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THE WIDOW BARNABY.
BY FRANCES TROLLOPE,
AUTHOR OF "THE VICAR OF WREXHILL," "A ROMANCE OF VIENNA," ETC.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
1839.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY SAMUEL BENTLEY,
Dorset Street, Fleet Street.
THE WIDOW BARNABY.
CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCTION TO THE FAMILY OF THE FUTURE MRS. BARNABY.--FINANCIAL
DIFFICULTIES.--MATERNAL LOVE.--PREPARATIONS FOR A FETE.
Miss Martha Compton, and Miss Sophia Compton, were, some five-and-twenty
years ago, the leading beauties of the pretty town of Silverton in
Devonshire.
The elder of these ladies is the person I propose to present to my
readers as the heroine of my story; but, ere she is placed before them
in the station assigned her in my title-page, it will be necessary to
give some slight sketch of her early youth, and also such brief notice
of her family as may suffice to make the subsequent events of her life,
and the persons connected with them, more clearly understood.
The Reverend Josiah Compton, the father of my heroine and her sister,
was an exceedingly worthy man, though more distinguished for the
imperturbable tranquillity of his temper, than either for the brilliance
of his talents or the profundity of his learning. He was the son of a
small landed proprietor at no great distance from Silverton, who farmed
his own long-descended patrimony of three hundred acres with skilful and
unwearied industry, and whose chief ambition in life had been to see his
only son Josiah privileged to assume the prefix of _reverend_ before his
name. After three trials, and two failures, this blessing was at last
accorded, and his son ordained, by the help of a very good-natured
examining chaplain of the then Bishop of Exeter.
This rustic, laborious, and very happy Squire lived to see his son
installed Curate of Silverton, and blessed with the hand of the dashing
Miss Martha Wisett, who, if her pedigree was not of such respectable
antiquity as that of her bridegroom, had the glory of being accounted
the handsomest girl at the Silverton balls; and if her race could not
count themselves among the landed gentry, she enjoyed all the
consideration that a fortune of one thousand pounds could give, to atone
for any mortification which the accident of having a _ci-devant_
tallow-chandler for her parent might possibly occasion.
But, notwithstanding all the pride and pleasure which the Squire took in
the prosperity of this successful son, the old man could never be
prevailed upon by all Mrs. Josiah's admirable reasonings on the rights
of primogeniture, to do otherwise than divide his three hundred acres of
freehold in equal portions between the Reverend Josiah Compton his son,
and Elizabeth Compton, spinster, his daughter.
It is highly probable, that had this daughter been handsome, or even
healthy, the proud old yeoman might have been tempted to reduce her
portion to the charge of a couple of thousand pounds or so upon the
estate; but she was sickly, deformed, and motherless; and the tenderness
of the father's heart conquered the desire which might otherwise have
been strong within him, to keep together the fields which for so many
generations had given credit and independence to his race. To leave his
poor little Betsy in any degree dependent upon her fine sister-in-law,
was, in short, beyond his strength; so the home croft, and the long
fourteen, the three linny crofts, the five worthies, and the ten-acre
clover bit, together with the farm-house and all its plenishing, and one
half of the live and dead farming stock, were bequeathed to Elizabeth
Compton and her heirs for ever--not perhaps without some hope, on the
part of her good father, that her heirs would be those of her reverend
brother, also; and so he died, with as easy a conscience as ever rocked
a father to sleep.
But Mrs. Josiah Compton, when she became Mrs. Compton, with just one
half of the property she anticipated, waxed exceeding wroth; and though
her firm persuasion, that "the hideous little crook-back could not live
for ever," greatly tended to console and soothe her, it was not without
very constant reflections on the necessity of keeping on good terms with
her, lest she might make as "unnatural a will as her father did before
her," that she was enabled to resist the temptation of abusing her
openly every time they met; a temptation increased, perhaps, by the
consciousness that Miss Betsy held her and all her race in the most
sovereign contempt.
Betsy Compton was an odd little body, with some vigour of mind, and
frame too, notwithstanding her deformity; and as the defects in her
constitution shewed themselves more in her inability to endure fatigue,
than in any pain or positive suffering, she was likely to enjoy her
comfortable independence considerably longer, and considerably more,
than her sister thought it at all reasonable in Providence to permit.
The little lady arranged her affairs, and settled her future manner of
life, within a very few weeks after her father's death, and that without
consulting brother, sister, or any one else; yet it may be doubted if
she could have done it better had she called all the parish to counsel.
She first selected the two pleasantest rooms in the house for her
bed-room and sitting-room, and then skilfully marked out the warmest
and prettiest corner of the garden, overlooking some of her own rich
pastures, with the fine old grey tower of Silverton in the distance, as
the place of her bower, her flower-garden, and her little apiary. She
then let the remainder of her house, and the whole of her
well-conditioned dairy-farm, for three hundred pounds a-year, with as
much waiting upon as she might require, as much cream, butter, milk, and
eggs, as she should use, and as much fruit and vegetables as her tenants
could spare--together with half a day's labour every week for her tiny
flower-garden.
She had no difficulty in finding a tenant upon these terms; the son of a
wealthy farmer in the neighbourhood had a bride ready as soon as he
could find a farm-house to put her into, and a sufficient dairy upon
which to display her well-learned science. Miss Betsy's homestead was
the very thing for them. The bride's portion was five hundred pounds for
the purchase of the late Squire Compton's furniture and the half of his
fine stock of cows, &c. &c. the which was paid down in Bank of England
notes within ten minutes after the lease was signed, and being carefully
put into the funds by Miss Betsy, became, as she said to herself (but to
nobody else), a sort of nest egg, which, as she should only draw out the
interest to lay it in again in the shape of principal, would go on
increasing till she might happen to want it; so that, upon the whole,
the style and scale of her expenses being taken into consideration, it
would have been difficult to find any lady, of any rank, more really and
truly independent than Miss Betsy.
She felt this, and enjoyed it greatly. Now and then, indeed, as she
remembered her old father, and his thoughtful care for her, her sharp
black eyes would twinkle through a tear; but there was more softness
than sorrow in this; and a more contented, or, in truth, a more happy
spinster might have been sought in vain, far and near, notwithstanding
her humped back.
Far different was the case of those who inherited the other moiety of
the estate called Compton Basett. The reverend Josiah, indeed, was
himself too gentle and kind-hearted to feel anger against his father, or
a single particle of ill-will towards his sister; yet was he as far from
sharing her peace and contentment as his disappointed and vituperative
wife. How, indeed, can any man hope to find peace and contentment, even
though he has passed the rubicon of ordination, and has been happy
enough to marry the favourite flirt of ten successive regiments, if he
be never permitted to close his eyes in sleep till he has been scolded
for an hour, and never suffered to wake at any signal, save the larum of
his lady's tongue.
It was in vain that day and night he continued submissively to reiterate
the phrases, "to be sure, my dear," ... "certainly," ... "there is no
doubt of it," ... "he ought not to have done so, my love," ... "you are
quite right, my dear," ... and the like. All this, and a great deal
more, submission and kindness was in vain; Mrs. Compton's complainings
ceased not, and, what was harder still, she always contrived by some
ingenious mode of reasoning to prove that all the mischief which had
happened was wholly and solely her husband's fault.
Mean while the two little girls sent to bless this union of masculine
softness and feminine hardness, grew on and prospered, as far as animal
health went, just as much as if their father were not taking to smoking
and hot toddy as a consolation for all his sorrows, or their mother to a
system of visiting and gossiping, which left her no time, had she
possessed the talent, to do more for their advantage than take care that
they had enough to eat. They were very fine on Sundays, or whenever
their ma' expected company; and not too dirty at other times to pass
muster at the day-school, at which they were destined to receive all the
education which fate intended for them.
Miss Betsy, little as she admired her sister-in-law, and dearly as she
loved her sunny garden in summer and her snug chimney-corner in winter,
now and then left both to pass a few hours in Silverton; for she loved
her brother, despite the weakness of character which appeared to her
keen faculties to be something very nearly approaching fatuity; and
being as well aware as the prettiest young lady in the town could be,
that she was herself totally unfit to be married, she looked to his
children with the interest with which human beings are apt to consider
those who must become the possessors of all they leave behind.
For many years Miss Betsy looked forward with hope for one of two
greatly desired events. That most coveted was the death of her
sister-in-law; the other, and for many years the most probable, was the
birth of a male heir to her brother.
But time wore away, and both were abandoned. Had it been otherwise, had
Miss Betsy seen a male Compton ready to unite in his own person all the
acquired and inherited honours of his twaddling father, and all the
daily increasing hoard that she was herself accumulating, her temper of
mind would probably have been very different. As it was, she looked upon
the little girls as much more belonging to their mother than to their
father; and the steady thriftiness, which, had it been pursued for the
sake of a nephew, would have had some mixture of generous devotion in
it, now that its result could only benefit nieces, by no means very
dearly loved, seemed to threaten the danger of her becoming saving for
mere saving's sake.
There was, however, in the heart of Miss Betsy much to render such an
incrustation of character difficult; but there was also much to
displease her in those who alone could claim her kindness on the plea of
kindred; so that the most acute observer might have been at a loss to
say what tone her vexed temper might finally take towards them.
Nevertheless, the two young sisters, at the respective ages of fifteen
and seventeen, were as forward and handsome girls as ever drew the
attention of a country town. They were equally handsome, perhaps, though
very unlike. Martha was tall, dark-eyed, fresh-coloured, bold-spirited,
and believed in her heart that she was to be called "my lady," and to
drive in a coach and four. Sophia, the younger girl, was less tall and
less bright-coloured; her hair was light, and her eyes, though their
lashes were black, were of the softest grey. Her chief beauty, however,
consisted in a complexion of great delicacy, and a mouth and teeth that
could hardly be looked at without pleasure, even by cross Miss Betsy
herself.
Miss Martha Compton was a young lady endowed with a vast variety of
brilliant talents. She could dance every night, and very nearly all
night long, though she had only learned for six weeks; she could make
pasteboard card-boxes and screens, work satin-stitch, and (like most
other clever young ladies bred in a country town abounding with
officers) quote the oft profaned lyrics of Tom Moore.
The reputation of her sister for talents rested on a basis much less
extended; it would indeed have been a false concord to talk of her
talents, for she had but one in the world. Untaught, and unconscious of
the power nature had bestowed, she sang with the sweet shrillness of the
lark, and had science been set to work upon her for six months,
Silverton might have boasted one of the finest native voices in the
kingdom.
Mrs. Compton was proud of both her daughters, and however difficult it
might be to procure shoes and gloves out of an income of somewhat less
than four hundred pounds a-year, the winter balls of Silverton never
opened till the Miss Comptons were ready to stand up.
Had she been a little less brutally cross to her poor husband, Mrs.
Compton would really at this time have been almost interesting from the
persevering industry and ingenuity with which she converted the relics
of her own maiden finery into fashionable dancing-dresses for her girls.
And on the whole the Miss Comptons were astonishingly well-dressed; for,
besides the above-mentioned hoards, every article of the family
consumption was made to contribute to the elegance of their appearance.
Brown sugar was substituted for white at the morning and the evening
meal; the butcher's bills were kept down wonderfully by feeding the
family upon tripe twice a-week ... the home-brewed was lowered till the
saving in malt for one year bought two glazed calico slips, four pair
of long white gloves, and a bunch of carnations for Martha and of lilies
for Sophia. Nothing, in short, was over-looked or forgotten that could
be made to distil one drop of its value towards decorating the beauties
of Silverton.
Few subjects have furnished more various or more beautiful images for
the poet's pen than maternal fondness. From the heart-stirring fury of
the dauntless lioness when her young ones are threatened, down to the
patient hen red-breast as she sits abrood, lonely, fasting, and apart
from all the joys of birdhood, awaiting the coming life of her loved
nestlings ... in short, from one extremity of animal creation to the
other, volumes of tender anecdotes have been collected illustrative of
this charming feature of female nature; and yet much still remains to be
said of it. Where is the author who has devoted his power of looking
into the human heart, to the task of describing the restless activity,
the fond watchfulness, the unwearied industry of a proud, poor, tender
mother, when labouring to dress her daughters for a ball? Who has told
of the turnings, the dyings, the ironings, the darnings, that have gone
to make misses of ten pounds a-year pin-money look as smart as the
squanderer of five hundred? Yet such things are: the light of morning
never steals into the eyes of mortals to spur them on again to deeds of
greatness after nightly rest, without awaking many hundred mothers whose
principal business in life is to stitch, flounce, pucker, and embroider
for their daughters!... All this is very beautiful!... I speak not of
the stitching, flouncing, puckering, and embroidering ... but of the
devotion of the maternal hearts dedicated to it.... All this is very
beautiful!... yet never has gifted hand been found to bring forth in
delicate penciling, traits such as these with half the study that has
been often bestowed on the painting a cobweb. This is unjust.
Great, however, as were Mrs. Compton's exertions for the establishment
of her daughters by the ways and means above described, her maternal
efforts were not confined to these: for their sakes she on one occasion
armed herself for an enterprise which, notwithstanding the resolute tone
of her character, cost her some struggles. This desperate undertaking,
which was nothing less than the penetrating to the rarely-invaded
retreat of Miss Betsy, for the purpose of asking her to give the girls a
little money, was occasioned by a great event in the annals of
Silverton.
The officers of the ---- regiment, a detachment of which had been
quartered there for a twelvemonth, gallantly determined to give the
neighbouring families a fete before they left the town, in return for
the hospitalities they had received. I am writing of the year 1813, a
period when the palmy days of country quarters still existed, and many
may still remember the tender sensibilities excited by a departing
regiment, and the gay hopes generated by an arriving one. Either of
these events were well-calculated to chase the composure of spirits
arising from the unbroken routine of ordinary existence, and it may
easily be imagined that, upon an occasion where the effects of both
were brought to act upon the hearts and souls of a set of provincial
fair ones at the same moment, the emotions produced must have been of no
ordinary nature.
Such was the case at the fete given by the first battalion of the ----
regiment on their leaving Silverton; for, as it chanced that they were
to be replaced by the second battalion of the same corps, the compliment
intended for the neighbourhood was so arranged as to be shared by the
officers who were about to be introduced to it; and thus an immense mass
of joys and sorrows, regrets and hopes, tears and smiles, all came into
action at once; and volumes might be filled in the most interesting
manner, solely in describing the states of mind produced in the most
charming portion of the inhabitants of twenty-seven of the principal
houses of Silverton and its vicinity.
"It was so quite unlike any other party that ever was given," as Mrs.
Compton well observed, in talking over the matter with her daughters,
"that it was downright impossible not to make some difference in the way
of preparing for it."
"Different!... I believe it is different!" exclaimed Miss Martha; "it is
the first ball we ever showed ourselves at by daylight, and I should
like to know how we, that always lead everything, are to present
ourselves in broad sunshine with dyed pink muslin and tarnished silver?"
"You can't and you shan't," replied her affectionate mother, "if I sell
the silver spoons and buy plated ones instead.... I will _not_ have my
girls disgraced in the face of two regiments at once. But, upon my life,
girls, money is not to be had for the asking; for truth it is, and no
lie, that there is not above twenty pounds in the bank to last till
Michaelmas, and the butcher has not been paid these five months. But
don't look glum, Martha!... Shall I tell you what I have made up my mind
to do?"
"Carry a plate round the mess-room, mamma, when they are all assembled,
perhaps," replied the lively young lady, "and if you asked for aid for
the sake of our bright eyes, it is likely enough you might get
something; but if it is not that, what is it, mother?"
"Why, I will walk over to Compton Basett, Martha, and ask the
ram's-horn, your aunt, for five pounds outright, and tell her into the
bargain what it is for, and, stingy and skinflint as she is, I can't say
that I shall be much surprised if she gives it; for she is as proud as
she's ugly; and it won't be difficult to make her see, this time, that I
am asking more for credit's sake than for pleasure."
"Go, mother, by all means," replied the young lady with a sneer, that
seemed to indicate despair of any aid from Miss Betsy. "All I know is,
that she never gave me anything since I was born but a bible and
prayer-book, and it don't strike me as very likely she'll begin now. Set
off, however, by all manner of means, and if you come back empty-handed,
I'll tell you what my scheme shall be."
"Tell me now, Martha," said the mother. "It's no joke, I can tell you,
striding over the hill this broiling day. I don't want to go for
nothing, I promise you. Tell us your scheme, girl, at once."
"Why, if I was you, mother, I would go to Smith's shop, and tell him
confidentially that I wanted a little more credit, and that everything
would be sure to be settled at Christmas."
"That won't do, Martha Compton. Your father has given him a bill already
for thirty pounds, due in November, and it is a chance if it gets
honoured, I promise you. Smith knows too much about our money matters to
be caught napping."
"Well then, set off, mother! I'd offer to go with you, only I know that
Captain Tate will be sure to be walking on the Hatherton Road, and I
shouldn't wonder yet if he was to come out with a proposal."
"Oh! never mind me, child, I can go alone, and that's what you can't do,
my dear.... You must take Sophy with you, mind that, and don't get
talked of just as the new set are coming in."
"Nay, for that matter, Sophy will be as likely to meet Willoughby as I
shall be to meet Tate, so there is no fear I should have to go alone."
"Well!... take care of yourselves, and don't let the sun get to tan
your necks, mind that."
Having given these parting injunctions, Mrs. Compton set forth upon her
expedition, the result of which shall be given in the next chapter.