WEDDED HAPPINESS.--DEATH OF MRS. COMPTON.--THE EX-CURATE BROUGHT INTO A
PEACEFUL HARBOUR.--HE FALLS SICK, AND HIS SISTER AND GRANDCHILD ARE
SUMMONED.
The first five or six months of Mrs. Barnaby's married life were so
happy as not only to make her forget all her former disappointments, but
almost to persuade her that it was very nearly as good a thing to marry
a middle-aged country apothecary, with a good house and a good income,
as a beautiful young officer with neither.
Since her adventure with Mr. Smith, the draper, milliner, mercer, and
haberdasher of Silverton _par excellence_, Mrs. Barnaby's genius for
making bargains had been sadly damped; not but that she had in some
degree saved her credit with that important and much-provoked personage
by condescending to wear the willow before his eyes; she even went so
far as to say to him, with a twinkling of lids that passed for having
tears in her own,--
"No young lady was ever so used before, I believe.... I am sure, Mr.
Smith, you saw enough yourself to be certain that I was engaged to
Captain Tate,... yet the moment he found a girl with a little money he
sent back all my letters...!"
Perhaps Mr. Smith believed the lady ... perhaps he did not; but at any
rate he gave her no encouragement to recommence operations upon his
confiding nature; on the contrary, he ceased not to send in his little
account very constantly once every three months, steadfastly refusing to
give credit for any articles, however needful. After the sale of the
Compton Basett property the bill was paid, but no farther accommodation
in that quarter ever obtained; indeed the facility of selling out of the
funds a hundred pounds a time as it was wanted, superseded the necessity
of pressing for it, and in a little way Miss Martha and Mr. Smith had
continued to deal most amicably, but always with a certain degree of
mutual shyness.
How delightfully different was the case now!... Mrs. Barnaby had only to
send her maid or her man (boy) to the redundant storehouse of Mr. Smith,
and all that her heart best loved was sent for her inspection and
choice, without the slightest doubt or scruple.
Mr. Barnaby was proud of his wife; for if not quite as slender and
delicate, she really looked very nearly as handsome as ever, a slight
_soupcon_ of rouge refreshing the brilliancy of her eyes, and concealing
the incipient fading of her cheeks; while the total absence of _mauvaise
honte_ (an advantage which may be considered as the natural consequence
of a twelve years' reign as the belle of a well-officered county town,)
enabled her to preside at his own supper parties, and fill the place of
honour as bride at those of his neighbours, with an easy sprightliness
of manner that he felt to be truly fascinating. In short, Mr. Barnaby
was excessively fond of his lady, and as he was known to have made much
more money than he had spent, as no bill had ever been sent to him
without immediate payment following, and as Mrs. Barnaby's nature
expanded itself in this enlarged sphere of action, and led her to
disburse five times as much as Mr. Barnaby had ever expended without
her, all the tradesmen in the town were excessively fond of her too.
Wherever she went she was greeted with a smile; and instead of being
obliged to stand in every shop, waiting till some one happened to be at
leisure to ask her what she wanted to buy, her feathers and her frills
were no sooner discovered to be approaching the counter, than as many
right arms as were in presence thrust forward a seat towards her, while
the well-pleased master himself invariably started forth to receive her
commands.
Any bride might have found matter for rejoicing in such a change, but
few could have felt it so keenly as Mrs. Barnaby. She was by nature both
proud and ambitious, and her personal vanity, though sufficiently
strong within her to form rather a conspicuous feature in her character,
was, in truth, only a sort of petted imp, that acted as an agent to
assist in forwarding the hopes and wishes which her pride and ambition
formed.
This pride and ambition, however, were very essentially different from
the qualities known by these names among minds of a loftier nature. The
ambition, for instance, instead of being "that last infirmity of noble
mind" for which Milton seems to plead so feelingly, was, in truth, the
first vice of a very mean one. Mrs. Barnaby burned with ambition to find
herself in a situation that might authorize her giving herself the airs
of a great lady; and her pride would have found all the gratification it
sought, could she have been sure that her house and her dress would be
daily cited among her acquaintance as more costly than their own.
Mrs. Barnaby had moreover _un esprit intriguant_ in the most
comprehensive sense of the phrase, for she would far rather have
obtained any object she aimed at by means of her own manoeuvring,
than by any simple concurrence of circumstances whatever; and this was
perhaps the reason why, at the first moment the proposals of Mr.
Barnaby, whom she had (comparatively speaking) used no tricks to
captivate, produced a less pleasurable effect upon her mind, than a
similar overture from any one of the innumerable military men whom she
had so strenuously laboured to win, would have done. However, she was
for this very reason happier than many other brides, for, in fact, she
became daily more sensible of the substantial advantages she had
obtained; and, on the whole, daily better pleased with her complaisant
husband.
As her temper, though quietly and steadily selfish, was neither sour nor
violent, this state of connubial happiness might have continued long,
had not some untoward accidents occurred to disturb it.
The first of these was the sudden and dangerous illness of Mrs. Compton,
which was of a nature to render it perfectly impossible for Mr. and Mrs.
Barnaby to continue their delightful little parties at home and abroad.
The dying lady ceased not to implore her daughter not to leave her, in
accents so piteous, that Mr. Barnaby himself, notwithstanding his tender
care for his lady's health, was the first to declare that she must
remain with her. This heavy burden, however, did not inconvenience her
long, for the seizure terminated in the death of the old lady about a
week after its commencement.
But even this, though acknowledged to be "certainly a blessing, and a
happy release," could not restore the bride to the triumphant state of
existence the illness of her mother had interrupted; for, in the first
place, her deep mourning was by no means becoming to her, and she was
perfectly aware of it; and her white satin, and her silver fringe, would
be sure to turn yellow before she could wear them again. Besides, what
was worse than all, a young attorney of Silverton married the daughter
of a neighbouring clergyman, who, of course, was immediately installed
in all a bride's honours, to the inexpressible mortification of Mrs.
Barnaby.
The annoyance which followed these vexations was, however, far more
serious: the resources of poor Mr. Compton were completely exhausted; he
had drawn out his last hundred from the funds, and actually remained
possessed of no property whatever, except the nearly expired lease, and
the worn-out furniture of the house in which he lived.
Mrs. Barnaby listened to the feeble old man's statement of his desperate
position with dismay; she knew just enough of his affairs to be aware
that it was very likely to be true, though with mistaken tenderness her
mother had always refrained from representing their embarrassments to
her daughter, as being of the hopeless extent which they really were.
What, then, was to be done? The choice lay between two measures only,
both deeply wounding to her pride. In the one case she must leave the
old man to be arrested in his bed for the price of the food which for a
few months longer perhaps he might still get on credit ... in the other
she must undergo the humiliation of informing her husband that all the
gay external appearances she and her mother had so laboriously presented
to the public eye, were in reality but so much cheatery and delusion;
and that, if he would not take compassion on her father's destitute
condition, the poor old man must either die in the county prison or the
parish workhouse.
The alternative offered more of doubt than of choice, and it might have
been long ere she decided, had she not cleverly recollected that, if she
decided upon leaving him to get on as he could for a few weeks longer,
she must at last submit to her husband's knowing the real state of the
case; she therefore resolutely determined that he should know it at
once.
The time she chose to make the disclosure was the hour when men are
generally supposed to be in the most amiable frame of mind possible,
namely, when hunger, but not appetite, has been satisfied, and digestion
not fully begun; that is to say, Mr. Barnaby was enjoying his walnuts
and his wine.
"My dear Barnaby!..." she began, "I have some very disagreeable
intelligence to communicate to you, which has reached me only to-day,
and which has distressed me more than I can express."
"Good heaven!... What can you mean, my dear love?... For God's sake do
not weep, my beautiful Martha, but tell me what it is, and trust to me
for consolation."
"And that indeed I must do, dearest Barnaby!... for who else have I
now to look to?... My poor father ... I had no idea of it till this
morning ... my poor father is...."
"Dying, perhaps, my poor love!... Alas! Martha dearest, I have long
known that his case was perfectly hopeless, and I had hoped that you had
been aware of this also; but really, my love, his state of health is
such as ought in a great degree to reconcile you to his loss.... I am
sure he must suffer a great deal at times."
Mrs. Barnaby's first impulse was to reply that what she had to tell was
a great deal worse than that; but this would have been the truth, and a
sort of habitual, or it might indeed be called natural cautiousness, led
her always to pause before she uttered anything that she had no motive
for saying, excepting merely that it was true; and she generally found,
upon reconsideration, that there was hardly anything which might not,
according to her tactics, be improved by a _leetle_ dressing up. So, in
reply to this affectionate remonstrance from her husband, Mrs. Barnaby
answered with a sob:--
"No, my dear Barnaby!... I have no reason to doubt but that Providence
will spare my sole remaining parent for some short time longer, if only
to prove to him that his happy daughter has the will as well as the
means to supply to him the exemplary wife he has lost! But, alas! dear
Barnaby, who in this world can we expect to find perfect? My poor dear
mother, in her great anxiety to spare his age and weakness the suffering
such intelligence must occasion, most unwisely concealed from him and
from me the failure of the merchant in whose hands he had deposited the
sum for which he sold his patrimonial estate.... His object in selling
it was to increase his income, principally indeed for my poor mother's
sake, and now the entire sum is lost to us for ever!"
"God bless me!... This is a sad stroke indeed, my dear! What is the name
of this merchant?... I hope, at least, that we may get some dividend out
of him."
"I really do not know his name, but I know that it is a New York
merchant, and so I fear there is little or no chance of our ever
recovering a penny."
"Why, really, in that case, I will not flatter you with much hope on the
subject. And what has the poor old gentleman got to live upon, my dear
Martha?"
"Nothing, Barnaby!... absolutely nothing: and unless your tender
affection should induce you to permit his spending the little remnant of
his days under our roof, I fear a prison will soon enclose him!"
A violent burst of weeping appeared to follow this avowal; and Mr.
Barnaby, who was really a very kind-hearted man, hastened to console
her by declaring that he was heartily glad he had a home to offer
him.... "So, dry up your tears, my dear girl, and let me see you look
gay and happy again," said he; "and depend upon it, we shall be able to
make papa very comfortable here."
The disagreeable business was over, and therefore Mrs. Barnaby did look
gay and happy again. Moreover, she gave her husband a kiss, and said in
a very consolatory accent, "The poor old man need not be in our way
much, my dear Barnaby; ... I have been thinking that the little room
behind the laundry may be made very comfortable for him without any
expense at all; I shall only just have to...."
"No, no, Martha," interrupted the worthy Galen, "there is no need of
packing the poor gentleman into that dismal little place.... Let him
have the room over the dining-room; the south is always the best aspect
for the old; and, besides, there is a closet that will serve to keep his
pipes and tobacco, and his phials and his pill-boxes, out of sight."
"You are most ex-_cess_-ively kind, my dear Barnaby," replied his lady;
"but did not you tell me that you meant to offer the Thompsons a bed
when the bachelors' ball is given?... And I am sure you would not like
to put _them_ anywhere but in the south room."
"I did say so, my dear, and I am sure I meant it at the time; but a bed
for the ball-night is of so little consequence to them, and a warm,
comfortable room, for your father is so important, that, do you know, it
would seem to me quite silly to bring the two into comparison."
"Well!... I am sure I can't thank you enough, and I will go the first
thing to-morrow to tell my father of your kindness."
"I must pass by his house to-night, my dear, in my way to the Kellys',
and I will just step in and tell him how we have settled it."
It was impossible even for Mrs. Barnaby to find at the moment any
plausible reason for objecting to this good-natured proposal; but, in
truth, it was far from agreeable to her. Her poor father was quite
ignorant of the elegant turn she had given to the disagreeable fact of
his having spent his last shilling, and she was by no means desirous
that her kind-hearted husband should enter upon any discussion of his
"_misfortunes_" with him. But a moment's reflection sufficed to bring
her ready wit into play again; and then she said, in addition to the
applause she had already uttered,--"By the by, my dear Barnaby, I am not
quite sure that I can let you enjoy this pleasure without my sharing it
with you. I know it will make my dear father so _very_ happy!"
"Well, then, Martha, put on your bonnet and cloak, and come along; ...
it will be better you should go too, or I might linger with him too long
to explain matters, and I really have no time to lose."
* * * * *
The kindness thus manifested by the worthy Barnaby was not evanescent;
it led him to see that the money produced by the sale of the little
remnant of poor Mr. Compton's property, was immediately disposed of in
the payment of such trifling debts as, despite his long waning credit,
he had been able to contract; and for the two years and eight months
that he continued struggling with advancing age and increasing disease,
his attention to him was unremitting.
During the whole of that time Miss Betsy Compton never saw him. All
hope, and indeed all urgent want of assistance from her well-guarded
purse having ended, Mrs. Barnaby's anger and hatred towards the
spinster, flourished unchecked by any motives of interest; and Miss
Betsy was not a person to present herself uninvited at the house of a
rich apothecary, who had the privilege of calling her aunt. She had
indeed from time to time taken care to inform herself of the condition
of her brother, and finding that he wanted for nothing, but was, on the
contrary, very carefully nursed and attended, she settled the matter
very easily with her conscience; and with the exception of the pension,
and other little expenses of Agnes, her income, yearly increasing,
continued to roll up for no other purpose, as it should seem, than
merely to afford her the satisfaction of knowing that she was about ten
times as rich as anybody (excepting, perhaps, farmer Wright,) believed
her to be.
When, however, the last hours of the old man were approaching, he told
Mr. Barnaby that he should like to see both his sister and his
grandchild; and ten minutes had not passed after he said so, before an
express was galloping towards Compton Basett with a civil gentleman-like
letter from the apothecary to Miss Betsy, informing her of the condition
of her brother, and expressing the hospitable wish that she and the
little Agnes would be pleased to make his house their home as long as
the poor gentleman remained alive.
Miss Betsy had some strong prejudices, but she had strong discernment
too; and few old maids whose personal knowledge of the world had been as
contracted as hers, would have so instantly comprehended the good sense
and the good feeling of the author of this short note as she did. Her
answer was brief, but not so brief as to prevent the friendly feeling
with which she wrote it from being perceptible; and ere they met, this
stranger aunt, and nephew, were exceedingly well-disposed to be civil to
each other.
Miss Betsy's arrangements were soon made. She wrote to the person to
whose care she had intrusted Agnes, desiring her immediately to send her
under proper protection to Silverton, and having done this, she set off
in farmer Wright's chaise-cart to pay her first visit to her married
niece, and her last to her dying brother.