“I am glad to have been near you, Miss Willoughby, when that very insolent person addressed you,” said Colonel Hubert, but without making any second offer of his arm. And a moment after he added, “Excuse me for telling you that you are imprudent in walking thus early and alone. Though Clifton on this side appears a rural sort of residence, it is not without some of the disagreeable features of a watering-place.”
“I have lived always in the country.... I had no idea there was any danger,” ... said Agnes, shocked to think how much her own childish imprudence must have strengthened Colonel Hubert’s worst opinion of her and her connexions.
“Nor is there, perhaps, any actual danger,” replied the Colonel; “but there are many things that may not exactly warrant that name, which nevertheless....”
“Would be very improper for me!... Oh! it was great ignorance — great folly!” interrupted Agnes eagerly; “and never, never again will I put myself in need of such kindness.”
“Has your aunt always lived with you in the country?” was a question which Colonel Hubert felt greatly disposed to ask, but, instead of it, he said, turning down from the windmill hill, “You reside at Rodney Place, I believe, and, if I mistake not, this is the way.”
“No, sir ... we lodge in Sion Row.... It is here, close by.... Do not let me delay your ride any more.... I am very much obliged to you;” ... and without waiting for an answer, Agnes stepped rapidly down the steep side of the hill, and was half-way towards Sion Row before the Colonel felt quite sure of what he had intended to say in return.
“But it is no matter.... She is gone,” thought he, and taking his reins from the hand of his groom, he remounted, and resumed his morning ride.
Mrs. Barnaby had not quitted her bed when Agnes returned; but she was awake, and hearing some one enter the drawing-room, called out, “Who’s there?”
“It is I, aunt,” said Agnes, opening the door with flushed cheeks and out of breath, partly, perhaps, from the agitation occasioned by her adventure, and partly from the speed with which she had walked from the windmill home.
“And where on earth have you been already, child? Mercy on me, what a colour you have got!... The ball has done you good as well as me, I think. There, get in and take your things off, and then come back and talk to me while I dress myself.”
Agnes went into her little room and shut the door. She really was very much afraid of her aunt, and in general obeyed her commands with the prompt obedience of a child who fears to be scolded if he make a moment’s delay. But at this moment a feeling stronger than fear kept her within the blessed sanctuary of her solitary closet. She seemed gasping for want of air ... her aunt’s room felt close after coming from the fresh breeze of the hill, and it was, therefore, as Agnes thought, that the sitting down alone beside her own open window seemed a luxury for which it was worth while to risk the sharpest reprimand that ever aunt gave.... But why, while she enjoyed it, did big tears chase each other down her cheeks?
Whatever the cause, the effect was salutary. She became composed, she recovered her breath, and her complexion faded to its usual delicate tint, or perhaps to a shade paler; and then she began to think that it was not wise to do anything for which she knew she should be reproached ... if she could help it ... and now she could help it; so she smoothed her chestnut tresses, bathed her eyes in water, and giving one deep sigh at leaving her own side of the door for that which belonged to her aunt, she came forth determined to bear very patiently whatever might be said to her.
Fortunately for Agnes Mrs. Barnaby had just approached that critical moment of her toilet business, when it was her especial will and pleasure to be alone; so, merely saying in a snappish accent, “What in the world have you been about so long?” she added, “Now get along into the drawing-room, and take care that the toast and my muffin are ready for me, and kept hot before the fire; — it’s almost too hot for fire, but I must have my breakfast warm and comfortable, and we can let it out afterwards.”
Agnes most joyfully obeyed. It was a great relief, and she was meekly thankful for it; but she very nearly forgot the muffins and the toast, for the windows of the room were open, and looked out upon the windmill and the down, a view so pleasant that it was several minutes before she recollected the duties she had to perform. At last, however, she did recollect them, and made such good use of the time that remained, that when her aunt entered bright in carmine and lilac ribbons, everything was as it should be; and she had only to sit and listen to her ecstatic encomiums on the ball, warm each successive piece of muffin at the end of a fork, and answer properly to the ten times repeated question, —
“Hav’n’t you got a good aunt, Agnes, to take you to such a ball as that?”
At length, however, the tedious meal was ended, and Mrs. Barnaby busied herself considerably more than usual in setting the little apartment in order. She made Jerningham carefully brush away the crumbs — a ceremony sometimes neglected — set out her own best pink-lined work-box in state, placed the table agreeably at one of the windows, with two or three chairs round it, and then told Agnes, that if she had any of her lesson-book work to do, she might sit in her own room, for she did not want her.
Gladly was the mandate obeyed, and willingly did she aid Betty Jacks in putting her tiny premises in order, for she was not without hope that her friend Mary would pay her a visit there to talk over the events of the evening; an occupation for which, to say the truth, she felt considerably more inclined than for any “lesson-book work” whatever.
Nor was she disappointed ... hardly did she feel ready to receive her before her friend arrived.
“And well, Carina, how fares it with you to-day? Do you not feel almost too big for your little room after all the triumphs of last night?” was the gay address of Miss Peters as she seated herself upon one of Agnes’s boxes. But it was not answered in the same tone; nay, there was much of reproof as well as sadness in the accent with which Agnes uttered, —
“Triumphs!... Oh! Mary, what a word!”
“You are the only one, I believe, who would quarrel with it. Did ever a little country girl under seventeen make a more successful début?”
“Did ever country girl of any age have more reason to feel that she never ought to make any début at all?”
“My poor Agnes!...” said Miss Peters more gravely, “it will not do for you to feel so deeply the follies that may, and, I fear, ever will be committed by your aunt and my aunt Barnaby.... It is a sad, vexing business, beyond all doubt, that you should have to go into company with a woman determined to make herself so outrageously absurd; but it is not fair to remember that, and nothing else ... you should at least recollect also that the most distinguished man in the room paid you the compliment of joining your party at tea.”
“Paid me the compliment!... Oh! Mary.”
“And oh! Agnes, can you pretend to doubt that it was in compliment to you?... And in compliment to whom was it that he danced with you?”
“He never danced with me, Mary,” said Agnes, colouring.
“My dear child, what are you talking about? Why, he danced with you three times.”
“Oh yes ... Mr. Stephenson ... he is indeed the kindest, most obliging....”
“And the handsomest partner that you ever danced with.... Is it not so?”
“That may easily be, Mary, if by partner you mean a gentleman partner, for I never danced with any till last night; and it is only saying that he is handsomer than your brother and Mr. Osborne, and I think he is.”
“And I think so too, therefore on that point we shall not quarrel. But tell me, how did you like the ball altogether?... Did it please you?... Were you amused?... Shall you be longing to go to another?”
“Let me answer your last question first.... I hope never, never, never again to go to a ball with my aunt Barnaby.... But had it not been for the pain, the shame, the agony she caused me, I should have liked it very much indeed ... particularly the tea-time, Mary.... How pleasant it was before she ca
me with that horrid, horrid man! Shall you ever forget the sight as they came up the room towards us?... Oh! how he looked at her!”
Agnes shuddered, and pressed her hands to her eyes, as if to shut out an object that she still saw.
“It was tremendous,” replied her friend: “but don’t worry yourself by thinking Mr. Stephenson looked at her just then, for he really did not. You know he was sitting at the corner of the table by me, and his back was turned to her, thank heaven!... But I will tell you who did look at her, if Stephenson did not ... that magnificent-looking Colonel stared as if he had seen an apparition; but I did not mind that half so much, nor you either, I suppose.... An old soldier like him must be used to such a variety of quizzes, that nobody, I imagine, can appear so preposterous to him as they might do to his young friend.... By the by, I think he is a very fine-looking man for his age; don’t you?”
“Who?” said Agnes innocently.
“Why, Colonel Hubert.... His sister, who is just married to Sir Edward Stephenson, is nearly twenty years younger than he is, they say.”
“Twenty years?” said Agnes.
“Yes.... Must it not be strange to see them together as brother and sister?... he must seem so much more like her father.”
“Her father!” said Agnes.
“Yes, I should think so. But you do not talk half as much about the ball as I expected, Agnes: I think you were disappointed, and yet I do not know how that could be. You dance beautifully, and seem very fond of it; you had the best partners in the room, danced every dance, and were declared on all sides to be the belle par excellence,... and yet you do not seem to have enjoyed it.”
“Oh! I did enjoy it all the time that she was out of the room playing cards; I enjoyed it very, very much indeed ... so much that I am surprised at myself to feel how soon all my painful shyness was forgotten.... But ... after all, Mary, though you call her your aunt Barnaby, as if to comfort me by sharing my sufferings, she is not really your aunt, and still less is she your sole protector ... still less is she the being on whom you depend for your daily bread. Alas! my dear Mary, is there not more cause for surprise in my having enjoyed the ball so much, than in my not having enjoyed it more?”
“My poor Agnes, this is sad indeed,” said Mary, all her gaiety vanishing at once, “for it is true. Do not think me indifferent to your most just sorrow.... Would to Heaven I could do anything effectually to alleviate it! But while you are here, at least, endeavour to think more of us, and less of her. Wherever you are known, you will be respected for your own sake; and that is worth all other respect, depend upon it. When you leave us, indeed, I shall be very anxious for you. Tell me, dear Agnes, something more about your aunt Compton. Is it quite impossible that you should be placed under her protection?”
“Oh yes!... She would not hear of it. She paid for my education, and all my other expenses, during five years; and my aunt Barnaby says, that when she undertook to do this, she expressly said that it was all she could ever do for me. They say that she has ruined her little fortune by lavish and indiscriminate charity to the poor, and aunt Barnaby says that she believes she has hardly enough left to keep herself alive. But I sometimes think, Mary, that I could be very happy if she would let me work for her, and help her, and perhaps give lessons in Silverton.... I know some things already well enough, perhaps, to teach in such a remote place as that, when better masters cannot be procured; and I should be so happy in doing this ... if aunt Compton would but let me live with her.”
“Then why do you not tell her so, Agnes?”
“Because the last — the only time I have seen her for years, though she kissed and embraced me for a moment, she pushed me from her afterwards, and said I was only more artful than aunt Barnaby, and that I should never be either graced or disgraced by her ... those were her words, I shall never forget them ... and she has the reputation of being immoveably obstinate in her resolves.”
“That does not look very promising, I must confess. But wisdom tells us that the possibility of future sorrow should never prevent our enjoying present happiness. Now, I do think, dear Agnes, that just now you may enjoy yourself, if you like us as well as we like you,... for we are all determined to endure aunt Barnaby for your sake, and in return you must resolve to be happy in spite of her for ours. And now adieu!... I want to have some talk with mamma this morning; but I dare say you will hear from me, or see me again, before the end of the day. Farewell!...” And Miss Peters made a quiet exit from the closet and from the house; for she had heard voices in the drawing-room as she came up the stairs, and now heard voices in the drawing-room as she went down; and having business in her head upon which she was exceedingly intent, she was anxious to avoid being seen or heard by Mrs. Barnaby, lest she should be detained.
CHAPTER IV.
A TETE-A-TETE IN A DRAWING-ROOM. — AUTOBIOGRAPHY. — A REMARKABLE DISCOVERY CONCERNING THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.
The voices which alarmed Miss Peters were those of Mrs. Barnaby and Major Allen. The acquaintance between them had gone quite far enough on the preceding evening to justify the gentleman’s aimable empressement to inquire for the lady’s health; besides, he was somewhat curious to know if the pretty, skittish young creature he had encountered in his morning’s ride, had recounted the adventure to her aunt. It was his private opinion that she had not; and if so, he should know what to think of the sudden appearance and protecting demeanour of her tall friend. It was thus he reasoned as he walked towards Sion Row as soon as he had finished his breakfast; and yet, though he had lost so little time, he did not arrive till at least three minutes after the widow had begun to expect him.
“I need not ask my charming Mrs. Barnaby how she rested after her ball ... eyes do not sparkle thus, unless they have been blessed with sleep;” ... and the lady’s hand was taken, bowed upon, and the tips of her fingers kissed, before she had quite recovered the soft embarrassment his entrance had occasioned.
“You are very kind to call upon me, Major Allen.... Do sit down.... I live as yet comparatively in great retirement; for during Mr. Barnaby’s lifetime we saw an immense deal of company, — that old-fashioned sort of country visiting, you know, that never leaves one’s house empty.... I could not stand it when I was left alone ... and that was the reason I left my beautiful place.”
“Siverton or Silverton Park, was it not?... I think I have heard of it.”
“Yes, Silverton.... And do you know, Major, that the remembrance of all that racket and gaiety was so oppressive to my nerves during the first months of my widowhood, that I threw off everything that reminded me of it ... sold my carriages and horses, let my place, turned off all my servants; and positively, when I set off for this place in order to see my sister Peters and her family, I knew not if I should ever have strength or spirits to enter into general society again.”
“Thank God, dearest madam, that you have made the effort!... Though the hardened and war-worn nature of man cannot melt with all the softness of yours, there is yet within us a chord that may be made to vibrate in sympathy when words of true feeling reach it! How well I understood your feelings ... and how difficult it is not to envy, even in death, the being who has left such a remembrance behind!... But we must not dwell on this.... Tell me, dear Mrs. Barnaby, tell, — as to a friend who understands and appreciates you, — do you regret the having left your elegant retirement?... or do you feel, as I trust you do, that Providence has not gifted you so singularly for nothing?... do you feel that your fellow-creatures have a claim upon you, and that it ought not to be in secret and in solitude that the hours of such a being should be spent? Tell me, do you feel this?”
“Alas! Major Allen, there is so much weakness in the heart of a woman, that she is hardly sure for many days together how she ought to feel.... We are all impulse, all soul, all sentiment, ... and our destiny must ever depend upon the friends we meet in our passage through this thorny world!”
“Beautiful idea!... Where is the poet that has more sweetly painted the
female heart?... And what a study it offers when such a heart is thrown open to one! Good God! to see a creature so formed for enjoyment, — so beaming with innocent cheerfulness, — so rich in the power of conferring happiness wherever she deigns to smile, ... to see such a being turn weeping and alone from her hospitable halls, and from all the pomp and splendour that others cling to ... what a spectacle! Have you no lingering regret, dearest lady, for having left your charming mansion?”
“Perhaps there are moments ... or rather, I should say, perhaps there have been moments, when something of the kind has crossed me. But if I had not disposed of my place, I should never have seen Clifton.... My spirits wanted the change, and I feel already better in this delightful air. But I confess I do regret having sold my beautiful greys, ... I shall never meet any I like so well again.”
“A set, were they?”
“Oh yes.”
“Four greys ... and all well matched?”
“Perfectly.... Poor Mr. Barnaby took so much pains about it.... It was his delight to please me.... I ought not to have sold them.”
“It was a pity,” ... said the kind Major with a sigh.
“Don’t talk about it, Major Allen!...” and here one of the widow’s most curiously embroidered pocket-handkerchiefs, delightfully scented with musk, was lightly and carefully applied to her eyes.
“Nay,” said the Major, venturing gently to withdraw it, “you must not yield to this dangerous softness.... I cannot bear to have those eyes concealed!... it produces the chilling sensation of an eclipse at noon-day.... I shall run away from you if you will not look at me.”
“No, do not,” ... said the widow, making an effort to smile, which was rewarded by a look of gratitude, and a seemingly involuntary kiss bestowed upon the hand that had withdrawn the envious handkerchief.
“And that pretty little girl, your niece, Mrs. Barnaby,” ... said the Major, as if considerately changing the conversation; “how is she this morning?”
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 126
