Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

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

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

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

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

  “Oh yes!... I shall, indeed, ... for poor Agnes’s sake!...”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Yes, ma’am,” was the reply.

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

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

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

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

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

  “I laugh at your ‘quite the contrary,’ which means, I suppose, that she has been brought down by her; and you will be brought down too, my dear, if you suffer yourself to be identified with her and her rouge in public.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  The delighted Agnes instantly disembarrassed herself of all out-of-door appurtenances, and Lucy, without saying a word about it, quietly did the same. The carriage was announced, the radiant widow stalked forth, Mrs. Peters took Elizabeth by the arm, and followed her, shaking her head reproachfully at Lucy as she passed her, and the young man escorted them down stairs; but having placed them in the carriage, he declined following them, saying, —<
br />
  “I dare say my father will be glad of the drive home, for it is quite hot to-day. — You will be sure to find him at the Exchange Coffee-house if you get there by half-past four.... A pleasant ride!... Good morning!” and the next moment he joined the happy trio in the drawing-room.

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

  “For the country walk, decidedly,” she replied.

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

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

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

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

  “She has a handsome face, perhaps?” said Lucy.

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

  “The force of contrast, perhaps?” whispered James to his eldest sister.

  “No doubt of it,” she replied.

  And thus they walked and talked, till it was quite time to turn back, and though their pace was somewhat accelerated, it was as much as they could do to get home in time to dress for their six o’clock dinner.

  But the walk was not only agreeable, but profitable to Agnes, for at the end of it Miss Peters felt fully prepared to give a reason for her confidence relative to the cause of the dissimilarity between Mrs. Barnaby and her niece.

  CHAPTER XVII.

  MRS. BARNABY TAKES POSSESSION OF HER LODGINGS, AND SETS ABOUT MAKING HERSELF COMFORTABLE. — SHE OPENS HER PLANS A LITTLE TO AGNES, AND GIVES HER SOME EXCELLENT ADVICE. — THE COMFORT OF A MIDSUMMER FIRE. — THE APARTMENT OF AGNES SET IN ORDER. — A LECTURE ON USEFULNESS. — VIRTUOUS INDIGNATION.

  The following morning Mrs. Peters took care, without being particularly rude, that a movement of some activity “to speed the parting guest,” should be perceptible in her household. Mr. Peters took a very kind leave of both ladies at breakfast, and expressed a very friendly wish of being useful to them as long as they should remain at Clifton; but his judicious lady, who generally knew, without any discourtesy, how to make him perceive that his first impressions were somewhat less acute than her own, had pointed out to him a few peculiarities in Mrs. Barnaby, which he certainly did not approve. The principal of these, perhaps, was that of her rouging, which for some time he steadfastly refused to believe, declaring that her complexion was the most beautiful he ever saw; but when, his examination being sharpened, he could withhold his belief no longer, he ingenuously confessed he did not like it, and allowed that, though he thought it would be great folly to lose the fine fortune she had promised them on that account, he certainly thought he should feel more comfortable when the rouge pots were all gone into lodgings, because they were articles he did not wish to put in the way of his girls.

  As soon as Mr. Peters had taken his leave, the footman was very audibly instructed to order a porter to come for Mrs. Barnaby’s luggage; “And let it be before the hall dinner, Stephen, that William may be able to walk beside the things, and see that none of them are dropped by the way.”

  And then Mrs. Barnaby was very kindly asked if she would not like to send her maid to see that a fire was lighted in the drawing-room, and that anything she wanted for dinner might be ordered in?... And then the thoughtful Mrs. Peters proposed, after Betty Jacks had been gone about an hour, that James should go to the lodgings, and that they should not set off themselves till he came back and gave notice that everything was ready and comfortable.

  In short, Mrs. Barnaby, her niece, her maid, and all their travelling baggage, were safely deposited at No. 1, Sion Row, before the clock struck three.

  The widow looked about her when she first got into her own drawing-room very much as if she did not know how she got there. She was puzzled and mystified by the tactics of Mrs. Peters. Delighted beyond all bounds of moderation in finding the family so infinitely higher in station than she had anticipated, her first idea, on perceiving what a land of milk and honey she had fallen into, was to exert all her fascinating talents to enable her to stay there as long as possible. But the conviction that this scheme would not take, came upon her, she hardly knew how. She had not the slightest inclination to persuade herself that the “dear Margaret” was otherwise than civil to her, yet she felt as if she was to be kept in order, and neither go, nor stay, except as she might receive permission; but, finally, she contrived to heal the wound her vanity had thus received by believing that Mrs. Peters’s high fashion, and superior knowledge of life, naturally rendered her manners unlike any she had hitherto been acquainted with, and consequently that she might occasionally mistake her meaning.

  Upon the whole, however, she began her Clifton campaign in very good spirits. The Peterses must be extremely useful acquaintance, and might be safely boasted of anywhere as dear and near relations. This was very different from arriving, as she had done, at Exeter, without a chance of making a single acquaintance besides her dress-maker. Moreover, she had got through the difficulty of throwing off her weeds admirably; she had managed matters so that the dress of Agnes should be perfectly respectable, and yet cost her nothing for a twelvemonth; she had just received a quarter’s income without any deduction, and, to crown all, “she never was in better looks in her life.”

  Short, then, was the interval of discomfort that kept her inactive on first entering her lodgings. “It was not quite such a drawing-room as that of Mrs. Peters, to be sure, but it was the most fashionable part of Clifton; and with her management, and admirable ways of contriving things, she should soon make it extremely lady-like.”

  “Well, now then we must set to work, Agnes,” she said, drawing off her gloves. “Come, Jerningham, you must not stand looking out of the
window, child; there is an immense deal to do before we can be comfortable. And the first thing will be to get all the trunks up, those that came by the waggon, and those that came with us.”

  “Then I’m sure, ma’am,” replied the waiting-maid, “I don’t know where you’ll find room to put ’em.”

  “They must all be brought in here, Jerningham, to begin; and when I have got all my own things unpacked, we must see how we shall be off about drawers, and closets, and pegs, and all that; and then the empty trunks and boxes must be carried into your garret, Jerningham, or into that little room inside mine, that I mean to give up to Agnes.”

  “To me, aunt?... How very kind!” exclaimed her niece, delighted beyond measure at the idea of some place, no matter what, where she might be alone.

  “Yes, my dear.... You have not seen the rooms yet; come with me, Agnes, while Jerningham goes down about the trunks, and I will shew you our apartments.”

  “But what am I to do then, ma’am, about the trunks?” said Betty Jacks in a fit of despair; “I’m sure I can’t carry ’em up any how.”

  “Then ask the people of the house to help you.”

  “Why, there’s only the old lady and one maid, ma’am, and I’m sure they can’t and they won’t.”

  Mrs. Barnaby meditated for a moment, and then drew out her purse. “Here is sixpence, Jerningham: go to the next public-house, and hire a man to bring up my boxes. It is immensely expensive, Agnes, this moving about, and we really must be very careful!... Of course, my dear, you do not want any dinner after the Rodney Place luncheon? I took care to take a couple of glasses of wine on purpose; and you should remember, my dear, that I have every earthly thing to pay for you, and never neglect an opportunity of sparing me when you can. After we have done our unpacking we can dress, and go out to the pastry-cook’s — there is hardly anything I like better than cakes — and you can have a biscuit, you know, if you should want anything before tea.”