Collected Works of Frances Trollope, page 117
“Then what are they, pray? Why do you make such a mystery about it?”
“Oh! it’s no mystery; ... but I did not know... I will read you the titles, if you please, aunt. Here are Shakspeare, Milton, Spencer, and Gray; ... these are all my English books.”
“And what are these?”
“Racine, Corneille, La Fontaine, and Boileau.”
“What useless trash!.... And these?”
“Dante, Tasso, and Petrarch; ... and these six larger volumes are the ‘componimenti lirici’ of various authors.”
“Oh goodness, child!... don’t jabber your stupid school jargon to me.... There!... take them all away again; I can’t very well see how they are to help you make a governess of yourself: grammars, I should think, and dictionaries, would be more to the purpose for that sort of profitable usefulness.”
“And I have got them too, aunt, in my clothes trunk; and if you will but be pleased to let me give my time to it, I am quite sure that I shall get on very well.”
“Get on!... get on to what, child?”
“To reading both French and Italian with facility, ... and perhaps to writing both with tolerable correctness.”
“Well, ... if it will enable you to get your bread one of these days, I am sure that I don’t wish to hinder it, — so go to work as soon as you will, — only pray don’t let me hear any more about it, for I quite hate the sort of thing, — though of course, my dear, if I was in your situation, I should know it was my duty to think differently. But those whom Providence has blessed with wealth, have a right to indulge their taste, ... and my taste is altogether that of a lady.”
From this time the aching void in the heart, and almost in the intellect of Agnes, seemed supplied. Her aunt, when she did not want her as a walking companion, suffered her to go on reading and scribbling to her heart’s content, and the more readily, perhaps, from its giving her the air of being still a child learning lessons, which was exactly the footing on which she wished to keep her, if possible, for another year or two, as she was by no means insensible to the inconvenience of having a grown-up niece, while still in the pride of beauty herself.
In this manner the period allotted for their stay at Exeter wore away; Mrs. Barnaby’s wardrobe, embroidery, and all, was quite ready for display; Betty Jacks, alias Jerningham, had learned to look exceedingly like a disreputable young woman, to run of errands, and to iron out tumbled dresses; the bright sun of June had succeeded the lovely temperature of a Devonshire spring, and everything seemed to invite the adventurous widow to a wider field of display. But before she made this onward movement from which she hoped so much, it was necessary to apprize her sister-in-law, Mrs. Peters, of her affectionate intention of passing a few months at Clifton, in order to become acquainted with her and her family. The letter by which this intention was announced, is too characteristic of my heroine to be omitted.
“My dearest Sister,
“Under the dreadful calamity that has fallen upon me, no idea has suggested the slightest glimpse of comfort to my widowed heart but the hope of becoming acquainted with my lost Barnaby’s sister! Beloved Margaret!... So let me call you, for so have I been used to hear you called by HIM!... Beloved Margaret! Let me hope that from you, and your charming family, I shall find the sympathy and affection I so greatly need.
“Your admirable brother ... my lost but never-to-be-forgotten husband ... was as successful as he deserved to be in the profession of which he was the highest ornament, and left an ample fortune, — the whole of which, as you know, he bequeathed to me with a confidence and liberality well befitting the perfect, the matchless love, which united us. But, alas! my sister, Providence denied us a pledge of this tender love, and where then can I so naturally look for the ultimate possessors of his noble fortune as amongst your family? I have one young niece, still almost a child, whom I shall bring with me to Clifton. But though I am passionately attached to her, my sense of justice is too strong to permit my ever suffering her claims to interfere with those more justly founded. When we become better acquainted, my dearest Margaret, you will find that this sense of what is right is the rule and guide of all my actions, and I trust you will feel it to be a proof of this, that my style and manner of living are greatly within my means. In fact, I never cease to remember, dear sister, that, though the widow of my poor Barnaby, I am the daughter of the well-born but most unfortunate clergyman of Silverton, who was obliged to sell his long-descended estate in consequence of the treachery of a friend who ruined him. Thus, while the high blood which flows in my veins teaches me to do what is honourable, the unexpected poverty which fell upon my own family, makes me feel that there is more real dignity in living with economy, than in spending what my confiding husband left at my disposal, and thus putting it out of my power to increase it for the benefit of his natural heirs.
“This will, I hope, explain to you satisfactorily my not travelling with my own carriage, and my having no other retinue than one lady’s-maid. Alas!... it is not in pomp or parade that a truly widowed heart can find consolation!
“Let me hear from you, my dear sister, and have the kindness to tell me where you think I had better drive, on arriving at Clifton. With most affectionate love to Mr. Peters, and the blessing of a fond aunt to all your dear children, I remain, dearest Margaret,
“Your ever devoted sister,
“Martha Barnaby.”
This letter was received by Mrs. Peters at the breakfast-table, round which were assembled three daughters, one son, and her husband. The lady read it through in silence, cast her eyes rapidly over it a second time, and then handed it over to her spouse with an air of some solemnity, though something very like a smile passed across her features at the same moment.
Mr. Peters also read the letter, but not like his lady, in silence.
“Very kind of her indeed!... Poor dear lady!... a true mourner, that’s plain enough to be seen.... She must be an excellent good woman, my dear, this widow of poor Barnaby; and I’m heartily glad she is coming among us. Your aunt Barnaby’s coming, girls, and I hope you’ll all behave so as to make her love you.... Is there any objection, Margaret, to the children’s seeing this letter?”
“None at all,” replied the lady ... “excepting....”
“Excepting what, my dear?... I am sure it is a letter that would do her honour anywhere, and I should be proud to read it on the exchange.... What do you mean by excepting?”
“It is no matter.... The girls and I can talk about it afterwards, ... and James, I think, will understand it very clearly at once.”
“Understand it?... to be sure he will.... I never read a better letter, or one more easily understood, in my life. — Here, James, read it aloud to your sisters.”
The young man obeyed, and read it very demurely to the end, though, more than once, his laughing blue eye sent a glance to his mother that satisfied her she was right in her estimate of his acuteness.
“That’s an aunt worth having, isn’t it?...” said old Peters, standing up, and taking his favourite station on the hearth-rug, with his back to the grate, though no fire was in it.... “Now I hope we shall have no airs and graces, because she comes from a remote part of the country, but that you will one and all do your best to make her see that you are worthy of her favour.”
“I will do all I can to shew myself a dutiful and observant nephew.... But don’t you think, sir, that ‘the lady doth protest too much?’”
“Oh! but she’ll keep her word,” ... replied his mother, laughing.
“Keep her word?... to be sure she will, poor lady! She is broken-hearted and broken-spirited, as it’s easy to see by her letter,” observed the worthy Mr. Peters; “and I do hope, wife, that you will be very kind to her.”
“And where shall I tell her to drive, Mr. Peters?”
“To the York hotel, my dear, I should think.”
“Do you know that I rather fancy she expects we should ask her to come here?”
“No!... Well, that did not strike me. Let me see the letter again.... But it’s no matter; whether she does or does not it may be quite as well to do it; ... and she says she likes to save her money, poor thing.”
The father and son then set off to walk to Bristol, and Mrs. Peters and her three daughters were left to sit in judgment on the letter, and then to answer it.
“I see what you think, mamma,” said the eldest girl, as the door closed after them; “you have no faith in this widowed aunt’s lachrymals?”
“Not so much, Mary, as I might have, perhaps, if she said less about her sorrows.”
“And her generous intentions in our favour, mamma,” ... said the youngest, “perhaps you have no faith in them either.”
“Not so much, Lucy,” said the lady, repeating her words, “as I might have, perhaps, if she said less about it.”
“I hope you are deceived, all of you,” said Elizabeth, the second girl, very solemnly; “and I must say I think it is very shocking to put such dreadful constructions upon the conduct of a person you know so little about.”
“I am sure I put no constructions,” replied Mary, “I only ventured to guess at mamma’s.”
“And I beg to declare that my sins against this generous new relative have gone no farther,” said Lucy.
“Well, well, we shall see, girls,” said the lively mother. “Let us all start fair for the loaves and fishes; ... and now, Elizabeth, ring the bell, let the breakfast be removed, and you will see that I shall reply in a very sober and proper way to this pathetic communication.”
The letter Mrs. Peters composed and read to her daughters, was approved even by the sober-minded and conscientious Elizabeth; it contained an obliging offer of accommodation at their house in Rodney Place, till Mrs. Barnaby should have found lodgings to suit her, and ended with kind regards from all the family, and “I beg you to believe me your affectionate sister, Margaret Peters.”
So far, everything prospered with our widow. This invitation was exactly what she wished, and having answered, accepted, and fixed the day and probable hour at which it was to begin, Mrs. Barnaby once more enjoyed the delight of preparing herself for a journey that was to lead her another step towards the goal she had in view.
CHAPTER XV.
THE ENTRÉE OF MRS. BARNABY IN MRS. PETERS’S DRAWING-ROOM. — FAMILY CONSULTATIONS. — ARRANGEMENTS FOR MISS WILLOUGHBY’S DRESS FOR SOME TIME TO COME.
In one respect Mrs. Barnaby was considerably more fortunate than she had ventured to hope, for the “clothier,” and the clothier’s family, held a much higher station in society than she had anticipated. Mr. Peters had for many years been an active and prosperous manufacturer, neither above his business, nor below enjoying the ample fortune acquired by it; his wife was a lively, agreeable, lady-like woman, formed to be well received by any society that the chances of commerce might have thrown her into, being sufficiently well educated and sufficiently gifted to do credit to the highest, and without any pretensions which might have caused her either to give or receive pain, had the chances been against her, and she had become the wife of a poor instead of a rich manufacturer. The eldest son, who was excellently well calculated to follow the steps of his lucky father, was already married and settled at Frome, with a share of the business of which he was now the most efficient support; the younger son, who was intended for the church, was at present at home for a few months previous to his commencing term-keeping at Oxford; and the three daughters, from appearance, education, and manners, were perfectly well qualified to fill the situation of first-rate belles in the Clifton ball-room. Their house and its furniture, their carriage and establishment, were all equally beyond the widow’s expectations, so that, in short, a very agreeable surprise awaited her arrival at Clifton.
It was a lovely evening of the last week in June, that a Bristol hackney-coach deposited Mrs. Barnaby, her niece, her Jerningham, and her trunks, at No. 4, Rodney Place. The ladies of the Peters family had just left the dinner-table, and were awaiting their relative in the drawing-room. Let it not be supposed that the interesting widow made her entrée among them in the dress she had indulged in during her residence at Exeter; she was not so thoughtless; and so well had poor Agnes already learned to know her, that she felt little surprise when she saw her, the day before they left that city, draw forth every melancholy article that she had discarded, and heard her say, —
“My life passes, Agnes, in a constant watchfulness of the feelings of others.... It was for your sake, dear girl, that I so early put off this sad attire, and the fear of wounding the feelings of my dear sister-in-law now induces me to resume it, for a few days at least, that she may feel I come to find my first consolation from her!”
So the next morning Mrs. Barnaby stepped into the stage-coach that was to convey her to Bristol with her lilacs, her greys, and her pink whites, all carefully shrouded from sight in band-boxes, and herself a perfect model of conjugal woe.
“Shew me to my sister!” said the widow, as soon as she had counted all her own packages, and with a cambric handkerchief, without an atom of embroidery, in her hand, her voice ready to falter, her knees to tremble, and her tears to flow, she followed the servant up stairs.
Mrs. Peters came very decorously forward to meet her, but she was, perhaps, hardly prepared for the very long embrace in which her unknown sister held her. Mrs. Peters was a very little woman, and was almost lost to sight in the arms and the draperies of the widow; but when at last she was permitted to emerge, Agnes was cheered and greatly comforted by the pleasing reception she gave her; while the young ladies in their turn (with the exception of the grave and reasonable Elizabeth, perhaps,) submitted rather impatiently to the lingering and sobbing embraces of their new aunt, as they had by no means gazed their fill on the lovely creature she brought with her.
Though there was certainly no reason in the world why the niece of Mrs. Barnaby should not be beautiful, both Mrs. Peters and her daughters gazed on her with something like astonishment. It seemed as if it were strange that they had not heard before of what was so very much out of the common way; and so great was the effect her appearance produced, and so engrossing the attention she drew, that Mrs. Barnaby passed almost uncriticised; and when the ladies of the family met afterwards, a female committee, in Mrs. Peters’s dressing-room, and asked each other what they thought of their new relation, no one seemed prepared to say more of her than ... “Oh!... she has been handsome, certainly ... only she rouges, and is a great deal too tall; .... But, did you ever see so beautiful, so elegant a creature, as her niece?” Such, with a few variations, according to the temper of the speaker, was the judgment of all.
Before this judgment was passed upon the new arrivals in the dressing-room, the aunt and niece had also undergone the scrutiny of both father and son, who had joined them at the tea-table.
They, too, had held their secret committee, and freely enough exchanged opinions on the subject.
“Upon my word, James, she is an extremely fine woman, and I really never saw any person conduct herself better upon such an occasion. All strangers, you know, and she, poor soul!... with her heart breaking to think what she has lost!... I really cannot but admire her, and I flatter myself we shall all find means to make her like us too. I hope you agree with me, James, in my notions about her!”
“Oh! dear, yes.... I am sure I do ... a very excellent person — indeed, I have no doubt of it.... But did you ever, sir, see such a creature as her niece? She seemed to me something more like a vision — an emanation — than a reality.”
“A what, James?”
“I beg your pardon, my dear sir, but I believe I have lost my senses already. Don’t you think, father, I had better set off for Oxford to-morrow morning?”
“Good gracious! no, James.... Why should you go away just as your aunt Barnaby is come, and she having such kind intentions towards you all?”
“Very well, sir,” replied the gay-hearted youth; “if such be your pleasure, I will brave the danger, and trust to Providence.... But, good night, father!... I must say one word to my sisters before they go to bed”.... And the privileged intruder entered his mother’s dressing-room while the party were still discussing the merits of the new-comers.
“Oh! here comes James,” exclaimed Lucy, making room for him on the sofa where she was seated. “That’s delightful! Come, mamma, sit down again ... let us hear what this accomplished squire of dames says of her.... Do you think now, James, that Kattie M’Gee is the prettiest girl you ever saw?”
“Prettiest? — why, yes, prettiest, as contra-distinguished from most beautiful, — perhaps I do,” replied the young man, with an ex-cathedra sort of air; ... “but if you mean to ask who I think the very loveliest creation ever permitted to consecrate the earth by setting her heaven-born feet upon it, I reply Miss Agnes Willoughby!”
“Bravo!... That will do,” replied Lucy. “I thought how it would fare with the puir Scottish lassie the moment I beheld this new divinity.”
“Poor James! I am really sorry for you this time,” said his mother, “for I cannot give you much hope of a cure from the process that has hitherto proved so successful.... I see no chance whatever of a “fairer she” coming to cauterize, by a new flame, the wound inflicted by this marvellous Miss Willoughby.”
“They jest at scars who never felt a wound!” exclaimed the young man fervently.... “Mary!... Elizabeth!... have you none of you a feeling of pity for me?... Oh! how I envy you all!... for you can gaze and bask in safety in the beams of this glorious brightness, while I, as my mother says, am doomed to be scorched incurably!”
“If you have any discretion, James, you will run away,” said his eldest sister.... “Her generous aunt, you know, has declared that she shall never have any of uncle Barnaby’s money; and if you stay you may depend upon it that, while you are making love to the niece, I shall be winning the heart of the aunt, and contrive by my amiable cajoleries to get your share and my own too of all she so nobly means to bestow upon us.”
“Nonsense, Mary!... Don’t believe her, James!...” cried the worthy matter-of-fact Elizabeth. “If you are really in love with her already, I think it would be a very good scheme indeed for you to marry her, because then Mrs. Barnaby could be doing her duty to you both at once.”
“Oh! it’s no mystery; ... but I did not know... I will read you the titles, if you please, aunt. Here are Shakspeare, Milton, Spencer, and Gray; ... these are all my English books.”
“And what are these?”
“Racine, Corneille, La Fontaine, and Boileau.”
“What useless trash!.... And these?”
“Dante, Tasso, and Petrarch; ... and these six larger volumes are the ‘componimenti lirici’ of various authors.”
“Oh goodness, child!... don’t jabber your stupid school jargon to me.... There!... take them all away again; I can’t very well see how they are to help you make a governess of yourself: grammars, I should think, and dictionaries, would be more to the purpose for that sort of profitable usefulness.”
“And I have got them too, aunt, in my clothes trunk; and if you will but be pleased to let me give my time to it, I am quite sure that I shall get on very well.”
“Get on!... get on to what, child?”
“To reading both French and Italian with facility, ... and perhaps to writing both with tolerable correctness.”
“Well, ... if it will enable you to get your bread one of these days, I am sure that I don’t wish to hinder it, — so go to work as soon as you will, — only pray don’t let me hear any more about it, for I quite hate the sort of thing, — though of course, my dear, if I was in your situation, I should know it was my duty to think differently. But those whom Providence has blessed with wealth, have a right to indulge their taste, ... and my taste is altogether that of a lady.”
From this time the aching void in the heart, and almost in the intellect of Agnes, seemed supplied. Her aunt, when she did not want her as a walking companion, suffered her to go on reading and scribbling to her heart’s content, and the more readily, perhaps, from its giving her the air of being still a child learning lessons, which was exactly the footing on which she wished to keep her, if possible, for another year or two, as she was by no means insensible to the inconvenience of having a grown-up niece, while still in the pride of beauty herself.
In this manner the period allotted for their stay at Exeter wore away; Mrs. Barnaby’s wardrobe, embroidery, and all, was quite ready for display; Betty Jacks, alias Jerningham, had learned to look exceedingly like a disreputable young woman, to run of errands, and to iron out tumbled dresses; the bright sun of June had succeeded the lovely temperature of a Devonshire spring, and everything seemed to invite the adventurous widow to a wider field of display. But before she made this onward movement from which she hoped so much, it was necessary to apprize her sister-in-law, Mrs. Peters, of her affectionate intention of passing a few months at Clifton, in order to become acquainted with her and her family. The letter by which this intention was announced, is too characteristic of my heroine to be omitted.
“My dearest Sister,
“Under the dreadful calamity that has fallen upon me, no idea has suggested the slightest glimpse of comfort to my widowed heart but the hope of becoming acquainted with my lost Barnaby’s sister! Beloved Margaret!... So let me call you, for so have I been used to hear you called by HIM!... Beloved Margaret! Let me hope that from you, and your charming family, I shall find the sympathy and affection I so greatly need.
“Your admirable brother ... my lost but never-to-be-forgotten husband ... was as successful as he deserved to be in the profession of which he was the highest ornament, and left an ample fortune, — the whole of which, as you know, he bequeathed to me with a confidence and liberality well befitting the perfect, the matchless love, which united us. But, alas! my sister, Providence denied us a pledge of this tender love, and where then can I so naturally look for the ultimate possessors of his noble fortune as amongst your family? I have one young niece, still almost a child, whom I shall bring with me to Clifton. But though I am passionately attached to her, my sense of justice is too strong to permit my ever suffering her claims to interfere with those more justly founded. When we become better acquainted, my dearest Margaret, you will find that this sense of what is right is the rule and guide of all my actions, and I trust you will feel it to be a proof of this, that my style and manner of living are greatly within my means. In fact, I never cease to remember, dear sister, that, though the widow of my poor Barnaby, I am the daughter of the well-born but most unfortunate clergyman of Silverton, who was obliged to sell his long-descended estate in consequence of the treachery of a friend who ruined him. Thus, while the high blood which flows in my veins teaches me to do what is honourable, the unexpected poverty which fell upon my own family, makes me feel that there is more real dignity in living with economy, than in spending what my confiding husband left at my disposal, and thus putting it out of my power to increase it for the benefit of his natural heirs.
“This will, I hope, explain to you satisfactorily my not travelling with my own carriage, and my having no other retinue than one lady’s-maid. Alas!... it is not in pomp or parade that a truly widowed heart can find consolation!
“Let me hear from you, my dear sister, and have the kindness to tell me where you think I had better drive, on arriving at Clifton. With most affectionate love to Mr. Peters, and the blessing of a fond aunt to all your dear children, I remain, dearest Margaret,
“Your ever devoted sister,
“Martha Barnaby.”
This letter was received by Mrs. Peters at the breakfast-table, round which were assembled three daughters, one son, and her husband. The lady read it through in silence, cast her eyes rapidly over it a second time, and then handed it over to her spouse with an air of some solemnity, though something very like a smile passed across her features at the same moment.
Mr. Peters also read the letter, but not like his lady, in silence.
“Very kind of her indeed!... Poor dear lady!... a true mourner, that’s plain enough to be seen.... She must be an excellent good woman, my dear, this widow of poor Barnaby; and I’m heartily glad she is coming among us. Your aunt Barnaby’s coming, girls, and I hope you’ll all behave so as to make her love you.... Is there any objection, Margaret, to the children’s seeing this letter?”
“None at all,” replied the lady ... “excepting....”
“Excepting what, my dear?... I am sure it is a letter that would do her honour anywhere, and I should be proud to read it on the exchange.... What do you mean by excepting?”
“It is no matter.... The girls and I can talk about it afterwards, ... and James, I think, will understand it very clearly at once.”
“Understand it?... to be sure he will.... I never read a better letter, or one more easily understood, in my life. — Here, James, read it aloud to your sisters.”
The young man obeyed, and read it very demurely to the end, though, more than once, his laughing blue eye sent a glance to his mother that satisfied her she was right in her estimate of his acuteness.
“That’s an aunt worth having, isn’t it?...” said old Peters, standing up, and taking his favourite station on the hearth-rug, with his back to the grate, though no fire was in it.... “Now I hope we shall have no airs and graces, because she comes from a remote part of the country, but that you will one and all do your best to make her see that you are worthy of her favour.”
“I will do all I can to shew myself a dutiful and observant nephew.... But don’t you think, sir, that ‘the lady doth protest too much?’”
“Oh! but she’ll keep her word,” ... replied his mother, laughing.
“Keep her word?... to be sure she will, poor lady! She is broken-hearted and broken-spirited, as it’s easy to see by her letter,” observed the worthy Mr. Peters; “and I do hope, wife, that you will be very kind to her.”
“And where shall I tell her to drive, Mr. Peters?”
“To the York hotel, my dear, I should think.”
“Do you know that I rather fancy she expects we should ask her to come here?”
“No!... Well, that did not strike me. Let me see the letter again.... But it’s no matter; whether she does or does not it may be quite as well to do it; ... and she says she likes to save her money, poor thing.”
The father and son then set off to walk to Bristol, and Mrs. Peters and her three daughters were left to sit in judgment on the letter, and then to answer it.
“I see what you think, mamma,” said the eldest girl, as the door closed after them; “you have no faith in this widowed aunt’s lachrymals?”
“Not so much, Mary, as I might have, perhaps, if she said less about her sorrows.”
“And her generous intentions in our favour, mamma,” ... said the youngest, “perhaps you have no faith in them either.”
“Not so much, Lucy,” said the lady, repeating her words, “as I might have, perhaps, if she said less about it.”
“I hope you are deceived, all of you,” said Elizabeth, the second girl, very solemnly; “and I must say I think it is very shocking to put such dreadful constructions upon the conduct of a person you know so little about.”
“I am sure I put no constructions,” replied Mary, “I only ventured to guess at mamma’s.”
“And I beg to declare that my sins against this generous new relative have gone no farther,” said Lucy.
“Well, well, we shall see, girls,” said the lively mother. “Let us all start fair for the loaves and fishes; ... and now, Elizabeth, ring the bell, let the breakfast be removed, and you will see that I shall reply in a very sober and proper way to this pathetic communication.”
The letter Mrs. Peters composed and read to her daughters, was approved even by the sober-minded and conscientious Elizabeth; it contained an obliging offer of accommodation at their house in Rodney Place, till Mrs. Barnaby should have found lodgings to suit her, and ended with kind regards from all the family, and “I beg you to believe me your affectionate sister, Margaret Peters.”
So far, everything prospered with our widow. This invitation was exactly what she wished, and having answered, accepted, and fixed the day and probable hour at which it was to begin, Mrs. Barnaby once more enjoyed the delight of preparing herself for a journey that was to lead her another step towards the goal she had in view.
CHAPTER XV.
THE ENTRÉE OF MRS. BARNABY IN MRS. PETERS’S DRAWING-ROOM. — FAMILY CONSULTATIONS. — ARRANGEMENTS FOR MISS WILLOUGHBY’S DRESS FOR SOME TIME TO COME.
In one respect Mrs. Barnaby was considerably more fortunate than she had ventured to hope, for the “clothier,” and the clothier’s family, held a much higher station in society than she had anticipated. Mr. Peters had for many years been an active and prosperous manufacturer, neither above his business, nor below enjoying the ample fortune acquired by it; his wife was a lively, agreeable, lady-like woman, formed to be well received by any society that the chances of commerce might have thrown her into, being sufficiently well educated and sufficiently gifted to do credit to the highest, and without any pretensions which might have caused her either to give or receive pain, had the chances been against her, and she had become the wife of a poor instead of a rich manufacturer. The eldest son, who was excellently well calculated to follow the steps of his lucky father, was already married and settled at Frome, with a share of the business of which he was now the most efficient support; the younger son, who was intended for the church, was at present at home for a few months previous to his commencing term-keeping at Oxford; and the three daughters, from appearance, education, and manners, were perfectly well qualified to fill the situation of first-rate belles in the Clifton ball-room. Their house and its furniture, their carriage and establishment, were all equally beyond the widow’s expectations, so that, in short, a very agreeable surprise awaited her arrival at Clifton.
It was a lovely evening of the last week in June, that a Bristol hackney-coach deposited Mrs. Barnaby, her niece, her Jerningham, and her trunks, at No. 4, Rodney Place. The ladies of the Peters family had just left the dinner-table, and were awaiting their relative in the drawing-room. Let it not be supposed that the interesting widow made her entrée among them in the dress she had indulged in during her residence at Exeter; she was not so thoughtless; and so well had poor Agnes already learned to know her, that she felt little surprise when she saw her, the day before they left that city, draw forth every melancholy article that she had discarded, and heard her say, —
“My life passes, Agnes, in a constant watchfulness of the feelings of others.... It was for your sake, dear girl, that I so early put off this sad attire, and the fear of wounding the feelings of my dear sister-in-law now induces me to resume it, for a few days at least, that she may feel I come to find my first consolation from her!”
So the next morning Mrs. Barnaby stepped into the stage-coach that was to convey her to Bristol with her lilacs, her greys, and her pink whites, all carefully shrouded from sight in band-boxes, and herself a perfect model of conjugal woe.
“Shew me to my sister!” said the widow, as soon as she had counted all her own packages, and with a cambric handkerchief, without an atom of embroidery, in her hand, her voice ready to falter, her knees to tremble, and her tears to flow, she followed the servant up stairs.
Mrs. Peters came very decorously forward to meet her, but she was, perhaps, hardly prepared for the very long embrace in which her unknown sister held her. Mrs. Peters was a very little woman, and was almost lost to sight in the arms and the draperies of the widow; but when at last she was permitted to emerge, Agnes was cheered and greatly comforted by the pleasing reception she gave her; while the young ladies in their turn (with the exception of the grave and reasonable Elizabeth, perhaps,) submitted rather impatiently to the lingering and sobbing embraces of their new aunt, as they had by no means gazed their fill on the lovely creature she brought with her.
Though there was certainly no reason in the world why the niece of Mrs. Barnaby should not be beautiful, both Mrs. Peters and her daughters gazed on her with something like astonishment. It seemed as if it were strange that they had not heard before of what was so very much out of the common way; and so great was the effect her appearance produced, and so engrossing the attention she drew, that Mrs. Barnaby passed almost uncriticised; and when the ladies of the family met afterwards, a female committee, in Mrs. Peters’s dressing-room, and asked each other what they thought of their new relation, no one seemed prepared to say more of her than ... “Oh!... she has been handsome, certainly ... only she rouges, and is a great deal too tall; .... But, did you ever see so beautiful, so elegant a creature, as her niece?” Such, with a few variations, according to the temper of the speaker, was the judgment of all.
Before this judgment was passed upon the new arrivals in the dressing-room, the aunt and niece had also undergone the scrutiny of both father and son, who had joined them at the tea-table.
They, too, had held their secret committee, and freely enough exchanged opinions on the subject.
“Upon my word, James, she is an extremely fine woman, and I really never saw any person conduct herself better upon such an occasion. All strangers, you know, and she, poor soul!... with her heart breaking to think what she has lost!... I really cannot but admire her, and I flatter myself we shall all find means to make her like us too. I hope you agree with me, James, in my notions about her!”
“Oh! dear, yes.... I am sure I do ... a very excellent person — indeed, I have no doubt of it.... But did you ever, sir, see such a creature as her niece? She seemed to me something more like a vision — an emanation — than a reality.”
“A what, James?”
“I beg your pardon, my dear sir, but I believe I have lost my senses already. Don’t you think, father, I had better set off for Oxford to-morrow morning?”
“Good gracious! no, James.... Why should you go away just as your aunt Barnaby is come, and she having such kind intentions towards you all?”
“Very well, sir,” replied the gay-hearted youth; “if such be your pleasure, I will brave the danger, and trust to Providence.... But, good night, father!... I must say one word to my sisters before they go to bed”.... And the privileged intruder entered his mother’s dressing-room while the party were still discussing the merits of the new-comers.
“Oh! here comes James,” exclaimed Lucy, making room for him on the sofa where she was seated. “That’s delightful! Come, mamma, sit down again ... let us hear what this accomplished squire of dames says of her.... Do you think now, James, that Kattie M’Gee is the prettiest girl you ever saw?”
“Prettiest? — why, yes, prettiest, as contra-distinguished from most beautiful, — perhaps I do,” replied the young man, with an ex-cathedra sort of air; ... “but if you mean to ask who I think the very loveliest creation ever permitted to consecrate the earth by setting her heaven-born feet upon it, I reply Miss Agnes Willoughby!”
“Bravo!... That will do,” replied Lucy. “I thought how it would fare with the puir Scottish lassie the moment I beheld this new divinity.”
“Poor James! I am really sorry for you this time,” said his mother, “for I cannot give you much hope of a cure from the process that has hitherto proved so successful.... I see no chance whatever of a “fairer she” coming to cauterize, by a new flame, the wound inflicted by this marvellous Miss Willoughby.”
“They jest at scars who never felt a wound!” exclaimed the young man fervently.... “Mary!... Elizabeth!... have you none of you a feeling of pity for me?... Oh! how I envy you all!... for you can gaze and bask in safety in the beams of this glorious brightness, while I, as my mother says, am doomed to be scorched incurably!”
“If you have any discretion, James, you will run away,” said his eldest sister.... “Her generous aunt, you know, has declared that she shall never have any of uncle Barnaby’s money; and if you stay you may depend upon it that, while you are making love to the niece, I shall be winning the heart of the aunt, and contrive by my amiable cajoleries to get your share and my own too of all she so nobly means to bestow upon us.”
“Nonsense, Mary!... Don’t believe her, James!...” cried the worthy matter-of-fact Elizabeth. “If you are really in love with her already, I think it would be a very good scheme indeed for you to marry her, because then Mrs. Barnaby could be doing her duty to you both at once.”
