THE ELEGANCE OF MRS. BARNABY DISPLAYED.--ITS EFFECT ON HER AUNT
BETSY.--INTERVIEW BETWEEN THE BROTHER AND SISTER.
Agnes Willoughby had never been in Silverton from the day that her aunt
Betsy first took her from her grandfather's house. Had Mrs. Compton
lived, she would probably have battled for the performance of Miss
Betsy's promise, that the little girl should sometimes visit them; but
though it is probable Mrs. Barnaby might occasionally have thought of
her niece with some degree of interest and curiosity, the feeling was
not strong enough to induce her to open a correspondence with Miss
Betsy; still it was certainly not without something like pleasure that
she found she was again to see her.
Miss Betsy arrived late in the evening of the day on which the summons
reached her; and, being shewn into Mrs. Barnaby's smart drawing-room,
was received with much stateliness by that lady, who derived
considerable consolation, under the disagreeable necessity of welcoming
a person she detested, from the opportunity it afforded her of
displaying the enormous increase of wealth and importance that had
fallen upon her since they last met.
Poor Miss Betsy really felt sad at the thoughts of the errand upon which
she was come; nevertheless she could not, without some difficulty,
suppress her inclination to smile at the full-blown dignity of Mrs.
Barnaby. Fond as this lady was of parading her grandeur on all
occasions, she had never, even among the dear friends whom she most
especially desired to inspire with envy, felt so strong an inclination
to shew off her magnificence as on the present. The covers were removed
from the chairs and sofas; the eclipse produced by the dim grey drugget,
when stretched across the radiance of the many-coloured carpet, was
over; five golden-leaved annuals, the glory of her library, were spread
at well-graduated distances upon her round table; her work-box, bright
in its rose-coloured lining, her smart embossed letter-case, her chimney
ornaments, her picture frames, her foot-stools, all were uncovered, all
were studiously shown forth to meet the careless eye of Miss Betsy;
while the proud owner of all these very fine things, notwithstanding the
gloomy state of her mansion, was herself a walking museum of lace and
trinkets.... Nor were her manners less superb than her habiliments.
"I am sorry, Miss Compton," she said.... "I may call you Miss Compton
now, as my marriage put an end to the possibility of any confusion.... I
am sorry that your first introduction to my humble abode should have
been made under circumstances so melancholy. Dismal as of necessity
everything must look now, I can assure you that this unpretending little
room is the scene of much domestic comfort."
This was unblushingly said, though the cold, stiff-looking apartment was
never entered but upon solemn occasions, when the whole house was
turned inside out for the reception of company. Miss Betsy, or rather
Miss Compton, (as, in compliance with Mrs. Barnaby's hint, we will in
future call her,) looked round upon the spotless carpet, and upon all
the comfortless precision of the apartment, and replied,--
"If this is your common living room, niece Martha, you are certainly
much improved in neatness; and seeing it so prim, it is quite needless
to ask if you have any children."
This reply was bitter every way; for, first, it spoke plainly enough the
spinster's disbelief in the domestic elegance of her niece; and
secondly, it alluded to her being childless, a subject of very
considerable mortification to Mrs. Barnaby.
How far this sort of ambush warfare might have proceeded it is
impossible to say, as it would have been difficult to place together any
two people who more cordially disliked each other; but before Mrs.
Barnaby had time to seek for words bearing as sharp a sting as those she
had received, her husband entered. He waited not for the pompous
introduction his wife was preparing, but walking up to his guest
addressed her respectfully but mournfully, saying he feared it was
necessary to press an early interview with her brother, if she wished
that he should be sensible of her kindness in coming to him.
Miss Compton immediately rose, and uttering a short, strong phrase
expressive of gratitude for his kindness to the dying man, said she was
ready to attend him. She found her brother quite sensible, but very
weak, and evidently approaching his last hour; he thanked her for coming
to him, warmly expressed his gratitude to Mr. Barnaby, and then murmured
something about wishing to see little Agnes before he died.
"She will be here to-morrow, brother," replied Miss Compton, "and in
time, I trust, to receive your blessing."
"Thank you, thank you, sister Betsy; ... but tell me, tell me before you
go, ... have you sold father's poor dear fields as I have done? That is
all I have got to be very sorry for.... I ought never to have done
that, sister Betsy."
Mr. Barnaby had left the room as soon as he had placed Miss Compton in a
chair by the sick man's bed, and none but an old woman who acted as his
nurse remained in it.
"You may go, nurse, if you please, for a little while; I will watch by
my brother," said Miss Compton. The woman obeyed, and they were left
alone. The old man followed the nurse with his eyes as she retreated,
and when she closed the door said,--
"I am glad we are alone once more, dear sister, for you are the only one
I could open my heart to.... I don't believe I have been a very wicked
man, sister Betsy, though I am afraid I never did much good to anybody,
nor to myself neither; but the one thing that lies heavy at my heart, is
having sold away my poor father's patrimony.... I can't help thinking,
Betsy, that I see him every now and then at the bottom of my bed, with
his old hat, and his spud, and his brown gaiters ... and ... I never
told anybody; ... but he seems always just going to repeat the last
words he ever said to me, which were spoken just like as I am now
speaking to you, Betsy, with his last breath; ... and he said, 'Josiah,
my son, I could not die with a safe conscience if I left my poor weakly
Betsy without sufficient to keep her in the same quiet comfort as she
has been used to. But it would grieve me, Josiah....' Oh! how plain I
hear his voice at this minute!--'it would grieve me, Josiah,' he said,
'if I thought the acres would be parted for ever ... they have been
above four hundred years belonging to us from father to son; and once
Compton Basett was a name that stood for a thousand acres instead of
three hundred;' ... and then ... don't be angry, sister Betsy," said the
sick man, pressing her hand which he held, "but he said, 'I don't think
Betsy very likely to marry; and if she don't, Josiah, why, then, all
that is left of Compton Basett will be joined together again for your
descendants,' ... and yet, after this I sold my portion, Betsy, ... and
I do fear his poor spirit is troubled for it--I do indeed ... and it is
that which hangs so heavy upon my mind."
"And if that be all, Josiah, you may close your eyes, and go to join our
dear father in peace. He struggled with and conquered his strongest
feeling, his just and honourable pride, for my sake; and for his, as
well as for the same feeling, which is very strong within my own breast
also, I have lived poorly, though not hardly, Josiah, and have added
penny to penny till I was able to make Compton Basett as respectable a
patrimony as he left it. It was not farmer Wright who bought the land,
brother--it was I."
The old man's emotion at hearing this was stronger than any he had shewn
for many years. He raised his sister's hand to his lips, and kissed it
fervently. "Bless you, Betsy!... bless you, my own dear sister!"... he
said in a voice that trembled as much from feeling as from weakness, and
for several minutes afterwards he lay perfectly silent and motionless.
Miss Compton watched him with an anxious eye, and not without a flutter
at her heart lest she should suddenly find this stillness to be that of
death. But it was not so; on the contrary, his voice appeared
considerably stronger than it had done since their interview began, when
he again spoke, and said,--
"I see him now, sister Betsy, as plainly as I see the two posts at the
bottom of my bed, and he stands exactly in the middle between them; he
has got no hat on, but his smooth white hair is round his face just as
it used to be, and he looks so smiling and so happy.... Do not think I
am frightened at seeing him, Betsy; quite the contrary.... I feel so
peaceful ... so very peaceful...."
"Then try to sleep, dear brother!" said Miss Compton, who felt that his
pulse fluttered, and, aware that his senses were wandering, feared that
the energy with which he spoke might hasten the last hour, and so rob
his grandchild of his blessing.
"I will sleep," he replied, more composedly, "as soon as you have told
me one thing. Who will have the Compton Basett estate, Betsy, when you
are dead?"
"Agnes Willoughby," replied the spinster, solemnly.
"That is right.... Now go away, Betsy, ... it is quite right ... go away
now, and let me sleep."
She watched him for a moment, and seeing his eyes close, and hearing a
gentle, regular breathing that convinced her he was indeed asleep, she
crept noiselessly from his bedside; then having summoned the nurse, and
re-established her beside the fire, retired to the solitude of her own
room.