SOLITARY MEDITATION AND IMPORTANT RESOLUTIONS.--AGNES WILLOUGHBY ARRIVES
AT SILVERTON.--HER GRANDFATHER GIVES HER HIS BLESSING, AND DIES.--MISS
COMPTON MAKES A SUDDEN RETREAT.
When Miss Compton reached her room, she found a tiny morsel of fire just
lighted in a tiny grate; and as the season was November, the hour nine
P. M., and the candle she carried in her hand not of the brightest
description, the scene was altogether gloomy enough. But not even to
save herself from something greatly worse, would she at that moment have
exchanged its solitude for the society of Mrs. Barnaby, although she had
been sure of finding her in the best-lighted room, and seated beside the
brightest fire that ever blazed. So, wrapping around her the stout
camlet cloak by the aid of which she had braved the severity of many
years' wintry walks to church, she sat down in the front of the little
fire, and gave herself up to the reflections that crowded upon her mind.
Elizabeth Compton did not believe in the doctrine of ghosts; her mind
was of a strong and healthy fibre, which was rarely sufficiently wrought
upon by passing events to lose its power of clear perception and
unimpassioned judgment; but the scene she had just passed through, had
considerably shaken her philosophy. Five-and-thirty years had passed
since Josiah and Elizabeth shared the paternal roof together. They were
then very tender friends, for he was affectionate and sweet-tempered;
and she, though nearly seventeen, was as young in appearance, and as
much in need of his thoughtful care of her, as if she had been many
years younger. But this union was totally and for ever destroyed when
Josiah married; from the first hour they met, the two sisters-in-law
conceived an aversion for each other which every succeeding interview
appeared to strengthen; and this so effectually separated the brother
from the sister, that they had never met again with that peculiar
species of sympathy which can only be felt by children of the same
parents, till now, that the sister came expressly to see the brother
die.
This reunion had softened and had opened both their hearts: Josiah
confessed to his dear sister Betsy that his conscience reproached him
for having made away with his patrimony ... a fact which he had never
hinted to any other human being ... and she owned to him that she was
secretly possessed of landed property worth above six hundred a-year,
and also--which was a confidence, if possible, more sacred still--that
Agnes Willoughby would inherit it.
It would be hardly doing justice to the good sense of Miss Betsy to
state, that this rational and proper destination of her property had
never been finally decided upon by her till the moment she answered her
brother's question on the subject; and still less correctly true would
it be to say, that the dying man's delirious fancy respecting the
presence of their father was the reason that she answered that appeal
in the manner she did; yet still there might be some slight mixture of
truth in both. Miss Compton was constantly in the habit of telling
herself that she had _not_ decided to whom she would leave her property;
but it is no less true, that the only person she ever thought of as
within the possibility of becoming her heir, was Agnes. It is certain
also, as I have stated above, that Miss Compton did _not_ believe that
departed spirits ever revisited the earth; nevertheless, the dying
declaration of Josiah, that he saw the figure of his father, did produce
a spasm at her heart, which found great relief by her pronouncing the
words, "Agnes Willoughby."
And now that she was quietly alone, and perfectly restored to her sober
senses, she began to reconsider all that she had spoken, and to pass
judgment upon herself for the having yielded in some degree to the
weakness of a visionary imagination.
The result, however, of this self-examination was not exactly what she
herself expected. At first she was disposed to exclaim mentally, "I
have been foolish--I have been weak;" ... but as she gazed abstractedly
on her little fire, and thought--thought--thought of all the chain of
events (each so little in itself, yet all so linked together as to
produce an important whole,) by which she, the sickly, crooked, little
Betsy Compton, had become the proprietor of the long preserved patrimony
of her ancestors, ... and also, when she remembered the infinite chances
which had existed against either of her portionless, uneducated nieces,
forming such a marriage as might produce a child of gentle blood to be
her successor,--when she thought of all this, and that, notwithstanding
the lieutenant's poverty, the name of Willoughby could disgrace none to
which it might be joined, she could not but feel that all things had
been managed for her better than she could have managed them for
herself.
"And if," thought she, "I _was_ influenced, by hearing my poor father so
accurately described, to bind myself at once by a promise to make little
Agnes my heir, how do I know but that Providence intended it should be
so?"
"Is my freedom of action then gone for ever?" she continued, carrying on
her mental soliloquy. The idea was painful to her, and her head sunk
upon her breast as she brooded upon it.
"Not so!" she muttered to herself, after some minutes' cogitation. "I am
not pledged to this, nor shall it be so. If indeed some emanation from
my father's mind has made itself felt by his children this night, it
ought not to make a timid slave of me, but rather rouse my courage and
my strength to do something more than mere justice to the race that
seems so strangely intrusted to my care. And so I will!... if the girl
be such a one as may repay the trouble; ... if not, I will shew that I
have still some freedom left."
* * * * *
Miss Compton had never seen Agnes Willoughby from the time she first
took her from Silverton. Deeply shocked at the profound ignorance in
which she found the poor little girl when she visited Compton Basett,
she had set herself very earnestly to discover where she could
immediately place her, with the best chance of her recovering the time
she had so negligently been permitted to lose, and by good luck heard of
a clergyman's family in which young ladies were received for a stipend
of fifty pounds a-year, and treated more like the children of
affectionate parents than the pupils of mercenary teachers. The good
spinster heard all this, and was well pleased by the description; yet
would she not trust to it, but breaking through all her habits, she put
herself into a post-chaise and drove to the rectory of Empton, a
distance of at least twenty miles from the town of Silverton. Here she
found everything she wished to find; a small, regular establishment, a
lady-like and very intelligent woman, with an accomplished young person,
(her only child,) fully capable of undertaking the education of a
gentleman's daughter; while the venerable father of the family and of
the parish, by his gentle manners and exemplary character, ensured
exactly the sort of respectability in the home she sought for the
little Agnes, which she considered as its most essential feature.
The preliminaries were speedily arranged, and as soon as a neat and
sufficient wardrobe was ready for her use, her final separation from her
improvident grandmother took place in the manner that has been related.
When Miss Compton left the little girl in the charge of Mrs. Wilmot, she
had certainly no idea of her remaining there above three years without
visiting or being seen by any of her family; but Mrs. Wilmot, in her
subsequent letters, so strongly urged the advantage of not disturbing
studies so late begun, and now proceeding so satisfactorily, that our
reasonable aunt Betsy willingly submitted to her remaining quietly where
she was; an arrangement rendered the more desirable by the death of her
grandmother, and the breaking up of the establishment which had been her
only home.
The seeing her again after this long absence was now an event of very
momentous importance to Miss Compton. Should she in any way resemble
either her grandmother or her aunt Barnaby, the little spinster felt
that the promise so solemnly given would become a sore pain and grief to
her, for rather a thousand times would she have bequeathed her carefully
collected wealth to the county hospital, than have bestowed it to swell
the vulgar ostentation of a Mrs. Barnaby. The power of choice, however,
she felt was no longer left her. She had pledged her word, and that
under circumstances of no common solemnity, that Agnes Willoughby should
be her heir.
The poor little lady, as these anxious ruminations harassed her mind,
became positively faint and sick as the idea occurred to her, that the
eyes of little Agnes had formerly sparkled with somewhat of the
brightness she thought so very hateful in her well-rouged aunt; and at
length, having sat till her candle was nearly burnt out, and her fire
too, she arose in order to return to the fine drawing-room, and bid her
entertainers good night; but she stood with clasped hands for one
moment upon the hearthstone before she quitted it, and muttered half
aloud, ... "I have said that Agnes Willoughby shall be my heir, ... and
so she shall; ... she shall (be she a gorgon or a second Martha) inherit
the Compton Basett acres, restored, improved, and worth at least one
fourth more than when my poor father ... Heaven give his spirit rest!...
divided them between his children. But for my snug twelve thousand
pounds sterling vested in the three per cents, and my little mortgage of
eighteen hundred more for which I so regularly get my five per cent.,
that at least is my own, and that shall never, _never_ go to enrich any
one who inherits the red cheeks and bright black eyes of Miss Martha
Wisett.... No!... not if I am driven to choose an heir for it from the
Foundling Hospital!"
Somewhat comforted in spirit by this magnanimous resolve, Miss Compton
found her way to the drawing-room, and would have been fully confirmed
in the wisdom of it, had any doubt remained, by the style and tone of
Mrs. Barnaby, whom she found sitting there in solitary state, her
husband being professionally engaged in the town, and her own anxiety
for her dying father quite satisfied by being told that he was asleep.
"And where have you been hiding yourself, aunt Betsy, since you left
papa?" said the full-dressed lady, warmed into good humour by the
consciousness of her own elegance, and the delightful contrast between a
married woman, sitting in her own handsome drawing-room, (looking as she
had just ascertained that she herself did look by a long solitary study
of her image in the glass,) and a poor crooked little old maid like her
visitor. "I have been expecting to see you for this hour past. I hope
Barnaby will be in soon, and then we will go to supper. Barnaby always
eats a hot supper, and so I eat it with him for company, ... and I hope
you feel disposed to join us after your cold drive."
"I never eat any supper at all, Mrs. Barnaby."
"No, really?... I thought farm-house people always did, though not
exactly such a supper as Barnaby's, perhaps, for he always will have
something nice and delicate; and so, as it pleases him, I have taken to
the same sort of thing myself ... veal cutlets and mashed potatoes, ...
or half a chicken grilled perhaps, with now and then a glass of
raspberry cream, or a mince pie, as the season may be, all which I take
to be very light and wholesome; and indeed Barnaby thinks so too, or
else I am sure he would not let me touch it.... You can't think, aunt
Betsy, what a fuss he makes about me.... To be sure, he is a perfect
model of a husband."
"God grant she may be the colour of a tallow-candle, and her eyes as
pale and lustreless as those of a dead whiting!" mentally ejaculated the
whimsical spinster; but in reply to her niece she said nothing. After
sitting, however, for about ten minutes in the most profound silence,
she rose and said,--
"I should like to have a bed-candle, if you please, ma'am. I need not
wait to see the doctor. If he thinks there is any alteration in my
brother, he will be kind enough to let me know."
The lady of the mansion condescendingly rang the bell, which her
livery-boy answered with promptness, for he was exceedingly well
drilled, Mrs. Barnaby having little else to do than to keep him and her
two maids in proper order; ... the desired candle was brought, and Miss
Compton having satisfied herself that her brother still slept, retired
to rest.
The following day was an important one to her race; ... the last male of
the Compton Basett family expired, and the young girl to whom its small
but ancient patrimony was to descend, appeared for the first time before
Miss Compton in the character of her heiress.
It was about mid-day when the post-chaise which conveyed Agnes arrived
at Mr. Barnaby's door. Had the person expected been a judge in whose
hands the life and death of the spinster freeholder was placed, her
heart could hardly have beat with more anxiety to catch a sight of his
countenance, and to read her fate in it, than it now did to discover
whether her aspect were that of a vulgar beauty or a gentlewoman.
Miss Compton was sitting in the presence of Mrs. Barnaby when the
carriage stopped at the door, and had been for some hours keenly
suffering from the disgust which continually increased upon her, at
pretty nearly every word her companion uttered. "If she be like this
creature," thought she, as she rose from her seat with nervous emotion,
"if she be like her in any way ... I will keep my promise when I die,
but I will never see her more."
Nothing but her dread of encountering this hated resemblance prevented
her from going down stairs to meet the important little girl; but, after
a moment's fidgetting, and taking a step or two towards the door, she
came back and reseated herself. The suspense did not last long; the door
was opened, and "Muss Willerby" announced.
A short, round, little creature, who though nearly fourteen, did not
look more than twelve, with cheeks as red as roses, and large dark-grey
eyes, a great deal brighter than ever her aunt's or grandmother's had
been, entered, and timidly stopped short in her approach to her two
aunts, as if purposely to be looked at and examined.
She _was_ looked at and examined, and judgment was passed upon her by
both; differing very widely, however, as was natural enough, but in
which (a circumstance much less natural, considering the qualifications
for judging possessed by the two ladies,) the younger shewed
considerably more discernment than the elder. Mrs. Barnaby thought
her--and she was right--exceedingly like what she remembered her very
pretty mother at the same age, just as round and as rosy, but with a
strong mixture of the Willoughby countenance, which was very decidedly
"Patrician" both in contour and expression.
But poor Miss Compton saw nothing of all this ... she saw only that she
was short, fat, fresh-coloured, and bright-eyed!... This dreaded
spectacle was a death-blow to all her hopes, the hated confirmation of
all her fears. It was in vain that when the poor child spoke, her voice
proved as sweet as a voice could be,--in vain that her natural curls
fell round her neck as soon as her bonnet was taken off in rich
chestnut clusters--in vain that the smile with which she answered Mrs.
Barnaby's question, "Do you remember me, Agnes?" displayed teeth as
white and as regular as a row of pearls,--all these things were but so
many items against her in the opinion of Miss Compton, for did they not
altogether constitute a brilliant specimen of vulgar beauty? Had Agnes
been tall, pale, and slight made, with precisely the same features, her
aunt Betsy would have willingly devoted the whole of her remaining life
to her, would have ungrudgingly expended every farthing of her income
for her comfort and advantage, and would only have abstained from
expending the principal too, because she might leave it to her untouched
at her death. But now, now that she saw her, as she fancied, so very
nearly approaching in appearance to everything she most disliked, all
the long-indulged habits of frugality that had enabled her (as she at
this moment delighted to remember) to accumulate a fortune over which
she still had entire control, seemed to rise, before her, and press
round her very heart, as the only means left of atoning to herself for
the promise she had been led to make.
"I will see the eyes of my father's son closed," thought she, "and then
I will leave the beauties to manage together as well as they can till
mine are closed too, ... and by that time, perhaps, the rents of the
lands that I must no longer consider as my own, and my interest and my
mortgages, may have grown into something rich enough to make them and
theirs wish that they had other claims upon Elizabeth Compton besides
being her nearest of kin."
These thoughts passed rapidly, but their impression was deep and
lasting. Miss Compton sat in very stern and melancholy silence, such as
perhaps did not ill befit the occasion that had brought them all
together; but Mrs. Barnaby, whose habitual propensity to make herself
comfortable, prevented her from sacrificing either her curiosity or her
love of talking to ceremony, ceased not to question Agnes as to the
people she had been with, the manner in which she had lived, and the
amount of what she had learned.
On the first subject she received nothing in return but unbounded,
unqualified expressions of praise and affection, such as might either be
taken for the unmeaning hyperbole of a silly speaker, or the warm
out-pouring of well-deserved affection and gratitude, so Miss Compton
classed all that Agnes said respecting the family of the Wilmots under
the former head: her record of their manner of living produced exactly
the same result; and on the important chapter of her improvements, the
genuine modesty of the little girl did her great disservice; for when,
in answer to Mrs. Barnaby's questions.... "Do you understand French?...
Can you dance?... Can you play?... Can you draw?" she invariably
answered, "A little," Miss Compton failed not to make a mental note upon
it, which, if spoken, would have been, "Little enough, I dare say."
This examination had lasted about half an hour, when Mr. Barnaby
entered, and, addressing them all, said, "Poor Mr. Compton has woke up,
and appears quite collected, but, from his pulse, I do not think he can
last long.... Is this Miss Willoughby, Martha?... I am sorry that your
first visit, my dear, should be so sad a one; ... but you had better all
come now, and take leave of him."
The three ladies rose immediately, and without speaking followed Mr.
Barnaby to the bedside of the dying man. He was evidently sinking fast,
but knew them all, and expressed pleasure at the sight of Agnes. "Dear
child!" he said, looking earnestly at her, "I am glad she is come to
take my blessing.... God bless you, Agnes!... She is very like.... God
bless you, Agnes!... God bless you all!"
Mr. Barnaby took his wife by the arm and led her away; she took her
weeping niece with her, but Miss Compton shook her head when invited by
Mr. Barnaby to follow them, and in a very few minutes completed the duty
to perform which she had left her solitude, for with her own hands she
closed her brother's eyes, and then stole to her room, from which she
speedily dispatched an order for a post-chaise to come immediately to
the door.
The conduct and manners of Mr. Barnaby had pleased the difficult little
lady greatly, and she would willingly have shaken hands with him before
leaving his house; but to do this she must have re-entered the
drawing-room, and again seen Mrs. Barnaby and Agnes, a penance which she
felt quite unequal to perform; so, leaving a civil message for him with
the maid, she went down stairs with as little noise as possible as soon
as the chaise was announced, and immediately drove off to Compton
Basett.