“Did any one ever hear a mamma better scolded?” said Mrs. Peters, turning to the younger girls.
“Mary is quite right, mamma,” said Lucy. “Depend upon it we should have broken into open rebellion, had you persevered in threatening to cut the Barnaby connexion.”
“Indeed I must say,” added Elizabeth, “that I have thought you very severe upon our poor aunt, mamma. Think of her kindness!”
“Our aunt!” sighed Mrs. Peters. “Is it absolutely necessary, beloveds! that she should be addressed in public by that tender title?”
“Not absolutely, perhaps,” replied Mary, laughing; “and I dare say Elizabeth will make a bargain with you, mamma, never to call her aunt again, provided you promise never to forget that she is our aunt, though we may not call her so.”
“And what must I do, young ladies, to prove my eternal recollection of this agreeable tact?”
“You must be very civil to Agnes, and let them both join our party at tea, and at all the balls, and never object to our calling upon the Barnaby, for the sake of getting at the Willoughby, and ... now don’t start, and turn restive, mamma, ... you must ask them whenever we have an evening party here with young people, that might be likely to give Agnes pleasure.”
“And must I embrace Mrs. Barnaby every time she comes into my presence, and every time she leaves it?”
“No, ... unless you have done something so very outrageously rude before, as to render such a penitentiary amende necessary.”
“Come here, Mary,” said the gay mother, “and let me box your ears immediately.”
The young lady placed herself very obediently on the foot-stool at Mrs. Peters’s feet, who having patted each pretty cheek, said, “Now tell me, Mary, if you can, what it is that has thus fascinated your affections, hoodwinked your judgment, perverted your taste, and extinguished your pride?”
“If you will let me turn your questions my own way, mother,” replied the daughter, “I will answer them all. My affection is fascinated, or, I would rather say, won, by the most remarkable combination of beauty, grace, talent, gentleness, and utter unconsciousness of it all, that it has ever been my hap to meet with. And, instead of being hoodwinked, my judgment, my power of judging, seem newly roused and awakened by having so very fine a subject on which to exercise themselves. I never before felt, as I did when listening to Agnes as she innocently answered my prying questions concerning her past life, the enormous difference there might be between one human mind and another. It was like opening the pages of some holy book, and learning thence what truth, innocence, and sweet temper could make of us. If admiring the uncommon loveliness of this sweet girl with something of the enthusiasm with which one contemplates a choice picture, be perversion of taste, I plead guilty, for it is with difficulty that I keep my eyes away from her; ... and for my pride, mamma, ... if any feeling of the kind ever so poisoned my heart as to make me turn from what was good, in the fear that it might lead me into contact with what was ungenteel, be thankful with me, that this sweet ‘light from heaven’ has crossed my path, and enabled me to see the error of my ways.”
Mary spoke with great animation, and her mother listened to her till tears dimmed her laughing blue eyes.
“You are not a missish miss, Mary, that is certain,” said she, kissing her, “and assuredly I thank Heaven for that. This pretty creature does indeed seem by your account to be a pearl of price; but, par malheur, she has got into the shell of the very vilest, great, big, coarse, hateful oyster, that ever was fished up!... Fear nothing more, however, from me.... You are dear good girls for feeling as you do about this pretty Agnes, and I give you carte blanche to do what you will with her and for her.”
The consequence of this was an early call made on the following morning at Mrs. Barnaby’s lodgings by the three Misses Peters. There were not many subjects on which the aunt and niece thought or felt in common; but it would be difficult to say which of the two was most pleased when their visiters were announced.
“We are come — that is, Lucy and I — to make you take a prodigious long walk with us, Agnes,” said Miss Peters; “and Elizabeth, who is not quite so stout a pedestrian as we are, is come with us, to offer her services to you, Mrs. Barnaby, for a home circuit, if you like to make one. And pray do not forget that Tuesday is the ball night, and that we shall expect you to go, and join our party in the room.”
“Dearest Mary!... dearest Elizabeth!... dearest Lucy! How good of you all! Agnes, put on your bonnet, my dear, instantly, and never forget the kindness of these dear girls.... I shall, indeed, be thankful to you, Elizabeth, if you will put me in the way of getting a few trifles that will be necessary for Tuesday.... Are your balls large?... Are there plenty of gentlemen?...” &c. &c.
And where was Agnes’s heavy sense of sadness now? The birds, whose cheerful songs seemed to call her out, were not more light of heart than herself, as she followed her friends down the stairs, and sprung through the door to meet the fresh breeze from the down with a foot almost as elastic as their own glad wings. We must leave the young ladies to pursue their way, being joined at no great distance from the door by James Peters, through a long and delightful ramble that took them along “the wall,” that forms the garde fou to the most beautiful point of Durdham Down, and so on amidst fields and villas that appeared to Agnes, like so many palaces in fairy-land; and while thus they charm away the morning, we must follow Mrs. Barnaby and the good-natured Elizabeth through their much more important progress among the fashionable resorts of the Clifton beau monde.
“And about tickets, my dear Elizabeth?” said the widow, as she offered her substantial arm to her slight companion; “what is it the fashion to do? To subscribe for the season, or pay at the door?”
“You may do either, Mrs. Barnaby; but if you wish your arrival to be known, I believe you had better put your name on the book.”
“You are quite right, my dear. Where is the place to do this? Cannot you take me at once?”
“Yes, I could take you certainly, for it is almost close by; but perhaps papa had better save you the trouble, Mrs. Barnaby?”
“By no means, my dear. His time is more valuable than mine. Let us go at once: I shall like it best.”
Elizabeth, though a little frightened, led the way; and as Mrs. Barnaby entered the establishment that at its very threshold seemed to her redolent of wax-lights, fiddles, and fine clothes, such a delightful flutter of spirits came upon her, as drove from her memory the last fifteen or sixteen years of her life, and made her feel as if she were still one of the lightest and loveliest nymphs in the world. She insisted upon seeing the ball-room, and paced up and down its ample extent with a step that seemed with difficulty restrained from dancing; she examined the arrangement for the music, looked up with exultation at the chandeliers, and triumphed in anticipation at their favourable influence upon rouge, eyes, feathers, and flowers. Had there been any other man present beside the waiter, she would hardly have restrained her desire to make a tour de waltz; and, as it was, she could not help turning to the quiet young man, and saying with a condescending smile, “The company must look very well in this room, sir?”
As they passed in their way out through the room in which the subscription-books were kept, they met a gentleman, whose apparent age wavered between thirty-five and forty, tall, stout, gaily dressed, fully moustached, and with an eye that looked as if accustomed to active service in reconnoitring all things. He took off his hat, and bowed profoundly to Miss Peters, bestowing at the same time a very satisfactory stare on the widow.
“Who is that, my dear?” said the well-pleased lady.
“That is Major Allen,” replied Elizabeth.
“Upon my word, he is a very fine, fashionable-looking man. Is he intimate with your family?”
“Oh no!... We only know him from meeting him sometimes at parties, and always at the balls.”
“Is he a man of fortune?”
“I am sure I don’t know. He has got a smart horse and groom
, and goes a great deal into company.”
“Then of course he cannot be a poor man, my dear. Is he a dancer?”
“No.... I believe he always plays cards.”
“And where shall we go now, dearest?... I want you to take me, Elizabeth, to all the smartest shops you know.”
“Some of the best shops are at Bristol, but we have a very good milliner here.”
“Then let us go there, dear.... And did not your mamma say something about a library?”
“Yes, there’s the library, and almost everybody goes there almost every morning.”
“Then there of course I shall go. I consider it as so completely a duty, my dear Elizabeth, to do all these sort of things for the sake of my niece. My fortune is a very good one, and the doing as other people of fortune do, must be an advantage to poor dear Agnes as long as she is with me; ... but I don’t scruple to say to you, my dear, that the fortune I received from your dear uncle, will return to his family in case I die without children.... And a truly widowed heart, my dear girl, does not easily match itself again. But the more you know of me, Elizabeth, the more you will find that I have many notions peculiar to myself. Many people, if they were mistress of my fortune, would spend three times as much as I do; but I always say to myself, ‘Poor dear Mr. Barnaby, though he loved me better than anything else on earth, loved his own dear sister and her children next best; and therefore, as he left all to me ... and a very fine fortune he made, I assure you ... I hold myself in duty bound, as I spend a great deal of money with one hand upon my own niece, to save a great deal with the other for his.’”
“I am sure you seem to be very kind and good to everybody,” replied the grateful young lady.
“That is what I would wish to be, my dear, for it is only so that we can do our duty.... Not that I would ever pledge myself never to marry again, my dear Elizabeth. I don’t at all approve people making promises that it may be the will of Heaven they should break afterwards; and those people are not the most likely to keep a resolution, who vow and swear about it. But I hope you will never think me stingy, my dear, nor let anybody else think me so, for not spending above a third of my income, or perhaps not quite so much; for, now you know my motives, you must feel that it would be very ungenerous, particularly in your family, to blame me for it.”
“It would indeed, Mrs. Barnaby, and it is what I am sure that I, for one, should never think of doing.... But this is the milliner’s.... Shall we go in?”
“Oh yes!... A very pretty shop, indeed; quite in good style. What a sweet turban!... If it was not for the reasons that I tell you, I should certainly be tempted, Elizabeth. Pray, ma’am, what is the price of this scarlet turban?”
“Four guineas and a half, ma’am, with the bird, and two guineas without it.”
“It is a perfect gem! Pray, ma’am, do you ever make up ladies’ own materials?”
“No, ma’am, never,” replied the decisive artiste.
“Do you never fasten in feathers?... I should not mind paying for it, as I see your style is quite first-rate.”
“For our customers, ma’am, and whenever the feathers or the coiffure have been furnished in the first instance by ourselves.”
“You are a customer, Elizabeth, are you not?”
“Mamma is,” replied the young lady. “You know Mrs. Peters of Rodney Place, Mrs. Duval?”
“Oh yes!... I beg your pardon, Miss Peters. Is this lady a friend of yours?”
“Mrs. Peters is my sister-in-law, Mrs. Duval, and I hope that will induce you to treat me as if I had already been a customer. I should like to have some feathers, that I mean to wear at the ball on Tuesday, fastened into my toque, like these in this blue one here. Will you do this for me?”
“Yes, ma’am, certainly, if you will favour us with your name on our books.”
“That’s very obliging, and I will send my own maid with it as soon as I get home.”
“Is there anything else I can have the pleasure of shewing you, ladies?”
“I want some long white gloves, if you please, and something light and elegant in the way of a scarf.”
The modiste was instantly on the alert, and the counter became as a sea of many-coloured waves.
“Coloured scarves are sometimes worn in slight mourning, I believe, are they not?”
“Oh yes! ma’am, always.”
“What do you say to this one, Elizabeth?” said the widow, selecting one of a brilliant geranium tint.
“For yourself, Mrs. Barnaby?”
“Yes, my dear.... My dress will be black satin, you know.”
“I should think white would look better,” said Elizabeth, recollecting her mother’s aversion to fine colours, and recollecting also the recent weeds of her widowed aunt.
“Well, ... perhaps it might. Let me see some white, if you please.”
“Perhaps you would like blonde, ma’am?” said the milliner, opening a box, and displaying some tempting specimens.
“Beautiful indeed!... very!... What is the price of this one?”
“A mere trifle, ma’am.... Give me leave to begin your account with this.”
“Well, I really think I must.... I know they clean as good as new.”
“What is Agnes to wear?” inquired Elizabeth.
“There is one of my troubles, my dear; she will wear nothing but the deepest mourning. Between you and me, Elizabeth, I suspect it is some feeling about her poor mother, or else for her father, who has never been heard of for years, but whom we all suppose to have died abroad, — I suspect it is some feeling of this sort that makes her so very obstinate about it. But she can’t bear to have it talked of, so don’t say a word to her on the subject, or she will be out of sorts for a week, and will think it very cruel of me to have named it to you. I perfectly dote upon that girl, Elizabeth, ... though, to be sure, I have my trials with her! But we have all our trials, Elizabeth!... and, thank Heaven! I have a happy temper, and bear mine, I believe, as well as most people. But about that strange whim that Agnes has, of always wearing crape and bombasin, you may as well just mention it to your mamma and sisters, to prevent their taking any notice of it to her; for if they did, you may depend upon it she would not go to the ball at all.... Oh! you have no idea of the obstinacy of that darling girl!... These gloves will do at last, I think.... Your gloves are all so remarkably small, Mrs. Duval!... And that’s all for this morning.”
“Where shall I send them, ma’am, and to what name?”
“To Mrs. Barnaby, No. 1, Sion Row.”
“Thank you, ma’am.... They shall be sent immediately.”
“Now then, Elizabeth, for the library,” said the widow with an expressive flourish of the hand.
And to the library they went, which to Mrs. Barnaby’s great satisfaction was full of smart people, and, amongst others, she had to make her way past the moustached Major Allen, in order to reach the table on which the subscription-book was laid.
“I beg your pardon, madam, a thousand times!” said the Major; “I am afraid I trod on your foot!”
“Don’t mention it!... it is of no consequence in the world! The shop is so full, it is almost impossible to avoid it.”
The Major in return for this civil speech again fixed his broad, wide, open eyes upon the widow, and she had again the satisfaction of believing that he thought her particularly handsome.
Miss Peters found many of her acquaintance among the crowd, with whom she conversed, while Mrs. Barnaby seated herself at the table, and turned over page after page of autographs with the air of a person deeply interested by the hope of finding the names of friends and acquaintance among them, whereas it would have been a circumstance little short of a miracle had she found there that of any individual whom she had ever seen in her life; but she performed her part admirably, smiling from time to time, as if delighted at an unexpected recognition. Meanwhile many an eye, as she well knew, was fixed upon her, for her appearance was in truth sufficiently striking. She was tall, considerably above
the average height, and large, though not to corpulency; in short, her figure was what many people, like Mr. Peters, would call that of a fine woman; and many others, like Mrs. Peters, would declare to be large, ungainly, and vulgar. Her features were decidedly handsome, her eyes and teeth fine, and her nose high and well-formed; but all this was exaggerated into great coarseness by the quantity of rouge she wore, and the redundance of harsh-looking, coal-black ringlets which depended heavily down each side of her large face, so as still to give a striking resemblance, as Agnes, it may be remembered, discovered several years before, to the wax heads in a hair-dresser’s shop. This sort of face and figure, which were of themselves likely enough to draw attention, were rendered still more conspicuous by her dress, which, though, like herself, really handsome, was rendered unpleasing by its glaring purpose of producing effect. A bonnet of bright lavender satin, extravagantly large, and fearfully thrown back, displayed a vast quantity of blonde quilling, fully planted with flowers of every hue, while a prodigious plume of drooping feathers tossed themselves to and fro with every motion of her head, and occasionally reposed themselves on her shoulder. Her dress was of black silk, but ingeniously relieved by the introduction of as many settings off, of the same colour with her bonnet, as it was well possible to contrive; so that, although in mourning, her general appearance was exceedingly shewy and gay.
“Who is your friend, Elizabeth?” said a young lady, who seemed to have the privilege of questioning freely.
“It is Mrs. Barnaby,” replied Miss Peters in a whisper.
“And who is Mrs. Barnaby, my dear?.... She has quite the air of a personage.”
“She is the widow of mamma’s brother, Mr. Barnaby of Silverton.”
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 121
