“And pray, Agnes,” replied her aunt, laughing with great good-humour, “how do you know a beauty when you see one?”
“Why, don’t I see every time I walk by Mr. Gibbs’s shop, his beauties in the window, with their rosy cheeks, and their black eyes, and their quantity of fine ringlets? and you are exactly the very image of one of Mr. Gibbs’s beauties, aunt Martha.”
Miss Martha remembered that there was one very pretty face in the window of the village perruquier, and doubted not that the little Agnes’s observation had reference to that one; it was therefore with one of her most amiable smiles that she replied, —
“You little goose!... how can I be like a painted wax image?”
But the protestations and exclamations by which the simile might have been proved good, were broken off by the approach of a maid-servant from the house, who said that Miss Betsy was waiting for them.
They found the neat little lady in her pretty sitting-room, with a lily-white cloth spread on a table near the open window, and a home-made loaf, a little bowl of native cream, and a decanter of bright spring-water, with a couple of tumblers near it.
Simple as this repast was, it was well relished by both the nieces, though decidedly served in honour of only one. However, no positive objection being made to Miss Martha’s taking her share of it, she spared neither the loaf nor the cream; and remembering her mother’s account of her penny repast, felt something like triumph as she ate, to think how much more she had contrived to get out of her churlish relative.
But this was all she got ... excepting, indeed, that she felt some consolation for her disappointment in having to tell her mother, on her return, that if she had children, (and of course she should, as everybody else had,) they were to have their share of all the old maid might leave.
“Ugly old hypocrite!... it won’t be much, take my word for it,” replied Mrs. Compton.... “She likes all the beggars in the parish a vast deal better than she does her own flesh and blood.... Don’t talk any more of her, Martha.... I should be glad if I was never to hear her name mentioned again!”
CHAPTER V.
A VISIT FROM THE HEIRESS. — MISS AGNES WILLOUGHBY IS SENT TO SCHOOL.
In about a month after this visit, and less than a week before the day fixed upon for the happiness of Mr. Barnaby, Miss Betsy Compton very unexpectedly made a visit to her brother. She found him a good deal altered, but she found him also with his toddy and pipe, both objects of such hatred and disgust to her anchoritish spirit, that all the kind feelings which might have been awakened by his failing health, were chased by looking upon what caused it.
To see her feeble-minded brother was not, however, the only or the principal object of her visit to Silverton; and she permitted not many minutes to be wasted in mutual questionings that meant very little, before she let him understand what was.
“I am come to speak to you, brother,” she said, “about little Agnes. I should like to know in what manner you intend to educate her?”
“Mrs. Compton manages all that, sister Betsy,” replied the invalid; “and, at any rate, I am sure I have no money to teach her anything.”
“But it is a sin, brother, to let the child run wild about the garden as you would a magpie.... Do you know that she can’t read?”
“No, sister Betsy, I know nothing at all about it, I tell you.... How can I help it? Am I in a condition to teach anybody to read?”
“There are others more to blame than you are, brother, no doubt; ... but let it be who’s fault it will, it must not go on so. I suppose you will make no objection to my sending her to school?”
“Oh dear, no! not I; ... but you had better ask Mrs. Compton about it.”
“Very well.... But I have your consent, have I not?”
“Dear me, yes, sister Betsy.... Why do you tease me so, making me take the pipe out of my mouth every minute?”
Miss Betsy left the little smoke-dried back parlour appropriated to the master of the house, and made her way to the front room up stairs called the drawing-room, which had been reserved, since time out of mind, for the use of the ladies of the family and their visitors. There she found, as she expected, Mrs. Compton and her daughter amidst an ocean of needle-work, all having reference, more or less, to the ceremony which was to be performed on the following Thursday.
“So, Mrs. Compton,” was her salutation to the old lady, and a nod of the head to the young one. “I have been speaking to my brother,” continued Miss Betsy, “concerning the education of little Agnes, and he has given his consent to my putting her to school.”
“His consent!...” exclaimed Mrs. Compton; “and, pray, is she not my grandchild too?... I think I have as good a right to take care of the child as he has.”
“She has a right,” replied the spinster, “to expect from both of you a great deal more care than she has found; and were I you, Mrs. Compton, I would take some trouble to conceal from all my friends and acquaintance the fact that, at eleven years of age, my grandchild was unable to read.”
“And that’s a fact that I can have no need to hide, Miss Betsy, for it’s no fact at all — I’ve seen Martha teaching her scores of times.”
“Then have her in, Mrs. Compton, and let us make the trial. If I have said what is not true, I will beg your pardon.”
“Lor, mamma!” said Miss Martha, colouring a little, “what good is there in contradicting aunt Betsy, if she wants to send Agnes to school? I am sure it is the best thing that can be done for her, now I am going to be married.... And Mr. Barnaby asked me the other day, if you did not mean to send her to school.”
“I don’t want to keep her from school, God knows, poor little thing, or from anything else that could do her good.... Only Miss Betsy speaks so sharp.... But I can assure you, sister, we should have put her to the best of schools long and long ago, only that, Heaven knows, we had not the means to do it; and thankful shall I be if you are come at last to think that there may be as much charity in helping your own blood relations, as in giving away your substance to strangers and beggars.”
“You are right, Mrs. Compton, as far as relates to sending Agnes to school ... that will certainly be a charity. When can the child be got ready?”
“As soon as ever you shall be pleased to give us the means, sister Betsy.”
“Do you mean, Mrs. Compton, that she has not got clothes to go in?”
“I do indeed, sister Betsy.”
“Let me see what she has got, and then I shall know what she wants.”
“That is easily told, aunt, without your troubling yourself to look over a few ragged frocks and the like. She wants just everything, aunt Betsy,” said the bride expectant, brave in anticipated independence, and rather inclined to plague the old lady by drawing as largely as might be on her reluctant funds, now they were opened, even though the profit would not be her own.
“If she really does want everything, Martha Compton, while you are dressed as you now are, very cruel injustice has been done her,” replied the aunt. “Your sister had no portion given her, either of the patrimony of her father, or the thousand pounds brought by her mother; and as her marriage with a man who had not a sixpence was permitted, this child of hers has an equal right with yourself to share in the property of your parents.”
“The property of their parents!... Why bless me, Betsy Compton, how you do talk!... as if you did not know that all the property they ever had, is as good as gone. Has not farmer Wright got the estate? And has not the butcher, and the baker, and the shoemaker, and all the rest of them, got what it sold for, as well as my thousand pounds among them, long ago?”
“Then you are now on the very verge of ruin, Mrs. Compton?” said the spinster gravely.
“Yes, sister Betsy, we are,” replied the matron reproachfully. “And I can’t but say,” she continued, “that a lone woman like you, without any expenses whatever but your own meat and drink, which everybody says is next to nothing, — I can’t but say that you might have helped us a little bef
ore now, and no harm done.”
“That is your opinion of the case, Mrs. Compton: mine is wholly different. I think harm is done whenever power of any kind is exerted in vain. I have no power to help you.... Were all I have, poured out upon you, while I lodged myself in the parish workhouse, my conviction is, that I should only be enabling you to commit more follies, and, in my judgment, more sins.”
“Well, well, Miss Betsy, it is of no use talking to you — I know that of old; and to tell you the truth, when I do come to beggary, I had rather beg of anybody else than of you. I hear far and near of your charity to others, but I can’t say that I ever saw any great symptom of it myself.”
“Let me see what clothes little Agnes has got, Mrs. Compton, if you please. Our time will be more profitably employed in seeing what I may be able to do for her, than in discoursing of what I am not able to do for you. Miss Martha then, I suppose, may be able to bring her things in.”
“Why, as far as the quantity goes, they won’t be very difficult to carry. But I don’t see much use in overhauling all the poor child’s trumpery ... unless it is just to make you laugh at our poverty, ma’am.”
The spinster answered this with a look which shewed plainly enough that, however little beauty her pale face could boast, it was by no means deficient in expression. Miss Martha hastened out of the room to do her errand without saying another word.
I will not give the catalogue of poor Agnes’s wardrobe, but only observe that it was considerably worse than Miss Betsy expected; she made, however, no observation upon it; but having examined it apparently with very little attention, she took leave of the mother and daughter, saying she would call again in a day or two, and took with her (no permission asked) a greatly faded, but recently fitted frock, which abduction mother and daughter remonstrated against, loudly declaring it was her best dress, except the old white muslin worked with coloured worsteds, and that she would have nothing upon earth to wear.
“It shall not be kept long,” was the reply; and the little lady departed, enduring for a moment the atmosphere of her brother’s parlour as she passed, in order to tell him, as she thought herself in duty bound to do, that she should get some decent clothes made for the child, and call again as soon as they were ready to take her to school.
The poor gentleman seemed greatly pleased at this, and said, “Thank you, Betsy,” with more animation than he had been heard to impart to any words for many years.
It was just three days after Miss Martha Compton had become Mrs. Barnaby, that the same post-chaise drove up to the door that had carried her away from it on an excursion of eight-and-forty hours to Exeter, which the gallant bridegroom had stolen a holiday to give her; but upon this occasion it was hired neither by bride nor bridegroom, but by the little crooked spinster, who was come, according to her promise, to take Agnes to school.
Mrs. Compton was just setting out to pay her first morning visit to the bride, and therefore submitted to the hasty departure of the little girl with less grumbling than she might have done, if less agreeably engaged.
“You must bid your grandpapa good-b’ye, Agnes,” said Miss Betsy, as they passed the door of his parlour, and accordingly they all entered together.
“God bless you, my poor little girl!” said the old man after kissing her forehead, “and keep your aunt Betsy’s favour if you can, ... for I don’t think I can do much more to help anybody.... God bless you, Agnes!”
“Dear me, Mr. Compton!... you need not bring tears in the child’s eyes by speaking that way.... I am sure she has never wanted friends since her poor dear mother died; and there’s no like she should either, with such an aunt as Martha, married to such a man as Mr. Barnaby.... I suppose she is not to be kept from her family, sister Betsy, but that we shall see her in the holidays. I am sure I don’t know where she is likely to see things so elegant as at her aunt Barnaby’s.... Such a drawing-room!... and a man in livery, at least a boy, ... and everything else conformable.... I suppose this is to be her home, Miss Betsy, still?”
“I am glad you have mentioned this, Mrs. Compton,” replied her sister-in-law, “because now, in the presence of my brother, I may explain my intentions at once. Whatever you may think of my little means, either you or your wife, or your daughter, brother Josiah, I am not rich enough in my own opinion to make it prudent for me to saddle myself with the permanent charge of this poor child. Moreover, to do so, I must altogether change the quiet manner of life that I have so long enjoyed, and I am not conscious of being bound by any tie sufficiently strong to make this painful sacrifice a duty. Something I think I ought to do for this child, and I am willing to do it. I conceive that it will be more easily in my power to spare something from my little property to obtain a respectable education for her, than either in your’s, brother, or even in that of her newly-married aunt Barnaby; for doubtless it would not be agreeable for her to begin her wedded life by throwing a burden upon her husband. But, on the other hand, it will certainly be much more within the power of her aunt Barnaby to give her a comfortable and advantageous home afterwards, than in mine. I will therefore now take charge of her for five years, during which time she shall be supplied with board, lodging, clothes, and instruction, at my expense; or, in case I should die, at that of my executors. After this period I shall restore her to you, brother, or to her grandmother, if both or either of you shall be alive, or if not, to her aunt Barnaby; and when I die she shall have a share, with such others as I may think have a claim upon me, of the small matter I may leave behind. But this of course must be lessened by the expenses I am now contracting for her.”
“And are we never to see her for five years, sister Betsy?” said Mrs. Compton very dolorously.
“To tell you the truth, Mrs. Compton, I think the coming home to you twice a-year, for the holidays, could be no advantage to her education, and the expense of such repeated journeyings would be very inconvenient to me. I have therefore arranged with the persons who are to take charge of her that she is to pass the vacations with them. I shall, however, make a point of seeing her myself more than once in the course of the time, and will undertake that she shall come to Silverton twice during these five years, for a few days each time.... And now, I think, there is no more to say; so come, my little girl, for it is not right to keep the driver and the horses any longer waiting.”
The adieux between the parties were now hastily exchanged, little Agnes mounted the post-chaise, aunt Betsy followed, and they drove off, though in what direction they were to go, after leaving the Silverton turnpike, no one had ever thought of inquiring.
Poor Mrs. Compton stood for some moments silently gazing after the post-chaise, and on re-entering her drawing-room, felt a sensation that greatly resembled desolation from the unwonted stillness that reigned there. She was instantly cheered, however, by recollecting the very agreeable visit she was going to pay; and only pausing to put on her new wedding bonnet and shawl, set off for Mr. Barnaby’s, saying to the maid, whom she passed as she descended, “I should like, Sally, to have seen what sort of things she has got for the poor child.”
“If they was as neat and as nice as the little trunk as was strapped on in the front, and that’s where they was packed, no doubt,... there wouldn’t be no need to complain of them,” was the reply. And now, leaving Agnes to aunt Betsy and her fate, I must return to the duty I have assigned myself, and follow the fortunes of Mrs. Barnaby.
CHAPTER VI.
WEDDED HAPPINESS. — DEATH OF MRS. COMPTON. — THE EX-CURATE BROUGHT INTO A PEACEFUL HARBOUR. — HE FALLS SICK, AND HIS SISTER AND GRANDCHILD ARE SUMMONED.
The first five or six months of Mrs. Barnaby’s married life were so happy as not only to make her forget all her former disappointments, but almost to persuade her that it was very nearly as good a thing to marry a middle-aged country apothecary, with a good house and a good income, as a beautiful young officer with neither.
Since her adventure with Mr. Smith, the draper, milliner, mercer, and haberdasher of
Silverton par excellence, Mrs. Barnaby’s genius for making bargains had been sadly damped; not but that she had in some degree saved her credit with that important and much-provoked personage by condescending to wear the willow before his eyes; she even went so far as to say to him, with a twinkling of lids that passed for having tears in her own, —
“No young lady was ever so used before, I believe.... I am sure, Mr. Smith, you saw enough yourself to be certain that I was engaged to Captain Tate,... yet the moment he found a girl with a little money he sent back all my letters...!”
Perhaps Mr. Smith believed the lady ... perhaps he did not; but at any rate he gave her no encouragement to recommence operations upon his confiding nature; on the contrary, he ceased not to send in his little account very constantly once every three months, steadfastly refusing to give credit for any articles, however needful. After the sale of the Compton Basett property the bill was paid, but no farther accommodation in that quarter ever obtained; indeed the facility of selling out of the funds a hundred pounds a time as it was wanted, superseded the necessity of pressing for it, and in a little way Miss Martha and Mr. Smith had continued to deal most amicably, but always with a certain degree of mutual shyness.
How delightfully different was the case now!... Mrs. Barnaby had only to send her maid or her man (boy) to the redundant storehouse of Mr. Smith, and all that her heart best loved was sent for her inspection and choice, without the slightest doubt or scruple.
Mr. Barnaby was proud of his wife; for if not quite as slender and delicate, she really looked very nearly as handsome as ever, a slight soupçon of rouge refreshing the brilliancy of her eyes, and concealing the incipient fading of her cheeks; while the total absence of mauvaise honte (an advantage which may be considered as the natural consequence of a twelve years’ reign as the belle of a well-officered county town,) enabled her to preside at his own supper parties, and fill the place of honour as bride at those of his neighbours, with an easy sprightliness of manner that he felt to be truly fascinating. In short, Mr. Barnaby was excessively fond of his lady, and as he was known to have made much more money than he had spent, as no bill had ever been sent to him without immediate payment following, and as Mrs. Barnaby’s nature expanded itself in this enlarged sphere of action, and led her to disburse five times as much as Mr. Barnaby had ever expended without her, all the tradesmen in the town were excessively fond of her too. Wherever she went she was greeted with a smile; and instead of being obliged to stand in every shop, waiting till some one happened to be at leisure to ask her what she wanted to buy, her feathers and her frills were no sooner discovered to be approaching the counter, than as many right arms as were in presence thrust forward a seat towards her, while the well-pleased master himself invariably started forth to receive her commands.
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 108
