AGNES RECEIVES ANOTHER UNEXPECTED VISIT.--MRS. BARNABY RETURNS TO HER
LODGINGS AND CATCHES THE VISITER THERE.
The seven or eight months elapsed since the reader parted from Miss
Compton, passed not over the head of the secluded spinster as lightly as
the years which had gone before ... for her conscience was not quite at
rest. For some time the vehemence of the indignation and disgust excited
by Mrs. Barnaby, during their last interview, sustained her spirits,
much as a potent but noxious dram might have done; and during this time
the fact of Agnes being her inmate and companion, was quite sufficient
to communicate such a degree of contamination to her, as made the
choleric old lady turn from all thought of her with most petulant
dislike. The letter of Mrs. Barnaby, demanding an allowance for Agnes,
reached her just when all this violence was beginning to subside, and
acting like turpentine on an expiring flame, made her anger and hatred
rage again with greater fury than ever. This demand was refused, as we
have seen, in the harshest manner possible, and the writing this
insulting negative was a considerable relief to the spinster's feelings.
But when this was done, and all intercourse, as it should seem, finally
closed between herself and the only human being concerning whom she was
capable of feeling any lively interest, her anger drooped and faded, and
her health and spirits drooped and faded too. She remembered, when it
was too late, that it was not Agnes's fault that she was living with
Mrs. Barnaby; and conscience told her, that if she had come forward, as
she might and ought to have done, at the time of her brother's death,
the poor child might have been saved from the chance of any moral
resemblance to the object of her aversion, however much she might
unhappily inherit the detestable Wisett beauty. Then, too, came the
remembrance of the beautiful vision, whose caresses she had rejected
when irritated almost to madness by the tauntings of Mrs. Barnaby; and
the idea that the punishment allotted to her in this world for this
flagrant act of injustice, was the being doomed never to behold that
fair young creature more, lay with a daily increasing weight of
melancholy on her spirits.
It was on the afternoon of a fine September day that the letter of Agnes
reached her. As usual, she was sitting in her bower, and her flowers
bloomed and her bees hummed about her as heretofore, but the sprightly
black eye that used to watch them was greatly dimmed. She had almost
wholly lost her relish for works of fiction, and reading a daily portion
of the Bible, which she had never omitted in her life, was perhaps the
only one of all her comfortable habits that remained unchanged.
It would be no easy matter to paint the state into which the perusal of
Agnes's letter threw her. Self-reproach was lost in the sort of ecstasy
with which she remembered how thriftily she had hoarded her wealth, and
how ample were the means she possessed to give protection and welcome to
the poor orphan who thus sought a refuge in her bosom. All the strength
and energy she had lost seemed to rush back upon her as her need called
for them, ... and there was more of courage and enterprize within that
diminutive old woman than always falls to the lot of a six-foot-two
dragoon.
Her resolution as to what she intended to do was taken in a moment, and
without any weakening admixture of doubts and uncertainties as to when
and how; but she knew that she should want her strength, and must
therefore husband it. Her step was, therefore, neither hurried nor
unsteady as she returned to the house, and mounted to her sitting-room.
The first thing she did on entering it was to drink a glass of water,
the next to endite a note to the postmaster at Silverton, ordering a
chaise and four horses to be at Compton Basett by daybreak to take her
the first stage towards London. She then rang her bell, gave her note
to Peggy Wright, the farmer's youngest daughter, who was her constant
attendant, and bade her request that her father, if in the house, would
come to her immediately. There was enough in the unusual circumstances
of a letter received, and a note sent, to excite the good farmer's
curiosity, and he was in the presence of his landlady as quickly as she
could herself have wished.
"Sit down, Farmer Wright," said Miss Compton, and the farmer seated
himself.
"I must leave Compton Basett to-morrow morning, Farmer Wright," she
resumed. "My niece--my great niece, I mean, Miss Willoughby, has written
me a letter, which determines me to go to London immediately for the
purpose of taking charge of her myself."
"Sure-ly, Miss Compton, you bean't goen' to set off all by your own self
for Lunnun?" exclaimed the farmer.
"Not if I can manage before night to get a couple of servants to attend
me."
Farmer Wright stared; there was something quite new in Miss Betsy's
manner of talking.
"You are a very active man, farmer, in the haymaking season," continued
Miss Compton with a smile; "do you think, that to oblige and serve me,
you could be as much on the alert for the next three or four hours as if
you had a rick to save from a coming storm of rain?"
"That I wool!" replied Wright heartily. "Do you but bid me do, Miss
Betsy, and I'll do it."
"Then go to your sister Appleby's, and inquire if her son William has
left Squire Horton's yet."
"I need not go so far for that, Miss Compton; Will is down stairs with
my missus at this very minute," said the farmer.
"That is fortunate!... He is not likely to go away directly, is he?"
"No, not he, Miss Betsy; he is come to have a crack with our young 'uns,
and it's more likely he'll stay all night than be off in such a hurry."
"Then, in that case, have the kindness, Farmer Wright, to saddle a
horse, while I write a line to the bank.... I want you to ride over to
Silverton for me, to get some money."
"And I'll do it," replied her faithful assistant, leaving the room.
Fortunately for her present convenience, Miss Compton always kept a
deposit of about one hundred pounds in the bank at Silverton in case of
need, either for the purpose of making the loans which have been already
mentioned as a principal feature in her works of charity, or for any
accidental contingency. Beyond this, however, she had no pecuniary
transactions there, as her habitual secrecy in all that concerned her
money affairs made it desirable that her agent should be more distant.
This fund, however, was quite sufficient for the moment, for, as will be
easily believed, Miss Compton had no debts.
Farmer Wright speedily re-appeared, equipped for his ride.
"You will receive ninety-seven pounds sixteen and two-pence, Wright,"
said the spinster, giving her draught.
"Would it suit you best to receive the rent, Miss Betsy, before you set
off?" said the farmer. "It will make no difference, you know, ma'am, if
I pays it a fortnight beforehand."
"Not an hour, upon any account, Wright," replied his punctilious
landlady. "I will leave written instructions with you as to what you are
to do with it, and about all my other affairs in which you are
concerned. And now send William Appleby to me."
This young man, the nephew of her tenant, and the ex-footman of a
neighbouring family, had been favourably known to her from his
childhood; and a very few minutes sufficed to enrol him as her servant,
with an understanding that his livery was to be ordered as soon as they
reached London.
This done, Mrs. Wright was next desired to attend her; and with very
little waste of time or words, it was agreed between them, that if
"father" made no objection, (which both parties were pretty sure he
would not,) Peggy should be immediately converted into a waiting-maid to
attend upon herself and Miss Willoughby. This last arrangement produced
an effect very likely to be destructive to all Miss Betsy's quiet,
well-laid plans for preparation, for the news that Peggy was to set off
next morning for London very nearly turned the heads of every individual
in the house.
The mother of the family, however, so far recovered her senses as to
appear again in Miss Compton's room at the end of an hour, but with a
heated face, and every appearance of having been in great activity.
"I ax your pardon, Miss Betsy, a thousand times!" said the good woman,
wiping her face; "but Peggy's things, you know, Miss Compton, can't be
like yours, all nicely in order in the drawers; and we must all wash and
iron too before she can be ready. But here I am now to help you, and I
can get your trunk ready in no time."
"I shall take very little with me, Mrs. Wright," replied the old lady,
who seemed as much _au fait_ of what she was about as if she had been in
the habit of visiting London every year of her life; "nor must Peggy
take much," she added gently, but with decision; "and getting her things
washed and ironed must be done after we are gone. I shall let you know
as soon as I can where the luggage that must follow us, shall be
addressed; and instead of washing and ironing, Mrs. Wright, I want you
and one of the elder girls to assist me in making an inventory of
everything I leave behind ... orders concerning which you will also
receive by the post."
Miss Compton, though a very quiet inmate, and one whose regular habits
gave little trouble, was nevertheless a person of great importance at
Compton Basett; and her commands, thus distinctly expressed, were
implicitly obeyed; so that before the usual hour of retiring for the
night, everything was arranged both for going and staying exactly as
she had determined they should be.
It was singular to see with what unvacillating steadiness this
feeble-looking old lady pursued her purpose; no obstacle appeared of
consequence sufficient to draw aside a thought from the main object she
had in view, but was either removed or passed over by an impulse that
seemed as irresistible as the steam that causes the train to rush along
the rail-road, making the way clear, if it does not find it so.
At daybreak the Silverton post-chaise, with four good horses and two
smart post-boys, were at the door; and within ten minutes afterwards all
adieux had been spoken, all luggage stowed, and Miss Compton, who had
never yet left her native county, was proceeding full gallop towards the
metropolis.
"As you drive, so you will be paid," said William to the boys as they
set off; and they did drive as boys so bargained with generally do. Miss
Compton had shewn equal quickness and good judgment in having secured
the services of this William, for he had repeatedly travelled with his
late master and mistress to London, was apt, quick, and intelligent; and
fully justified the expectation his new lady had formed, that, with
_carte blanche_ in the article of expense, he would manage her journey
as expeditiously, and with as little trouble to herself, as if she had
been attended with half a dozen outriders.
At Exeter she dined, and reposed herself for a couple of hours, during
which William undertook to hire a carriage for the journey, furnished
with a dickey behind, and all other conveniences; an arrangement which
greatly lessened the fatigue to all parties, and enabled the
active-minded old lady to proceed as far as Salisbury that night.
Daybreak again found her _en route_; and by means of William's
conditional mode of payment to the postilions, Miss Compton arrived at
Ibertson's Hotel by two o'clock in the afternoon.
It might be supposed, from the exertion used to reach the wide city in
which she knew poor Agnes stood alone, that Miss Compton would drive
directly to Half-Moon Street, and save her, as early as possible, from
all farther anxiety; but such was not her plan.... There was something
still wanting to prove her repentance and her love, before she could
present herself before the forsaken Agnes. All her schemes, all her
wishes, were explained to her efficient aide-de-camp; and while she and
the wondering Peggy reposed themselves, he was sent in search of
handsome private lodgings, which must be such as his master the member
for Silverton might have approved for his own family.... And then he was
to proceed to livery-stables where he was known, and hire for her, by
the week, a carriage and horses _fit for ladies to use_. Such were Miss
Compton's vague, but very judicious orders; and the result was, that by
the time she had dined and taken an hour's nap upon the sofa, a very
respectable equipage was at the door awaiting her orders. In and about
this the light luggage she had brought with her was arranged, and ten
minutes' drive brought her to handsome, airy lodgings, near the top of
Wimpole Street, where William thought he should be able to breathe
himself, and where his mistress and Peggy, new as they were to the smoke
and dust, might have as good a chance of doing so too as in any other
street he could think of.
Miss Compton was pleased, greatly pleased, with her new confidant's
promptitude and ability. The carriage pleased her, the horses, the
coachman, the house, the furniture, and the obsequious landlady too, all
pleased her; and she felt a degree of happiness as she set her Peggy to
make arrangements for the especial comfort and accommodation of Agnes,
such as she had never known before. It cured all fatigue, it overpowered
every feeling of strangeness in her new and most unwonted abode, and
gave a gaiety to her spirits, and lightness to her heart, that made her
look, as she stepped from room to room, like one of the little benignant
old fairies of which we read in French story books.
By eight o'clock all her preparations were complete, the tea-things
placed on the drawing-room table, Peggy given to understand that she was
to consider herself more as Miss Willoughby's personal attendant than
her own, and the carriage again at the door to convey her to the
longed-for yet almost dreaded meeting in Half-Moon Street.
Agnes had written to Miss Compton on Monday, and calculated that she
might receive an answer to her letter on Thursday morning. But Thursday
morning was past, and no letter arrived; and when about half-past eight
on that same evening she heard a carriage stop, and the knocker thunder,
the only idea that suggested itself was, that her aunt Barnaby was
returned, and that she should have to plead for a night's lodging under
her roof.
Her spirits were weakened by disappointment ... she had heard nothing
from Cheltenham since Colonel Hubert's visit; and this, together with
the non-arrival of any Devonshire letter, had caused a degree of
depression to which she very rarely gave way.
"What shall I say to her?... How shall I dare to meet her?" she
exclaimed. "Oh! if she keeps her word, what, what will become of me?"
She heard steps approaching, and feeling convinced it was her aunt
Barnaby, attempted in her terror to open the door that communicated
with the other room, but found it locked; and trembling like a hunted
fawn, obliged to turn to bay, she cast her eyes towards the dreaded
door, and saw Miss Compton gently and timidly entering by it.
"Aunt Betsy!" she cried, springing towards her, and falling
involuntarily upon her knees, "Oh! dear, dear aunt Betsy!... Is it
indeed possible that you are come for me?"
The poor old lady's high-wrought energies almost failed her now; and had
not a chair stood near, she would hardly have saved herself from falling
on the floor beside her niece. "Agnes!... poor child!" she said, "you
thought I was too hard and too cruel to come near you?... I have been
much to blame ... oh! frightfully to blame!... Will you forgive me, dear
one?... My poor pale girl!... You look ill, Agnes, very, very ill....
And is it not a fitting torment for me to see this fair bloodless
cheek?... for did I not hate you for your rosy health?"
Agnes was indeed pale; and though not fainting, was so near it, that
while her aunt uttered this passionate address, she had no power to
articulate a word. But she laid her cheek on the old lady's hands; and
there was something so caressing and so helpless in her attitude as she
did this, that poor Miss Compton was entirely overcome and wept aloud.
No sooner, however, had this first violent burst of emotion passed away,
than the happiness such a meeting was calculated to afford to both of
them, was most keenly and delightfully felt. Miss Compton looked at
Agnes, as the blood beautifully tinged her delicate cheek again, with
such admiration and delight, that it seemed likely enough,
notwithstanding her strong good sense on many points, that she might now
fall into another extreme, and idolize the being she had so harshly
thrust from her ... while the object of this new and unhoped-for
affection seemed to feel it at her very heart, and to be cheered and
warmed by it, like a tender plant receiving the first beams of the
morning sun after the chilling coldness of the night.
At length Miss Compton remembered that she was not come there only to
look at Agnes; and withdrawing her arms, which she had thrown around
her, she said.... "Come, my own child ... this is no roof for either of
us. Have you much to remove? Is there more than a carriage can take,
Agnes?"
"And will you take me with you now, aunt Betsy?" cried the delighted
girl, springing up. "Wait but one moment, and all I have shall be
ready ... it is not much.... My books are packed, and my trunk
too ... the maid will help me."
"Ring the bell then, love, and let my servant take your packages down."
Agnes obeyed ... her trunk ... aunt Betsy's original trunk, and the dear
Empton book-box, were lodged on the driving-seat and the dickey of the
carriage; and William was just mounting the stairs to say that all was
ready, when another carriage was heard to stop, and another knocking
resounded against the open street-door.
"Oh! it is aunt Barnaby!" cried Agnes in a voice of terror.
"Is it?" replied Miss Compton, in the lively tone of former days. "I
shall be exceedingly glad to see her."
"Can you be in earnest, aunt Betsy?" said Agnes, looking very pale.
"Perfectly in earnest, my dear child," answered the old lady. "It will
be greatly more satisfactory that she should be an eye-witness of your
departure with me, than that you should go without giving her notice....
Perhaps she would say you had eloped and robbed the premises."
"Hush!..." cried Agnes ... "she is here!"
Mrs. Barnaby's voice, at least, was already with them. It was, indeed,
the return of this lady which they had heard; and no sooner had she
dismissed her hackney-coachman than she began questioning the servant of
the house, who was stationed at the open door, expecting Miss Compton
and her niece to come down.
"What carriage is that?... Whose servant is that upon the stairs?...
You have not been letting the lodgings, I hope?" were the first words of
the widow.
"Oh! dear no, ma'am!" replied the maid; "everything is just as you left
it."
"Then who is that carriage waiting for?"
"For a lady, ma'am, who is come to call on your young lady."
"MY young lady!... unnatural hussy!... And what fine friends has she
found out here, I wonder, to visit her?... Be they who they will, they
shall hear my opinion of her." And with these words, Mrs. Barnaby
mounted the last stair, and entered the room.
The two unsnuffed tallow candles which stood on the table did not enable
her at the first glance to recognize her aunt, who was wrapped in a long
silk cloak, much unlike any garment she had ever seen her wear; but the
sable figure of Agnes immediately caught her eye, and she stepped
towards her with her arm extended, very much as if about to box her
ears. But it seemed that the action was only intended to intimate that
she was instantly to depart, for, with raised voice and rapid
utterance, she said, "How comes it, girl, that I find you still here?...
Begone!... Never will I pass another night under the same roof with one
who could so basely desert a benefactress in distress!... And who may
this be that you have got to come and make merry with you, while I ...
and for your expenses too.... Whoever it is, they had better shew no
kindness to you, ... or they will be sure to repent of it."
Mrs. Barnaby then turned suddenly round to reconnoitre the unknown
visiter. "Do you not know me, Mrs. Barnaby?" said Miss Compton demurely.
"My aunt Betsy!... Good God! ma'am, what brought you here?"
"I came to take this troublesome girl off your hands, Mrs. Barnaby: is
not that kind of me?"
"That's the plan, is it?" retorted the widow bitterly. "Now I understand
it all. Instead of coming to comfort me in my misery, she was employing
herself in coaxing another aunt to make a sacrifice of herself to her
convenience. Take her; and when you are sick and sorry, she will turn
her back upon you, as she has done upon me!"
"Oh! do not speak so cruelly, aunt Barnaby!" cried Agnes, greatly
shocked at having her conduct thus described to one whose love she so
ardently wished to gain.... "Tell my aunt Compton what it was you asked
of me, and let her judge between us."
"Shut the door, Agnes!..." said Miss Compton sternly; and then,
re-seating herself, she addressed Mrs. Barnaby with an air of much
anxiety and interest: "Niece Martha, I must indeed beg of you to tell me
in what manner this young girl has conducted herself since she has been
with you, for, I can assure you, much depends upon the opinion I shall
now form of her. I have no longer any reason to conceal from you that my
circumstances are considerably more affluent than anybody but myself and
my man of business is aware of.... Nearly forty years of strict economy,
niece Martha, have enabled me to realize a very respectable little
fortune. It was I, and not my tenant, who purchased your poor father's
moiety of Compton Basett; and as I have scarcely ever touched the rents,
a little study of the theory of interest and compound interest will
prevent your being surprised, when I tell you that my present income is
fifteen hundred per annum, clear of all outgoings whatever."
"Is it possible!" exclaimed Mrs. Barnaby, with an accent and a look of
reverence, which very nearly destroyed the gravity of her old aunt.
"Yes, Mrs. Barnaby," she resumed, "such is my income. With less than
this, a gentlewoman of a good old family, desirous of bringing forward a
niece into the world in such a manner as to do her credit, could not
venture to take her place in society; and I have therefore waited till
my increasing revenues should amount to this sum before I declared my
intentions, and proclaimed my heiress. Such being the case, you will not
be surprised that I should be anxious to ascertain which of my two
nieces best deserves my favour. I do not mean to charge myself with
both.... Let that be clearly understood.... The doing so would entirely
defeat my object, which is to leave one representative of the Compton
Basett family with a fortune sufficient to restore its former
respectability."
"And everybody must admire such an intention," replied Mrs. Barnaby, in
an accent of inexpressible gentleness; "and I, for one, most truly hope,
that whoever you decide to leave it to, may deserve such generosity, and
have a grateful heart to requite it with."
"That is just what I should wish to find," returned the spinster; "and
before you came in, I had quite made up my mind that Agnes Willoughby
should be the person; but I confess, Mrs. Barnaby, that what you have
said alarms me, and I shall be very much obliged if you will immediately
let me know what Agnes has done to merit the accusation of having
_deserted her benefactress_?"
"It is but too easy to answer that, aunt Compton," replied the widow,
"and I am sorry to speak against my own sister's child; ... but truth is
truth, and since you command me to tell you what I meant when I said
she had deserted me, I will.... I have been arrested, aunt Compton, and
that for no reason on the earth but because I was tempted to stay three
or four days longer in London than I intended. Of course, I meant to go
back to that paltry place, Cheltenham, and pay every farthing I owed
there, the proof of which is that I _have_ paid every farthing, though
it would have served them right to have kept them a year out of their
money, instead of a month; ... but that's neither here nor there ...
though there was no danger of my staying in prison, I WAS there for
three days, and Agnes could not tell but I might have been there for
ever; ... yet, when I wrote her a most affectionate letter, begging her
only to call upon me in my miserable solitude, she answered my petition,
which might have moved a heart of stone, with a flat refusal.... Ask her
if she can deny this?"
"What say you, Agnes?... Is this so?" said the old lady, turning to the
party accused.
"Aunt Betsy!..." said Agnes, and then stopped, as if unwilling, for
some reason or other, to say more.
"YES or NO?" demanded Mrs. Barnaby, vehemently. "Did you refuse to come
to me, or not?"
"I did," replied Agnes.
"I hope you are satisfied, aunt Compton?" cried the widow
triumphantly.... "By her own confession, you perceive that I have told
you nothing but the truth."
Agnes said nothing in reply to this, but loosening the strings of a silk
bag which hung upon her arm, she took from it a small packet, and placed
it in the hands of Miss Compton. "What have we got here?" said the
spinster sharply.... "What do you give me this for, child?"
"I wish you to read what is there, if you please, aunt," said Agnes.
Miss Compton laid it on the table before her, while she sought for her
spectacles and adjusted them on her nose; but, while doing this, she
kept her eyes keenly fixed upon the little packet, and not without
reason, for, had she turned from it for a single instant, Mrs. Barnaby,
who shrewdly suspected its contents, would infallibly have taken
possession of it.
"My coachman and horses will get tired of all this, I think," said Miss
Compton; "however, as you say, niece Martha, truth is truth, and must be
sought after, even if it lies at the bottom of a well.... This is a
letter, and directed to you, Miss Agnes; ... and this is the back of
another, with some young-lady-like scrawling upon it.... Which am I to
read first, pray?"
"The letter, aunt Betsy," replied Agnes.
"So be it," said the spinster with an air of great indifference; and
drawing one of the candles towards her, and carefully snuffing it, she
began clearly and deliberately reading aloud the letter already given,
in which Mrs. Barnaby desired the presence of Agnes, and gave her
instructions for her finding her way to the Fleet Prison. Having
finished this, she replaced it quietly in its cover without saying a
word, or even raising her eyes towards either of her companions; and
taking the other paper, containing Agnes's reasons for non-compliance,
read that through likewise, exactly in the same distinct tone, and
replaced it with an equal absence of all commentary, in the cover. She
then rose, and walking close up to her elder niece, who proffered not a
word, looking in her face with a smile that must have been infinitely
more provoking than the most violent indignation, said, "Niece
Martha!... the last time I saw you, if I remember rightly, you offered
me some of your old clothes; but now you offer me none, which I consider
as the more unkind, because, if you dressed as smart as you are now
while in prison, you must most certainly wear very fine things when you
are free.... And so, as you are no longer the kind niece you used to be,
I don't think I shall come to see you any more. As for this young lady
here, it appears to me that you have not been severe enough with her,
Mrs. Barnaby.... I'll see if I can't teach her to behave better.... In
prison or out of prison ... if I bid her come, we shall see if she dare
look about her for such plausible reasons for refusing as she has given
you. If she does, I'll certainly send her back to you, Mrs. Barnaby.
Ring the bell, naughty Agnes!"
The maid seemed to have been very near the door, for it instantly
opened. "Tell my servants that I am coming," said the whimsical
spinster, enacting the fine lady with excellent effect; and making a
low, slow, and most ceremonious courtesy to the irritated, but perfectly
overpowered Mrs. Barnaby, she made a sign to Agnes to precede her to the
carriage, and left the room.