HOW TO CHOOSE LODGINGS.--REASONS FOR LAYING ASIDE WIDOW'S
WEEDS.--LADY-LIKE ACCOMPLISHMENTS.--AFFECTIONATE FORETHOUGHT.--CHARMING
SENSIBILITY.--GENEROUS INTENTIONS.--A CLEVER LETTER, BUT ONE UPON WHICH
DOCTORS MAY DISAGREE.
Of lodgings Mrs. Barnaby saw enough to offer a most satisfactory
selection, and heartily to weary Agnes, who followed her up and down
innumerable stairs, and stood behind her, during what seemed endless
colloquies with a multitude of respectable-looking landladies, long
after she had flattered herself that her aunt must have been suited to
her heart's desire by what she had already seen. Of adventures the quiet
streets of Exeter were not likely to produce many; but the widow had the
satisfaction of observing that lounging gentlemen were abundant, a
cavalry officer still visible now and then, and that hardly one man in
ten of any class passed her without staring her full in the face.
At length, after having walked about till she was sufficiently tired
herself, and till poor Agnes looked extremely pale, she entered a
pastry-cook's shop for the purpose of eating buns, and of taking into
deliberate consideration whether she should secure apartments in the
Crescent, which were particularly comfortable, or some she had seen in
the High Street, which were particularly gay.
Mrs. Barnaby often spoke aloud to herself while appearing to address her
niece, and so she did now.
"That's a monstrous pretty drawing-room, certainly; and if I was sure
that I should be able to get any company to come and see me, I'd stick
to the Crescent.... But it's likely enough that I shall find nobody to
know, and in that case it would be most horribly dull.... But if we did
not get a soul from Monday morning to Saturday night, we could never be
dull in the High Street. Such lots of country gentlemen!... And they
always look about them more than any other men." And then, suddenly
addressing her niece in good earnest, she added,--
"Don't you think so, Agnes?"
"I don't know, ma'am," replied Agnes, in an accent that would have
delighted her aunt Compton, and which might have offended some sort of
aunts; but it only amused her aunt Barnaby, who laughed heartily, and
said, for the benefit of the young woman who presided at the counter, as
well as for that of her niece,--
"Yes, my dear, that's quite right; that's the way we all begin.... And
you will know all, how, and about it, too, long and long before you will
own it."
Agnes suddenly thought of Empton parsonage, its pretty lawn, its
flowers, its books, and its gentle intellectual inmates, and
involuntarily she closed her eyes for a moment and sighed profoundly;
but the reverie was not permitted to last long, for Mrs. Barnaby, having
finished her laugh and her bun, rose from her chair, saying,--
"Come along, child!... The High Street will suit us best, won't it,
Agnes?"
"You must best know what you best like, aunt," replied the poor girl
almost in a whisper, "but the Crescent seemed to me very quiet and
agreeable."
"Quiet!... Yes, I should think so!... And if that's your fancy, it is
rather lucky that it's my business to choose, and not yours. And it's my
business to pay too.... It's just sixpence," she added with a laugh, and
pulling out her purse. "One bun for the young lady, and five for me.
Come along, Agnes ... and do throw back that thick crape veil, child....
Your bonnet will look as well again!"
* * * * *
Another half hour settled the situation of their lodgings in Exeter.
Smart Mrs. Tompkin's first-floor in the High Street, with a bed in the
garret for Jerningham, was secured for three months; at the end of which
time Mrs. Barnaby was secretly determined as nearly as possible to lay
aside her mourning, and come forth with the apple blossoms, dazzling in
freshness, and _couleur de rose_. The bargain for the lodgings, however,
was not concluded without some little difficulty, for Mrs. Tompkins, who
owned that she considered herself as the most respectable lodging-house
keeper in Exeter, did not receive this second and conclusive visit from
the elegant widow with as much apparent satisfaction as was expected.
"Here I am again, Mrs. Tompkins!" said the lively lady in crape and
bombasin. "I can see no lodgings I like as well as yours, after all."
"Well.... I don't know, ma'am, about that," replied the cautious Mrs.
Tompkins; "but, to say the truth, I'm not over and above fond of lady
lodgers ... they give a deal more trouble than gentlemen, and I've
always been used to have the officers as long as there were any to be
had; and even now, with only three cavalry companies in the barracks,
it's a rare chance to find me without them."
"But as you do happen to be without them now, Mrs. Tompkins, and as your
bill is up, I suppose your lodgings are to let, and I am willing to take
them."
"And may I beg the favour of your name, ma'am?" said the respectable
landlady, stiffly.
"Barnaby!" answered the widow, with an emphasis that gave much dignity
to the name. "I am the widow of a gentleman of large fortune in the
neighbourhood of Silverton, and finding the scene of my lost happiness
too oppressive to my spirits, I am come to Exeter with my niece, and
only one lady's-maid to wait upon us both, that I may quietly pass a few
months in comparative retirement before I join my family and friends in
the country, as their rank and fortune naturally lead them into more
gaiety than I should at present like to share. I am not much accustomed
to be called upon thus to give an account of myself; but this is my
name, and this is my station; and if neither happens to satisfy you, I
must seek lodgings elsewhere."
"I beg your pardon, ma'am, I'm sure," replied Mrs. Tompkins,
considerably awed by this imposing statement, "but in our line it is
quite necessary, and real ladies, as I dare say you are, are always
served the better for being known. At what inn is your lady's-maid and
your luggage put up, ma'am?"
"At Street's hotel, Mrs. Tompkins; and if we agree about the apartments,
I shall go there, pay my bill, and return directly. You have flies here,
I think, have you not?... I have no carriage with me."
"Yes, ma'am, we have flies, and none better; but if it's only for the
luggage, a porter would do better, and 'tis but a step to walk."
The bargain was then concluded, the ladies returned to the hotel, and
after a short struggle in the heart of the widow between economy, and
her rather particular love of a comfortable dinner, she decided upon an
early broiled chicken and mushrooms before her removal, in preference to
a doubtful sort of mutton chop after it. But at seven o'clock the two
ladies were seated at tea in the drawing-room, the lady's-maid having
been initiated by the factotum of the house into all the mysteries of
the neighbouring "shop for everything," and performing her first act of
confidential service very much to the satisfaction of her mistress, who
could not wonder that a city like Exeter should be dearer than such a
little out-of-the-way place as Silverton.
Mrs. Barnaby knew not a single soul in Exeter, and she lay in bed on the
following morning for a full hour later than usual, ruminating on the
possibilities of making acquaintance with somebody who might serve as a
wedge by which she might effect an entry into the society to be found
there. Once seen and known, she felt confident that no difficulty would
remain, but the first step was not an easy one.
She doubted not, indeed, that she might easily enough have obtained some
introductions from among her acquaintance at Silverton, but it was no
part of her plans to make her _entree_ into the _beau monde_, even of
Exeter, as the widow of an apothecary. "No!" thought she, as she turned
herself by a vigorous movement from one side of the bed to the other,
"I will carve out my own fortune without any Silverton introductions
whatever! I know that I have a head of my own, as well as a face, and
when once I have got rid of this nasty gown and that hideous cap, we
shall see what can be done."
Walking up and down the High Street, however, which formed nearly her
only occupation during all the hours of light, was, she soon found, the
only gaiety she could hope for, and it proved a source of mingled joy
and woe. To see so many smart people, and so many beautiful bonnets, was
an enchantment that made her feel as if she had got to the gates of
Paradise; but the impossibility of speaking to the smart people, or
wearing the beautiful bonnets, soon turned all the pleasure into
bitterness, and she became immeasurably impatient to cure at least one
of these miseries, by throwing aside her hated weeds. To do this, soon
became, as she said, necessary to her existence; and her landlady at
last turned out to be a perfect treasure, from the sympathy and
assistance she afforded her in the accomplishment of her wishes.
Mrs. Tompkins had speedily discovered both that her lodger really had
money, and that the gentleman of large fortune whom she had lost was the
apothecary of Silverton. The respect obtained by the first quite
obliterated, in Mrs. Tompkins' eyes, any contempt that might have been
generated by the falsehoods which the second brought to light, and on
the whole nothing could be more friendly than their intercourse.
"There can be no use, Mrs. Tompkins," said the doleful widow, "do you
think there can ... in my going on wearing this dismal dress, that
almost breaks my heart every time I look at myself?... It is very nearly
six months now since my dear Mr. Barnaby died, and I believe people of
fashion never wear first mourning longer."
Mr. Barnaby, however, had been alive and well exactly three months after
the period named by his widow as that of his death; and that, too, Mrs.
Tompkins knew as well as she did; but Mrs. Tompkins' sister was a
milliner, and family affection being stronger within her than any
abstract love of propriety, she decidedly voted for laying aside the
weeds immediately, there being "no yearthly good," as she well observed,
"in any woman's going on breaking her heart by looking at herself in the
glass." So the sister was sent for, and after a long consultation in the
widow's bed-room, it was decided that the following Sunday should send
her to the cathedral in a black satin dress, with lavender-coloured
bonnet, fichu, gloves, reticule, and so forth.
Considering the complete dependence of Agnes, and the great aptitude of
such a disposition as that of Mrs. Barnaby to keep this ever in her
mind, she certainly felt a greater degree of embarrassment at the idea
of communicating this resolution to her than might have been expected.
Her friends might fairly have drawn an inference considerably in her
favour from this, ... namely, that she was ashamed of it. But however
respectable its cause, the feeling was not strong enough to offer any
effectual impediment to her purpose, and she came forth from the
council-chamber where this great measure had been decided on, wishing,
for the moment at least, that Agnes was at the bottom of the sea, but
firm in her determination to announce to her the important resolution
she had taken, without a moment's further delay.
"I don't know how it is, my dear Agnes," said she, after seating
herself, and looking steadfastly at her niece for a minute or two; "but
though I don't dislike to see you in deep mourning, the sight of it on
myself makes me perfectly wretched.... Why should I go on making my poor
heart ache, for no reason upon earth that I know of, but because, when
people happen to be where they are known by everybody, it is customary
to wear a certain dress for a certain number of days and weeks; but,
thank Heaven! Agnes, there is not a single soul in all Exeter that knows
me, and I really think there is something very like a rebellion against
Providence in refusing to take advantage of this lucky circumstance,
which doubtless the mercy of Heaven has arranged on purpose, so as to
enable me to spare myself without impropriety. It is easy enough, Agnes,
for ordinary-minded women, to wear, for a whole year together, a dress
that must remind them every instant of the most dreadful loss a woman
can sustain!--it is easy enough for others, but it will not do for
me!... And in justice to myself, and indeed to you too, Agnes, I am
determined to make the effort at once, and discard a garb that breaks my
poor heart every time I cast my eyes on any part of it. You must, of
course, perceive that it is not for myself alone, my dear child, that I
make this effort to restore the health and spirits with which nature has
hitherto so bountifully blessed me; ... it is indeed chiefly for you,
Agnes!... it is for your sake, my dear, that I am determined, as far as
in me lies, to stop the sorrow that is eating into my very vitals....
But never be unjust to me, Agnes!... Whenever you see me shaking off the
gloom of my widowed condition, remember it is solely owing to my love
for you.... Remember this with gratitude, Agnes, and, for the sake of
truth, let others know it too, whenever you have an opportunity of
alluding to it."
And now again did young Agnes doubt her power of answering with
propriety. The principle of truth was strong within her, and to have
expressed either sympathy or gratitude would have been an outrage to
this principle, which would have made her hate herself ... she could
not, she would not do it; and in reply to her aunt's harangue, who
seemed to wait for her answer, she only said,
"The dress of a widow is indeed very sad to look upon; no one can doubt
that, aunt Barnaby."
"Good Heaven!... then _you_ also suffer from the sight of it, my poor
child!... Poor dear Agnes! I ought to have thought of this before; ...
but I will wound your young heart no longer. This week shall end a
suffering so heavy, and so unnecessary for us both, and I trust you will
never forget what you owe me. And yet, my dear, though I hope and
believe I shall be sustained, and find myself capable of making this
effort respecting my own dress, there is a tender weakness still
struggling at my heart, Agnes, which would make it very painful to me
were I immediately to see you change yours. Do you feel any repugnance,
my dear girl, to wearing that deep mourning for your poor uncle for some
months longer?"
Agnes now felt no difficulty whatever in answering as she was expected
to do, and very eagerly replied, "Oh! dear no, aunt ... none in the
least."
"I rejoice," said the widow, solemnly, "to perceive in you, young as you
are, Agnes, feelings so perfectly what they ought to be; ... you would
spare me suffering from sadness too profound, yet would you, my child,
in all things not injurious to me, desire to testify your deep respect
for the invaluable being we have lost. This is exactly what I would wish
to see, and I trust you will ever retain a disposition so calculated to
make me love you. But look not so sad, my love!... I really must invent
some occupation to cheer and amuse you, Agnes.... Let me see ... what
say you, dearest, to running some edging for me on a tulle border for
my _tour de bonnet_?"
* * * * *
The widow faithfully kept her kind promise to Agnes, and never again
(excepting for a short interval that will be mentioned hereafter) did
she run the risk of grieving any heart by the sight of deep mourning for
her lost Barnaby, for though she restrained herself for some time longer
within the sober dignity of black satins and silks as the material of
her robes, there was no colour of the rainbow that did not by degrees
find its way amidst her trimmings and decorations. During this period
all the hours not devoted to the displaying her recovered finery in
church or street, were employed in converting cheap muslin into rich
embroidery, and labouring to make squares of Scotch cambric assume the
appearance of genuine _batiste_, rich with the delicate labours of
Moravian needles.
It was a great happiness for Agnes that satin-stitch had never ranked as
a necessary branch of female education at Empton Rectory; had she been
able to embroider muslin, her existence would have been dreadful, for,
beyond all question, few of her waking hours would have been employed
upon anything else; one of Mrs. Barnaby's favourite axioms being, that
"there is NOTHING which makes so prodigious a difference in a lady's
dress, as her wearing a great profusion of good work!"... So a great
profusion of good work she was quite determined to wear, and deep was
her indignation at the culpable negligence of Mrs. Wilmot, upon finding
that an accomplishment "so particularly lady-like, and so very useful,"
had been utterly neglected.
To invent an occupation for herself during the hours thus employed by
her aunt, soon became the subject of all Agnes's meditations. She knew
that it must be something that should not annoy or inconvenience Mrs.
Barnaby in the slightest degree, and it was this knowledge, perhaps,
which made her too discreet to ask for the hire of a pianoforte, for
which, nevertheless, she longed, very much like a hart for the water
brook; for the musical propensities of her father and mother had
descended to her, and of all the pleasures she had yet tasted, that
derived from her study and practice of music had been the greatest. But
that her aunt should pay money for no other purpose than for her to
amuse herself by making a noise in their only sitting-room, was quite
out of the question. So the piano she mentally abandoned for ever; but
there were other studies that she had pursued at Empton, which, if
permitted to renew, even without the aid of any master, would greatly
embellish an existence, which the poor girl often felt to be as heavy a
gift as could well have been bestowed upon a mortal. Having at length
decided what it was she would ask for, she took courage, hemmed twice,
and then said,--
"Should you have any objection, aunt, to my endeavouring by myself to go
on with my French and Italian, while you are at work?... I am sometimes
afraid that I shall forget all I have learned."
"I am sure I hope not, and it will be very stupid, and very wicked of
you, Agnes, if you do. Your teaching is all we ever got out of that
hunch-backed Jesabel of an aunt; and you must always recollect, you
know, that it is very possible you may have to look to this as your only
means of support. I am sure I am excessively fond of you, I may say
passionately attached to you, it is quite impossible you can ever deny
that; but yet we must neither of us ever forget that it is likely enough
I may marry again, and have a family; and in that case, my dear, much as
I love you, (and my disposition is uncommonly affectionate,) it will be
my bounden duty to think of my husband and children, which would
probably make it necessary for you to go out as a governess or teacher
at a school."
"I understand that very well, aunt," replied Agnes, greatly comforted by
the prospect thus held out, "and that is a great additional reason for
my endeavouring to render myself fit to undertake such a situation. I
was getting on very well at Empton. Will you be so very kind as to let
me try to get on by myself here?"
"Certainly, Agnes.... I shall wish to encourage your laudable
endeavours; ... but I must say it was a most abominable shame in that
Mrs. Wilmot not to teach you satin-stitch, which, after all, is the only
really lady-like way in which a young woman can assist in maintaining
herself. Just look at this collar, Agnes; ... the muslin did not cost
sixpence ... certainly not more than sixpence, and I'd venture to say
that I could not get the fellow of it in any shop in Exeter for two
guineas.... It is long before French, or Italian either, will bring such
a percentage as that.... Now listen to me, Agnes, before you set-to,
upon your stupid books again.... I'll tell you what I am willing to do
for you. I hate teaching too much to attempt instructing you myself, but
I will pay a woman to come here to give you lessons, if you will tell me
truly and sincerely that you shall be able to learn it, and to stick to
it. I am so fond of you, Agnes, so particularly fond of you, that I
should not at all mind keeping you on, even when I am married, if
you will take fairly and honestly to this elegant and lady-like
employment, ... for I should never have any difficulty, I dare say, in
disposing of what you did, beyond what I might want for myself and
children--that is, provided you bring yourself to work in this sort of
perfectly elegant style. What d'ye say to it, Agnes?"
"You are very kind, aunt," replied the terrified girl, blushing
violently, "but indeed, indeed, I am afraid, that as I have never begun
yet, I should find it quite impossible to bring my stubborn fingers to
work as yours do. I never was particularly clever in learning to work, I
believe, and what you do is so very nice that I could never hope to do
anything like it."
"Perhaps you are right, my dear, ... it is not every woman whose fingers
can move as mine do," replied Mrs. Barnaby, looking down complacently at
the mincing paces of her needle; ... "but your hands are not clumsy,
Agnes, rather the contrary, I must say; and I can't but think, child,
that if you were to set-to with hearty good will, and practise morning,
noon, and night, it is very likely you might learn enough, after a year
or two of constant pains-taking, to enable you to give up all your
wearisome books at once and for ever. That is worth thinking of twice, I
promise you."
"Indeed, indeed, dear aunt, I never should make anything of it!..."
exclaimed Agnes eagerly; "I am sure it is one of the things that people
must begin early, ... and I don't at all dislike books, ... and I would
rather go out to teach, if you please, than work muslin, ... for I am
quite, quite sure that I never should do it well, no, not even
decently."
"So much the worse for you, child!... At any rate, I have done my duty
by offering to have you taught: please to remember that."
"And may I begin then, aunt, with my books?"
"And where are you to get books, Miss Agnes?... It is of no use to
expect I can buy them, and that you will find.... I see already that
Silverton is no rule for the rest of the world as to expense, and that I
shall have quite enough to do with my money without wasting it on
trumpery; ... so, pray, don't look to my buying books for you, for most
assuredly I shall do no such thing."
"Oh no, aunt!... I do not think of it,--there is not the least occasion
for such extravagance; you shall see how well I am provided." And so
saying, she ran out of the room, and in a few minutes returned with a
small and very neat mahogany box, which in travelling had been carefully
covered by a leathern case, and which her aunt had suffered to accompany
her unchallenged, because she presumed it to be the treasury of all "her
best things;" a species of female property for which the widow had
never-failing respect, even when it did not belong to herself, which was
perhaps more than could be said respecting any other sort of property
whatever.
Agnes brought this box in with difficulty, for though small, it was
heavy, and when opened displayed to the somewhat surprised eyes of her
aunt a collection of tiny volumes, so neatly fitting their receptacle,
as to prove that they must have been made to suit each other.
"This was Mr. Wilmot's present to me, aunt," said Agnes, taking out a
volume to exhibit its pretty binding. "Was it not kind of him?"
"It looks very extravagant, I think, for a man whose wife keeps
school.... He must have been sadly puzzled to know what to do with his
money."
"No, aunt, that was not the reason, for Mr. Wilmot is not extravagant at
all; but he told me that aunt Betsy, instead of paying every half year,
like other people, insisted upon giving him the five years' stipend for
me, as well as the money for my clothes, all at once; and that he had
always determined upon laying out the interest this sum had brought in a
present for me. I think it was very generous of him."
"And what in the world have you got there, child? All grammars and
spelling-books, I suppose; ... but it's the most senseless quantity of
school books that ever were got together for one person, I think.... I
see no generosity in anything so very silly."
"They are not school books, aunt, I assure you."
"Then what are they, pray? Why do you make such a mystery about it?"
"Oh! it's no mystery; ... but I did not know... I will read you the
titles, if you please, aunt. Here are Shakspeare, Milton, Spencer, and
Gray; ... these are all my English books."
"And what are these?"
"Racine, Corneille, La Fontaine, and Boileau."
"What useless trash!.... And these?"
"Dante, Tasso, and Petrarch; ... and these six larger volumes are the
'componimenti lirici' of various authors."
"Oh goodness, child!... don't jabber your stupid school jargon to
me.... There!... take them all away again; I can't very well see how
they are to help you make a governess of yourself: grammars, I should
think, and dictionaries, would be more to the purpose for that sort of
profitable usefulness."
"And I have got them too, aunt, in my clothes trunk; and if you will
but be pleased to let me give my time to it, I am quite sure that I
shall get on very well."
"Get on!... get on to what, child?"
"To reading both French and Italian with facility, ... and perhaps to
writing both with tolerable correctness."
"Well, ... if it will enable you to get your bread one of these days, I
am sure that I don't wish to hinder it,--so go to work as soon as you
will,--only pray don't let me hear any more about it, for I quite hate
the sort of thing,--though of course, my dear, if I was in your
situation, I should know it was my duty to think differently. But those
whom Providence has blessed with wealth, have a right to indulge their
taste, ... and my taste is altogether that of a lady."
From this time the aching void in the heart, and almost in the intellect
of Agnes, seemed supplied. Her aunt, when she did not want her as a
walking companion, suffered her to go on reading and scribbling to her
heart's content, and the more readily, perhaps, from its giving her the
air of being still a child learning lessons, which was exactly the
footing on which she wished to keep her, if possible, for another year
or two, as she was by no means insensible to the inconvenience of having
a grown-up niece, while still in the pride of beauty herself.
In this manner the period allotted for their stay at Exeter wore away;
Mrs. Barnaby's wardrobe, embroidery, and all, was quite ready for
display; Betty Jacks, alias Jerningham, had learned to look exceedingly
like a disreputable young woman, to run of errands, and to _iron out_
tumbled dresses; the bright sun of June had succeeded the lovely
temperature of a Devonshire spring, and everything seemed to invite the
adventurous widow to a wider field of display. But before she made this
onward movement from which she hoped so much, it was necessary to
apprize her sister-in-law, Mrs. Peters, of her affectionate intention of
passing a few months at Clifton, in order to become acquainted with her
and her family. The letter by which this intention was announced, is too
characteristic of my heroine to be omitted.
"MY DEAREST SISTER,
"Under the dreadful calamity that has fallen upon me, no idea
has suggested the slightest glimpse of comfort to my widowed
heart but the hope of becoming acquainted with my lost
Barnaby's sister! Beloved Margaret!... So let me call you, for
so have I been used to hear you called by HIM!... Beloved
Margaret! Let me hope that from you, and your charming family,
I shall find the sympathy and affection I so greatly need.
"Your admirable brother ... my lost but never-to-be-forgotten
husband ... was as successful as he deserved to be in the
profession of which he was the highest ornament, and left an
ample fortune,--the whole of which, as you know, he bequeathed
to me with a confidence and liberality well befitting the
perfect, the matchless love, which united us. But, alas! my
sister, Providence denied us a pledge of this tender love, and
where then can I so naturally look for the ultimate possessors
of his noble fortune as amongst your family? I have one young
niece, still almost a child, whom I shall bring with me to
Clifton. But though I am passionately attached to her, my sense
of justice is too strong to permit my ever suffering her claims
to interfere with those more justly founded. When we become
better acquainted, my dearest Margaret, you will find that this
sense of what is right is the rule and guide of all my actions,
and I trust you will feel it to be a proof of this, that my
style and manner of living are greatly within my means. In
fact, I never cease to remember, dear sister, that, though the
widow of my poor Barnaby, I am the daughter of the well-born
but most unfortunate clergyman of Silverton, who was obliged to
sell his long-descended estate in consequence of the treachery
of a friend who ruined him. Thus, while the high blood which
flows in my veins teaches me to do what is honourable, the
unexpected poverty which fell upon my own family, makes me feel
that there is more real dignity in living with economy, than in
spending what my confiding husband left at my disposal, and
thus putting it out of my power to increase it for the benefit
of his natural heirs.
"This will, I hope, explain to you satisfactorily my not
travelling with my own carriage, and my having no other retinue
than one lady's-maid. Alas!... it is not in pomp or parade
that a truly widowed heart can find consolation!
"Let me hear from you, my dear sister, and have the kindness to
tell me where you think I had better drive, on arriving at
Clifton. With most affectionate love to Mr. Peters, and the
blessing of a fond aunt to all your dear children, I remain,
dearest Margaret,
"Your ever devoted sister,
"MARTHA BARNABY."
This letter was received by Mrs. Peters at the breakfast-table, round
which were assembled three daughters, one son, and her husband. The lady
read it through in silence, cast her eyes rapidly over it a second time,
and then handed it over to her spouse with an air of some solemnity,
though something very like a smile passed across her features at the
same moment.
Mr. Peters also read the letter, but not like his lady, in silence.
"Very kind of her indeed!... Poor dear lady!... a true mourner, that's
plain enough to be seen.... She must be an excellent good woman, my
dear, this widow of poor Barnaby; and I'm heartily glad she is coming
among us. Your aunt Barnaby's coming, girls, and I hope you'll all
behave so as to make her love you.... Is there any objection, Margaret,
to the children's seeing this letter?"
"None at all," replied the lady ... "excepting...."
"Excepting what, my dear?... I am sure it is a letter that would do her
honour anywhere, and I should be proud to read it on the exchange....
What do you mean by excepting?"
"It is no matter.... The girls and I can talk about it afterwards, ...
and James, I think, will understand it very clearly at once."
"Understand it?... to be sure he will.... I never read a better letter,
or one more easily understood, in my life.--Here, James, read it aloud
to your sisters."
The young man obeyed, and read it very demurely to the end, though, more
than once, his laughing blue eye sent a glance to his mother that
satisfied her she was right in her estimate of his acuteness.
"That's an aunt worth having, isn't it?..." said old Peters, standing
up, and taking his favourite station on the hearth-rug, with his back to
the grate, though no fire was in it.... "Now I hope we shall have no
airs and graces, because she comes from a remote part of the country,
but that you will one and all do your best to make her see that you are
worthy of her favour."
"I will do all I can to shew myself a dutiful and observant nephew....
But don't you think, sir, that 'the lady doth protest too much?'"
"Oh! but she'll keep her word," ... replied his mother, laughing.
"Keep her word?... to be sure she will, poor lady! She is
broken-hearted and broken-spirited, as it's easy to see by her letter,"
observed the worthy Mr. Peters; "and I do hope, wife, that you will be
very kind to her."
"And where shall I tell her to drive, Mr. Peters?"
"To the York hotel, my dear, I should think."
"Do you know that I rather fancy she expects we should ask her to come
here?"
"No!... Well, that did not strike me. Let me see the letter again....
But it's no matter; whether she does or does not it may be quite as well
to do it; ... and she says she likes to save her money, poor thing."
The father and son then set off to walk to Bristol, and Mrs. Peters and
her three daughters were left to sit in judgment on the letter, and then
to answer it.
"I see what you think, mamma," said the eldest girl, as the door closed
after them; "you have no faith in this widowed aunt's lachrymals?"
"Not so much, Mary, as I might have, perhaps, if she said less about her
sorrows."
"And her generous intentions in our favour, mamma," ... said the
youngest, "perhaps you have no faith in them either."
"Not so much, Lucy," said the lady, repeating her words, "as I might
have, perhaps, if she said less about it."
"I hope you are deceived, all of you," said Elizabeth, the second girl,
very solemnly; "and I must say I think it is very shocking to put such
dreadful constructions upon the conduct of a person you know so little
about."
"I am sure I put no constructions," replied Mary, "I only ventured to
guess at mamma's."
"And I beg to declare that my sins against this generous new relative
have gone no farther," said Lucy.
"Well, well, we shall see, girls," said the lively mother. "Let us all
start fair for the loaves and fishes; ... and now, Elizabeth, ring the
bell, let the breakfast be removed, and you will see that I shall reply
in a very sober and proper way to this pathetic communication."
The letter Mrs. Peters composed and read to her daughters, was approved
even by the sober-minded and conscientious Elizabeth; it contained an
obliging offer of accommodation at their house in Rodney Place, till
Mrs. Barnaby should have found lodgings to suit her, and ended with kind
regards from all the family, and "_I beg you to believe me your
affectionate sister, Margaret Peters_."
So far, everything prospered with our widow. This invitation was exactly
what she wished, and having answered, accepted, and fixed the day and
probable hour at which it was to begin, Mrs. Barnaby once more enjoyed
the delight of preparing herself for a journey that was to lead her
another step towards the goal she had in view.