MRS. BARNABY FEELS CONSCIOUS OF IMPROVEMENT, AND REJOICES AT IT.--HOPES
FOR THE FUTURE.--A CONVERSATION IN WHICH MUCH GENEROUS SINCERITY IS
DISPLAYED.--A LETTER INTENDED TO BE EXPLANATORY, BUT FAILING TO BE SO.
Mrs. Barnaby's first feelings after the Major left her were agreeable
enough. She had escaped with little injury from a great danger, and,
while believing herself infinitely wiser than before, she was conscious
of no reason that should either lower her estimate of herself, or check
the ambitious projects with which she had set forth from her native town
to push her fortune in the world. But her views were improved and
enlarged, her experience was more practical and enlightened, and her
judgment, as to those trifling fallacies by which people of great
ability are enabled to delude people of little, though in no degree
changed as to its _morale_, was greatly purified and sharpened as to
the means to be employed. Thus, by way of example, it may be mentioned
that, during the hour of mental examination which followed Major Allen's
adieux, Mrs. Barnaby determined never again to mention Silverton Park;
and, if at any time led to talk of her favourite greys, that the
pastures they fed in, and the roads they traversed, should on no account
be particularly specified. Neither her courage nor her hopes were at all
lowered by this her first adventure; on the contrary, by setting her to
consider from whence arose the blunder, it led her to believe that her
danger had been occasioned solely by her own too great humility in not
having soared high enough to seek her quarry.
"In making new acquaintance," thus ran her soliloquy--"in making new
acquaintance, the rank and station of the party should be too
unequivocal to render a repetition of such danger possible.... I was to
blame in so totally neglecting the evident admiration of Colonel Hubert,
in order to gratify the jealous feelings of Major Allen.... That was a
man to whom I might have devoted myself without danger, his family and
fortune known to all the world ... and himself so every way calculated
to do me honour. But it is too late now!... His feelings have been too
deeply wounded.... I cannot forget the glances of jealous anger which I
have seen him throw on that unworthy Allen.... But my time must not be
wasted in regrets; I must look forward."
And look forward she did with a very bold and dashing vein of
speculation, although for the present moment her power of putting any
new plans in action was greatly paralyzed by her having been bound over
to prosecute Betty Jacks and her accomplices at the next Bristol
assizes. Now Bristol and its vicinity had become equally her contempt
and aversion. The Major had taught her to consider the trade-won wealth
of the Peterses as something derogatory to her dignity; and though she
still hoped to make them useful, she had altogether abandoned the notion
that they could make her great. During the time that it would be
necessary for her to remain at Clifton, however, she determined to
maintain as much intimacy with them as "their very stiff manners" would
permit, and carefully to avoid anything approaching to another affair of
the heart till she should have left their neighbourhood, and the scene
of her late failure, behind.
As soon as her spirits had recovered the double shock they had received
from the perfidies of Betty Jacks and Major Allen, she remembered with
great satisfaction the discovery made of Agnes's singing powers. Though
more than eighteen years had passed since her musical father and mother
had warbled together for the delight of the Silverton _soirees_, Mrs.
Barnaby had not forgotten the applause their performances used to
elicit, nor the repeated assurances of the best informed among their
auditors, that the voices of both were of very first-rate quality. The
belief that Agnes inherited their powers, now suggested more than one
project. In the first place, it would make the parties she was
determined to give extremely attractive, and might very probably be
sufficient to render her at once the fashion, either at Cheltenham,
which she intended should be the scene of her next campaign, or
anywhere else where it was her will and pleasure to display it. Nor was
this ornamental service the only one to which she thought it possible
she might convert the voice of Agnes. She knew that the exploits she
contemplated were hazardous, as well as splendid; and that, although
success was probable, failure might be possible, in which case she might
fall back upon this newly-discovered treasure, and either marry her
niece, or put her on the stage, or make her a singing mistress, as she
should find most feasible and convenient.
With these notions in her head, she attacked Agnes on the singular
concealment of her talent, as well as upon other matters, during
breakfast the morning after the unlamented Major's departure, which was
in fact the first time they had been alone together, Agnes having passed
the whole of the preceding day at Rodney Place.
In answer to her niece's gentle salutation, she said in a tone very far
from amiable, though it affected to be so,----
"Yes, yes, good morning, aunt!... that's all very well; ... and now,
please to tell me where I shall find another young lady living with a
generous relation to whom she owes her daily bread, who, knowing that
relation's anxiety about everything concerning her, has chosen to make a
secret of the only thing on earth she can do.... Tell me, if you can,
where I shall find anything like that?"
"If you mean my singing, aunt, I have told you already why I never said
anything about it.... My only reason was, because I did not like to ask
you for a piano."
"That's all hypocrisy, Miss Agnes; and let who will be taken in by you,
I am not ... and you may just remember that, miss, now and always. You
were afraid, perhaps, that I might make you of some use to me. But the
scheme won't answer. With the kindest temper in the world, I have plenty
of resolution to do just whatever I think right, and that's what I shall
do by you. I shall say no more about it in this nasty, vulgar,
merchandizing sort of a place; but as soon as we get among ladies and
gentlemen that I consider my equals, I shall begin to give regular
parties like other people of fashion, and then ... let me hear you
refuse to sing when I ask you ... and we shall see what will happen
next."
"Indeed, aunt, I believe you are mistaken about my voice," replied
Agnes; "I have never had teaching enough to enable me to sing so well as
you seem to suppose; and, in fact, I know little or nothing about it,
except what dear good Mr. Wilmot used to tell me; and I don't believe he
has heard any really good singing for the last twenty years."
"And I was not at Mrs. Peters's the other night, I suppose, Miss
Willoughby?... and I did not hear all the praise, and the rapture, and
the fuss, didn't I?... What a fool you do seem to take me for, Agnes!...
However, I don't mean to quarrel with you.... You know what sacrifices I
have made, and not all your bad behaviour shall prevent my making more
still for you.... You shall have a master, if I find you want one; and
when we get to Cheltenham, you shall be sure to have a pianoforte. Does
that please you?"
"I shall be very glad to be able to practice again, aunt, only...."
"Only what, if you please?"
"Why, I mean to say that I should be sorry you should expect to make a
great performer of me; ... for I am certain that you will be
disappointed."
"Stuff and nonsense!... Don't trouble yourself about my
disappointments--I'll take care to get what I want.... And there's
another talent, Miss Agnes, which I shall expect to find in you; and I
hope you have made a secret of that too, for I never saw much sign of
it.... I want you to be very active and clever, and to act as my maid
till I get one. Indeed, I'm not sure I shall ever get one again, they
seem to be such plagues; and if I find you ain't too great a fool to do
what I want, I have a notion that I shall take a tiger instead--it will
be much more respectable.... Pray, Agnes, have you any idea about
dressing hair?"
"I think I could do it as well for you, aunt, as Jerningham did,"
replied Agnes with perfect good-humour.
"And that's not quite so well as I want; but I suppose you know that as
well as I do, only you choose to shew off your impertinence.... And
there's my drawers to keep in order ... dunce as you are, I suppose you
can do that; and fifty other little things there will be, now that
good-for-nothing baggage is gone, which I promise you I do not intend to
do for myself."
Did Agnes repent having sent the enamoured possessor of seven thousand
a-year from her in despair, as she listened to this sketch of her future
occupations? No, not for a moment. No annoyances that her aunt could
threaten, no escape from them that Mr. Stephenson could offer, had the
power of mastering in her mind the one prominent idea, which, like the
rod of the chosen priest, swallowed up all the rest.
And this engrossing, this cherished, this secretly hoarded idea ... how
was it nurtured and sustained? Did the object of it return to occupy
every hour of her life by giving her looks, words, and movements to
meditate upon? No; Colonel Hubert appeared no more at Clifton; and
Agnes, notwithstanding the flashes of fond hope that, like the soft
gleaming of the glow-worm, had occasionally brightened the gloom of her
prospects, was left to suppose that he had taken his departure in
company with his offended friend, and that she should probably never
hear of him more. Was he then angry at her refusal? Was the notice he
had taken of her for his friend's pleasure rather than his own? Poor
Agnes! there was great misery in this thought. They had indeed both left
Clifton on the same day, though they had not left it together. But that
she knew not.... Colonel Hubert, as we have seen, was already on his way
to London when the impetuous Frederick staked all his dearest hopes upon
his sanguine, but most mistaken judgment of a young girl's heart; and
when the ill-fated experiment was over, he posted with all speed across
the country to Southampton, and there embarked to take refuge among the
hills and the orchards of Normandy.
The recollection of the manner in which he had driven Colonel Hubert
from him, was no slight aggravation of his unhappiness, when he gave
himself time to take breath, and to reflect a little. He felt deeply,
bitterly, the loss of Agnes, but perhaps he felt more bitterly still the
loss of his friend. The first, as he could not help confessing to
himself, was the loss of a good he had possessed only in his own fond
fancy; the last was that of the most substantial good that man can
possess ... a tried, attached, and honourable friend.
For many days, and many nights too, Frederick suffered sorely from the
battle that was going on between his pride and his consciousness of
having been wrong; but, happily for his repose, his pride at length gave
way, and the following letter was written and directed to the United
Service Club, whence, sooner or later, he knew it would reach the friend
to whom it was addressed.
"Most men, my dear Hubert, would be too angry at the petulance
I exhibited during our last interview even to receive an
apology for it, ... but you are not one of them; and you will
let me tell you, without receiving the confession too
triumphantly, that I have never known a moment's peace from
that day to this, nor ever shall till you send me your
forgiveness as frankly as I ask it. You may do this with the
more safety, dear Hubert, because we shall never again quarrel
on the same occasion; and so perfectly have I found you to be
right in all you said and all you hinted on that fair but
unfortunate subject, that henceforward I think I shall be
afraid to pronounce upon the colour of a lady's hair, or the
tincture of her skin, till I have heard your judgment thereon.
Let us, therefore, never talk again either of the terrible Mrs.
Barnaby or her beautiful niece; but, forgetting that anything
of the kind could breed discord between us, remember only that
I am, and ever must be,
"Your most affectionate friend,
"FREDERICK STEPHENSON."
How many times did Colonel Hubert read over this letter before he could
satisfy himself that he understood it? This is a question that cannot be
answered, because he never did by means of these constantly repeated
readings ever arrive at any such conclusion at all. Had Mrs. Barnaby's
name been altogether omitted, he might have fancied that his own deep
but unacknowledged belief that Miss Willoughby would refuse his friend,
had been manifest in the dissuasive words he had spoken, notwithstanding
his caution. But this allusion to the widow, who had so repeatedly been
the theme of his prophetic warnings, left him at liberty to suppose that
Frederick's solitary and repentant rumination upon all he had propounded
on that fertile subject, had finally induced him to give up the pursuit,
and to leave Clifton without having proposed to her niece.
Anything more destructive to the tranquillity of Colonel Hubert than
this doubt can hardly be imagined. He had long persuaded himself, it is
true, that it was impossible, under any circumstances, he could ever
confess to Agnes what his own feelings were, as his friendship for
Stephenson must put it totally out of his power to do so.... The
frankness of Frederick's early avowal of his passion to him, and the
style and tone of the opposition with which he had met it, must
inevitably lay him under such an imputation of dishonour, if he
addressed her himself, as he could not bear to think of....
Nevertheless, he felt, or fancied, that he should be much more tranquil
and resigned could he have known to a certainty whether Stephenson had
proposed to her or not. It was long, however, ere any opportunity of
satisfying himself on this point arose. The reconciliation, indeed,
between himself and his friend, was perfect, and their letters breathed
the same spirit of affectionate confidence as heretofore; but how could
Colonel Hubert abuse this confidence by asking a question which could
not be answered in any way, without opening afresh the wound that he
feared still rankled in the breast of his friend?
It would be selfish and ungenerous in the extreme, and must not be
thought of; but this forbearance robbed the high-minded Hubert of the
only consolation that his situation left him,--namely, the belief that
the young Agnes, notwithstanding the disparity in their years, had been
too near loving him to accept the hand of another. Of the two
interpretations to which the letter of Frederick was open, this, the
most flattering to himself, was the one that faded fastest away from the
mind of Colonel Hubert, till he hardly dared remember that he had once
believed it possible; and he finally remained with the persuasion that
his too tractable friend had yielded to his arguments against the
marriage, without ever having put the feelings of Agnes to the test,
which he would have given the world to believe had been tried, and been
withstood.