The interview of that morning with Miss Brotherton had awakened in the mind of Michael, feelings towards her which an hour before he would have thought it must have taken years to produce; but being equally sincere, both in his former timidity and his present confidence, he speedily made up his mind to open his heart to her, and do for his guilty, but suffering brother, what it was evident he had not courage to do for himself. In pursuance of this resolution, he again sought the heiress, and whispered in her ear, “Mary! — will you let me talk to you a little more?” She eagerly complied with the implied in vitation, and passing her arm through his, accompanied him to the scene of their former tête-à-tête.
There was no shyness on the part of Michael. The familiar appellation he had used was not assumed for the purpose of proving his obedience, but resulted from a genuine feeling of affectionate confidence in every word she had uttered, and which had left on his mind the belief that she was not only his generous patroness, but his loving friend. —
“I little thought when I was talking to you this morning about my poor self,” he said, “that I should so soon have to take you away again from your drawing, to talk about Edward.”
“About Edward?” said Mary colouring, “what do you wish to say about him, dear Michael?”
“It is something that he declares he would die rather than say to you himself,” replied Michael, “but I am certain that you ought to know it, for it is quite clear that there is no chance of happiness for him unless you agree to his wishes.”
“What wishes?” exclaimed the heiress, terribly agitated, “for goodness sake, Michael, do not trifle with me! Did Edward commission you to speak to me?” —
“Oh, no! had he felt courage to do that, I should have told him at once, that he had better do it himself,” replied Michael. “Indeed I fear greatly that he will be displeased with me; but I cannot bear to see him so miserable without mentioning it to the only person capable of helping him.”
“Miserable? — Helping him? — Tell me, Michael, tell me at once what you mean!”
“That is exactly what I wish to do, dear Mary!” replied Michael, looking with considerable surprise at her varying colour, and agitated features; “but I fear I am doing wrong, and that I have already said something that vexes you.”
“No, no!” cried Mary impatiently, “only, go on!”
“In one word, then,” resumed Michael, “our dear Edward wishes beyond all things to enter the Austrian service.”
“And leave us!” returned the heiress, almost gasping. “Does Edward want to leave me?”
“Do not suspect him of ingratitude, Mary!” cried Michael, eagerly; “there is a reason for it, and without this I am quite sure he would never think of such a thing. — Edward has conceived an unfortunate passion for an object from whom he ought to fly — and this, of course, will explain every thing to you.”
“Let me see him! Let me hear him! From himself, and from himself only I can hear this. Let it mean what it may.” On uttering these words, which were spoken with a very agitated and untranquil air, Mary Brotherton rushed out of the room, much to Michael astonishment; for he could by no means comprehend why she should testify such very strong emotion, especially as he had so cautiously and delicately avoided hinting any thing about a married woman’s being unhappily the object of his brother’s passion.
In this ignorance of Michael’s, the reader, I am very sorry to say, must share. There are some facts which no wise historian will ever venture to dilate upon, lest their strangeness should provoke incredulity; and great wisdom is shown by such forbearance; for it is infinitely better that an enlightened public should be driven to exclaim, “How very obscure this passage is!” than “How very improbable!”
Michael Armstrong is the hero of the book that is now drawing rapidly to its conclusion; and every reader has therefore a right to expect that his destiny shall be plainly announced to them, whatever mystery may hang over that of others. Whatever occurred between the heiress and Edward in the conference which they speedily held together, it did not cause any alteration in that lady’s purpose of immediately returning to her chateau upon the Rhine. A man of worth and great ability was engaged to take charge of the richly teeming eager mind of Michael, during the two years that it was settled he should remain at a German university, and nothing could be more satisfactory than the result of this arrangement. Never, perhaps, were two years put to greater profit in the development of mind, than upon this occasion; and when they were ended, Michael Armstrong was able to take his station upon the beautiful terrace, without feeling that he was out of his place there.
Less than these two years had sufficed to bring to perfection all Mary Brotherton’s plans for improving and beautifying her spacious residence. It was one of those super-terranean quarries which are sometimes seen to spread themselves to such miraculous extent in that region, and would have inspired most ladies with a feeling of dreary vastness, which, notwithstanding the exceeding beauty of its position, would have prevented any hope of rendering it comfortably habitable. But Mary had an ample heart, and an ample purse. Circumstances over which (to use a thoroughly authorized expression) she had no control, for in truth they had preceded her birth, had rendered her own country less dear to her than it is to most others; and she therefore not only determined to plant herself elsewhere, but to do so in such a manner as would enable her to make her new abode her home, in the best sense of the word, and this could only be done by giving
“Ample room, and verge enough,”
to make it the home of others also. Any travellers lucky enough to light upon this widely-spreading, but comfortable and thoroughly well kept-up abode, will find that, notwithstanding its great extent, it has, by no means, the air of being uninhabited. Nobody will be much surprised to hear that Michael Armstrong and Fanny Fletcher became man and wife, or that they proved a loving and very happy pair; but should any curious Rhenish tourist obtain an introduction to this Rhingau paradise, they will probably observe two very loving and happy pairs, to whom it serves as a common yet, in some sort, a separate home, each having its suite of drawing-rooms, boudoirs, nurseries, school-rooms, etcœtera. But however much a gossiping inclination might lead to a more explicit detail, there is really no room left to enter upon it. All that can be said in addition to this is, that when Sir Matthew Dowling’s affairs came to be wound up, there was discovered to be a sufficient surplus to afford a small independence to each of his children, which, being divided according to the proportion dictated by the knight’s will, gave something approaching to a Benjamin’s mess portion to his daughter Martha. To claim and receive this, as well as occasionally to visit some members of her family, Martha made frequent excursions to England; but her happiest hours were those she passed with her dear friends in Germany, by whom she is ever received with open arms.
Mrs. Tremlett is still enjoying an old age of perfect comfort, cheered by warm affection, and is already the darling of many little hearts.
There is no record to be found in any documents relating to the inhabitants of the chateau, showing that Edward Armstrong ever entered the Austrian service. It is, therefore, most reasonable to suppose that this wish was never complied with.
THE END
THE WIDOW MARRIED
A SEQUEL TO THE WIDOW BARNABY
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER ΧII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER XIX.
CHAPTER XX.
CHAPTER XXI.
CHAPTER XXII.
CHAPTER ΧΧIIΙ.
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CHAPTER XXIV.
CHAPTER XXV.
CHAPTER XXVI.
CHAPTER XXVII.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
CHAPTER XXIX.
CHAPTER XXX.
CHAPTER XXXI.
CHAPTER XXXII.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
CHAPTER XXXV.
The first edition’s frontispiece
CHAPTER I.
ALL persons tolerably well read in biography are aware that the amiable Mrs. Barnaby, ci-devant, Miss Martha Compton, of Silverton, after having lost her second husband, the Reverend Mr. O’Donagough, from the effects of an unfortunate accident, which occurred to him near Sydney, in New South Wales, bestowed her still extremely fair hand on her former friend and favourite, Major Allen. But the events which followed these third espousals, though unquestionably of as much general interest as any which preceded them, have never yet been given to the public with that careful attention to the truth of history which they deserve; and it is to remedy this obvious defect in English literature, that the present narrative has been composed.
The existence of Mrs. Barnaby (this name is once more used as the one by which our heroine has hitherto been best known), the existence of Mrs. Barnaby, up to the hour in which she pledged her vows to Major Allen, before the altar of the principal church in Sydney, had, on the whole, been a very happy one. She had, in fact, very keenly enjoyed many things, which persons less fortunately constituted might have considered as misfortunes; and to the amiable and well-disposed reader a continuation of the history of such a mind can hardly fail of being useful as an encouragement and example.
Mrs. O’Donagough, on the day she married Major Allen, was exactly thirty-eight years of age, at least she only wanted two days of it; and it is possible that her wish to enhance the festivity of every scene in which she was engaged, might have led her to name her birthday as that on which her third wedding should take place, had it not been that a sort of dislike which she had taken, while still Martha Compton, of Silverton, to the unnecessary dragging forth the date of the day and hour at which people were born, still continued. She, therefore, said nothing at all about her birthday, but prepared for the solemn ceremony with as much tender emotion, and as delicate a bloom, as when she first pledged her virgin troth to Mr. Barnaby.
Born under a happy star, a pleasure yet awaited Mrs. Major Allen, the want of which she had often lamented, and of which her hopes had long since withered and faded, till at length they assumed the worn-out aspect of despair. But in due time, after her third marriage, Mrs. Allen communicated to the Major the delightful intelligence that he was likely to become a father.
Major Allen behaved exceedingly well on the occasion; professing his entire satisfaction at the news, and adding with newly-awakened paternal forethought, “If that is the case, Mrs. Allen, we must mind our hits as to money matters, and take care that our little evening card-parties answer.”
To this Mrs. Major Allen had not the slightest objection; but how powerful is maternal feeling in a woman’s heart! Though she failed not to render her little Sydney soirees as attractive as ever, though she walked about the room, and behind the card-players as usual, never forgetting a single instruction given to her by her ingenious husband — notwithstanding she did all this, her heart was almost wholly in her work-basket!
It was really beautiful to watch the development of a mother’s feelings in a heart which had never yet been awakened to them! For instance, Mrs. Major Allen had never shown herself, in any country, particularly fond of poor people; but now she never saw a woman in her own interesting situation, without feeling her heart, or, at any rate, her attention drawn towards her; and many a question did she ask, and many a copper coin did she bestow, in consequence of this most amiable species of solicitude.
During the first months of her residence at Sydney, she had not, perhaps, chosen her intimates among the most domestic ladies; but now the case was entirely altered. There was an excellent woman, a Mrs. Sheepshanks, the wife of an attorney, enjoying great business in the town, who had more little children than any other lady in it, and with her, Mrs. Major Allen now sought to form an intimacy of the most familiar kind. She delighted in nothing so much as stepping in to call upon her as soon as breakfast was over, and entering with her, even while her nursery avocations rendered everything like regular conversation impossible, into a sort of zigzag intercourse, between saying and doing, that to any one less delightfully alive to the innocent attractions of little children, must have appeared exceedingly tiresome.
Mrs. Sheepshanks, poor woman! like all the other ladies in the settlement, found it very difficult, not to say impossible, to keep any decent servant in her family; the few young women who deserved the epithet, getting married themselves with such certain rapidity, as to give every reason to suppose that Mr. Hood’s interesting anecdote of an offer of marriage being made through a speaking-trumpet, to a vessel approaching the coast with young ladies aboard, must have been founded strictly on fact.
At the time Mrs. Sheepshanks and her little family took such hold on the affections of Mrs. Major Allen, the only attendant the attorney’s lady had to assist her in the labours of the nursery, was a girl of seventeen, whose domestic education not having been particularly attended to, left her with rather less knowledge of her duties in such a situation, than might have been wished.
The confusion, therefore, which sometimes ensued in this department of the household, was considerable; but Mrs. Major Allen bore it all; nay, she rejoiced at the excellent opportunities this afforded of obtaining information concerning many infantine facts, of which she had hitherto lived in total ignorance.
Mrs. Sheepshanks, who, though sometimes a little fretful, was in the main a good-natured woman, always received these visits very kindly; and, indeed, her respect for Mrs. Allen was so great, that she considered them as an honour. For Mrs. Allen had, with friendly confidence, mentioned to her how near she had been to marrying a lord, of which, indeed, her beautiful shell necklace gave the most convincing proof; and she also explained to her the very foolish bit of fun formerly recorded about the old clothes, by which she offended her wealthy aunt, and so lost the chance, or rather the certainty, of becoming her heiress. These, and many other anecdotes of her former life, she had recorded in a manner which left no doubt on the mind of Mrs. Sheepshanks respecting the distinguished rank of the society in which she had mingled in the mother country.
“Dear me, Mrs. Major Allen! only to think of your doing all that with your own hands!” exclaimed this kind-hearted mother of many colonists; “I am sure if it was not for the, interest which I know you take in all these little matters just at present, I should be actually fit to die, to see you do such things!”
“Never you mind, Mrs. Sheepshanks,” returned the major’s lady, “I can’t tell you how it all interests me! Pretty little darling! it shall do everything it likes, that it shall. Laugh a little bit then — that’s it — laugh again, baby — laugh, laugh, laugh, kiss, kiss, kiss, tickle, tickle, tickle. Bless its sweet heart! I am sure it knows me!” And again Mrs. Major Allen applied the pap-boat to the last born Sheepshanks’s mouth, though the over-fed and intelligent infant immediately returned the superfluity without ceremony.
“How do you think I hold a baby, my dear?” demanded the anxious aspirant to maternal dignity.
“Oh, very well! — very well indeed, considering — only you must mind about the pins. Little Van Diemen is pursing up his mouth now, very much as if he were going to have a cry — and he mostly cries when he gets a pin into him,” observed Mrs. Sheepshanks.
Little Van Diemen here gave the most unimpeachable testimony in favour of his mamma’s sagacity, for they had a cry, and such a long and lusty one, as might have daunted any novice of less firm spirit than Mrs. Major Allen. She, however, hugged the little screamer tightly to her bosom, and though it did not seem at all to comfort him, held him there very close indeed for many minutes, s
waying her person backwards and forwards incessantly; while one widely-extended hand pressed firmly upon the upper joint of the vertebræ, and the other upon the lower part of the infant’s person, kept it in a position as likely as any thing, short of suffocation, to still the sound.
“It is no good, my dear Mrs. Allen,” said’ the mother. “He’ll go on that way till he’s undressed again, I’ll bet anything — just stop till I have finished combing these two, and I’ll look him over myself.”
“Oh, do let me undress him from top to toe,” cried Mrs. Allen, eagerly, “I have never done that my own self yet, and I cannot tell you how I long for it — will you let me try, Mrs. Sheepshanks?”
“Yes, sure) if you like it — stand still, Eliza, can’t you! — I am only afraid you’ll find it a great plague, and him screaming so.”
“Why, I should like it better if he didn’t, to be sure, because it frightens me, and in my situation, that is not exactly the thing. However, it is quite needful I should get my hand in; not but what I shall make the major give the highest of wages; and that, you know, if anything can, will get me a nurse; so that I shan’t have more to do than what my maternal feeling naturally leads to. But, nevertheless, it is quite right and proper that I should know all about it myself — there’s a darling now;” continued the fond mother-expectant, addressing the still screaming baby. “There’s a love — just let me untie these strings, only these strings, my beautiful darling! There, there, there — now donty wonty!” These last words being uttered in the coaxing idiom of her native country, attracted the attention of the nursery-maid of all work, who at that moment entered the room. This girl having some years before accompanied her mother in her voyage from London, under circumstances that, by skilful management, had rendered the excursion, young as she was, equally necessary for both, was apt to boast of her metropolitan education, and particularly prided herself on her “parts of speech.”
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