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’Donagou
gh.”
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 ecartè, 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 o
n 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?”
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 152
