A WEDDING, AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.--A TRANSFER OF PROPERTY.--MISS MARTHA
RECEIVES A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE.--ANOTHER EXPEDITION TO COMPTON BASETT.
The regimental gala which had been looked forward to with so much
interest, though very gay and very agreeable, did not perhaps produce
all the results expected by the soft hearts and bright eyes of
Silverton, for only one wedding was achieved in consequence of it. This
one made a very hasty and imprudent bride of Sophia Compton. Her
charming voice, joined to her pretty person, was too enchanting for the
enthusiastic Lieutenant Willoughby to leave behind him; and just as the
full moon rose upon the tents of the revellers, he drew her gently into
the deep shadow of that appropriated to the sutlers, and there swore a
very solemn oath that it was quite impossible he should continue to
exist, if she refused to elope with him that evening.
Upon the whole, Miss Sophia was by no means sorry to hear this, but
could not help expressing a modest wish that he would be so obliging as
to change the plan of operations, and instead of eloping with her, would
just speak to papa, and so be married in a proper way.
For a considerable time, longer indeed than it was possible to remain in
the shadow of the sutler's tent, the young gentleman declared this to be
impossible; because, in that case, his own relations must be informed of
the affair, and he knew perfectly well that if this happened, effectual
measures would be taken to prevent his ever possessing his adorable
Sophia at all. These arguments were repeated, and dwelt upon with very
convincing energy, for the space of one whole quadrille, during which
the tender pair sat ensconced behind a fanciful erection, on the front
of which was traced, in letters formed of laurel leaves, the words, "TO
THE LADIES." Nor was his pretty listener insensible to their force, or
the probable truth of the "_misery_" they predicted; it was, therefore,
all things considered, much to the credit of Miss Sophy that she
persevered in her refusal of accepting him on the terms he offered.
Lieutenant Willoughby was by no means a wicked young man, but it was his
nature to covet particularly whatever it was least convenient to obtain;
and it was, I believe, of him that a youthful anecdote has been recorded
which sets this disposition in a striking point of view. Upon occasion
of some dainty, but pernicious delicacy, being forbidden, or some frolic
tending too strongly to mischief being stopped, he is said to have
exclaimed, "It is a very, _very_ shocking thing, mamma, that everything
that is nice is called wrong, and everything that is nasty is called
right." This was said when he was seven years old, but at twenty-two he
was very nearly of the same unfortunate opinion, and invariably valued
everything in proportion to the conviction he felt that he should be
opposed in his pursuit of it.
When, therefore, Miss Sophia persisted in her declaration that she would
not run away with him, Lieutenant Willoughby became perfectly desperate
in his determination to obtain her; and having a sort of natural
instinct which convinced him that no proposal of marriage would be
ill-received by Mrs. Compton, he wrung the hand of his Sophy, implored
her not to dance with anybody else, and then having sought and found her
mother amidst the group of matrons who sat apart admiring their
respective daughters, he drew her aside, and told his tale of love.
This, as he expected, was by no means unkindly received; and when Mrs.
Compton, having recovered from her first ecstasy, began to hint at
income and settlement, the impassioned young gentleman contrived to
puzzle her so completely, by stating the certainty of his being
disinherited if his marriage were immediately known, and the handsome
fortune it was possible he might have if it were kept profoundly secret,
that he sent her home as vehemently determined to let him marry her
daughter, without saying a word to his family about the matter, as he
could possibly have desired.
The result of this may be easily divined. Nothing approved by Mrs.
Compton was ever effectually opposed by Mr. Compton; so Miss Sophia was
married to Lieutenant Willoughby within ten days of the regimental ball,
and within one year afterwards a female infant, called Agnes Willoughby,
was placed in the care of the Curate of Silverton and his wife; her
young mother being dead, and her broken-spirited father about to set off
for the West Indies, having found his father implacable, his
well-married sisters indignant, and nothing left him whereon to found a
hope of escape from his difficulties except thus giving up his little
girl to her grandfather, and exchanging his commission in the gay ----
regiment for one in a corps about to embark for a service very likely to
settle all his embarrassments by consigning him to an early tomb.
Meanwhile the Curate of Silverton was becoming every day more involved
in debt; and his dashing eldest daughter, though handsomer than ever,
painfully conscious that among all the successive legions of lovers
whose conspicuous adorations had made her the most envied of her sex,
there was not one who offered any rational probability of becoming her
husband.
The first of these misfortunes was the most embarrassing, and so
imperiously demanded a remedy, that the poor Curate at length consented
to find it in the sale of his moiety of his paternal acres. It is
certain that his nightly potations of hot toddy had very considerably
impaired his powers of caring for anything; nevertheless, it was not
without a pang that he permitted his wife to insert an advertisement in
the county paper, proclaiming the sale by auction of certain crofts and
meadows, barns and byres, making part and parcel of a capital
dairy-farm, known by the name of Compton Basett.
When the day of sale arrived, several competitors appeared who bid
pretty briskly for the lot; for the land, particularly thirty acres of
it, known by the name of "the butcher's close," was some of the best in
the county; but the successful candidate, who, it was pretty evident
from the first, was determined that it should be knocked down to no one
else, was farmer Wright, Miss Betsy's prosperous and well-deserving
tenant. This, though the purchase was a large one for a mere farmer,
(amounting to six thousand five hundred and twenty-five pounds,) did not
greatly surprise the neighbourhood, for the Wrights were known to be a
prudent, thrifty, and industrious race. It is possible they might have
been more surprised had they known that it was Miss Betsy herself, and
not her tenant, who was the purchaser. But so it was. The twenty-five
years which had elapsed since the death of her father had enabled this
careful little lady to accumulate, by means of her rent, her five
hundred pounds and its compound interest, and the profits of her
well-managed apiary, a much larger sum than it required to become the
possessor of her brother's share of Compton Basett; and when she had
finished the affair, and leased out the whole property (the butcher's
close included) to her friend and tenant farmer Wright, for the annual
rent of six hundred pounds (now including two chickens per week for her
own use), she still remained possessed of four thousand pounds sterling,
safely lodged in the funds; a property which went on very rapidly
increasing, as her scale of expense never varied, and rarely exceeded
ten pounds per annum beyond the profits of her bees, and her stipulated
accommodation from the farm. But, in spite of this strict economy, Miss
Betsy was no bad neighbour to the poor, and in a small and very quiet
way did more towards keeping dirt and cold out of their dwellings, than
many who spent three times as much upon them, and made ten times as much
fuss about it.
It was not, however, till many years later, that the fact of her being
the possessor of the whole of the Compton Basett estate, became known to
any one but farmer Wright; and as to the amount of her half-yearly
increasing property in the funds, she had no confidant but her broker.
This mystery, this profound secrecy, in the silent rolling up of her
wealth, was perhaps the principal source of her enjoyment from it. It
amused her infinitely to observe, that while the bad management and
improvidence of her brother and his wife were the theme of eternal
gossipings, her own thrift seemed permitted to go quietly on, without
eliciting any observation at all. Her judicious and regularly
administered little charities, assisted in producing this desired
effect, much more than she had the least idea of; for the praises of
Miss Betsy's goodness and kindness proceeded from many who had profited
more from her judgment, and her well-timed friendly loans, than from her
donations; and the gratitude for such services was much more freely and
generally expressed, than if the favours conferred had been merely those
of ordinary alms-giving. It was therefore very generally reported in
Silverton that Miss Betsy Compton gave away all her income in charity,
which was the reason why she never did anything to help her embarrassed
relations. These erroneous reports were productive of at least one
advantage to the family of the Curate of Silverton, for it effectually
prevented their having any expectations from her beyond a vague and
uncertain hope, that if she did not bequeath her farm-house and acres to
a hospital, the property might be left to them. But not even the
croaking ill-will of Mrs. Compton could now anticipate a very early date
for this possible bequest; for, pale and delicate-looking as she ever
continued, nobody had ever heard of Miss Betsy's having a doctor's bill
to pay; and as she was just seven years younger than her brother the
Curate, who, moreover, was thought to be dropsical, there appeared
wofully little chance that her death would ever benefit her disappointed
sister-in-law at all. A very considerable portion of the purchase-money
of the estate had dwindled away ... the little Agnes Willoughby had
attained the age of eleven years, and Mr. Compton had become so ill as
to have been forced to resign his curacy, when Mr. Barnaby, the
celebrated surgeon and apothecary of Silverton, who for the last ten
years had admired Miss Martha Compton more than any lady he had ever
looked upon, suddenly took courage, and asked her point-blank to become
his wife.
Had he done this some few years before, his fate would have been told in
the brief monosyllable no, uttered probably with as much indignation as
any sound compounded of two letters could express; but since that time
the fair Martha had seen so many colonels, majors, captains, ... ay, and
lieutenants too, march into the town, and then march out again, without
whispering anything more profitable in her ear than an assurance of her
being an angel, that the case was greatly altered; and after the
meditation of a moment, she answered very modestly, ... "You must speak
to my mother, Mr. Barnaby."
Perfectly satisfied by the reply, Mr. Barnaby did speak to her mother;
but the young lady took care to speak to her first, and after a long and
very confidential conversation, it was determined between them that the
offer of the gentleman should be accepted, that fifty pounds out of the
few remaining hundreds should be spent upon her wedding-garments, and
that whenever it pleased God to take poor Mr. Compton, his widow and
little grand-daughter should be received into Mr. Barnaby's family.
It has not been recorded with any degree of certainty, whether these
last arrangements were mentioned to the enamoured Galen, when the
important interview which decided the fate of Miss Martha took place;
but whether they were or not, the marriage ceremony followed with as
little delay as possible.
Two circumstances occurred previous to the ceremony which must be
mentioned, as being calculated to open the character of my heroine to
the reader. No sooner was this important affair decided upon, than Miss
Martha told her mamma, that it was her intention to walk over to Compton
Basett, and inform Miss Betsy of the news herself.
"And what do you expect to get by that, Martha?" said the old lady. "I
have not forgot yet _my_ walk to Compton Basett just before poor dear
Sophy's marriage, nor the trick the little monster played me, making me
bring home her vile hypocritical letter as carefully as if it had been
a bank-note for a hundred pounds.... You must go without me, if go you
will, for I have taken my last walk to Compton Basett, I promise you."
"I don't want you to trouble yourself about it in any way, mother,"
replied Miss Martha. "I'll make Agnes walk with me; and whether I get
anything out of the little porcupine or not, the walk can do us no great
harm."
"'Tis not so hot as when I went, that's certain," said Mrs. Compton,
becoming better reconciled to the expedition. "She has never seen Agnes
since the poor little thing was thought to be dying in the measles, just
five years ago; and then, you know, she did hire a nurse, and send in
oranges and jellies, and all that sort of trumpery; ... and who can say
but her heart may soften towards her again, when she sees what a sweet
pretty creature she is grown?"
"I can't say I have much faith in good looks doing much towards drawing
her purse-strings. She has seen poor Sophy and me often enough, and I
can't say that we ever found our beauty did us any good with her,
neither is it that upon which I reckon now. But telling her of a wedding
is not begging, you know, ... and I don't think it impossible but what
such a prudent, business-like wedding as mine, may be more to her taste
than poor Sophy's, where there was nothing but a few fine-sounding names
to look to ... and much good they did her, poor thing!"
"Well, set off, Martha, whenever you like. There is no need to make
little Agnes look smart, even if I had the means to do it, for it's
quite as well that she should be reminded of the wants of the poor child
by the desolate condition of her old straw-bonnet.... When do you think
you shall go?"
"This afternoon; I'm sure of not seeing Barnaby again till tea-time, for
he has got to go as far as Pemberton, so we may start as soon as dinner
is over."
Miss Martha Compton and her young companion set off accordingly about
three o'clock, and pursued their way, chiefly in silence, to Miss
Betsy's abode; for Agnes rarely spoke to her aunt, except when she was
spoken to, and Miss Martha was meditating profoundly the whole way upon
the probability of obtaining Mr. Barnaby's consent to the re-furnishing
his drawing-room. It was the month of April, the air deliciously sweet
and mild, and birds singing on every tree; so that although the leaves
were not yet fully out, they found Miss Betsy sitting as usual in her
bower, and enjoying as keenly the busy hum about her bee-hives, as ever
Miss Martha did the bustling animation produced by the murmurings of a
dozen red-coats.
Miss Betsy was at this time about fifty years of age, and though the
defect in her shape was certainly not lessened by age, she was
altogether an exceedingly nice-looking little old lady; and her cap was
as neat and becoming, and her complexion very nearly as delicate, as at
the time of Mrs. Compton's visit just twelve years before.
She fixed her eyes for a moment upon Martha as she approached the bower,
but appeared not to know her; the little girl following close behind,
was for a minute or two invisible; but the instant she caught sight of
her, she rose from her seat, and stepping quickly forward, took the
child by her hand, drew her in, and placed her on the bench by her side.
Little Agnes, who knew she was come to see her aunt, felt assured by
this notice that she was in her presence, and, moreover, that she was a
very kind person; so, when the old lady, after examining her features
very attentively, said, "You are little Agnes, are you not?" she replied
without hesitation or timidity, "Yes, I am; and you are good aunt Betsy,
that used to give me the oranges."
"Do you remember that, my child?... 'tis a long while, almost half your
little life. Take off your bonnet, Agnes, and let me see your face."
Agnes obeyed, the "desolate" straw-bonnet was laid aside, and Miss Betsy
gazed upon one of the fairest and most delicate little faces that the
soft beams of an April sun ever fell upon.
The pale recluse kept her keen eyes fixed upon the little girl for many
minutes without pronouncing a word; at length she said, but apparently
speaking only to herself,--
"It is just such a face as I wanted her to have.... Her father was a
gentleman.... She will never have red cheeks, that is quite certain."
"How d'ye do, aunt Betsy?..." said Miss Martha, in a very clear and
distinct voice; probably thinking that she had remained long enough in
the background.
"Very well, I thank you," was the reply; "and who are you?"
"Dear me, aunt, you must say that for fun, ... for it is hardly likely
you should know Agnes, that was almost a baby the last time you ever saw
her, and forget me, that was quite grown up at that same time."
"Oh!... then you are Miss Martha, the great beauty, are you? You look
very old indeed, Miss Martha, considering that you can't be very much
past thirty, and that I suppose is the reason I did not know you. How is
your poor father, Miss Martha?"
"He's very bad, aunt Betsy; but I hope the news I am come to tell you
will be a comfort to him, and please you too."
"And what news can that be, Miss Martha?"
"I am going to be married, aunt Betsy, to a person that is extremely
well off, and able to set me above all poverty and difficulties for
ever; ... and the only thing against it is, that papa cannot afford to
give me any money at all for my wedding clothes, which is a dreadful
disgrace to the name of Compton; and to tell you the truth at once, for
I am a frank, honest-hearted girl, that never hides anything, I am come
over here on purpose to ask you to give me a few pounds, just to prevent
my having to ask my husband for a shift."
"If you have no shift, Miss Martha, while you are wearing such a gay
bonnet as that, I think any man must be a great fool for taking you.
However, that is his affair, and not mine. I cannot afford to buy your
wedding-clothes, Miss Martha; nor do I intend ever to give you any money
at all for any purpose whatever, either now, or at any future period;
so, if you are wise, as well as frank, you will never ask me again. If
you marry a _gentleman_, and have children who shall behave according to
my notions of honour, honesty, and propriety, it is possible that the
little I may leave will be divided among them, and any others whom I may
think have an equal claim upon me. But I heartily hope you will have
none, for I feel certain I should not like them; and I would rather that
the poor little trifle I may have left when I die, should go to some one
I did like."
Miss Martha's heart swelled with rage, yet, remote as Miss Betsy's
contingent benefits were likely to be, they had still influence
sufficient to prevent her breaking out into open violence, and she sat
silent, though with burning cheeks and a beating heart. The address she
had just listened to was certainly not of the most agreeable style and
tone, but it may be some apology for Miss Betsy's severity to state,
that the scene which had taken place in Mr. Smith's shop rather more
than twelve years before, in which a certain Captain Tate took an
important, though unconscious, part, was accurately well-known to the
little spinster, Mrs. Wright (the wife of her tenant) having witnessed
the whole of it.
When she had finished her speech to Miss Martha, which was spoken in her
usual gay tone of voice, Miss Betsy turned again towards Agnes, who was
then standing at the entrance of the bower, earnestly watching the bees.
"They are pretty, curious creatures, are they not, Agnes?" said she. "I
hope some day or other you will be as active and industrious. Do you
love to work, my little girl?"
"I love to play better," replied Agnes.
"Ay ... that's because you are such a young thing. And who are your
playfellows, Agnes?"
"I have not got any playfellows but myself," was the reply.
"And where do you play?"
"In grandpapa's garden, behind the house."
"And what do you play at?"
"Oh! so many things. I play at making flower-beds in the summer, and at
snow-balls in the winter; and I know a blackbird, and ever so many
robin-redbreasts, and they know me, and I...."
"Do you know how to read, Agnes?"
"A little," ... replied the child, blushing deeply.
"Come here, then, and read a page of my book to me."
Poor Agnes obeyed the summons, and submissively placing herself by the
side of her aunt, took the book in her hands and began to read. But it
was so very lame and imperfect a performance, that Miss Betsy wanted
either the cruelty or the patience to let it proceed; and taking the
volume away, she said, in a graver tone than was usual with her, "Nobody
seems to have given themselves much trouble about teaching you, my
little girl; ... but I dare say you will read better by and bye.... Are
you hungry, Agnes?... do you wish for something to eat after your
walk?"
Delighted at being thus relieved from exposing her ignorance, the little
girl replied gaily--
"I am very hungry indeed, ma'am."
"Then sit here to rest for a few minutes, and I will see what I can get
for you;" and so saying, Miss Betsy rose, and walked briskly away
towards the house.
"Old brute!..." exclaimed Miss Martha, as soon as she was quite beyond
hearing.... "There's a hump for you!... Isn't she a beauty, Agnes?"
"A beauty, aunt Martha?... No, I don't think she is a beauty, though I
like the look of her face too; ... but she certainly is not a beauty,
for she is not the least bit like you, and you are a beauty, you know."
"And who told you that, child?"
"Oh! I have heard grandmamma and you talk about it very often.... and I
heard Mr. Barnaby say, when he came in yesterday, 'How are you, my
beauty?' ... and besides, I see you are a beauty myself."
"And pray, Agnes," replied her aunt, laughing with great good-humour,
"how do you know a beauty when you see one?"
"Why, don't I see every time I walk by Mr. Gibbs's shop, his beauties
in the window, with their rosy cheeks, and their black eyes, and their
quantity of fine ringlets? and you are exactly the very image of one of
Mr. Gibbs's beauties, aunt Martha."
Miss Martha remembered that there _was_ one very pretty face in the
window of the village perruquier, and doubted not that the little
Agnes's observation had reference to that one; it was therefore with one
of her most amiable smiles that she replied,--
"You little goose!... how can I be like a painted wax image?"
But the protestations and exclamations by which the simile might have
been proved good, were broken off by the approach of a maid-servant from
the house, who said that Miss Betsy was waiting for them.
They found the neat little lady in her pretty sitting-room, with a
lily-white cloth spread on a table near the open window, and a home-made
loaf, a little bowl of native cream, and a decanter of bright
spring-water, with a couple of tumblers near it.
Simple as this repast was, it was well relished by both the nieces,
though decidedly served in honour of only one. However, no positive
objection being made to Miss Martha's taking her share of it, she spared
neither the loaf nor the cream; and remembering her mother's account of
her penny repast, felt something like triumph as she ate, to think how
much more she had contrived to get out of her churlish relative.
But this was all she got ... excepting, indeed, that she felt some
consolation for her disappointment in having to tell her mother, on her
return, that if she had children, (and of course she should, as
everybody else had,) they were to have their share of all the old maid
might leave.
"Ugly old hypocrite!... it won't be much, take my word for it," replied
Mrs. Compton.... "She likes all the beggars in the parish a vast deal
better than she does her own flesh and blood.... Don't talk any more of
her, Martha.... I should be glad if I was never to hear her name
mentioned again!"