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THE WIDOW BARNABY.
BY FRANCES TROLLOPE,
AUTHOR OF "THE VICAR OF WREXHILL," "A ROMANCE OF VIENNA," ETC.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
1839.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY SAMUEL BENTLEY,
Dorset Street, Fleet Street.
THE WIDOW BARNABY.
CHAPTER I.
MRS. BARNABY LOSES HER SENSES, AND RECOVERS THEM.--SHE TAKES A DESPERATE
RESOLUTION.--MISS MORRISON PROVES HERSELF A FRIEND IN NEED.--AGNES FINDS
CONSOLATION IN SORROW.
Mrs. Barnaby's horror on recovering her senses (for she really did fall
into a swoon) was in very just proportion to the extent of the outlay
her noble vision had cost her. To Miss Morrison, who had listened to all
her hopes, she scrupled not to manifest her despair, not, however,
entering into the financial part of it, but leaving it to be understood
by her sympathizing friend, that her agony proceeded wholly from
disappointed love.
"What a Lovelace!... what a Lothario!... what a finished deceiver!...
_Keloreur!..._" exclaimed the pitying spinster.... "And how thankful
ought I to be that no man can ever again cause me such terrible
emotion.... _Nong jammy!_"
"Gracious Heaven! what is to become of me?" cried Mrs. Barnaby,
apparently but little consoled by this assurance of her friend's
exemption from a similar misfortune; "what ought I to do, Miss
Morrison?... If I set off instantly for London, do you think I could
reach it before he leaves it for Rome?"
Miss Morrison, having turned to the newspaper, examined its date, and
read the fatal paragraph again, replied, "You certainly could, my dear
Mrs. Barnaby, if this statement be correct; but I would not do it, if I
were you, without thinking very seriously about it.... It is true I
never had a lord for a lover myself, but I believe when they run
restive, they are exceedingly difficult to hold; and if you do go after
him, and fail at last to touch his cruel heart, you will be only worse
off than you are now.... _Say clare._"
"That may be all very true in one sense, Miss Morrison," replied the
unhappy widow; "but there is such a thing as pursuing a man lawfully for
breach of promise of marriage, and ... though money is no object to
me ... I should glory in getting damages from him, if only to prove to
the world that he is a scoundrel!"
"That is quite another thing, indeed," said the confidant, "_toot a
fay_; and, if you mean to bring an action against him, I am pretty sure
that I could be very useful to you; for my brother is an attorney in
London, and is reckoned particularly clever about everything of the
kind. But have you any proof, my dear lady?... that is what my brother
will be sure to say to you.... I know you have had lots of letters; and
if you have kept them all, it is most likely my brother may find out
something like proof.... _Eel ay see abeel!_"
"Proof?... To be sure I have proof enough, if that's all that's wanted;
and I'll go to your brother at once, Miss Morrison, for revenge I'll
have ... if nothing else."
"Then of course you'll take all his love letters with you, Mrs.
Barnaby; and I think, if you would let me look over them, I should be
able to tell you whether they would answer the purpose or not.--_Jay me
coney ung pew._"
"I should have no objection in the world to your seeing them every one,"
replied the outraged lady; ... "but I am thinking, Miss Morrison, that I
have an immense deal of business to do, and that I shall never get
through it without your friendly help ... I am thinking...."
And Mrs. Barnaby was thinking, and very much to the purpose too. She was
thinking, that though she had squandered about seventy or eighty pounds
in trifling purchases, by far the greater part of the expenses her noble
lover had induced her to run into, were still in the shape of debts, the
money with which she proposed to discharge them being as yet paying her
interest in the funds. Could she contrive to leave the heaviest of these
debts unpaid till she knew the result of her intended attack upon Lord
Mucklebury's purse, it would be very convenient. Perhaps some vague
notion that she, too, might visit the continent, and thus escape the
necessity of paying them at all, might mix itself with her meditations;
but at any rate she very speedily decided upon leaving Cheltenham the
following day without mentioning her intention to her milliner, mercer,
tailor, shoemaker, hosier, perfumer, livery-stable keeper, librarian, or
even to her hair-dresser. If she got damages, she should certainly
return and pay them all with great _eclat_; if not ... circumstances
must decide what it would be most advisable for her to do.
Great as was her esteem and affection for Miss Morrison, she did not
think it necessary to trouble her with all these trifling details, but
resumed the conversation by saying,--
"Yes, my dear Miss Morrison, I am thinking that the best thing I can do
will be to go to London for a day or two, see your brother, put all my
documents into his hands, and then return to Cheltenham for the
remainder of the season, for I am sure I should be more likely to
recover my spirits in your friendly society than anywhere else."
"Indeed I approve your resolution altogether," replied Miss Morrison;
"and I will write a line by you to my brother, telling him that whatever
he does to assist you, I shall take as a personal favour to myself."
"I cannot thank you enough!" said the widow, pressing her hand.... "We
shall be able to get everything ready to-night I hope; and when my
coachman comes as usual for orders at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning,
tell him, my dear friend, to drive you about wherever you like to go....
And you may mention, if you please, that I shall want him to take us a
long drive on Saturday to see the Roman Pavement.... I mean to return on
Friday night ... for what will be the use, you know, of my staying in
town?"
"None in the world ... but I think you had better name Monday for the
drive ... for fear you should be too tired on Saturday."
"Well, just as you please about that ... but you had better go and write
your letter, and I'll speak to Agnes and my maid about packing."
"Perhaps you will not like to take Miss Willoughby.... I will take the
greatest care of her, if you will leave her in my charge."
"How _very_ kind!... But I would rather take her.... I can't do without
somebody to lace my stays and fasten my dress, and I want my maid to
finish the work she is about.... She is an exquisite darner, and I have
set her to mend the rent that hateful Lord Mucklebury made in my India
muslin.... So I don't mean to take her."
* * * * *
Nothing of any kind occurred to interfere with the execution of this
hastily, but by no means unskilfully, imagined plan. The ready-money
expenditure of Mrs. Barnaby had been so lavish, that she had bought
golden opinions from master, mistress, men, and maids throughout the
establishment; and when she summoned Mr. ----, the landlord, to her
presence, and informed him that she was going to London for a couple of
days on business, but should not give up her rooms, as she should take
neither of her servants with her, he received the communication with
great satisfaction, and promised that no one but her own people should
enter her drawing-room till her return.
This preliminary business happily settled, Mrs. Barnaby mounted the
stairs to her bed-room, where, as usual, she found Agnes busily occupied
in her corner, the hour for an evening engagement made with Lady
Stephenson not having yet arrived.
For some reason or other Mrs. Barnaby never enjoyed any flirtation so
much in the presence of Agnes as without her; and it was for this reason
that at Cheltenham, as well as at Clifton, she had encouraged her making
acquaintance for herself; thus her constant intercourse with Lady
Elizabeth Norris and Lady Stephenson had never in any degree been
impeded by her aunt.
Mrs. Barnaby was aware that Agnes had engaged to pass this evening with
them; and when she looked at her tranquil face as she entered the room
she felt greatly disposed to plague her by saying that she must stay at
home to pack, and could not go.... But a moment's reflection suggested
to her that the less fuss she made about this packing the better, and
therefore only told her that she was obliged to set off by seven o'clock
the next morning for London, on business that would detain her for a day
or two ... that she meant to take her, and leave her maid; and that
before she set off upon her gossiping visit, it would be necessary to
pack her trunk.
Agnes laid down her book, and looked surprised.
"Don't stare so like a fool, Agnes.... Do what I bid you instantly."
"There will be no occasion for me to pack much, aunt, if we are only to
stay a day or two," said Agnes.
"When I tell you to pack your trunk, miss, I mean that your trunk shall
be packed, and I won't trouble you to give me any opinion on the
subject."
"Am I to put everything into it, aunt?"
"Plague of my life, yes!" replied Mrs. Barnaby, whose vexed spirit
seemed to find relief in speaking harshly.
Without further remonstrance Agnes set about obeying her; and the little
all that formed her mourning wardrobe was quickly transferred from the
two drawers allowed her to the identical trunk which aunt Betsy had
provided for her first journey from Silverton to Empton.
"And my books, aunt?..." said Agnes, fixing her eyes on the heated
countenance of the widow with some anxiety.
Mrs. Barnaby hesitated, and Agnes saw she did. It was not because the
little library of her niece formed the chief happiness of her life that
she scrupled at bidding her leave them behind, but because she suspected
that they, and their elegant little case, were of some marketable
value.... "You may take them if you will," she said at length.... "I
don't care a straw what you take, or what you leave ... only don't
plague me.... You must know, I suppose, if you are not quite an idiot,
that when people go to London on business, it is possible they may stay
longer than they expect."
Agnes asked no more questions, but quietly packed up everything that
belonged to her; and when the work, no very long one, was completed, she
said,--
"Can I be of any use to you, aunt, before I go out?"
"I should like to know what use you are ever likely to be of to
anybody," ... was the reply. "Take yourself off, in God's name!--the
sooner the better."
The very simple toilet of Agnes was soon arranged; and having left
everything in perfect order for departure, she uttered a civil but
unanswered "Good-b'ye, aunt," and went away.
It so chanced that a little volume of poems, lent to her by Lady
Stephenson, had been left in the drawing-room, and Agnes, wishing to
return it before leaving Cheltenham, entered the room to look for it. As
a good many circulating-library volumes were lying about, it was some
minutes before she found it; and just as she had succeeded, and was
leaving the apartment, Miss Morrison appeared at the door. She had a
letter in her hand, and a bustling, busy look and manner, which led
Agnes to suppose that she had something of consequence to say to her
aunt.
"Shall I run up stairs and desire my aunt to come to you, Miss
Morrison?" said she.
"No, thank you, my dear ... you are very kind, but I think I had better
go up to her; I only stepped in first to see if she was here.... She is
very busy packing, I suppose, and perhaps I can help her."
"Then you know, Miss Morrison, that she is going to London to-morrow?"
said Agnes.
"Oh! dear, yes: I believe it was I put it into her head first, ... and
this is the letter she is to take to my brother. I am sure I hope she'll
succeed with all my heart; and I should like to hear that Lord
Mucklebury had ten thousand pounds to pay her for damages."
"Damages!" repeated Agnes; "what for?"
"What for, my dear child?.... Why, for having used her so abominably
ill, to be sure ... there is nobody that saw them together as I did,
but must have supposed he intended to marry her."
"And if he has used her ill, Miss Morrison," said Agnes, looking greatly
alarmed, "will it not be exposing herself still more if she goes to law
about it? Indeed, Miss Morrison, you should not advise her to do
anything so very wrong and disagreeable."
"Don't blame me, my dear, I beg of you ... the idea was quite her own
_toot a fay_, I assure you, and all I have done to further it was just
writing this letter to my brother for her. He is a very clever lawyer,
and I'm sure she could not do better."
"It would be much better, Miss Morrison, if she did not do anything,"
said Agnes, while tears started to her eyes at the idea of this fresh
exposure.
"I don't think, my dear Miss Agnes, that you can be much of a judge,"
retorted the adviser. "However, as you do choose to give an opinion upon
the subject, and seem to be so very much afraid that she should expose
herself, I must just tell you that you owe it to me if she does not go
galloping after Lord Mucklebury all the way to Rome.... She had the
greatest possible inclination to do so, I assure you.... However, I
think that I have put it out of her head by talking to her of
damages.... But you are going down stairs, and I am going up ... so,
good-bye.... Don't frighten yourself more than is needful; it is as
likely as not that you will never be called into court.... _O revor!_"
Agnes, sick at heart, and trembling for the future, repaired to the
house of Lady Elizabeth. Lady Stephenson was at the pianoforte, and the
old lady reading near a window; but as soon as her young guest was
announced, she closed her volume, and said, "You are late, little
girl ... we have been expecting you this hour, and this is the last
evening we shall have quietly to ourselves; for Colonel Hubert writes us
word that he is coming to-morrow, and he is a much more stay-at-home
person than Sir Edward."
Colonel Hubert coming to Cheltenham the very day she was to leave it!...
These were not tidings to cheer her spirits, already agitated and
depressed, and when she attempted to speak, she burst into tears. Lady
Stephenson was at her side in a moment. "Agnes!..." she said, "what
ails you?... You are as white as a ghost.... Had you heard any agitating
news before you came here?"
Struck by the accent with which this was spoken, and perceiving in a
moment that Lady Stephenson thought the mention of Colonel Hubert's
arrival had caused her emotion, she hastened to reply, and did so
perhaps with more frankness than she might have shewn had she not been
particularly anxious to prove that there were other and very sufficient
reasons for her discomposure.
"News most painful and most sad to me, Lady Stephenson," she said.... "I
believe you have heard my aunt Barnaby's foolish flirtation with Lord
Mucklebury spoken of.... Lady Elizabeth was laughing about it the other
day."
"And who was not, my dear?... The saucy Viscount has made her, they say,
the subject of a ballad.... But is it for this you weep?... Or is it
because he is gone away, and that there's an end of it?"
"Alas! Lady Elizabeth, there is not an end of it, and it is for that I
weep ... though indeed I ought to beg your pardon for bringing such
useless sorrow here; ... but I find that my aunt fancies she has a claim
upon him--a legal claim, and that she is going to London to-morrow to
bring an action against him."
"Is it possible?" exclaimed the old lady, looking at poor Agnes with
very genuine compassion.... "God knows you may well weep, my poor
child.... I shall begin to think I gave but sorry advice, Agnes, when I
told you to stay with her. It may, after all, be better to run some risk
in leaving her, than brave certain disgrace and ridicule by remaining to
reside in her family."
"Is she going to take you to town with her, Agnes?" inquired Lady
Stephenson with a look of deep concern.
"Yes, Lady Stephenson, I am to go with her."
There was a very painful silence of a minute or two. Both the admiring
friends of Agnes would have done much to save her from being a sharer in
such an enterprize; but to interfere with the indisputable authority of
such a woman as Mrs. Barnaby in her arrangements concerning a niece, who
had no dependence but on her, was out of the question, and the
conviction that it was so kept them silent.
"How did you hear this strange story, my dear?" said Lady Elizabeth....
"Did your aunt explain to you her ridiculous purpose herself?"
"No, Lady Elizabeth ... she only bade me prepare my trunk for going to
London with her.... It was Miss Morrison, whom I met by chance as I came
out, who told me the object of the journey; ... and dreadful as this
going to law would be, it is not the worst thing I fear."
"What worse can there be, Agnes?" said Lady Stephenson.
"I am almost ashamed to tell you of such fears, ... but when I uttered
something like a reproach to Miss Morrison for having advised this
journey, and writing a letter about it to her brother, who is a lawyer
in London, she told me that I ought to be grateful to her for preventing
my aunt's following Lord Mucklebury all the way to Rome, for that such
was her first intention ... and" ... continued Agnes, bursting anew into
tears, "I greatly, greatly suspect that she has not given up this
intention yet."
The two ladies exchanged glances of pity and dismay, and Lady Elizabeth,
making her a sign to come close to her, took her kindly by the hand,
saying, in accents much more gentle than she usually bestowed on any
one, "My poor, dear girl, what makes you think this? Tell me, Agnes,
tell me all they have said to you."
Agnes knelt down on the old lady's foot-stool, and gently kissing the
venerable hand which held hers, said, "It is very, _very_ kind of you to
let me tell you all, ... and your judgment will be more to be trusted
than mine as to what it may mean; but my reason for thinking that my
aunt is going to do more than she confesses to Miss Morrison is, that
she has publicly declared her intended absence will be only for two
days; and yet, though she told me this too, she ordered me to pack up
everything I had, ... even the little collection of books I told you of,
Lady Stephenson, ... and, moreover, instead of letting her maid put up
her things, I left her doing it herself, and saw her before I came away
putting a vast variety of her most valuable things in a great travelling
trunk that she could never think of taking, if it were really her
intention to stay in London only two days, and then return to
Cheltenham."
"Very suspicious ... very much so indeed," said the old lady; "and all I
can say to you in reply, my poor child, is this. _You must not go abroad
with her!_ I am not rich enough to charge myself with providing for you,
nor must your friend Emily here frighten her new husband by talking of
taking possession of you, Agnes, ... but ... you must not go abroad with
that woman. Governess you must be, I suppose, if things go on in this
way; and instead of opposing it, I will try if I cannot find a
situation in which you may at least be safer than with this aunt
Barnaby. Whatever happens, you must let us hear from you; and remember,
the moment you discover that she really proposes to take you abroad, you
are to put yourself into a Cheltenham coach, and come directly to me."
What words were these for Agnes to listen to!... Colonel Hubert was to
take up his residence in that house on the morrow; and she was now told
in a voice of positive command, that if what she fully expected would
happen, did happen, she was at once to seek a shelter there! She dared
not trust her voice to say, "I thank you," but she ventured to raise her
eyes to the hard-featured but benignant countenance that bent over her,
and the kiss she received on her forehead proved that though her silence
might not be fully understood, her gratitude was not doubted.
The evening was not, like many others recently passed there, so happy,
that Mrs. Barnaby's footman often came to escort her home before she
thought the time for parting could be half arrived. They had no music,
no scraps of poetry in Italian or in English, as touch-stones of taste
and instruction, with which Lady Stephenson loved to test the powers of
her young favourite; but the conversation rested almost wholly upon the
gloomy and uncertain future. At length the moment came in which she was
to bid these valued friends adieu; they embraced and blessed her with
tenderness, nay, even with tears; but little did they guess the tumult
that swelled the breast of Agnes. It was Hubert's sister to whom she
clung ... it was Hubert's aunt--almost his mother--who hung over her,
looking as if she were her mother too!... and on the morrow he would be
with them, and he would hear her named; for notwithstanding their
unmeasured superiority to her in all ways, they could not forget her so
soon, ... he would hear of her sorrows, of the dangers that surrounded
her; and he would hear too, perhaps, of the shelter offered her in the
very house he dwelt in.
All these thoughts were busy in her head as she uttered the last
farewell, and turned again in passing through the door to look once
more on those who would so soon be looked at by him.
There was certainly a strange pleasure mixed with all this sadness, for
though she wept through half the night, she would not have exchanged the
consciousness of having been brought nearer to him, even by the act of
having mingled tears in parting with his nearest relations, for all the
enjoyment that a tranquil spirit and a calm night's rest could offer in
exchange for it.