of Miss Compton was
infinitely more powerful in its effect upon her mind. Of Agnes,
personally, she never thought without a degree of partial admiration,
that nearly approached to affection; and vague as the hope was
respecting the family of her father, it clung very pertinaciously to the
old lady's memory, while a certain resemblance which she felt sure that
she could trace between the nose of Agnes and that of the honourable
Miss Nivett, Lord Eastcombe's eldest daughter, was doing wonders in her
mind by way of a balance-weight against the rouge and ringlets of Mrs.
Barnaby; yet, nevertheless, the notion that not "horrid Mrs. Barnaby"
only, but a host of aunts and cousins of the same breed, might come down
upon her in the event of this ill-assorted marriage, kept her in a sort
of feverish wavering state, something between good and ill humour, that
was exceedingly annoying to her nephew.

The keen-sighted old lady at once perceived that the postscript to
Agnes's letter was not written by a second Mrs. Barnaby, and from that
moment she determined, much more decisively than she chose to express,
that she would torment Colonel Hubert with no farther opposition.

After a short consultation between the aunt and niece, that letter was
despatched, the receipt of which was mentioned before Miss Compton and
Agnes left London for Clifton. Had Colonel Hubert been consulted upon
it, he would perhaps have suggested, as an improvement, that the
proposed meeting should take place the following week in London; but, on
the whole, the composition was too satisfactory for him to venture upon
any alteration of it, and again he called patience to his aid, while
many miserably long days were wasted by the very slow and deliberate
style in which the man and maid servant who managed all Lady
Elizabeth's worldly concerns, set about preparing themselves and her for
this removal. It was with a degree of pleasure which almost atoned for
the vexation of this delay that he learned Sir Edward's good-natured
compliance with his beautiful bride's capricious-seeming wish of
revisiting Clifton. Colonel Hubert pertinaciously refused to let his gay
brother-in-law into his confidence, till the time arrived for presenting
him to Miss Willoughby, as to his future wife. Did this reserve arise
from some unacknowledged doubt whether Agnes, when the pressure of
misfortune was withdrawn, would voluntarily bestow herself on a man of
his advanced age? Perhaps so. That Agnes was less than eighteen, and
himself more than thirty-five, were facts repeated to himself too often
for his tranquillity.




CHAPTER XI.

AGNES APPEARS AT CLIFTON IN A NEW CHARACTER.


At as early an hour, on the morning after her arrival at Clifton, as
Agnes could hope to find her friend Mary awake, she set off for Rodney
Place. It was a short walk, but a happy one, even though she had yet to
learn whether Lady Elizabeth Norris and her party were or were not
arrived.

But there was something at the bottom of her heart that made her very
tolerably easy ... more so perhaps than she confessed to herself ... on
this point. Every day made the mysterious fact of Miss Compton's being a
woman of handsome fortune more familiar to her, and every hour made it
more clear that she had no other object in life than to make that
fortune contribute to the happiness of her niece. It followed,
therefore, that, not having altogether forgotten the fact of Colonel
Hubert's declaration at a moment when all things, but his own heart,
must have pleaded against her, some very comfortable ground for hope to
rest upon, was discoverable in the circumstances of her present
position.... "There will be no danger," thought she, "that when he
speaks again, my answer should be such as to make him fancy himself too
old for me."

The servant at Rodney Place who opened the door to Agnes, was the same
who had done her the like service some dozen of times during her last
visit at Clifton, but he betrayed no sign of recognition when she
presented herself. In fact, the general appearance of Agnes was so
greatly changed from what he had been accustomed to see it when she was
clothed in the residuum of the Widow Barnaby's weeds, that till she
smiled, and spoke her inquiry for Miss Peters, he had no recollection of
her.

As soon, however, as he discovered that it was the Miss Willoughby who
had left all his ladies crying when she went away, he took care to make
her perceive that she was not forgotten by the manner in which he said,
"Miss Peters, ma'am, is not come down stairs yet; but she will be very
happy to see YOU, ma'am, if you will please to walk up."

As the early visitor was of the same opinion, she scrupled not to find
her way to the well-known door, and without even the ceremony of a tap,
presented herself to her friend. It is probable that Mary looked more at
the face and less at the dress of the visitor than the servant had done,
for, uttering a cry of joy, she sprang towards her, and most
affectionately folded her in a cordial embrace.

"My sweet Agnes!... This is so like you! At the very instant you
entered, I was calculating the probabilities between to-day and
to-morrow for your arrival. Ah, little girl!... Did I not tell you to
address yourself to Miss Compton, of Compton Basett, long ago? What say
you to my wisdom now?"

"That you were inspired, Mary, and that I deserved to suffer a good deal
for not listening to such an oracle.... But had I done so, I should have
never known...."

"The difference between the extreme of Barnaby misery and Compton
comfort?" said Mary, finishing the sentence for her.

Agnes blushed, but said with a happy smile, "Yes ... assuredly I may say
so."

Miss Peters looked at her, and laughed. "There is something else you
would not have known, I am very sure, Agnes, by that conscious face, ...
and it must be something very well worth knowing by that look of radiant
happiness which I never saw on your fair face before ... no, not even
when for the first time you looked down upon Avon's dun stream; for
then, if I remember rightly, your joy shewed itself in tears; but
now, my dear, you are dimpling with smiles, though I really believe
you are doing all you can to hide them from me. Say why is this?...
wherefore ... what should it mean?"

"Mary!... There is not an event of my life, nor a thought of my heart,
that I would wish to hide from you.... But how can I begin telling you
such very long and incredible stories as I have got to tell, just as you
have finished dressing, and are ready to go down to breakfast?" said
Agnes.

"Breakfast?" replied her friend.... "I would rather go without breakfast
for a month than not hear the beginning, middle, and end of all your
adventures from the moment you left this house in crape and bombasin,
with your cheeks as white as marble, and your eyes full of tears, up to
this present now, that you have entered it again in as elegant a morning
toilet as London can furnish, with your cheeks full of dimples, and your
eyes dancing in your head with happiness, notwithstanding all your
efforts to look demure.... Come, sit down again, Agnes, and tell me
all."

"Tell you all I will, depend upon it, but not now, dear Mary.... Think
of all your mother's kindness to me.... Shall I sit here indulging in
confidential gossip with you, instead of paying my compliments to her
and the rest of the family in the breakfast-room?... No, positively no.
So come down stairs with me directly, or I will go by myself."

"Aunt Compton is spoiling you, child; that is quite clear.... You used
to be obedient to command, and ever ready to do as I desired, but now
you lay down the law like a Lord Chancellor. Come along, then, Miss
Agnes; but remember that, as soon as breakfast is over, I expect, first
to be taken to the Mall (have I not got nice lodgings for you?) and
introduced to Miss Compton, of Compton Basett, and then taken to our old
seat on the rock, then and there to hear all that has befallen you."

To this Agnes agreed, and they descended together. The interest and the
pleasure that her entrance excited among the family group already
assembled round the breakfast-table, was very gratifying to her. Mrs.
Peters seemed hardly less delighted than Mary; the two girls kissed her
affectionately, and gazed at her with as much admiration as
astonishment, which is tantamount to saying that they admired her much;
good Mr. Peters welcomed her very cordially, and inquired with the most
scrupulous politeness for the health of Mrs. Barnaby; and James told her
very frankly that he was delighted to see her, and that she was fifty
times handsomer than ever.

The conversation that followed was perfectly frank, on the part of
Agnes, in all that related to the kindness of her aunt Compton, and the
happiness she enjoyed from being under her care; but, from delicacy to
them, she said as little as possible about Mrs. Barnaby; and from
delicacy to herself, made no mention whatever either of Colonel Hubert
or his family.

As soon as the breakfast was over Mrs. Peters declared her intention of
immediately waiting on Miss Compton; an attention to her aunt which
Agnes welcomed with pleasure, though it still farther postponed the
much-wished for conversation with her friend Mary. The whole family
declared their eagerness to be introduced to the old lady, of whom Miss
Willoughby spoke with such enthusiasm; but as the discreet Mrs. Peters
declared that at this first visit her eldest daughter only must
accompany her; the rest yielded of necessity, and the three ladies set
out together.

"I expect to find this new aunt a much more agreeable personage, my dear
Agnes, than your former chaperon, though she was my dear sister.... But
on one point I flatter myself I shall find them alike."

"I hope this point of resemblance is not of much importance to your
happiness, my dear Mrs. Peters," replied Agnes, "for if it be, you are
in a bad way; since night and day are infinitely less unlike than my two
aunts in all things."

"Yes, but it is of great importance to my happiness, particularly for
this evening, Agnes," replied Mrs. Peters. "The point of resemblance I
want to find is in the trusting you to my care. We are going to a party
this evening where I should particularly like to take you, ... and it
will be impossible, you know, to arrange exchange of visits, and manage
that an invitation shall be sent and accepted by aunt Compton, on such
very short notice. Do you think she will let you go with us?"

"Ask her, my dear Mrs. Peters," replied Agnes with a very happy smile,
"and see what she will say to it."

"I will, if I do not find her too awful," was the answer.

The manner in which Miss Compton received and entertained her visitors,
was a fresh source of surprise to Agnes. Though thinking very highly of
her intellect, and even of her conversational powers, she had
anticipated some symptoms of reserve and shyness on the introduction of
so perfect a recluse to strangers. But nothing of the kind appeared.
Miss Compton was pleased by the appearance and manner of both mother
and daughter, and permitted them to perceive that she was so, rather
with the easy flattering sort of courtesy with which a superior treats
those whom he wishes should be pleased with him, than with any
appearance of the _mauvaise honte_ which might have been expected. Nor
must this be condemned as unnatural, for it was, in fact, the inevitable
result of the state of mind in which she had lived. With keen intellect,
elastic animal spirits, and a position that places the owner of it
fairly above the reach of annoyance from any one, (an elevation, by the
by, that few of the great ones of the earth can boast,) it is not an
introduction to any ordinary society that can discompose the mind, or
agitate the manners.

Mrs. Peters did not find aunt Compton too awful, and therefore prefered
her request, which, like every other that could have been made likely to
promote the pleasure of Agnes, was not only graciously but gratefully
complied with. A question being started as to the order in which the
party should go, Mr. Peters's carriage not being able to take them all
at once, Miss Compton settled it by saying,--"Agnes has her own
carriage and servants here, but she must not go alone; and perhaps, if
she calls at your house, Mrs. Peters, you will have the kindness to let
her friend Mary accompany her, and permit her carriage to follow yours."

This being settled, Mrs. Peters and her daughter rose to take leave; and
Mary then hoped that Agnes, by returning with them, would at length give
her the opportunity she so earnestly desired of hearing all she had to
tell. But she was again disappointed, for when the young heiress asked
her indulgent aunt whether she would not take advantage of the lovely
morning to see some of the beauties of Clifton, she replied,--"I should
like nothing so well, Agnes, as to take a drive with you over the
beautiful downs you talk of. Will you spare her to me for so long, Miss
Peters?"

"I think you deserve a little of her, Miss Compton," answered the young
lady; "and with the hope of the evening before me, I will enter no
protest against the morning drive."

The mother and daughter then took leave, and as they left the house,
they exchanged a glance that seemed to express mutual congratulation on
the altered condition of their favourite.

"Well, mamma, you will be rewarded this time for obeying my commands
like a dutiful mother, and permitting me to make a pet of this sweet
Agnes.... There is nothing in the Barnaby style here.... I was sure Miss
Compton, of Compton Basett, must be good for something," said Mary.

"If I may venture to hope, as I think I may," replied her mother, "that
she will never be the means of bringing me in contact with my
incomparable sister-in-law again, I may really thank you, saucy girl as
you are, for having so taken the reins into your own hands. I delight in
this Miss Compton. There is a racy originality about her that is very
awakening. And as for your Agnes, what with her new young happiness, her
graceful loveliness, now first seen to some advantage, her proud and
pretty fondness for her aunt, and her natural joy at seeing us all again
under circumstances so delightfully altered, I really do think she is
the most enchanting creature I ever beheld."




CHAPTER XII.

A PARTY.--A MEETING.--GOOD SOMETIMES PRODUCTIVE OF EVIL.


The superintending the toilet of Agnes for the party of that evening was
a new and very delightful page in the history of the spinster of Compton
Basett. The fondest mother dressing a fair daughter for her first
presentation, never watched the operations of the toilet more anxiously;
and in her case there was a sort of personal triumph attending its
success, that combined the joy of the accomplished artist, who sees the
finished loveliness himself has made with the fond approval of
affection.

Partly from her own native good taste, and partly from the wisdom of
listening with a very discriminating judgment to the practical counsels
of an experienced _modiste_, the dress of Agnes was exactly what it
ought to have been; and the proud old lady herself could not have
desired an appearance more _distinguee_ than that of her adopted child
when, turning from Peggy and her mirror, she made her a sportive
courtesy and exclaimed,--

"Have you not made a fine lady of me, aunt Betsy?"

When Miss Compton's carriage stopped at Rodney Place, it was Mrs.
Peters, instead of her daughter, who took a place in it.

"Mary is excessively angry with me," said she, as they drove off, "for
not letting her be your companion; but I think it more _comme il faut_,
Agnes, that I should present you to Mrs. Pemberton myself. She is a
vastly fine lady; ... not one of us humble Bristolian Cliftonites, who
pique ourselves rather upon the elevation of our lime-stone rock above
the level of the stream that laves our merchants' quays, than on any
other species of superiority that we can lay claim to. Mrs. Pemberton is
none of us.... She has a house in London and a park in Buckinghamshire,
and flies over the Continent every now and then with first-rate
aristocratical velocity; but she has one feeling, sometimes shared by
more ordinary mortals, which is a prodigious love of music. This, and a
sort of _besoin_, to which she pleads guilty, of holding a salon every
evening that she is not from home, forces upon her, as I take it, the
necessity of visiting many of us who might elsewhere scarcely be deemed
worthy to approach her foot-stool. We met her at the Parslowes, where
the girls' performances elicited a very gracious degree of approbation.
An introduction followed; she has honoured me by attending a concert at
my own house, and this is the fourth evening we have passed with her.
Now you have the _carte du pays_, and I think you will agree with me,
that it is much better I should make my _entree_ with you on my arm,
than permit you to follow with the damsels in my train."

Agnes confessed that she thought the arrangement much more conducive to
the dignity of her approach, and thanked her companion for her
thoughtful attention.

"Perhaps it is not quite disinterested, Agnes.... I am rather proud of
having such an exotic to produce.... What a delightful aunt Compton it
is!... Carriage perfect ... servants evidently town-made ... white satin
and blonde fit for an incipient duchess! If your little head be not
turned, Agnes, you will deserve to be chronicled as a miracle."

"I have had enough to steady the giddiest craft that ever was launched,
my dear Mrs. Peters," replied Agnes; "and it would be silly, indeed, to
throw my ballast overboard, because I am sailing before the wind."

"Then your head is not turned; ... that is what you mean to say, is it
not?"

"No," replied Agnes, laughing, "my head is not turned,--I feel almost
sure of it.... But why do you make such particular inquiries respecting
the state of my head at present, Mrs. Peters? Shall I be called upon to
give some illustrious proof of its healthy condition to-night?"

"Yes, my dear.... You will assuredly be called upon to sing, and you
must prove to my satisfaction that you are not grown too fine to oblige
your friends."

"Is that all?... Depend upon it I will do whatever you wish me."

Mrs. Pemberton's drawing-room was full of company when they entered it,
but that lady espied them the moment they arrived, and stepped forward
with so much eagerness to receive them, that Agnes thought Mrs. Peters
had, in her account of the acquaintance between them, hardly done
justice to the degree of favour she had risen to. But a few minutes more
convinced her, that even she, unknown as she was, might flatter herself
that some portion of this distinguished reception was intended for her;
for Mrs. Pemberton took her hand and led her to a seat at the upper end
of the room with an air of such marked distinction, as, spite of the
philosophy of which she had just been boasting, brought a very bright
flush to her cheeks, if it did not turn her head. A few words, however,
spoken by that lady to one of those beside whom she placed her,
explained the mystery, and proved that Mrs. Peters had deemed it prudent
to intimate her intention of bringing a young friend with her
beforehand.

"Miss Eversham, you must permit me to introduce this young lady to
you--Miss Willoughby.... Miss Eversham.... From a little word in Mrs.
Peters' note this morning, I flatter myself that I shall have the
gratification of hearing you sing together. This lady's voice is a
contralto, Miss Willoughby, and from what I have heard of your
performance at Mrs. Peters', before I had the pleasure of being
acquainted with her, your voices will be delightful together."

This most unexpected address was not calculated to restore the composure
of Agnes, and it was not without some effort that she summoned courage
enough to answer the numerous questions of Miss Eversham, (an elderly
young lady too much inured to exhibition to have any mercy upon her,)
when, as an excuse for withdrawing her attention for a moment, from the
ceaseless catechism that tormented her, she turned away her eyes to look
upon the company, and beheld the profile of Colonel Hubert, as he bent
to speak to a lady seated on a sofa near which he stood. This was not an
occurrence very likely to restore her composure, but at least it spared
her any farther anxiety respecting the effort necessary for receiving
the attentions of her neighbour properly, for she altogether forgot her
vicinity, and became as completely incapable of hearing her farther
questions, as of answering them.

"Had he seen her?... Did he know she was at Clifton?... Was his
aunt,--was Lady Stephenson there?... How would he address her?... Would
their intercourse begin from the point at which it had broken off, or
would her altered circumstances, by placing each in a new position, lead
to a renewed proposal, and an answer?... Oh how different from her
former one!"

These were the questions that now addressed themselves to her, making
her utterly incapable of hearing the continued string of musical
interrogatories which went on beside her. The short interval during
which Colonel Hubert retained his attitude, and continued his
conversation seemed an age, and expectation was growing sick, and almost
merging in despair, when at last the lady turned to answer a question
from her neighbour, and Colonel Hubert stood upright and cast his eyes
upon the company.

Her emotion was too powerful to permit bashfulness to take any part in
it; she sought his eye, and met it. In a moment all suffering was over,
and all anxiety a thousand fold overpaid, for the look she encountered
was all her heart could wish. At the first glance, indeed, he evidently
did not know her; it was that of a wandering speculative eye that seemed
looking out for occupation, and had she quite understood it aright, she
might have perceived that it was arrested by a sort of sudden suspicion
that it had found something worth pausing upon. But this lasted not
above the tenth part of an instant, and then he darted forward; his fine
proud countenance expressive of uncontrollable agitation, and the
rapidity with which he approached her was such as to show pretty plainly
that he forgot it was a crowded drawing-room he was traversing.

By the time he reached her, however, short as the interval was, the glow
that had lighted up her face when it first arrested his eye had faded
into extreme paleness, and when he spoke to her, she trembled so
violently as to be quite unable to articulate. Colonel Hubert perceived
her agitation, and felt that it approached in some degree to his own.
Had he been twenty-five, this would have probably been all he wished to
see; as it was, he felt a dreadful spasm at the heart, as the hateful
thought occurred that after what had passed there might be two ways in
which it might be interpreted. But it was a passing pang; and longing to
present her to his aunt and sister, and at the same time release her
from the embarrassing curiosity so conspicuous in the manner of her
neighbour, he held the hand she extended to him while he said--

"Let me lead you to Lady Elizabeth, Miss Willoughby; both she and Lady
Stephenson are in the next room, and will be delighted to see you."

Agnes rose, and though really hardly able to stand, replied, with all
the voice she had, that she should be greatly obliged if he would lead
her to them, taking his offered arm as she spoke. At this moment Sir
Edward Stephenson crossed the room with his eyes fixed upon her, and
with evident curiosity to find out who it was his stately brother-in-law
was escorting so obsequiously. The extreme beauty of Agnes, and the
remarkable elegance of her dress and appearance had, in truth, already
drawn all eyes upon her, and the whispered enquiries of many had been
answered by Mrs. Pemberton, with the information that she was an
heiress, and the first amateur singer in England. The foundation of
these assertions had reached her by the note of the judicious Mrs.
Peters, who, while asking permission to bring a young friend, took the
opportunity of hinting the two interesting facts above mentioned, and
the effect of their repetition among her guests doubtless added not a
little to the interest with which Agnes was looked at.

Sir Edward Stephenson was among those who had heard of the heiress-ship
and the voice, but the name had not reached him; and while looking at
the elegant girl in white satin, who lent upon Colonel Hubert's arm, not
the slightest resemblance between her and the fair girl in deep mourning
that he had once or twice seen at Cheltenham occurred to him.

There was a stoppage in the door-way between the two rooms, and it was
at this moment Sir Edward said in the ear of the colonel, "Who is your
fair friend?"

"Do you not know her, Sir Edward?... It is Miss Willoughby."

"What the girl ... the person we saw at.... Nonsense, Montague! Who is
it?"

Colonel Hubert shrugged his shoulders at the incredulity of his
brother-in-law, and quietly replying, "I have told you all I know," took
advantage of a movement among the crowd in the door-way, and led his
fair companion through it.

In the short interval occasioned by this stoppage, Agnes so far
recovered her composure as to become very keenly alive to the importance
of the next few moments to her happiness.... Should Lady Elizabeth look
harshly, or Lady Stephenson coldly upon her, of what avail would be all
the blessings that fate and affection had showered upon her favoured
head?... And then it was that for the first time she felt the full
extent of all she owed to Miss Compton; for the consciousness that she
was no longer a penniless, desolate dependant came to her mind at that
moment with a feeling ten thousand times more welcome than any display
of her aunt's hoarded wealth had ever brought; and the recollection
that, in speaking of her to Mrs. Peters, Miss Compton had almost
pompously called her "my heiress," and "the inheritor of my paternal
acres, and some twenty thousand pounds beside," which at the time had in
some sort been painful for her to listen to, was at that agitating
moment recalled with a degree of satisfaction that might have been
strangely misinterpreted had those around been aware of it.... Some
might have traced the feeling to pride, and some to vain
self-consequence; but, in truth, it arose from a deep-seated sense of
humility that blessed anything likely to lessen the awful distance she
felt between herself and Hubert in the eyes of his relations.

But with all the aid she could draw from such considerations her cheek
was colourless, and her eyes full of tears when she found herself
standing almost like a culprit before the dignified old lady, whose
favour she had once gained in a manner so unhoped for, whom she feared
she had deeply offended since, and on whose present feelings towards
her hung all her hopes of happiness in life.

It was not at the first glance that her timid but enquiring eye could
learn her sentence, for the expressive countenance of the old lady
underwent more than one change before she spoke. At first it very
unequivocally indicated astonishment ... then came a smile that as
plainly told of admiration (at which moment, by the way, her ladyship
became impressed with the firmest conviction that the nose of the
honourable Miss Nivett, and that of Miss Willoughby, were formed on the
same model), and at last, whatever intention of reserve might have
possessed her, it all melted away, and she held out both her hands with
both aspect and words of very cordial welcome.

The heart of Agnes gave a bound as these words reached her; and the look
of animated happiness which succeeded to the pale melancholy that sat
upon her features when she first approached, touched the old lady so
sensibly, that nothing but the presence of the crowd around prevented
her throwing her arms around her in a fond embrace.

Lady Stephenson was from the first instant all affectionate kindness,
and even Sir Edward, who had hitherto never appeared to think it
necessary that his lady's singing favourite should occupy much of his
attention, now put himself forward to claim her acquaintance,
apologizing for not having known her at first by saying,--

"The change of dress, Miss Willoughby, must be my excuse; you have left
off mourning since I saw you last."

Agnes smiled and bowed, and appeared not to have been in the least
degree affronted; in fact, she was at that moment too happy to be
otherwise than pleased with everybody in the world.

Meanwhile, Colonel Hubert stood looking at her with love, admiration,
and astonishment, that fully equalled that of his aunt; but the
contemplation did not bring him happiness. Without settling the balance
very accurately in his own mind, perhaps, he had hitherto felt conscious
that his station and fortune (independent at least, if not large) might
be set against her youth ... that constant stumbling-block of his
felicity ... and her surpassing beauty. But there was something in the
change from simplicity of dress, that almost approached to homeliness,
to the costly elegance of costume that was now before him, which seemed
to indicate a position to which his own no longer presented so very
favourable a contrast. She no longer appeared to be the Agnes to obtain
whom he must make a sacrifice that would prove beyond all doubt the
vastness of his love, and he trembled as he beheld her the principal
object of attention, and the theme of avowed admiration throughout the
room.

Lady Elizabeth very unceremoniously made room for her next herself, by
desiring a gentleman who occupied the seat beside her, which was on a
small sofa filling the recess by the chimney, to leave it.

"I beg a thousand pardons, sir, but I see no other place in the room
where we could hope for space to sit thus _tete-a-tete_ together, and
did you know how near and dear she was to me, you would, I am sure,
excuse me."

The gentleman, though not a young one, assured her with the appearance
of much sincerity that to yield a seat to such a young lady could be
considered only as honour and happiness by every man. Having thus
established her restored favourite at her side, Lady Elizabeth began to
whisper innumerable questions about Miss Compton.

"How came it, my dear," said she, "that when opening your heart to Emily
and me upon the subject of your unfortunate situation with Mrs. Barnaby,
you never referred to the possibility of placing yourself under the
protection of Miss Compton?"

"Because my aunt Compton having quarrelled with my aunt Barnaby had
refused to take any further notice of me,--Mrs. Barnaby at least led me
to believe during the six or seven months I passed with her, that every
application on my part to Miss Compton would be vain, ... and it was
only the dreadful predicament into which Mrs. Barnaby's arrest threw me,
that gave me the desperate courage which I thought necessary for
applying to her. But I have since learned, Lady Elizabeth, that at any
time, one word from me would have sufficed to make her leave her
retirement, as she now has done, and remove me from my dreadful
situation."

"But it appears that she is not only a kind aunt, but a wealthy one, my
dear child.... Excuse the observation, Agnes, ... situated as we now are
together, you cannot deem it impertinent, ... but your dress indicates
as great and as favourable a change in pecuniary matters, as your
letter, and your happy countenance, announces in all others.... Miss
Compton, I presume, is a woman of fortune?"

"Her fortune is larger than I imagined it to be," replied Agnes. "She
lived with great economy before she adopted me."

"And do you know what her intentions are, Agnes?" rejoined the
persevering old lady. "It is only as the aunt of Colonel Hubert ...
remember this, my dear ... it is only as Colonel Hubert's aunt that I
ask the question."

Agnes blushed with most happy consciousness as she replied. "The
interest you so kindly take in me confers both honour and happiness, and
however averse to boast of the kindness bestowed, and promised by my
dear aunt, I can have no wish to hide from you, Lady Elizabeth, all she
has said to me. She knows the honour that has been done me by Colonel
Hubert, and knows too, that nothing but the fear of your displeasure
could have made me hesitate to accept it; ... and she says, that should
no such displeasure interfere, she would bestow a fortune on me."

"Well, my dear, ... I don't believe that any such displeasure is likely
to interfere. When will you introduce us to her?"

"To-morrow, Lady Elizabeth!..." Agnes eagerly replied, "if you will
give us leave to wait upon you."

"Yes, that is right, my dear, quite right.... She must call on me
first, ... and yet I am not quite sure of that either.... I rather
think the friends of the gentleman should wait upon the friends of the
lady, ... and so I will call upon her to-morrow morning, and remember,
when you have introduced us to each other, you may go away; we must talk
on business. What is her address?"

Agnes gave the address very distinctly, which was repeated in the same
manner by Lady Elizabeth, just as Mrs. Pemberton approached to entreat
her permission to lead her to the pianoforte. "You are going to sing, my
dear child! Very good.... I shall be delighted to hear you.... And you
must get me a place where I can both look at, and listen to her, Mrs.
Pemberton," said Lady Elizabeth.

Considerably surprised, but much pleased to find that the acquaintance
she had condescended to make with Mrs. Peters had led to her having the
honour of receiving so intimate a friend and favourite of her most
illustrious guest, Mrs. Pemberton rather ostentatiously performed the
service required of her, and Agnes once more stood up to sing with Lady
Elizabeth's arm-chair almost as near to her as on the happy night when
she first won the old lady's heart at Cheltenham.

But where was Colonel Hubert?... He had stood anxiously watching the
first few words that passed between his aunt and Agnes; and when he saw
her cavalier dismission of her neighbour, and the cordial style of amity
with which she pursued her conversation with the beautiful interloper,
he almost forgot his doubts and fears in the happiness of seeing one
obstacle so decidedly removed, and prudently denying himself the
pleasure of being near them, lest his presence might render the
conversation less confidential, he withdrew to the other room, and only
appeared again before the eyes of Agnes when he took his place beside
her to turn over the pages of her song.

For the first few moments Agnes feared that she was too happy to
sing; ... but she tried, and found that her voice was clear, and was
determined that it should soon be steady, for she wished ... let
youthful ladies judge how ardently ... to renew the impression which she
had made on Colonel Hubert on that never-to-be-forgotten morning when
she first dared to fancy he loved her.

Nor were her wishes vain. She sang as well, and he felt as strongly as
before. Her pleasure as she watched this was perfect, but his was very
far from being so; he saw that she was the centre of attraction, and not
only, as before, the admired of every eye, and the enchanter of every
ear, but also the most distinguished, fashionable, and important young
lady present.

There was not, however, a shadow of the paltry feeling called jealousy
in this; the pang that smote his heart arose from memory, and not from
imagination. Could he, as he now saw this elegant girl the centre of
fashion, and the petted favourite of his own proud aunt, forget the
generous devoted passion of the unfortunate Frederick? Could he forget
that he had used all the influence which the young man's affection to
himself had lent him, to make him abandon an attachment so every way
calculated to ensure his happiness?... Could he forget that Frederick
was now living an exile from his country, the victim of unhappy love,
while he, his trusted confidant, but most pernicious adviser, remained
to profit by the absence he himself had caused, and to drain the cup of
happiness which his hand had dashed from the lips of his wretched
friend?

As long as Mrs. Barnaby continued to hang about her, and in some degree
to overshadow her with the disgrace of her vulgar levity, Agnes could
not be loved without a sacrifice, and the youth and splendid fortune of
Frederick Stephenson, as well as the peculiarly strong feelings of his
family on the subject, might have stood as reasons why another, less
fettered by circumstances, might have married her, though he could not.
But how stood the matter now? Agnes had been snatched from Mrs.
Barnaby, and borne completely beyond the sphere of her influence;
Stephenson's proud brother seemed to bow before her, while his wife
selected her as a chosen friend; and worse, a thousand times worse than
all the rest, he had learnt, while he wandered among the company before
the music commenced, that Agnes was the proclaimed heiress of fifteen
hundred a-year. This last, however, for his comfort, he did not believe;
but there was enough without it, to make him feel that, should he even
be so blessed as to teach her to forget the difference of their age, and
make her young heart his own, he must, by becoming her husband, appear
to the friend who had trusted him, as one of the veriest traitors under
heaven.

Such thoughts were enough to jar the sweetest harmony; and the evening
was altogether productive of more pain than pleasure to the unfortunate
Colonel Hubert, who having staked his happiness on a marriage, only to
be obtained by the consent of his aunt, was now suffering martyrdom from
a plethora of success, and would have gladly changed his condition back
to what it had been when, regardless of consequences, he had laid his
heart at the feet of Agnes by the light of her one tallow-candle in
Half-moon Street, while her sole protectress lay imprisoned in the
Fleet.

When the party broke up, Colonel Hubert, leaving his aunt to the care of
Sir Edward, escorted Mrs. Peters and the four young ladies down stairs,
where another shock awaited him on hearing her servant enquire which
carriage should be called up first, for before answering, Mrs. Peters
turned to Agnes, and said,--

"To which name are your servants accustomed to answer, my dear? Miss
Compton told me you would have your own carriage here, but perhaps this
might only be another mode of saying you would have hers. Shall they
call Miss Compton's carriage, or Miss Willoughby's, Agnes?"

"They will answer to either, I believe," replied Agnes, carelessly, for
she was waiting for Colonel Hubert to finish something he was saying to
her.

"Call Miss Willoughby's carriage, then," said Mrs. Peters to the
servants in waiting.... And "Miss Willoughby's carriage! Miss
Willoughby's carriage!" resounded along the hall, and through the
street.




CHAPTER XIII.

DEMONSTRATING THE HEAVY SORROW WHICH MAY BE PRODUCED BY A YOUNG LADY'S
HAVING A LARGER FORTUNE THAN HER LOVER EXPECTED.


Miss Compton was not long kept waiting for the appearance of her
promised visitor on the following morning, for before twelve o'clock
Lady Elizabeth Norris arrived. Agnes very punctually obeyed the commands
that had been given her, and having properly introduced the two old
ladies to each other, left them together, and hastened at length to
satisfy the anxious curiosity of her friend Mary, by giving her a full
account of all the circumstances that had led to the happy change in her
prospects.

Her tale was listened to with unbroken attention, and when it was ended
Miss Peters exclaimed--

"Now then, I forgive you, Agnes, and only now, for not returning the
love of that very pleasant person Frederick Stephenson; ... for I do
believe it is nearly impossible for a young lady to be in love with two
gentlemen at once, and I now perceive beyond the shadow of a doubt, that
the superb colonel turned your head from the very first moment that you
looked ... not up on, but up to him. How very strange it is," she
continued, "that I should never have suspected the cause of that
remarkable refusal!... I imagine my dulness arose from my humility; I
was conscious myself that I should quite as soon have taken the liberty
of falling in love with the autocrat of all the Russias, as with Colonel
Hubert, and it therefore never occurred to me that you could be guilty
of such audacity; nevertheless, I will not deny that he is a husband to
be proud of ... and so I wish you joy heartily.... But do tell me," she
added after a moment's meditation, "how you mean to manage about Mr.
Stephenson?... Your first meeting will be rather awkward, will it not?"

"I fear so," replied Agnes, gravely. "But there is no help for it, and I
must get over it as well as I can ... fortunately none of the family
have the slightest idea of any such thing, and I hope they never will."

"I hope so, too, dear. But it would be very unpleasant, would it not?
if, upon hearing what is going on, he were to burst in among you, and
insist upon shooting Colonel Hubert."

This was said playfully, and without a shadow of serious meaning; but it
rendered Agnes extremely uneasy, and it required some skill and
perseverance on the part of Miss Peters to remove the effect of what she
had said. There were, however, too many pleasant points of discourse
among the multitude of subjects before them, for her young spirits to
cling long to the only one that seemed capable of giving her pain, and
on the whole their long and uninterrupted conference was highly
gratifying to them both.

While this was going on in Rodney Place, something of the same kind, but
without any drawback at all, was proceeding in the Mall, between the two
old ladies, the result of which may be given more shortly by relating
what passed between Lady Elizabeth and her nephew afterwards, than by
following them through the whole of their very interesting, but somewhat
desultory conversation.

Colonel Hubert was awaiting the return of his aunt with much anxiety; an
anxiety, by the way, which proceeded wholly from the fear that what she
might have to report should prove his Agnes to be _un meilleur parti_
than he wished to find her. This singular species of uneasiness was in
no degree lessened by the aspect of the old lady as she entered the
drawing-room in which he was waiting to receive her.

"This is a very singular romance, Montague, as ever I remember to have
heard of," she began. "Here is this pretty creature, who was introduced
to us as niece and adopted child, as I fancied, of the vulgarest and
most atrociously absurd woman in England, without money or wit enough to
keep her out of jail, and now she turns out to be a young lady of large
fortune, perfectly well educated, and well descended on both sides of
her house ... and all this, too, without any legerdemain, _denouements_,
or discoveries.... I wish you joy heartily, Montague.... Her fortune is
exactly what was wanted to make yours comfortable ... she has fifteen
hundred a year, part of which is, by Miss Compton's account, a very
improvable estate in Devonshire;--but I suspect the old lady will like
to give a name to your second son, or should you have no second son, to
a daughter. Nor can I blame her for this. By her account, Compton of
Compton Basett has endured long enough in the land to render the wish
that it should not pass away a very reasonable one; especially for the
person who holds, and has to bequeath the estate, to which it has for
centuries been annexed; so that point, I presume, you will not cavil at.
You must take care, however, that the liberal-minded old gentlewoman, in
making this noble settlement on her niece, does not leave herself too
bare.... She talked of the _trifle_ that would follow at her death....
This ought not to be a trifle, and were I you, Montague, I would insist
that the amount settled on Agnes at your marriage should not exceed one
thousand a-year.... This, with the next step in your profession, will
make your income a very sufficient one, even without the regiment which
you have such fair reason to hope for."

During the whole of this harangue, Colonel Hubert was suffering very
severely; till by the time her ladyship had concluded, his imagination
became so morbidly alive, that he almost fancied himself already in the
presence of his injured friend ... he fancied him hastening home to be a
witness at his marriage, and gazing with a cold reproachful eye as the
beauty, the wealth, the connexions of Agnes were all shewn to be exactly
what his friends would have approved for him, had not a false, a base,
an interested adviser, contrived to render vain his generous and
honourable love, that he might win the precious prize himself.

What a picture was this for such a mind as Hubert's to contemplate!...
Had not Lady Elizabeth been exceedingly occupied by the curious and
unexpected discoveries she had made concerning the race and the rents of
the Comptons, she must have perceived how greatly the effect of her
statement was the reverse of pleasurable to her auditor; but in truth
her attention was not fixed upon him, but upon Miss Compton, whom she
considered as one of the most remarkable originals she had ever met
with, and ceased not to congratulate herself upon the happy chance which
had turned her yielding kindness to her nephew into a source of so much
interesting speculation to herself.... Receiving no answer to the speech
she had made, she added very good-humouredly,--

"That's all, Mr. Benedict.... Now you may depart to look for the young
lady, and you may tell her, if you please, that upon the whole I very
much doubt if the united kingdoms might not be ransacked through,
without finding any one I should more completely approve in all ways as
the wife of Montague Hubert.... Poor Sir Edward!... How he will wish
that all his anxieties respecting his hare-brained brother had been
brought to a termination by the young man's having had the wit to fall
in love with this sweet girl instead of you; ... but I doubt if
Frederick Stephenson has sufficient taste and refinement of mind to
appreciate such a girl as Agnes.... He probably overlooked her
altogether, or perhaps amused himself more by quizzing the absurdities
of the aunt, than by paying any particular attention to her delicate and
unobtrusive niece. It required such a mind as yours, Montague, to
overcome all the apparent obstacles and objections with which she was
surrounded.... I honour you for it, and so, perhaps, will your
giddy-headed friend too, when he comes to know her. She is a gem that we
shall all have reason to be proud of."

Colonel Hubert could bear no more, but muttering something about wishing
immediately to write letters, he hurried out of the room, and shut
himself into the parlour which had been appropriated to his morning use.
Without giving himself time to think very deliberately of the
comparative good and evil that might ensue, he seized a pen, and wrote
the following letter to Mr. Stephenson.

     "DEAR FREDERICK,

     "We parted painfully, and my regard for you is too sincere for
     me to endure the idea of meeting again with equal pain. I have
     had reason since you left England, to believe, that
     notwithstanding the very objectionable manners and conduct of
     Mrs. Barnaby, her niece, Miss Willoughby, is in every way
     worthy of the attachment, you conceived for her; nay, that her
     family and fortune are such as even your brother and sisters
     would approve. I will not conceal from you that there are
     others who have discovered (though not so early as yourself)
     the attractions and the merits of Miss Willoughby; but who can
     say, Frederick, that if your early and generous devotion were
     made known to her, she might not give you the preference over
     those who were less prompt in surrendering their affections
     than yourself? If, then, your feelings towards her continue to
     be the same as when we parted at our breakfast table at Clifton
     ... and this I cannot doubt, for Agnes is not formed to be
     loved once, and then forgotten ... if you still love her,
     Frederick, hasten home, and take the advantage which your early
     conceived and unhesitating affection gives you over those who
     saw her more than once, before they discovered how important
     she was to their happiness.

     "Notwithstanding the impatience with which you listened to my
     remonstrances on the subject of a connexion with Mrs. Barnaby,
     I believe that they were in truth the cause of your abandoning
     a pursuit in which your heart was deeply interested; and so
     believing, I cannot rest till I have told you that a marriage
     with Miss Willoughby no longer involves the necessity of any
     personal intercourse with Mrs. Barnaby. They are separated, and
     probably for ever.

     "Believe me, now and for ever,

     "Very faithfully your friend,

     "MONTAGUE HUBERT."

The effort necessary for writing and dispatching this letter by the
post, was of service to him; it tended to make him feel more reconciled
to himself, and less impatient under the infliction of hearing the
favoured position of Miss Willoughby descanted upon. But much anxiety,
much suffering, still remained.... How should he again meet Agnes?...
Despite a thousand dear suspicions to the contrary, he could not wholly
conquer the belief that it was her indifference, or some feeling
connected with the disparity of their age, which dictated the
too-well-remembered words.... "I never will be your wife;" and his best
consolation under the terrible idea that he had recalled a rival to
compete with him, arose from feeling that if, when his own proposals and
those of Frederick were both before her, she should bestow herself on
him, he might and must believe that, spite of his thirty-five years, she
loved him; ... but though he hailed such comfort as might be got from
this, it could not enable him to see Agnes, while this uncertainty
remained, without such a degree of restraint as must convert all
intercourse with her into misery.

Agnes meanwhile was indulging herself with all the happy confidence of
youthful friendship in relating to her friend everything that had
happened since they parted, and returned to the Mall soon after Lady
Elizabeth had left it, with a heart glowing with love, gratitude, hope,
and joy. The narrative with which Miss Compton welcomed her, was just
all she wished and expected; and when told that the evening was to be
passed at the lodgings of Lady Elizabeth Norris, she thanked the
delighted old lady for the intelligence with a kiss that spoke her
gladness better than any words could have done.

The evening came, and found the aunt and niece ready to keep their
engagement, with such an equality of happiness expressed in the
countenance of each, as might leave it doubtful which enjoyed the
prospect of it the most. The pretty dress of Agnes, with all its
simplicity, was rather more studied than usual; and it was the
consciousness of this, perhaps, which occasioned her to blush so
beautifully when Miss Compton made her a laughing compliment upon the
delicate style of it....

"You look like a lily, my Agnes!" said the old lady, gazing at her with
fond admiration. "You have certainly got very tired of black, my dear
child, for I perceive that whenever you wish to look very nice, you
select unmixed white for your decoration."

"I think it best expresses the change in my condition," replied Agnes.
"Oh! my dear aunt, ... how _very, very_ happy you have made me!"

Nothing could be more gratifying than the manner in which they were
received by Lady Elizabeth, Lady Stephenson, and Sir Edward; ... but
Colonel Hubert was not in the drawing-room when they entered. For a
short time, however, his absence was not regretted, even by Agnes, as
she was not sorry for the opportunity it gave her of receiving the
affectionate congratulations of her future sister, and it was with a
feeling likely to produce much lasting love between them, that the one
related, and the other listened to, the history of Colonel Hubert's
return from London, of his first bold avowal of his love to his aunt,
and of the comfort he had found in the reception given to this avowal by
Lady Stephenson herself; ... but still Colonel Hubert came not; and at
length Lady Elizabeth exclaimed, with a spice of her usual vivacity,...

"Upon my word, I believe that Montague is writing an account of his
felicity to every officer in the British army.... He darted out of the
room this morning before I had half finished what I had to say to
him.... He hardly spoke three words while dinner lasted, and off he was
again as soon as the cloth was removed, and each time something about
writing letters was the only intelligible words I got from him.... I
wish you would go, Sir Edward, and see if he is writing letters now, ...
and I will ring for tea.... I mean to make Montague sing to-night with
Agnes. Emily has taken care that you should have a good piano, my
dear ... and you must take care that, while I stay here, I have music
enough to make up for the loss of my menagerie, ... for I don't think
I shall begin collecting again just yet."

Sir Edward obeyed the old lady's wishes, and when the tea was half over,
returned with his brother-in-law. This was the first time that Colonel
Hubert had been seen by Miss Compton, and the moment was not a
favourable one for removing the idea which she had originally conceived,
of his being too old for the lover and husband of her beautiful niece.
He was looking pale, harassed, and fatigued; but while Agnes feared only
that he might be unwell, her aunt, though she could not deny that he was
a gentleman of a most noble presence, (it was thus she expressed herself
in speaking of him to Mrs. Peters,) thought that it was strange so young
a girl should have fixed her fancy upon him, in preference to all the
world beside. In fact, Miss Compton's notions of a lover being drawn
solely from the imaginary models she had made acquaintance with among
her bees and flowers, she would have been better pleased to see a
bright-eyed youth of twenty-one as the hero of her own romance, than the
dignified but melancholy man who now stood before her. Having received
his salutation, and returned it with that tone and look of intelligent
cheerfulness which redeemed all she said from any imputation of want of
polish, or deficiency of high-bred elegance, she turned her eyes on the
face of Agnes, and there she read such speaking testimony of love and
admiration, that all her romantic wishes for her perfect bliss were
satisfied; and following the direction of those speaking eyes, and once
more examining the features and person of Hubert, she satisfied herself
by the conviction, that if not young, he was supremely elegant; and that
if his complexion had lost its bloom, his manners had attained a degree
of dignity superior, as she thought, to anything described among the
young gentlemen whose images were familiar to her imagination.

It was slowly that Colonel Hubert approached Agnes, and mournfully that
he gazed upon her; but there was to her feelings a pleasure in his
presence, which for a long time prevented her being fully conscious that
he, on his part, was not so happy as she had hoped it was in her power
to make him. By degrees, however, the conviction of this sad truth made
its way to her heart, and from that moment her joy and gladness faded,
drooped, and died away, like a flower into which a gnawing worm has
found its way, and nestled in the very core. This did not happen on this
first evening of their meeting under the roof of Lady Elizabeth, for
Agnes indulged her with every song she desired to hear. Lady Stephenson
sang too, nor could Colonel Hubert refuse to join them, so that to the
unsuspicious Agnes that evening seemed delightful; but a silent,
melancholy walk on the following morning, made her ask herself where was
the ardent love for which he had pleaded in Half-Moon Street?... Had she
mistaken him when he said that his happiness depended wholly on her?...
And if not, what was it had turned him thus to stone?

Poor Agnes!... she could have no confident in this new sorrow. Her aunt
Compton and her friend Mary had both spoken of him as too old to be a
lover; and did she breathe to either a fear that his affection had
already grown cold, might they not tell her that it was but natural?...
Such words she thought would break her heart, for every hour he became
dearer to her than before, as she saw he was unhappy; and, thinking more
of him than of herself, mourned more for his sorrow, of which she knew
nothing, than for her own, though it was rapidly undermining her health
and destroying her bloom.




CHAPTER XIV.

RETURNS TO MRS. BARNABY, AND RELATES SOME OF THE MOST INTERESTING AND
INSTRUCTIVE SCENES OF HER LIFE, TOGETHER WITH SEVERAL CIRCUMSTANCES
RELATIVE TO ONE DEARER TO HER THAN HERSELF.


The real heroine of this love story has been left too long, and it is
necessary we should return to see in what way her generous friendship
for Mr. O'Donagough was likely to end. Having kept her promise, and paid
the debt for which he had been detained, as well as comforted him by the
farther loan of 2_l._ 10_s._ 4_d._, she stated to him her intention of
remaining for a month longer at her lodgings in Half Moon-street,
adding, with a degree of _naivete_ that O'Donagough felt to be extremely
touching--

"Let this be a month of probation, my dear friend, for us both. We met
under circumstances too much calculated to soften the heart for either
of us, perhaps, to be able fairly to judge how we may feel when those
circumstances are past. Let me see as much of you as your occupations
will permit.... I shall dine at five o'clock, because the evenings are
drawing in, and I don't love candle-light before dinner.... You will
always find a steak or a chop, and a little brandy and water, or
something of that sort.... And now adieu!... This is a disagreeable
place to pay or receive visits in, and I flatter myself that I now leave
it for ever."

Let the most glowing gratitude that heart can feel be set forth in words
of fluent eloquence such as befit the class to which Mr. O'Donagough
belonged, and the answer which he gave to this speech will be the
product.

Nevertheless, Mr. O'Donagough knew what it meant perfectly well. It
meant that the Widow Barnaby, although she had made up her mind to give
herself and whatever she might happen to possess to a husband, and
although she was exceedingly well inclined to let that husband be Mr.
Patrick O'Donagough, she did not intend to go thus far in manifesting
her favour towards him, without knowing a little more than she did at
present respecting the state of his affairs. In a word, he perceived, as
he repeated to himself, with an approving smile--

    That though on _marriage_ she was bent,
    She had a prudent mind.

Nor was he, notwithstanding the little irregularities into which he had
heretofore fallen, unworthy of becoming an object of tender attention to
Mrs. Barnaby. Much as he admired her, he had steeled his soul to the
virtuous resolution of putting a sudden stop to all farther intercourse
between them, should he find upon inquiry that prudence did not justify
its continuance.

Whatever deficiency of wisdom, therefore, the conduct of either had
before shown, it was evident that both were now actuated by a
praiseworthy spirit of forethought that ought to have ensured the
felicity of their future years.

It will be evident to all who study the state of the widow's mind at
this period, that she had considerably lowered the tone of her hopes and
expectations from the moment she became aware of the defection of Lord
Mucklebury. The shock which her hopes had received by the disagreeable
_denouement_ of her engagement with Major Allen had been perfectly
cured, at least for a time, by the devotion of the noble Viscount; and
so well satisfied was she herself at an escape which had left her free
to aim at a quarry so infinitely higher, that what had been a
mortification turned to a triumph, and she enjoyed the idea, that when
"she seemed to slip," she had so gloriously recovered herself as to
leave Mrs. Peters, and other envious wonderers, cause to exclaim, "She
rises higher half her length!"... But from the time this coroneted
bubble burst, her courage fell. Her arrest was another blow.... Mr.
Morrison's desertion one heavier still; and, little as she cared for
Agnes, or, in truth, for anybody living but herself, the manner of her
departure vexed and humbled her.

"That crooked hag," thinks she, "has made me truckle to her!" she
exclaimed, as her aunt and her niece drove off, on the night that Agnes
first took up her abode with Miss Compton.... "She thinks that because
she spent some of her beggar's money to hire a carriage in order to
bully me, I shall count myself despised and forsaken. But the spiteful
old maid shall hear of my being married again, and that will be
wormwood, I'll answer for it."

It was in this spirit that she set about inquiring into the private
character and prospects of young Mr. O'Donagough, and her first step in
the business showed at once her judgment and her zeal.

In the history he had given of himself, he had spoken of a certain most
respectable book-seller, who, (as he modestly hinted,) knowing his
worth, and the exemplary manner in which he had turned from horse-racing
to preaching, had exerted himself in the kindest manner to obtain some
situation for him that should atone for the severity of his father. It
was to him he had owed the engagement as domestic chaplain in the family
of the nobleman formerly mentioned, and it was to him Mrs. Barnaby
addressed herself for information that might lead to an engagement of
still greater importance.

It was not, however, her purpose that her real object should be known,
and she, therefore, framed her inquiries in such a manner as to lead Mr.
Newbirth to suppose that her object was to obtain either a teacher or a
preacher for her family circle.

Having made it known that she wished a few minutes private conversation
with the principal, she was shown into a parlour by one of the clerks,
and civilly requested to sit down for a few minutes till Mr. Newbirth
could wait upon her. It must be the fault of every individual so placed,
if such few minutes have not turned to good account; for the table of
this exemplary publisher was covered elbow-deep in tracts, sermons,
missionary reports, mystical magazines, and the like; but as Mrs.
Barnaby was not habitually a reader, she did not profit so much as she
might have done by her situation, and, before Mr. Newbirth's arrival,
had begun to think the "few minutes" mentioned by his clerk were
unusually long ones.

At length, however, he appeared, and then it was impossible to think
she had waited too long for him, for the gentle suavity of his demeanour
made even a moment of his presence invaluable.

"You have business with me, madam?" he said, with his heels gracefully
fixed together, and his person bent forward in humble salutation, as far
as was consistent with the safety of his nose.... "Pray do not rise. I
have now five minutes that I can spare, without neglecting any serious
duty;" and so saying, he placed himself opposite to the lady in act to
listen.

"I have taken the liberty of waiting upon you, sir," replied Mrs.
Barnaby, a little alarmed at the hint that her business must be
completed in the space of five minutes, "in order to make some inquiries
respecting a Mr. O'Donagough, who is, I believe, known to you."

"Mr. O'Donagough? The Reverend Mr. O'Donagough, madam?"

The widow, though well disposed to enlarge her knowledge, and extend the
limits of her principles, was not yet fully initiated into the mysteries
of regenerated ordinations, and therefore replied, as the daughter of an
English clergyman might well be excused for doing--"No, sir ... the
gentleman I mean is Mr. Patrick O'Donagough; he was not brought up to
the church."

But there was something in the phrase, "_brought up_ to the church,"
that grated against the feelings of Mr. Newbirth, and his brow
contracted, and his voice became exceedingly solemn, as he said, "I know
Mr. Patrick O'Donagough, who, like many other shining lights, was not
_brought up to the church_; but has, nevertheless, received the title of
reverend from the congregation which has the best right to bestow it,
even that to which he has been called to preach."

Mrs. Barnaby was not slow in perceiving her mistake, and proceeded with
her inquiries in such a manner as to prove that she was not unworthy to
intercommune either with Mr. Newbirth himself, or any of those to whom
he extended his patronage. The result of the interview was highly
satisfactory; for though it seemed clear that Mr. Newbirth was aware of
the vexatious accident which had for some months checked the young
preacher's career, it was equally evident, that the circumstance made
no unfavourable impression, and Mrs. Barnaby returned to her lodgings
with the pleasing conviction that now, at least, there could be no
danger in giving way to the tender feeling which had so repeatedly
beguiled her. "The reverend Mr. O'Donagough" would look very well in the
paragraph which she was determined should record her marriage in the
Exeter paper; and being quite determined that the three hundred and
twenty-seven pounds per annum, which still remained of her income,
should be firmly settled on herself, she received her handsome friend,
when he arrived at the hour of dinner, in a manner which showed he had
lost nothing in her esteem since they parted.

It had so happened, that within half an hour of the widow's quitting the
shop of Mr. Newbirth, Mr. O'Donagough entered it. His patron received
him very graciously, and failed not to mention the visit he had
received, which, though not elucidated by the lady's leaving any name,
was perfectly well understood by the person principally concerned.

There are some men who might have felt offended by learning that such a
means of improving acquaintance had been resorted to; but its effect on
Mr. O'Donagough was exactly the reverse. His respect and estimation for
the widow were infinitely increased thereby; for though still a young
man, he had considerable experience, and he felt assured, that if Mrs.
Barnaby had not something to bestow besides her fair fat hand, she would
have been less cautious in letting it follow where it was so certain her
heart had gone before.

The conviction thus logically obtained, assisted the progress of the
affair very essentially. Having learnt from Mr. Newbirth that the place
he had lost by the ill-timed arrest was filled by another who was not
likely to give it up again, he once more contrived to make his way to
the presence of his father, and gave him very clearly to understand,
that the very best thing he could do would be once more to furnish the
means for his departure from Europe.

"That you may spend it again at the gaming-table, you audacious scamp!"
responded his noble but incensed progenitor.

"Not so, sir," replied the soft-voiced young preacher; "you are not yet
aware of the change in my principles, or you would have no such
injurious suspicion."

"As to your principles, Pat," replied his lordship, beguiled into a
smile by the sanctified solemnity of his versatile son, "I do not
comprehend how you could change them, seeing that you never had any."

"Then, instead of principles, sir, let me speak of practice: it is now
several months since I exchanged the race-course, the billiard-table,
and the dice-box, for the course of an extemporary preacher. I am
afraid, my lord, that your taste rather leads you to performances of a
different kind, or I would ask you to attend the meeting at which I am
to expound next Wednesday evening, after which you could hardly doubt, I
imagine, the sincerity of my conversion."

"It would be putting your eloquence to rather a severe test, Master
Patrick. But if you have really got a church to preach in at home, why,
in the devil's name, should you bother me again about going abroad?"

"Because, my lord, I have no fixed stipend, or any other honest and
safe means of getting my bread, and also because there are many other
reasons which make it desirable that I should leave this country."

"That at least is likely enough, to be sure, Mr. O'Donagough. But have
the kindness to tell me what security you would give me for taking
yourself off, if I were again to furnish the means for it."

This was exactly the point to which the reformed son wished to bring the
yielding father; for it was not difficult to show many reasons for
believing that he was in earnest in his intention to depart with as
little delay as possible. It was with great caution, however, that he
hinted at the possibility of his taking a lady with him as his wife,
whose fortune was sufficient to prevent the necessity of his returning
again to beg for bread, even at the risk of liberty or life; for he
feared that if he confessed the prosperous state of his matrimonial
hopes, they might be held sufficient for his necessities. But here he
was mistaken; for no sooner did his father discover that his case was
not quite desperate, than he manifested a considerable softening, and
before a fortnight had expired, Mr. O'Donagough was able to convince
the enamoured widow that, in uniting her destiny to his, she would be
yielding to no sinful weakness, but securing both her temporal and
eternal felicity on the firmest footing possible. And now every thing
went on in so prosperous a manner, as almost to disprove the truth of
the oft-quoted assertion of the poet,

    "The course of true love never did run smooth;"

for the loves of Mr. O'Donagough and Mrs. Barnaby met with not even a
pebble of opposition as they ran evenly on towards matrimony.

This peaceful and pleasant progress was not a little assisted by a visit
which the prudent peer deemed it advisable to make to the intended
bride. Nothing could be more agreeable to the feelings of the lady than
this attention, nothing more advantageous to the interests of both
parties than the result. His lordship ascertained to a certainty that
the widow had wherewithal to feed his son, and most obligingly took care
that it should be so secured as to place her fortune beyond the reach
of any relapse on his part, while the fair lady herself, amidst all the
gentle sweetness with which she seemed to let his lordship manage every
thing, took excellent care of herself.

One thing only now remained to be settled before the marriage took
place, and this was the obtaining an appointment as missionary to a
congregation newly established in a beautiful part of Australia, where
there was every reason to suppose that a large and brilliant society
would soon give as much _eclat_ to the successful efforts of an
eloquent preacher as could be hoped for in the most fashionable
_reunion_ of saints in the mother country. The appointment was, in
effect, left in the hands of one or two, whose constant exertions, and
never-let-any-thing-escape-them habits, made them of personal importance
in every decision of the kind. This little committee agreed to meet at
Mr. Newbirth's on a certain evening, for the purpose of being introduced
to Mrs. Barnaby, and it was understood among them, that if they found
reason to be satisfied with her principles, and probable usefulness in a
new congregation, the appointment should be given to Mr. O'Donagough,
whose approaching marriage with her was well known to them all.

Mrs. Newbirth, who was quite a model of a wife, and who, therefore,
shared all her husband's peculiar notions respecting things in heaven
and earth, very obligingly lent her assistance at this important
session, both to prevent Mrs. Barnaby's feeling herself awkward, as
being the only lady present, and because it was reasonably supposed that
she might be useful in giving the conversation such a turn as should
elicit some of the more hidden, but not, therefore, the least important
traits of female character.

It was not intended that either Mr. O'Donogough or his intended bride
should be aware of the importance attached to this tea-drinking in Mr.
Newbirth's drawing-room; but the expectant missionary had not lived
thirty years in this wicked world for nothing; and though the invitation
was given in the most impromptu style possible, he instantly suspected
that the leaders of the congregation, who were about to send out the
mission, intended to make this an opportunity for discovering what
manner of woman the future Mrs. O'Donagough might be. Considerable
anxiety was the consequence of this idea in the mind of Mr. O'Donagough.
He liked the thoughts of preaching and lecturing to the ladies and
gentlemen of Modeltown, and therefore determined to spare no pains in
preparing the widow for the trial that awaited her. He found her by no
means unapt at receiving the hints he gave respecting several important
articles of faith, which, although new to her, she seemed willing enough
to adopt without much inquiry, but he had a hard struggle before he
could obtain the straightening of a single ringlet, or the paling, in
the slightest degree, the tint of her glowing rouge. At length, however,
the contest ended by his declaring that, without her compliance on this
point, he should feel it his duty, passionately as he adored her, to
delay their marriage till she could be induced, for his sake, to conform
herself a little more to the customs and manners of the sect to which he
belonged. Mrs. Barnaby's heart was not proof against such a remonstrance
as this; her resolution melted into tears, and she promised that if he
never would utter such cruel words again, he should dress her hair
himself in any manner he would choose. "As to my rouge," she added, "I
have only worn it, my dear O'Donagough, because I consider it as the
appendage of a woman of fashion ... but I will wear much less, that is
to say, almost none at all, for the fashion, if such shall be your
wish."

"Thank you my dear, ... that's all right, and I'll never plague you
about it, after I once get the appointment; only do what I bid you
to-night, and we'll snap our fingers at them afterwards."

The party assembled at Mr. Newbirth's consisted of himself and his lady,
and four gentlemen belonging to "the congregation" which was to be
propitiated. After the tea and coffee had disappeared, Mr. Newbirth, who
was the only gentleman in the company (except her own O'Donagough) with
whom Mrs. Barnaby was personally acquainted, opened the conversation, by
asking if the change of residence which she contemplated, from one side
of the world to the other, was an agreeable prospect to her.

"Very much so indeed!" was the reply.

"I suppose you are aware, ma'am," observed Mr. Littleton, who was senior
clerk in a banking house, and the principal lay orator of the
congregation--"I suppose you are aware that you are going among a set of
people who, though decidedly the most interesting portion of the human
race in the eyes of all true Christians, are nevertheless persons
accustomed heretofore to habits of irregular, not to say licentious
living.... How do you think, ma'am, that you shall like to fall into
habits of friendship and intimacy with such?"

Mr. O'Donagough listened with a good deal of anxiety for the answer: but
it was a point on which he had given his affianced bride very ample
instructions, and she did not disgrace her teacher.

"My notions upon that point, sir," she replied, "are rather particular,
I believe; for so far from thinking the worse of my fellow creatures
because they have done wrong, I always think that is the very reason why
I should seek their company, and exert myself in all ways to do them
good, and to make them take their place among the first and greatest in
the kingdom of heaven."

A murmur of applause ran round the little circle as Mrs. Barnaby
concluded her speech, and Mr. Littleton, in particular, expressed his
approbation of her sentiments in a manner that inspired the happy
O'Donagough with the most sanguine hopes of success.

"I never heard better sense, or sounder principles, or more christian
feelings, in the whole course of my life, than what this lady has now
expressed; and I will take upon me to say, gentlemen, without making any
new difficulty about the matter, that any minister going out to Sydney
in the holy and reverend character of a missionary, sent by an
independent congregation of devotional men, with such a wife in his hand
as this good lady will be sure to make, will do more good in his
generation, than all the bishops and archbishops that ever were
consecrated after the manner of the worn-out superstitions of by-gone
ages. Gentlemen!..." he continued, rising from his chair, "I do,
therefore, forthwith propose the immediate election of the reverend
Patrick O'Donagough to the office of missionary from the independent
congregation of Anti-work Christians of London, to the independent
congregation of Anti-work Christians at Sydney, with the privilege and
undivided monopoly of tract and hymn selling to the said congregation,
together with a patent right (not royal patent, my brethren, but holy
patent,) to all fees, donations, contributions, and payments of
whatsoever kind, made by the said independent congregation of Anti-work
Christians at Sydney, for and on account of the salvation of their
souls.... This, gentlemen, is the resolution I would propose, and I
trust that some among you will readily be found to second it."

"That, sir, will I, and most joyfully," said Mr. Dellant, rising; "for I
neither do nor can feel the shadow of a doubt, that our beneficent
objects in despatching this mission will be more forwarded by this
appointment than by any other, it is probable--gentlemen, I might say
POSSIBLE--we could make--for where, I would ask, shall we find another
Mrs Barnaby? May we not say, in the language of scripture, that she is a
help meet for him, even for the Reverend Patrick O'Donagough, whom we
have chosen."

Mr. Newbirth followed on the same side, giving many unanswerable reasons
for believing that nothing which the stiff-necked, unconverted, obsolete
ministers of the Church of England could do for the predestined army of
saints at present located at Sidney, could approach in utility and
saving efficacy of absolving grace, to what might be hoped from the
ministry of Mr. O'Donagough, assisted by the lady he was so happy as to
have engaged to be his wife.

"It gives me the most heart-felt pleasure, gentlemen," he continued,
"that my little humble drawing-room should have been made the scene of
this happy election. How many souls, now most probably grovelling in the
lowest depths of vice, will have places secured them upon the highest
seats of heaven, by your work, gentlemen; begun, continued, and ended
within this one propitious hour!... I would now propose that we do all
stand up and sing a hymn to the glory of sinners made perfect.... Next,
that we do all kneel down to hear and join in an awakening prayer from
our new missionary; and, finally, that we walk into Mrs. Newbirth's back
drawing-room, there to partake of such creature comforts as she in her
care shall have provided."

This speech was also received with great applause. Some few pleasant and
holy remarks and observations were made by the other gentlemen present,
and all things proceeded to the happy finale suggested by their host, in
the most amicable and satisfactory manner, so that before Mr.
O'Donagough rose to escort Mrs. Barnaby to the coach which was to convey
her to Half Moon Street, he was given to understand, on the indefeasible
authority of Mr. Littleton, that he might consider himself already as
the anti-work missionary elect, and might set about the preparations for
his marriage and subsequent departure without farther uncertainty or
delay.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. Barnaby's troubles now seemed really at an end; nothing could move
onward with a smoother, surer pace, than did the business which she and
her chosen companion had before them. The bridegroom's noble father
became liberal and kind, under the certainty of his clever son's certain
departure.... The lawyers behaved exceedingly well about the
settlements; influenced, perhaps, in some degree, by the wishes of the
peer, who, as it seemed, was almost nervously anxious for the departure
of the happy pair.... The dressmakers worked briskly, and a very
respectable subscription was raised among the ladies of the independent
congregation for the purchase of several elegant little presents for the
bride, which they thought might prove useful during her voyage.

In this happy state we will leave our heroine, in order to see how
matters were proceeding at Clifton.




CHAPTER XV.

AGNES GROWS MISERABLE.--AN EXPLANATORY CONVERSATION WITH COLONEL HUBERT
LEAVES HER MORE IN THE DARK THAN EVER.--A LETTER ARRIVES FROM FREDERIC
STEPHENSON.


At this period of their history the star of Agnes appeared much less
propitious than that of her aunt Barnaby. Not all her inclination to
construe every look and word of Colonel Hubert into something wiser and
better, more noble and more kind than the looks and words of any other
mortal man, could long prevent her from feeling that he was profoundly
unhappy, and that, despite some occasional flashes of an emotion which
her own heart taught her to know proceeded from love, he evidently
avoided being with her, as much as it was possible for him to do
without attracting the attention of others.

Her aunt and his aunt went steadily on arranging between themselves a
variety of preliminaries to the happy union they contemplated, while no
hint that such an union was possible ever passed the lips of the
intended bridegroom during any moment that circumstances placed him near
his promised bride. More than once she saw him change colour when he
approached her; and sometimes, but not often, she had caught his
melancholy eyes fixed earnestly upon her, and it was at such moments
that she felt persuaded he still loved her ... but wherefore he, who had
boldly wooed her when so many things conspired to make his doing it
objectionable, should seem to shun her now that everything was made so
smooth and easy for him, she vainly laboured to understand.

"For time nor place," she exclaimed with something like bitterness, "did
then adhere, and yet he would make both....

    'They have made themselves, and that their fitness now
    Doth unmake him!'"

By melancholy degrees everything that had most contributed to her
happiness, became her torment. The conversation of Miss Peters was
inexpressibly irksome to her, particularly when they found themselves in
confidential _tete-a-tete_, for then she could not help suspecting that
her friend was longing to ask her some questions respecting the
singularity of her lover's manner ... the flattering notice of the
well-pleased Lady Elizabeth, the sisterly affection manifested by the
amiable Lady Stephenson, and, more than all the rest, the happy,
bustling, business-like manner of her aunt Compton, who never for a
moment seemed to forget that they were all preparing for a wedding.

So complete was this pre-occupation, that it was many days before the
old lady perceived that her Agnes, in the midst of all this joyful
preparation, looked neither well nor happy; nay, even when at last the
sad eye and pale cheek of her darling attracted her attention, she
persuaded herself for many days more that love-making was too
sentimental a process to permit those engaged in it to be gay. She knew
that the sighing of lovers was proverbial, and though she did not
remember to have read any thing upon the subject exactly resembling
what she remarked in Agnes, and, to say truth, in Colonel Hubert also,
she did not, for she could not, doubt that everything was going on just
as it should do, though her own want of practical experience rendered
her incapable of fully understanding it.

But if Agnes was wretched, Colonel Hubert was infinitely more so; for
all the misery that she darkly feared, without knowing either its nature
or for how long it was likely to continue, came to him with the
tremendous certainty of a misfortune that had already fallen upon him,
and from which escape seemed less possible from day to day. She knew not
what to think of him, and great, no doubt, was the unhappiness produced
by such uncertainty, but greater still was the suffering produced by
looking in her innocent face, and knowing, as well as Colonel Hubert
did, why it grew daily paler. Not seldom, indeed, was he tortured by the
apprehension that the line of conduct he had pursued in recalling
Frederick Stephenson, was by no means so unquestionably right in its
self-sacrificing severity as he had intended it should be. Had he not
endangered the tranquillity of Agnes, while guarding with jealous care
his own proud sense of honour? If an unhappy concurrence of
circumstances had involved him in difficulties that rendered his conduct
liable to suspicion, ought he not to have endured the worst degree of
contempt that this could bring upon him, rather than have suffered her
peace to be the sacrifice?

Night and day these doubts tormented him. For hours he wandered through
the roads on the opposite side of the river, where, comparatively
speaking, he was sure no Clifton idlers could encounter him, and
reviewing his own conduct in a thousand ways, found none that would make
him satisfied with himself. At length, in the mere restlessness of
misery, he determined to tell Agnes all.

"She shall know his love--his generous uncalculating love, while I stood
by, and reasoned on the inconvenience her aunt Barnaby's vulgarity might
bring. She shall know all ... though it will make her hate me!"

Such was the resolution with which he crossed the ferry after wandering
a whole morning in Leigh Wood; and climbing the step-path too rapidly
to give himself leisure to meditate temperately on the measure he had
determined to pursue, he hurried forward to the dwelling of Miss
Compton, and was already in her drawing-room before he had at all
decided in what manner he should contrive to get Agnes alone.

In this, however, fortune favoured him; for Miss Compton having some
point on which she desired to communicate with Lady Elizabeth, had
ordered the carriage, and invited Agnes to pay a visit to Lady
Stephenson; but the poor girl had no heart to sustain a conversation
with a friend from whom she most earnestly desired to conceal all her
thoughts--so she declined the invitation, alleging her wish to write a
letter to Empton.

As much alone, and, if possible, more melancholy still, than when, a few
short weeks before, he made his memorable visit in Half Moon Street,
Colonel Hubert found Agnes listlessly lying upon a sofa, her eyes
closed, but their lashes too recently wetted by tears to make him fancy
her asleep. She was in an inner room, to which he entered through the
open door that led from the larger drawing-room, and he was close
beside her before she was aware of his approach.

It was with a dreadful pang that he contemplated the change anxiety had
wrought on her delicate features since the evening she first appeared to
him in all the bright light-hearted joy of her new happiness under the
protection of her aunt. Love, honour, gratitude, tenderness, and
remorse, all rushed to his bosom, and so completely overpowered the
philosophy by which he had hitherto restrained his feelings, that he
dropped on his knees beside her, and seizing the hand that languidly
hung by her side, covered it with passionate kisses.

An iron chain is not a stronger restraint than timid delicacy to such a
nature as that of Agnes, and therefore she did NOT throw herself on the
bosom of Colonel Hubert, and thus obliterate by one moment of
unrestrained feeling all the doubts and fears that had so long tormented
them both ... she only opened her beautiful eyes upon him, which seemed
to say, "Is then the dark cloud passed that has divided us?... Hubert,
may I be happy again?"

The unhappy Hubert, however, dared not answer this appeal, though he
read it, and felt it at the very bottom of his heart; and what under
happier circumstances would have tempted him to kneel beside her for
ever, now made him spring to his feet as if terrified at the danger that
he ran.

"Agnes!" he said, "you must no longer be left ignorant of my misery ...
you may, you must have seen something of it, but not all ... you have
not seen, you have not guessed what, the struggle has been between a
passion as fervent as ever warmed the heart of man and a sense of
honour ... too late awakened perhaps ... which has made it a duty to
suspend all pleadings for an avowed return till ... till...."

"Till!..." repeated Agnes, agitated but full of hope, that the moment
was indeed come when the dark and mysterious cloud which had dimmed all
her prospects should be dispelled.

"Hear my confession, Agnes, and pity me at least, if you find it
impossible to excuse me.... Do you remember the first time that I ever
saw you?... It was at a shop at Clifton."

Agnes bowed.

"Do you remember the friend who was with me?"

Agnes bowed again, and this time she coloured too. Colonel Hubert sighed
profoundly, but presently went on with the confession he had braced his
nerves to make.

"That friend, Agnes, the generous, noble-hearted Frederick Stephenson,
saw, even in that brief interview, the beauty, the grace, the delicacy
which it took me days to develop ... in short, he loved you, Agnes,
before, almost before I had ever looked at you.... I was his dearest
friend. He hid no thought from me, and with all the frankness of his
delightful character he confessed his honourable attachment.... And how
was it, think you, that I answered him?"

Agnes raised her eyes to his face with a very anxious look, but spoke
not a word, and Colonel Hubert, with a heightened colour that mounted to
his temples, went on.

"I told him, Miss Willoughby, that a young lady chaperoned by a person
with the manners and appearance of your aunt Barnaby was not a fitting
wife for him...."

The eyes of Agnes fell, and her cheeks too were now dyed with crimson.
Colonel Hubert saw it and felt it all, but he went on.

"The subject was repeatedly revived between us, and as his attachment
increased, so did also my opposition to it. I placed before him, in the
strongest manner I was capable of doing, all the objections to the
connexion as they then appeared to me, and I did it, as I thought,
purely from a sense of duty to himself and his family, which had
recently become so closely connected with my own. But alas! Agnes ... my
peace has been and is destroyed by the dreadful doubt whether some
selfish feelings, unknown to myself, might not at length have mingled
with these strong remonstrances. Knowing as I do the character of Sir
Edward and his two sisters, no remorse was awakened in my mind so long
as you remained with Mrs. Barnaby ... and the last time I conversed with
my poor friend, I used language so strong upon the subject, that he left
me in great anger. But it appears that, notwithstanding his just
resentment, these remonstrances had weight, for he immediately left the
kingdom, and has, I believe, remained in Paris ever since. Think then,
Miss Willoughby ... judge for me if you can, with what feelings I
contemplate the unlooked-for change in your position.... Oh! Agnes ...
would that your excellent Miss Compton had preserved her coldness to you
till you had been my wife.... Even then, I might have felt a pang for
Stephenson--but the knowledge that his friends would not, like mine,
have forgotten Mrs. Barnaby in their admiration for her niece, would
have furnished a justification of the events which followed his
departure, too reasonable to be set aside. But what must I feel now when
I think of the banished Frederick?... Banished by me, that I might take
his place."

       *       *       *       *       *

Excepting to Mary Peters, who had been aware of the attachment of
Frederick Stephenson long before herself, Agnes had never breathed a
hint to any human being of the proposal she had received from him, and
it had not most assuredly been her intention ever to have named it to
Colonel Hubert. She had, indeed, but rarely remembered it herself, and
hoped and believed that, before they met again, the gay young man would
quite have forgotten it; but now she could preserve his secret no
longer, and, eager to speak what she thought would entirely relieve his
self-reproaches to hear, she said, with glowing cheeks and an averted
eye,

"Let me, then, confess to you, Colonel Hubert...."

These unlucky words, however, intended as a preface to the only
intelligence that could effectively have soothed his agitation,
unfortunately increased it tenfold, and raising his hand to arrest what
she was about to say, he replied with an impetuosity with which she
could not at that moment contend--"Confess nothing, Miss Willoughby, to
me.... I see that I have awakened feelings which I ought to have
foreseen would inevitably be called into existence by such a
disclosure.... Suffer me to say a few words more, and I have done.... A
week ago, I did what I ought to have done, as soon as your present
position was known to me.... I wrote to Mr. Stephenson, and told him
that every obstacle was removed ... and that"...

"You wrote to him, Colonel Hubert!" exclaimed Agnes, greatly
disturbed.... "Oh! why did you not tell me all this before?"

"It is not yet too late, Miss Willoughby," he replied, bitterly;
"another letter shall follow my first ... more explicit, more strongly
urging his return."

"But you will not hear me, Colonel Hubert," said Agnes, bursting into
tears. "Have patience for a moment, and you will understand it all."

At this moment a carriage stopped at the door, and the knocker and the
bell together gave notice of Miss Compton's return.

"It is my aunt!" cried Agnes. "Indeed she must not see me thus, for how
could I explain to her what must appear so strange as her finding me in
tears, and you beside me. Let me see you again, Colonel Hubert--I pray
you to let me see you again, when I may be able to speak to you ... but
now I must go;" and so saying, she escaped from the room just in time to
avoid meeting Miss Compton at the door.

From a very early period of their short acquaintance, Miss Compton had
made up her mind to consider Colonel Hubert as a very superior
personage, but of a remarkably grave and silent character; so much so,
indeed, that while she admired and approved her Agnes the more for
loving and being loved by so dignified an individual, she could not help
wondering a little, occasionally, that so it should be. But this feeling
she carefully concealed, and made it a point, whenever a shade of
gravity more profound than usual was perceptible on his features, (a
circumstance not unfrequent,) to avoid interfering with his reserve by
any loquacious civility. This line of conduct had often been a great
relief to him, but never more so than on the present occasion, when, if
any lengthened greetings had occurred to stop his retreat, it would have
been impossible for him to have preserved the outward semblance of cold
composure in which he had hitherto found shelter from observation.

"You are going, Colonel Hubert?" she said. "Well, I will not detain you,
for I am going to be busy myself--good morning." And so he escaped.

On reaching home, he found a letter waiting for him, which by no means
tended to calm his spirits. It was from Frederick Stephenson, and ran
thus:--

     "MY DEAR HUBERT,

     "Your letter puzzles me; but not many hours after this reaches
     you, I hope we shall mutually understand each other better than
     we do at present. I am on my road to England, and as all
     explanation must be impossible till we meet, I will only add,
     that I am yours ever,

     "FREDERICK STEPHENSON."

       *       *       *       *       *

A few hours, then, and all doubt, all uncertainty, would be over! A full
explanation must take place; and rather than endure a continuance of
what he had lately suffered, Colonel Hubert felt inclined to welcome the
result, be it what it might.




CHAPTER XVI.

A DISCOVERY SCENE--PRODUCTIVE OF MANY NEW RELATIONS, AND VARIOUS OTHER
CONSEQUENCES.


The day next but one after this letter reached him, Miss Compton and
Agnes were engaged to dine with Lady Elizabeth. Colonel Hubert had not
ventured to present himself in the Mall during the interval, for though,
on cooler meditation, he did not believe that the unfortunate words,
"Let me, then, confess to you, Colonel Hubert," were meant to usher a
confession of love to his rival, he doubted not that they would have
been followed by an avowal of her agreeing with himself in deeming his
own conduct most reprehensible; and just then, he felt he could not
receive this, notwithstanding its justice, in such a manner as to
assist in obtaining pardon for the fault. To Sir Edward he had mentioned
the probability of his brother's early return, but without hinting at
the chance of their seeing him at Clifton on his arrival in England.

The ladies of the party, namely, Lady Elizabeth, Lady Stephenson, Miss
Compton, and Agnes, were assembled in the drawing-room, the two
gentlemen not having yet quitted the dining-parlour, when a knock at the
door announced company.

"Who can that be?" said Lady Stephenson. "Have you invited evening
company?"

"Not a soul, my dear," replied her aunt; "I mean to have a treat
again.... I think I am growing sick of curiosities."

"_Tant mieux_, dear aunt!" replied Lady Stephenson. "But invited or not,
you have visiters coming now: I hear them on the stairs."

Lady Stephenson was right; the old butler opened the drawing-room door
almost as she spoke, and announced "Mr. Stephenson!"

"Frederick!" exclaimed his fair sister-in-law, looking as if she meant
to receive him very kindly.

"Young Stephenson!" said Lady Elizabeth, "I did not know that he was
coming to Clifton."

"Sir Edward's brother, I suppose?..." said Miss Compton, ... but Agnes
said nothing, though had any one laid a hand upon her heart, they would
have discovered that his arrival was not a matter of indifference. To
receive him with the appearance of it was, however, absolutely
necessary, and she very resolutely assumed an aspect of tranquillity; it
was not necessary that she should look towards the door to greet him as
he entered, and therefore she did not do it; but, notwithstanding the
attention she devoted to the pattern of the hearth-rug, she became
aware, within a moment after this electrifying name had been announced,
that not one only but three people were in the room, and that one of
them was a lady.

Agnes then looked up, and the first figure which distinctly met her eye
was not that of Frederick Stephenson, but of a gentleman bearing the
stamp of some forty years, perhaps, upon his handsome but delicate
features. He was not tall, but slightly and elegantly formed, which was
perceptible, though wrapped in a travelling frock trimmed with fur, and
his whole appearance was decidedly that of a gentleman.

But who these might be who were with him, or how they were received by
Lady Elizabeth, the eye of Agnes had no power to inquire, for it was
fascinated, as it were, by the earnest gaze of this stranger, who,
having already stepped forward a pace or two nearer to her than the
rest, stood looking at her with very evident emotion.

The first words she heard spoken were in the voice of young Stephenson,
which she immediately recognised, though the purport of them was
unintelligible.

"Yes, my dear sir, ... you are quite right," he said; "that is our
Agnes."

But though these words were somewhat startling, they drew her attention
less than the expression of the large blue eyes that were fixed upon
her; there was admiration, tenderness, and a strange sort of
embarrassment, all legibly mingled in that earnest look ... but why was
it fixed on her?

What effect this mute scene produced on the other persons present, Agnes
could not know, for she did not withdraw her eyes from those of the
mysterious stranger, till at length he turned from her, and stepping
back, took the hand of a very young, but very beautiful girl, whom he
led towards the sofa she occupied, and placing her on it, said,

"Agnes Willoughby!... receive your sister ... and let her plead for her
father and yours.... You have been long, long neglected, my poor child,
but there has been some excuse for it.... Can you forgive me, Agnes?"

"Good God!... My father!" she exclaimed, starting up, and stretching out
her hands towards him. "Is it possible, sir, that you are indeed my
father?"

"You speak as if you wished it were so, Agnes," he replied, taking her
in his arms, and impressing a kiss upon her forehead, "and I will echo
your words.... Is it possible?"

"Possible!... O! yes, sir, it is possible.... I have so longed to know
that I had a father!... And is this sweet creature my sister?" she
continued, turning her tearful eyes upon the beautiful girl, who upon
this appeal sprang forward, and enclosing both her father and Agnes in
her arms, replied to it by saying,

"Yes, dearest Agnes, I am your sister, indeed I am, and I know you very
well, and all about you, though you know so little about me ... but you
will not refuse to own me, will you?"

For all reply Agnes bent forward and kissed her fondly.

Miss Compton who, as may be supposed, had watched this discovery scene
with no little interest, now stepped towards them, while young
Stephenson was engaged in explaining it to Lady Elizabeth and his
sister-in-law; and looking from one sister to the other, and from them
both to their father, she said--"You will, perhaps, hardly remember that
we ever met, Mr. Willoughby ... but my name is Compton, and I recal your
features perfectly. You once passed an hour at my brother's house when I
was there ... and that these girls are sisters, no one that sees them
together will be likely to deny.... God bless them both, pretty
creatures!... I hope they will each be a blessing to the other.... But,
to be sure, it seems to be a most romantic story ... and wonderfully
like those I used to read in my bower, Agnes."

"There is a good deal that is very sad in my part of it, Miss Compton,"
replied Mr. Willoughby, "but at this moment I can hardly regret it, as
herein I hope to show some excuse for my long negligence respecting my
poor girl. Take this on trust, my good lady, will you?" he added,
holding out his hand to her, "that no displeasure towards me may destroy
the happiness of this meeting."

Miss Compton gave him her hand very frankly, saying,

"I have no right to be very severe upon you, Mr. Willoughby, for,
without any misfortunes at all to plead as an excuse for it, our dear
Agnes might tell you some naughty stories about me.... But she does not
look as if she were much inclined to complain of anybody.... What a pair
of happy, lovely looking creatures!... And how very strong the likeness
to each other, and of both to you!"

Willoughby retired a step or two, and leaning against the chimney-piece,
seemed disposed to enjoy the contemplation of the picture she pointed
out, in silence. Lady Elizabeth claimed the attention of Miss Compton,
that she might express her interest, satisfaction, surprise, and so
forth. Lady Stephenson slipped out of the room to communicate the news
to her husband and brother, and prepare them for the company they had to
receive ... and then Frederick Stephenson approached the sisters, and
drawing a chair towards them, very freely took a hand of each.

That of Agnes trembled. She felt that the happiness of her life would be
for ever destroyed, if this young man was come back in consequence of
Colonel Hubert's letter, with the persuasion that it was her purpose to
accept him; and favourable as was the moment for a sort of universal
philanthropy and unrestrained _epanchement de coeur_, she could not
resist the impulse which led her to withdraw her hand, and return his
affectionate smile with a look of coldness and reserve.

Perfectly undaunted, however, the gay Frederick continued to look at her
with an air of the most happy confidence; but suddenly, as it seemed,
recollecting that it was possible, though they had all of them been at
least ten minutes in the room together, no explanation might have yet
reached her, he said, in a manner to show that he was too happy to be
very grave, though quite sufficiently in earnest to deserve belief--"If
you accept my Nora for a sister, Agnes, you must accept me for a brother
too. She knows that till I saw her I thought you the most charming
person in the world; and as she forgives me for this, I hope you will
show as much resemblance to her in mind as in person, and forgive me for
thinking, when I did see her, that she was still more charming than
you?"

And then it was that Agnes for the first time in her life felt wholly,
perfectly, and altogether happy. She saw in an instant, with the rapid
glance of love, that all the misty cloud that had hung between her and
Hubert was withdrawn for ever ... and then she felt how very delightful
it was to have a father, and such an elegant, interesting-looking
father ... and then she became fully aware what a blessing it was to have
a sister, and that sister so beautiful, and so capable of inspiring love
in every heart ... save one, guarded as Hubert's was guarded. Her joy,
her new-born gladness of spirit, danced in her eyes, as she now freely
returned the young man's laughing glance, and restoring to him the hand
she had withdrawn, she exclaimed, "Oh! Frederick ... why did you not
answer Hubert's letter, and tell him this?"

"It is so, then?... it is as I hoped, my sweet Agnes?... and you will
be doubly our sister?... Why did I not answer Hubert's letter? Because
it was the most mystical, unintelligible, dark, and diplomatic
performance that ever was put forth. Did you see it, Agnes?"

"No, I did not," she replied, with a smile; "but I can imagine that it
might have been a little in that style. Yet still you should have
answered it."

"I did answer it--that is, I replied to it by a line or two written in
a prodigious hurry; but you must perceive that I could not enclose Nora
in a cover; and as she is, to all intents and purposes, _my answer_, I
was obliged to let him wait till I could convey her properly, and place
her before his eyes and his understanding."

"And so convince him," replied Agnes, with another smile, full of her
new-born gaiety, "that the moment she is seen all other ladies must be
forgotten ... prove that to Colonel Hubert, Mr. Stephenson, and I will
prove to you" ...

"What?--you tremendous-looking sibyl, what?"

"A very fatal sister!" she replied; and then the door opened, and Lady
Stephenson preceded the two gentlemen she had brought from the
dining-parlour, into the room.

Agnes, no longer the fearful, shrinking Agnes, sprang forward to meet
them, and taking Colonel Hubert by the hand, led him to her father,
saying in an altered accent, that at once entered his heart, and told
him that all was right--"Let me present you to my father, Hubert--to my
_dear_ father, Colonel Hubert; he will indeed be doubly dear to us, for
he has brought with him a sister for both of us, whom I feel sure we
shall for ever love."

But hardly did Agnes, who seemed newly awakened from some heavy spell
that had benumbed her heart--hardly did she give time for a courteous
greeting between the gentlemen, ere she passed her arm beneath that of
Colonel Hubert, and led him to the sofa. Frederick started forward to
meet him, and laying a hand on each shoulder, said in his ear, yet not
so low but that Agnes heard him too--"It was lucky I did not take you to
France with me, Hubert, or I should certainly never have got a wife at
all; as it is, however, permit me"--he added aloud--"to present you,
Colonel Hubert, to Miss Nora Willoughby. Nora, dearest, this gentleman
is the best friend I have in the world--my brother's wife is his sister,
and your sister, my fair bride elect, will very soon be his wife, or I
cannot read the stars ... so, as you may perceive, our catastrophe is
exceedingly like that great model of all catastrophes, in which the
happy hero says ... 'And these are all my near relations'--_ecce signum_,
here is my own elder brother. Sir Edward Stephenson, Miss Nora
Willoughby. Is she not charming, Edward? I hope I have pleased you at
last, and their ladyships, my sisters, too, for I assure you everything
is very elegant, well-born, and so forth.... But you are not to sit down
by her though, for all that, unless you make room for me between you,
for she has already given away more smiles than I can at all afford to
spare; and, besides, I have a hundred things to say to her ... I want to
ask her how she likes you all."

Colonel Hubert, as soon as his gay friend had reseated himself, gave one
speaking look to Agnes, and then devoted himself entirely to Mr.
Willoughby.

By degrees, the party began to talk together with less of agitation and
more of comfort; but Frederick was not permitted wholly to engross his
young _fiancee_, for all the ladies crowded round her, and vied with
each other in giving a cordial welcome to this young foreigner on the
land of her fathers. She was in truth a very sweet young creature, and
soon converted the kindness which circumstances called for, into very
cordially liking. Distant hopes were talked of without reserve, and
immediate arrangements canvassed. Miss Compton kindly invited the young
stranger to share her sister's apartment, a servant was despatched to
secure rooms for Mr. Willoughby and Frederick at the hotel, and the
happiness their unexpected arrival had brought to two harassed hearts of
the party seemed to diffuse itself very delightfully among them all.

At length, Miss Compton's carriage was announced, and while the cloaks
of the fair sisters were wrapped round them by their vowed servants, Mr.
Willoughby performed the same office for her, and took that opportunity
of asking leave to wait upon her on the following morning, in order to
relate to her such passages of the history of his long exile as might,
in some degree, account for his having left her adopted child for so
many years without a father.

While this appointment was making with the aunt, the niece contrived,
unheard by all, to whisper a word or two which led to an appointment for
her also.

Colonel Hubert had more than once that evening taught her to
understand, by the eloquence of looks, the delightful change that had
been wrought within him; but it was Agnes who first found the
opportunity of giving expression to it in words. He stood behind her as
he arranged her cloak, and when this was done, she turned suddenly round
to him, and said, in an accent of playful reproach, "Hubert!... may I
be happy now?"

His answer was, "Will you see me to-morrow?... and alone?" She
blushed--perhaps at remembering how often she had before wished to
converse with him in the manner he now for the first time proposed, but
she nodded her assent; he handed her to the carriage, pressed her hand,
and whispered "eleven o'clock" as he put her into it, and then mounted
to his chamber without exchanging a word more with any living soul, that
he might enjoy, for the first time since he had yielded up his heart,
the luxury of meditating on Agnes and her promised love, without any
mixture of self-reproach to poison the enjoyment.




CHAPTER XVII.

GREAT CONTENTMENT.


Had not Nora Willoughby been an interesting and amiable creature, her
introduction at this moment to all the freedom of a sister's rights
would certainly have been less agreeable than surprising to Agnes; and
perhaps, notwithstanding the sweet expression of her lovely face, the
pretty tenderness of her manner, and the lively interest which one so
near in blood could not fail to awaken, Agnes, as she entered her
bed-room on that eventful night, would rather have entered it alone. Her
heart seemed too full to permit her conversing freely with any one; and
it was by an effort not made altogether without pain, that she turned
her thoughts from Hubert and all that vast world of happiness which
appeared opening before them, to welcome her fair sister to her bower,
and to begin such a conversation with her, as sisters so placed might be
expected to hold. But she was soon rewarded for the exertion, for it was
quite impossible to pass an hour of intimate intercourse with Nora
without loving her, for she was made up of frankness, warm affection,
light-heartedness, and sweet temper.

As soon as Peggy had performed all the services required of her, and
that the door was fairly closed behind her, Nora threw her arms round
the neck of Agnes, and pressed her in a long and fond embrace.

"Dear, dear Agnes!" she exclaimed, "I wish you could share the pleasure
that I enjoy at this moment--but it is impossible ... I come upon you
suddenly, unexpectedly, unintelligibly, and must rather startle and
astound, than give you the delight that you give me. For I have been
preparing to love you for many weeks past, and have been longing till I
was almost sick to get to you. And after such eager and sanguine
expectations as mine, it is so delightful to find oneself not
disappointed!"

"And is such the case with my sweet sister?" replied Agnes caressingly.

"Indeed, indeed it is!--Frederick told me you were very beautiful--but I
did not expect to find you half so ... so elegant, so finished, so every
way superior."

"I shall quarrel with you, Nora, if you say such very fine things to
me.... Perhaps I think you very pretty, too, dear; but if I do, I must
not say so, because they tell us that we are so much alike, it would be
like admiring myself."

"Well!... and you cannot help admiring yourself, it is impossible....
But, sister Agnes, what a blessing it was that you did not happen to
fall in love with Frederick! What would have become of me if you had?...
for do you know, I loved almost as soon as I saw him. It was all so odd!
It was at the Italian opera that we first met; and I could not help
observing, that the handsomest man I had ever seen was looking at me
almost incessantly. Papa never saw a bit about it, for when he is
listening to music he never cares for anything. However, I do assure
you, I tried to behave properly, though, if I had done quite the
contrary, papa would never have found it out. I never looked at him at
all above three or four times, and that was accidentally from happening
to turn round my head. But whether I thought about it or not, there were
his beautiful large eyes always sure to be fixed upon me; and when the
opera was over, he must have run out of his box the moment we left ours,
for I saw him as we got into the fiacre, standing close beside it. Well,
I hardly know how it happened, but from that time I never stirred out
without meeting him; he never spoke of course, but that did not prevent
our knowing one another just as well as if we had been the oldest
acquaintance. At last, however, he managed very cleverly to find out
that papa was acquainted with M. Dupont, who gives such beautiful
concerts, and receives all the English so hospitably, and he asked as a
great favour to be invited to meet us; and so he was, and then we were
introduced, and then everything went on beautifully, for he knew you,
and the name of Willoughby, and the likeness, and all that, convinced
him that we must be the same family; so he and papa very soon made it
all out, and then he came to call upon us every day; and very, very,
very soon afterwards I was engaged to be his wife as soon as possible,
after we all got back to England."

"Thank you, dearest Nora!" replied Agnes, who, notwithstanding all her
pre-occupation, had found no difficulty in listening very attentively to
this narrative; "I cannot tell you all the pleasure your little history
has given me.... There is nobody in the world I should like so well for
a brother as Frederick Stephenson, and there is nobody in the world I
should like so well for a sister as Frederick Stephenson's wife."

"That is delightful!" cried Nora, joyfully, "and we certainly are two of
the luckiest girls in the world to have everything just as we would
wish.... But, Agnes, there is one thing I shall never understand.... How
could you help falling in love with Frederick when he fell in love with
you?"

"Because I happened just then," replied Agnes, laughing, "to be falling
in love with some one else."

"Well! certainly that was the most fortunate thing in the world ... and
Frederick himself thinks so now. He told me that he had a great mind to
shoot himself when you refused him, but that the very first moment he
saw me, he felt certain that I should suit him a great deal better than
you would have done."

"That I am sure is quite true, Nora," replied Agnes, very earnestly,
"for I too feel certain that I never could have suited anybody but
Colonel Hubert.... And now, my sweet sister, let us go to sleep, or we
shall hardly be up early enough to meet the friends who, I think, will
be wishing to see us again.... Good night, dearest!"

"Good night, darling Agnes!... Is not it pleasant to have a sister,
Agnes?... It is so nice to be able to tell you everything.... I am sure
I could never be able to do it to anybody else. Goodnight!"

"Bless you, sweet Nora!" replied Agnes; and then, each nestling upon her
pillow, and giving some few happy dreamy thoughts to the object they
loved best, they closed their fair young eyes, and slept till morning.

       *       *       *       *       *

The waking was to both of them, perhaps, somewhat like the continuance
of a dream; but Peggy came and threw the light of day upon them, while
each fair girl seemed to look at her own picture as she contemplated her
pretty bedfellow, and appeared to be exceedingly well pleased by the
survey.

It was already late, and Agnes, rapidly as she was learning to love her
companion, did not linger at her toilet, but leaving Nora, with a hasty
kiss, to the care of Peggy, she hastened to the breakfast-table, and
made aunt Betsy's heart glad, by telling her at last, that she expected
Colonel Hubert would call about eleven o'clock, and that if she did not
think it wrong, she should like to speak to him for a few minutes alone.

"Wrong, my child!" exclaimed Miss Compton; "why, I never in my life read
a work painting the manners of the age, in which I did not find
interviews, sometimes occurring three or four times in a day, entirely
_tete-a-tete_, between the parties."

"Then I may go into the back drawing-room presently ... may I, aunt
Betsy?... And perhaps you would tell William...."

"Yes, yes, my dear, I'll tell him everything.... But eat some breakfast,
Agnes, or I am sure you will not be able to talk.... I suppose it is
about your new sister, and your father, and all that, that you want to
speak to him."

"There are many things, aunt Betsy.... But, good heavens! there is a
knock.... Will it not look very odd for you to send him in to me?"

Without waiting to give an answer, the agile old lady intercepted
William's approach to the door in time to give the order she wished; and
in two minutes more Colonel Hubert was ushered into a room where the
happy but blushing Agnes was alone.

His first few steps towards her were made at the pace at which
drawing-room floors are usually traversed, but the last part of the
distance was cleared by a movement considerably more rapid, for she had
risen in nervous agitation as he approached, and for the first time that
he had ever ventured a caress, he threw his arms around her, and pressed
her to his heart. Agnes struggled not to disengage herself, but wept
without restraint upon his bosom.

"You do then love me, Agnes?... At last, at last our hearts have met,
and never can be severed more! But still you must tell me very often
that you have forgiven me, dearest, for is it not difficult to believe?
And does it not require frequent vouching?"

"What is it, Montague, that you would have forgiven?" said Agnes,
looking up at him, and smiling through her tears.

This was the first time that her lips had pronounced his christian name
to any ears but her own, and she blushed as she uttered it.

"Agnes! my own Agnes!" he exclaimed, "you have forgiven me, or you would
not call me Montague!... How is it possible," he continued, looking
fondly at her, "that a word so hackneyed and familiar from infancy as
our own name can be made to thrill through the whole frame like a touch
of electricity?"

He drew her to the sofa from which she had risen, and placing himself by
her, said, "Now, then, Agnes, let us sit down soberly together, and
take an unvarnished retrospect of all that has passed since we first
met.... Yet why should I ask for this?... I hate to think of it ... for
it is a fact, Agnes, which his subsequent attachment to your sister must
not make you doubt, Frederick and his seven thousand a year would have
been at your disposal, had not my dissuasions prevented it.... And had
this been so, who knows...."

A shade of melancholy seemed once again settling on the noble
countenance of Colonel Hubert; Agnes could not bear it, and looking
earnestly at him, she said,

"Montague! answer me sincerely this one question, which is the strongest
feeling in your mind at this moment--the pleasure derived from believing
that your influence on Frederick was so great, or the pain of doubting
how the offer you speak of would have been received?"

"I have no pleasure in believing I have influence on any one, save
yourself," he answered gravely.

"I am glad of that, Montague," she said, "because you somewhat overrated
your influence with my brother elect. Save for your foolish doubts,
infidel!... you never should have known it, but ... Frederick Stephenson
did propose to me, Hubert, before he went abroad."

"And you refused him, Agnes!"

"And I refused him, Hubert."

"Oh! had I known this earlier, what misery should I have been spared!"
cried Colonel Hubert. "You know not, you could not know all I have
suffered, Agnes ... yet surely, dearest! when last we spoke together, it
was but yesterday, in this very room, you must then have guessed the
cause of the dreadful restraint that kept us asunder."

"There was no need of guessing then," replied Agnes, smiling, "for you
told me so distinctly."

"Then why not on the instant remove the load from my heart?... were you
quite incapable of feeling how galling it must have been to me?"

"I'll tell you how that came to pass," said Agnes, rising.... "Do you
sit still there, as I did yesterday, and say, 'Let me then confess to
you, Colonel Hubert,' ... and then I will answer thus," ... and raising
her hand, as if to stop his speech, she added, mimicking his impatient
tone,

"'Confess nothing, Miss Willoughby, to me!'... And then you told me you
had written to him, and when I exclaimed, with some degree of dismay at
the idea of your having written to recall him, you again interrupted me
by saying that you would do it again ... and then my aunt came, and so
we parted.... Then whose fault was it that I did not tell you?"

"My own, Agnes, it was my own; and alas!... I did not suffer for it
alone.... How wretched you must have been made by my vehemence!... But
you have forgiven me, and all this must be forgotten for ever.... There
is, however, one subject on which I would willingly ask a few more
questions--these, I hope, you will answer, Agnes?"

"Yes!" she replied, gaily, "you may hope for an answer to all your
questions ... provided, that just when I am about to speak, you do not
raise your arm _thus_, in order to prevent me."

"I will do my utmost to avoid it," he replied, "and for the greater
security will place the offending arm _thus_," ... throwing it round
her; "and now tell me, Agnes, why it was that you would not accept
Frederick Stephenson?"

"And will you be pleased to tell me, Colonel Hubert, why it was that you
did not propose to ... to anybody else, but me?"

"Because I loved you, and you only."

"Because I loved you, and you only," repeated Agnes.

"Is that an echo?" said Colonel Hubert.

"No!" replied Agnes ... "it is only the answer to your question."

"Then, exactly when I was occupied in finding reasons incontrovertible
why the niece of Mrs. Barnaby should never be loved by mortal man, the
young, the lovely Agnes Willoughby was loving me?"

"Even so," said Agnes, somewhat mournfully; "false impressions have
worked us so much woe, that it would not be wise to let a little
feminine punctilio prevent you seeing things as they are.... Yet it is
hardly fair, Hubert, to make me tell you this...."

"Oh, say not so!" he replied; "mistake not the source of this
questioning, for, Agnes, be secure

    'That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world,
    Would not offend thee!'

But can you wonder that, after all I have suffered, my heart and soul
thirsts for an assurance of your love? What might well suffice another,
Agnes, ought not to suffice me.... I am so much older...."

"I cannot help it, Montague ... nor could I help it when you took me out
of the clutches of Major Allen, upon the Windmill-hill, nor when you
were pleased to be so gracious as to approve my singing ... nor upon a
great many other occasions, when it would have been wise for me to
remember it, perhaps. But if I love you, and you love me, I cannot see
how your age or mine either need interfere to prevent it."

Perhaps at last Colonel Hubert arrived at the same satisfactory
conclusion, for the conversation was a long one; and before it was
ended, some little sketchings of his feelings during the early part of
their acquaintance brought to Agnes' mind the soothing belief, that
after the evening of the Clifton ball her image had never forsaken his
fancy more, though it was by slow degrees that it had grown into what
he called such "terrible strength" there, as to conquer every other
feeling.

Agnes listened to him as he stated this with most humble-minded and
unfeigned astonishment, but also with most willing belief, and then,
following his example, he quoted Shakspeare, exclaiming--

    "And if an angel should have come to me
    And told me thus,
    I would have believed no tongue but Hubert's."




CHAPTER XVIII.

A RETROSPECT AND CONCLUSION.


Mr. Willoughby was little less punctual to his appointment than Colonel
Hubert; and as the young Nora, weary with her journey, and exhausted
from the excitement of the scenes which followed it, had not yet left
her bed, he too, had the advantage of a _tete-a-tete_.

It is needless to enter upon any minute repetition of a narrative which
had, in fact, little or no connexion with the personages of our drama.
It was evident that Mr. Willoughby had suffered much, both from the
early loss of his fair young wife, and the continued hostility, or, more
properly speaking, the continued neglect of his family. He had exchanged
into a regiment sent on a dangerous and, disagreeable service, and with
broken spirits and failing health, might very likely have perished
before it was ended, had not his "good gifts" very suddenly made captive
the affections of a young girl almost as pretty as poor Sophia Compton,
and quite as rich as she was the contrary.

This marriage converted him into the only son and heir of a wealthy
merchant; all his new family required of him, in exchange for their
daughter and their wealth, was, that he should live amongst them. This
he consented to do, but his life was not a happy one. With the prospect
of great possessions before him, he was kept in almost penniless
dependence upon his father-in-law; all his wants, indeed, profusely
supplied, but with no more power to assist in the maintenance of the
child he had left in England, than if he had been a slave chained to the
oar.

For sixteen years he had led this painful life of penniless splendour,
in the course of which he was again left a widower with one little girl;
but though his existence in his father-in-law's family had lost its only
charm by this event, he was prevented from making any effort to change
it, as much by his total inability to support himself elsewhere, as by
consideration for the interest of his child. As she grew up, he began
once more to feel that life was not altogether a bore and a burden, and
at length his passive submission to years of wearying annoyance was
rewarded by finding himself, at the death of the generous but tyrannical
Mr. Grafton, the possessor of a handsome life income, and the sole
guardian of the young heiress his daughter.

It was then that, for the first time, he felt disposed to recall himself
to the memory of those he had left behind him in England; and the desire
to do so became so strong, that he lost no time in finally arranging his
affairs in the country of his exile, and taking his departure for
Europe. For the sake of having a friend as commander of the ship in
which he sailed, he took his passage for Havre, and, once landed on the
coast of France, he yielded to Nora's entreaties that they should pass a
few weeks at Paris before they left it. His accidental meeting with Mr.
Stephenson there was then related, and its consequences as it respected
his daughter, and their journey home together, concluded his narration.

"Your romance, Mr. Willoughby," replied Miss Compton, "appears likely to
come to a very happy conclusion ... but I confess I wonder that never
during your sixteen years of what appears to have been very perfect
leisure, you could never have found time to make any single inquiry
about your little Agnes."

"And I wonder at it too, Miss Compton ... but it is more easy to recal
the feelings that led to this, than to explain them. I believe that the
total impossibility of my transmitting any share of the wealth amidst
which I lived to a child whom I had great reason to fear might want it,
was the primary cause of it ... and then came the hope that at no very
distant day my inquiries for her might be made in a manner less
torturing to my feelings than by acknowledging myself to be alive, in
circumstances of high-fed pauperism, without the power of relieving any
wants, however pressing, with which my inquiries might happen to make me
acquainted. Had I known that you, Miss Compton, had adopted my little
girl, I should not so long have suffered her to believe me dead,
because I had not the power of making my being alive a source of joy to
her."

Whether Miss Compton thought this apology a good one, or the reverse,
does not appear; for all the branches of the party who so unexpectedly
met together at the house of Lady Elizabeth Norris, continued from that
time forward to live on terms of the most agreeable amity together; and
perhaps the only symptom by which some little feeling of disapprobation
might have been perceived, was Miss Compton's begging to decline, on the
part of all interested, Mr. Willoughby's proposal of insuring his life
for ten thousand pounds, as a portion for his eldest daughter.

"I do assure you, sir, there is no occasion for it," said the little
spinster, with great good-humour, but also with a very evident intention
of having her own way.... "I believe that if you will mention the
subject to Colonel Hubert, or to Lady Elizabeth Norris, his aunt, you
will find that they both agree with me in thinking such a sacrifice of
income on your part quite unnecessary, and decidedly unwise. Your
sisters have not behaved to you kindly, but they have connected
themselves well, and I believe we all think it would be more
advantageous to both your daughters that their favour should be
propitiated by your appearing before them in a style which may show you
have no need of their assistance, than by anything else you can do for
them. The young ladies are both about to marry well, and with fortunes
very fairly proportioned to those of their respective husbands, and any
family coolness with such near relations as Lady Eastcombe and the
honourable Mrs. Nivett would be both disadvantageous and disagreeable."

"My noble sisters will be vastly well disposed to welcome me now, Miss
Compton, I have little doubt," replied Mr. Willoughby, with as much
asperity as he was capable of feeling for any offence committed against
him; "and I confess to you that the reconciliation would be particularly
agreeable to me, from the power your generous adoption of my poor girl
gives me now of proving to them that my marriage with Sophia Compton was
not such a connexion as to merit the severity with which they have
treated it."

"I have no sort of objection to your proving this to them in any manner
that you please," replied Miss Compton; "and I rather think the most
effectual mode of doing so will be, by permitting the portion of Agnes
to be furnished by Sophia Compton's aunt."

"Five thousand, then, let it be, Miss Compton; five thousand settled
upon younger children," said Mr. Willoughby.

"No, sir," persisted the old lady, "it must not be, if you please. The
property of Compton Basett, with the name, and a sum of money withal
sufficient considerably to add to and improve the estate, will be
settled by me on the second son of your daughter Agnes. Lady Elizabeth,
on the part of her nephew, adds ten thousand pounds to the settlement on
younger children, which, together with my property, will of course
belong to Agnes for her life. I hope, sir, this statement will satisfy
you repsecting the provision to be made for Miss Willoughby, and prevent
your feeling any further anxiety on the subject."

It was impossible Mr. Willoughby could declare himself dissatisfied, and
from this time he ventured no further allusion to the scheme of
insuring his life.

       *       *       *       *       *

Preparations for the two marriages now immediately began; and the
interval necessary to the completion of settlements, and the building of
carriages and dresses, was, at the earnest request of Agnes, to be spent
at Clifton. She loved the place, for it was identified in her memory
with the first sight of Hubert, and she often declared that there was no
spot on the earth's surface she should ever love so well as that little
esplanade behind the windmill on which Colonel Hubert first offered her
his arm, without deeming it necessary to utter a word of explanation for
doing so. The vicinity of Mary Peters, too, was another reason, and no
trifling one, for this partiality; and as not one of the party had any
point of reunion to plead for in preference, it was there that several
weeks of present enjoyment and happy anticipation were passed.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was about midway between the time at which everything was settled
between the lovers, their beloveds, and all parents, friends, and
guardians interested therein, and the happy day on which the double
espousals were celebrated, that Mr. and Mrs. Peters invited the whole
party to dinner. No strangers were permitted to disturb the freedom of
the society thus assembled at dinner, though, to gratify Lady
Elizabeth's love of music, one or two proficients in that science were
invited for the evening. The gentlemen, who probably thought the society
in the drawing-room more agreeable than that of good Mr. Peters, even
though backed by his excellent wine, were already partaking coffee with
the ladies, when a reduplicated knocking announced the arrival of
visiters.

"The Chamberlains, I suppose," said Mrs. Peters. "How very early they
are!"

But she was mistaken, it was not the Chamberlains; for a footman threw
wide the drawing-room door, and announced "Mr. and Mrs. O'Donagough!"

"Mr. and Mrs. who?" said Mrs. Peters to Mary.

"Mr. and Mrs. what?" said Elizabeth to Lucy.

But before the parties thus questioned could have found time to answer,
even had they been possessed of the information required, a lady in
sober coloured silk, with little rouge and no ringlets, followed by a
handsome young man in black, entered the room, and considerably before
many who had seen that lady before could recall the name by which they
had known her, or reconcile her much changed appearance to their puzzled
recollections, Mrs. Peters was enfolded in her arms.

"My dear sister Peters!" said Mrs. O'Donagough, "you are surrounded by
so large a party, that I fear these last moments which I meant to
dedicate to the affection of my kinsfolk, may be more inconvenient than
pleasurable to you. But you cannot, I am sure, refuse me some portion of
your society this evening, as it is probably the last one we shall ever
pass together. Give me leave, sister Peters, to introduce you to my
husband, the Reverend Mr. O'Donagough. Mr. Peters, Mr. O'Donagough; Mr.
James Peters, Mr. O'Donagough; Mr. O'Donagough, my dear Mary; my
husband, young ladies; Mr. O'Donagough, my dear Elizabeth and Lucy!
Good Heaven! Agnes here? and my aunt Compton, too!... Well, so much the
better, my dear Patrick; I shall now have the pleasure of presenting you
to more relations, and as I should be proud to introduce you to all the
world, this can only be an increase of pleasure to me. Agnes Willoughby,
my dear, I can't say you behaved very well to me when the cheerful sort
of life I indulged in, solely on your account, was changed for sorrow
and imprisonment; but, nevertheless, my religious principles, which are
stronger, my dear, than even when you knew me, lead me to forgive you,
and, better still, they lead me to introduce you to your excellent and
exemplary uncle, the Reverend Mr. O'Donagough."

During the whole course of these speeches not a single voice had been
heard to pronounce a syllable in reply, excepting that of Mr. Peters,
who put his heels together and made a bow when she paused, husband in
hand, before him, and said, "Your servant, sir!"

But Agnes, when her turn came, though colouring most painfully at being
so addressed, and with her heart sinking under the unexampled annoyance
of this intrusion, contrived to say, "I hope I see you well, aunt."

"Yes, Miss Agnes; well, and happy too, I promise you; and I wish you
were likely to be as well settled, child, as I am. But I should like to
know who it is has come forward with money to dress you up so?... You
have not been singing on the stage, I hope?... Your uncle would be
dreadfully shocked at such a thing; for he says that stage-plays are an
abomination.... And upon my word, aunt Compton, you are grown mighty
smart too in your old age. Mercy on me!... Vanity of vanities!... all is
vanity!"... And then looking into the inner room, and perceiving that
she had several more acquaintances there, she again took her husband by
the hand and led him into it, presenting him to Lady Elizabeth, her
niece, Colonel Hubert, and the two Stephensons. But when she came to Mr.
Willoughby, who was standing with his youngest daughter at a window, she
stopped, and looking at him very earnestly, seemed puzzled.

He bowed, though evidently without knowing her, and then, turning from
her unpleasantly curious scrutiny, resumed his conversation with Nora.

"I beg your pardon, sir," said Mrs. O'Donagough ... "but I should really
be very much obliged if you would tell me your name."

"My name, madam, is Willoughby."

"Gracious heaven!" exclaimed the bride, "O'Donagough, dearest, this is
an eventful day indeed.... Behold your brother!"

The two gentlemen stared at each other with an expression of countenance
more indicative of surprise than of fraternal affection ... Mr.
Willoughby, indeed, looked very much as if he suspected that the poor
lady, be she who she would, was decidedly not in her right mind; while
her husband, rather weary, perhaps, of such a continuity of
introductions, escaped from her side, and stationed himself at another
window.

"Willoughby!... dearest Willoughby!... Is it possible that you can have
forgotten me?... Can you, indeed, have forgotten the sister of your
wife?"

"Miss Martha?... Is it possible?... I beg your pardon, Mrs.
Donagough ... I certainly did not recollect you. I hope that I have the
pleasure of seeing you well?"

"My dearest Willoughby!... You have no idea how exceedingly delighted I
am to see you.... What _has_ become of you all this time?... I always
supposed that you had been sold for a slave on the coast of Barbary ...
and I thank God, and my excellent husband ... where is he?... I am sure
the Reverend Mr. O'Donagough will thank God for your escape.... And who
is that pretty young lady?... Dear me, she looks very much as if she was
the daughter of your cruel master, and had fallen in love with you, and
set you at liberty.... Poor Sophy!... one could not expect you should
remember her for ever ... even I, you see, have forced myself to forget
my poor dear Mr. Barnaby.... But now I think of it, you can't know
anything about Mr. Barnaby.... Do, my dear Willoughby, sit down with me
on this sofa, and let us have a talk."

It was impossible for Mr. Willoughby to refuse, even had he wished it,
which he really did not; and the perfect security of being welcome,
which Mrs. O'Donagough displayed in her manner of establishing herself,
in some sort obliged Mrs. Peters to act as if she were so.... The
different groups which had been deranged by her entrance, resumed their
conversation; coffee and tea included the intruders in its round, and
everybody excepting Miss Compton seemed once more tolerably at their
ease. She could not affect to recover her equanimity like the rest, but
placing a low chair immediately behind the sofa on which Lady
Elizabeth's tall figure was placed, she sat down so as to be completely
concealed by her, saying, "Will your ladyship have the great kindness to
let me hide myself here?... That horrible woman is, I confess it, my own
brother's daughter, but she is ... no matter what she is.... I am much
to blame, no doubt, ... but I hate to look upon her."

"Put yourself quite at your ease, Miss Compton," replied Lady Elizabeth,
laughing; "I have not the least difficulty in the world in comprehending
your feelings. In you she has conquered the feeling of relationship; in
me, an instinct stronger still perhaps, namely, that of finding
amusement in absurdity. But I almost think she has cured me of my
menagerie caprice for ever. Yet it is difficult, too, not to enjoy the
spectacle she offers with her young husband in her hand. But I don't
mean to lose my music for her.... Miss Peters, my dear--pray set your
pianoforte going."

This hint was immediately obeyed, and proved extremely conducive to the
general ease. Good-natured Mr. Peters entered into conversation with the
reverend missionary, and soon learnt both his destination, and the
interesting fact that he and his bride were to sail from the port of
Bristol the day but one following. This he judiciously took an
opportunity of speedily communicating to his lady, who took care that it
should not long remain a secret to any individual present, excepting Mr.
Willoughby, who continued in too close conversation with his
sister-in-law to permit his being made a sharer in the general feeling
of satisfaction which this information produced. Even Miss Compton, on
hearing it, declared, that if the bride were really going to set off
immediately for Botany Bay, there to remain for the term of her natural
life, she thought she should be able to look at her for the rest of the
evening with great philosophy. And, in proof of her sincerity, she moved
her place, and seated herself beside her friend Lady Elizabeth, more
than half inclined to share in the amusement, which, notwithstanding her
good resolutions, that facetious lady seemed inclined to take in
contemplating the newly-married pair.

The conversation, meanwhile, between the two old acquaintances, went on
with considerable interest on both sides. Mr. Willoughby again related
his adventures, and introduced his pretty daughter, and then, recurring
once more to Silverton, Mrs. O'Donagough said, in an accent that
betokened considerable interest in the question--"Willoughby!--can you
tell me anything about your old friend Tate?"

"I have heard nothing of him of late years; but of course you know that
he married his cousin, Miss Temple, very soon after we left Silverton."

"_Very_ soon?" said Mrs. O'Donagough, with a sigh.

"Yes, my dear sister," replied Willoughby, with a melancholy smile; "it
is not often that hearts, lost in country quarters, fail to return to
the losers as they march out of the town. Happily both for the boys and
girls concerned, but few such adventures end as mine did."

"Happily, indeed, for me!" replied the bride, with a toss of her head:
"for aught I know, Tate may be alive now ... and the happy wife of
O'Donagough may well rejoice that no such thraldom was the consequence
of Captain Tate's presumptuous attachment!"

Though Mr. Peters was really very civil, and though Mr. James joined for
several minutes in the conversation, it is probable that the reverend
missionary did not enjoy it so much as his lady did listening to Mr.
Willoughby; for at an early hour he told her it was time to take leave.
She instantly obeyed, and began making her circular farewell--a ceremony
of rather an embarrassing nature to many of the party, for out of the
fifteen persons she left in the room, she kissed eight; Lady Elizabeth,
Sir Edward and Lady Stephenson, Colonel Hubert, and Frederick, being
permitted to escape without even an attempt at joining them in this
valedictory greeting, and Miss Compton, rising at her approach, making
her by far the lowest courtesy her knees ever performed, in a manner
which effectually averted it from herself.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. O'Donagough's departure from England was a great blessing to all
the connexions she left behind, for, had she continued within reach of
them, it is hardly possible but some annoyance would have been the
consequence. As it was, however, sorrow seemed to depart with her; for
seldom does so large a portion of happiness as fell to the lot of those
she had formerly tormented, attend the career of any.

Colonel Hubert, although he actually did very soon become a general,
never again felt any alarm on the score of his age, but had the
happiness of knowing that he was beloved with all the devoted tenderness
that his heart desired, and his noble character deserved. Agnes never
ceased to glory in her choice, and loved nothing better than to make
Aunt Betsy confess that her great nephew, notwithstanding his being a
general, was more like a hero than any other man she had ever seen. Miss
Compton lived to see an extremely fine lad, called Compton Hubert
Compton, becoming so fond of the fields and the pheasants of Compton
Basett, as to leave her no rest till she had persuaded the trustees of
the settlement she had made to expend the money in their hands upon the
purchase of some neighbouring lands,--including the manor in which they
were situated, and the converting of the old roomy farm-house into a
residence which she confessed to be worthy of the representative of the
ancient Compton race. This alteration, indeed, took place several years
before the old lady died, and it was at Compton Basett, thus
metamorphosed, that she had the pleasure of observing to Mrs. Wilmot,
that the conversation they had held on that spot together, had not been
altogether without effect.

Mr. Willoughby and his elegant sisters become perfectly reconciled, a
circumstance extremely agreeable to Lady Elizabeth Norris, as it gave
her repeated opportunities of convincing herself that the nose of her
niece, Mrs. General Hubert, was decidedly an improvement upon that of
the honourable Miss Nivett, though the family resemblance was
sufficiently remarkable. Frederick and Nora were as gay and happy a
couple as ever enjoyed ten thousand a year together. Occasionally, of
course, they were in debt, as all people of ten thousand a year must be;
but, on the whole, they contrived to bring matters round wonderfully
well, and as their property was fortunately settled, and Sir Edward
happened to die without children, their family of six sons and six
daughters were left at last very tolerably provided for.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. O'Donagough's voyage to New England was quite as agreeable as such
a voyage generally is; and on arriving, she was greatly consoled for any
little inequalities in her young husband's temper by the great success
of his preaching. For at least six months after their arrival, he was
more in the fashion than any gentleman of any profession had ever been
before; but at the end of that time, the reverend preacher unfortunately
was present at a horse-race, upon which the recondite wisdom of the
fable, which treats of a cat turned into a woman, must have become
manifest to every reflecting mind acquainted with the circumstances of
Mr. O'Donagough's early life; for no sooner did the race begin, than
almost unconsciously he offered a bet to one of his congregation who
stood near him; and before the end of the day, he was seen mounted in a
blue and yellow jacket, riding for a jockey who had broken his leg in a
hurdle race.

It was then that Mrs. O'Donagough became sensible of the blessing of
having a settlement; and thankful was she to the noble father of her
spouse for all the care bestowed to prevent his bringing himself again
to penury, when he was brought home dead to her one fine afternoon,
having lost his seat and his life together in a leap upon which he had
betted considerably more than he possessed.

She mourned for him as he deserved; but not being upon this occasion
very nice upon whom she could devolve the task of wearing black, she
announced to all her Sidney friends that it was not the fashion in the
old world for ladies of distinction to wear that dismal colour for more
than a month for any husband who died by accident; and it was,
therefore, once more, in all the splendour of her favourite rainbow
colouring that she met a few months afterwards her old friend Major
Allen.

He entered into no very tedious or particular details respecting the
reasons for, or the manner of, his voyage out, but testified much
cordial satisfaction at the meeting; while, on the other hand, Mrs.
O'Donagough was as remarkably communicative as he was the reverse,
dilating largely on my Lord ----'s careful attention to her interest on
her marriage with his son, who had insisted upon coming out in a fit of
religious enthusiasm, which, as she sensibly observed, was not at all
likely to last.

It was not very long after this meeting that Mrs. O'Donagough became
aware of the truth of the song, which says,

    "Mais on retourne toujours
    A ses premieres amours."

For it was evident that the sentiment which circumstances had so rudely
shaken at Clifton a year or two before, was again putting forth its
leaves and flowers, and that it depended upon herself alone whether she
should not yet become the wife of the accomplished Major Allen.

For a few weeks she struggled with her remaining affection, but at the
end of that time it overpowered all her doubts and fears, and only
stipulating that, as before, all she had should be firmly settled upon
herself, she once more entered the holy state of matrimony. In justice
to the peerage, it ought to be stated, that on this her third
wedding-day she wore around her neck a very handsome necklace of shell,
carefully sent out to her by the confidential agent of my Lord
Mucklebury.


THE END.





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Widow Barnaby, by Frances Trollope

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