BRINGS US BACK, AS IT OUGHT, TO MRS. BARNABY.
It may be thought, perhaps, that the vexed, and, as she thought herself,
the persecuted Mrs. Barnaby, had sufficiently tried what a prison was,
to prevent her ever desiring to find herself within the walls of such an
edifice again; but such an opinion, however likely to be right, was
nevertheless wrong; for no sooner had the widow recovered from the fit
of rage into which the triumphant exit of Miss Compton had thrown her,
and settled herself on her solitary sofa, with no better comforter or
companion than a cup of tea modified with sky-blue milk, than the
following soliloquy (though she gave it not breath) passed through her
brain.
"Soh!... Here I am then, after six months' trial of the travelling
system, and a multitude of experiments in fashionable society, just
seven hundred pounds poorer than when I set out, and without having
advanced a single inch towards a second marriage.... This will never
do!... My youth, my beauty, and my fortune will all melt away together
before the object is obtained, unless I change my plans, and find out
some better mode of proceeding."
Here Mrs. Barnaby sipped her vile tea, opened her work-box that she had
been constrained to leave so hastily, ascertained that the exquisite
collar she was working had received no injury during her absence, and
then resumed her meditations.
"Heigh ho!... It is most horribly dull, sitting in this way all by
one's-self ... even that good-for-nothing, stupid, ungrateful Agnes was
better to look at than nothing; ... and even in that horrid Fleet there
was some pleasure in knowing that there was an elegant, interesting man,
to be met in a passage now and then ... whose eyes spoke plainly enough
what he thought of me.... Poor fellow!... His being in misfortune ought
not to produce ill-will to him in a generous mind!... How he looked as
he said 'Adieu, then, madam!... With you vanishes the last ray of light
that will ever reach my heart!'... And I am sure he said exactly what
he felt, and no more.... Poor O'Donagough!... My heart aches for him!"
And here she fell into a very piteous and sentimental mood, indeed. Had
her soliloquy been spoken out as loud as words could utter it, nobody
would have heard a syllable about love, marriage, or any such nonsense;
her heart was at this time altogether given up to pity, compassion, and
a deep sense of the duties of a Christian; and before she went to bed
she had reasoned herself very satisfactorily into the conviction that,
as a tender-hearted woman and a believer, it was her bounden duty, now
that she had got out of trouble herself, to return to the Fleet for the
purpose of once more seeing Mr. O'Donagough, and inquiring whether it
was in her power to do anything to serve him before she left London.
Nothing more surely tends to soothe the spirits and calm the agitated
nerves than an amiable and pious resolution, taken, as this was done,
during the last waning hours of the day, and just before the languid
body lays itself down to rest. Mrs. Barnaby slept like a top after
coming to the determination that, let the turnkeys think what they
would of it, she would call at the Fleet Prison, and ask to see Mr.
O'Donagough, the following morning.
The following morning came, and found the benevolent widow stedfast in
her purpose; and yet, to her honour be it spoken, it was not without
some struggles with a feeling which many might have called shame, but
which she conscientiously condemned as pride, that she set forth at
length upon her adventurous expedition.
"Nothing, I am sure," ... it was thus she reasoned with herself, ...
"nothing in the whole world could induce me to take such a step, but a
feeling that it was my duty. Heaven knows I have had many follies in my
day--I don't deny it; I am no hardened sinner, and that blessed book
that he lent me has not been a pearl thrown to swine. '_The Sinner's
Reward!_' ... what a comforting title!... I don't hope ever to be the
saint that the pious author describes, but I'm sure I shall be a better
woman all my life for reading it; ... and the visiting this poor
O'Donagough is the first act by which I can prove the good it has done
me!"
Then came some doubts and difficulties respecting the style of toilet
which she ought to adopt on so peculiar an occasion. "It won't do for a
person looking like a woman of fashion to drive up to the Fleet Prison,
and ask to see such a man as O'Donagough.... He is too young and
handsome to make it respectable.... But, after all, what does it signify
what people say?... And as for my bonnet, I'll just put my Brussels lace
veil on my black and pink; that will hide my ringlets, and make me look
more matronly."
In her deep lace veil then, and with a large silk cloak which concealed
the becoming gaiety of her morning dress, Mrs. Barnaby presented herself
before the gates she had so lately passed, and in a very demure voice
said to the keeper of it, "I wish to be permitted to see Mr.
O'Donagough."
The fellow looked at her and smiled. "Well, madam," he replied, "I
believe there will be no difficulty about that. Walk on, if you
please.... You'll find them as can send you forward."
A few more barriers passed, and a few more well-amused turnkeys
propitiated, and Mrs. Barnaby stood before a door which she knew as well
as any of them opened upon the solitary abode of the broken-hearted but
elegant Mr. O'Donagough. The door was thrown open for her to enter; but
she paused, desiring her usher to deliver her card first, with an
intimation that she wished to speak to the gentleman on business. She
was not kept long in suspense, for the voice of the solitary inmate was
heard from within, saying in soft and melancholy accents, "It is very
heavenly kindness! Beg her to walk in." And in she walked, the room-door
being immediately closed behind her.
Mr. O'Donagough was a very handsome man of about thirty years of age,
with a physiognomy and cerebral developement which might have puzzled
Dr. Combe himself; for impressions left by the past, were so evidently
fading away before the active operation of the present, that to say
distinctly from the examining eye, or the examining finger, what manner
of man he was, would have been exceedingly difficult. But the powers of
the historian and biographer are less limited, and their record shall be
given.
Mr. Patrick O'Donagough was but a half-breed, and that a mongrel half,
of the noble species which his names announce. He was the natural son of
an Englishman of wealth and consequence by a poor Irish girl called Nora
O'Donagough; and though his father did what was considered by many as
very much for him, he never permitted him to assume his name. The young
O'Donagough was placed as a clerk to one of the police magistrates of
the metropolis, and shewed great ability in the readiness with which he
soon executed the business that passed through his hands. He not only
learned to know by sight every rogue and roguess that appeared at the
office, but shewed a very uncommon degree of sagacity as to their
innocence or guilt upon every new occasion that enforced their
appearance there. His noble father never entirely lost sight of him; and
finding his abilities so remarkable, he was induced again to use his
interest in those quarters where influence abides, and to get him
promoted to a lucrative situation in a custom-house on the coast, where
he made money rapidly, while his handsome person and good address gave
him access to the society of many people greatly his superiors in
station, who most of them were frequenting a fashionable watering-place
at no great distance from the station where he was employed.
This lasted for a few years, much to the satisfaction of his illustrious
parent; and it might have continued till an easy fortune was assured to
him, had he not unluckily formed too great an intimacy with one or two
vastly gentleman-like but decidedly sporting characters. From this point
his star began to descend, till, step by step, he had lost his money,
his appointment, his father's favour, and his own freedom. Having lain
in prison for debt during some weeks, he found means again to touch the
heart of his father so effectually, as to induce him to pay his debts,
and restore him to freedom, upon condition, however, of his immediately
setting off for Australia with five hundred pounds in his pocket, and
with the understanding that he was never more to return. The promise was
given, and the five hundred pounds received; but the young man was not
proof against temptation; he met some old acquaintance, lost half his
money at _ecarte_, and permitted the vessel in which he was to sail to
depart without him. This was a moment of low spirits and great
discouragement; but he felt, nevertheless, that a stedfast heart and
bold spirit might bring a man out of as bad a scrape even as that into
which he had fallen.
Some people told him to apply again to his father, but he thought he had
better not, and he applied to a gentleman with whom he had made
acquaintance in prison instead. This person had, like himself, been
reduced to great distress by the turf; but having fortunately found
means of satisfying the creditor at whose suit he was detained, he was
now doing exceedingly well as preacher to an independent congregation of
ranting fanatics. He bestowed on his old associate some excellent advice
as to his future principles and conduct, giving him to understand that
the turf, even to those who were the most fortunate, never answered so
well as the line of business he now followed; and assured him, moreover,
that if he would forthwith commence an assiduous study of the principles
and practice of the profession, he would himself lend him a helping hand
to turn it to account. O'Donagough loved change, novelty, and
excitement, and again manifested great talent in the facility with
which he mastered the mysteries of this new business. He was soon seen
rapidly advancing towards lasting wealth and independence: one of the
wealthiest merchants in London had offered him the place of domestic
prayer and preacher at his beautiful residence at Castaway-Saved Park,
when an almost forgotten creditor, who had lost sight of him for many
years, unluckily recognised him as he was delivering a most awakening
evening lecture in a large ware-room, converted into a chapel near Moor
Fields. Eager to take advantage of this unexpected piece of good
fortune, the tailor (for such was his profession) arrested the inspired
orator in the first place, and then asked him if he were able to settle
his account in the next. Had the manner of transacting the business been
reversed, it is probable that the affair would have been settled without
any arrest at all; for Sir Miles Morice, of Castaway-Saved Park, was one
of the most pious individuals of the age, and would hardly have
permitted his chaplain elect (elect in every sense) to have gone to
prison for thirty-seven pounds, nine shillings, and eight pence; but
being in prison, O'Donagough was shy of mentioning the circumstance to
his distinguished patron, and was employed, at the time Mrs. Barnaby
first made acquaintance with him, in composing discourses "on the
preternatural powers over the human mind, accorded to the chosen vessels
called upon to pour out the doctrine of the new birth to the people."
There is little doubt that these really eloquent compositions would have
sold rapidly, and perfectly have answered the object of their clever
author. But accident prevented the trial from being made, for before the
projected volume was more than half finished, success of another kind
overtook Mr. O'Donagough.
* * * * *
Mrs. Barnaby, on entering, found the poor prisoner she had so charitably
come to visit seated at a writing-desk, with many sheets of
closely-written manuscript about it. He rose as she entered, and
approached her with a judicious mixture of respectful deference and
ardent gratitude.
"May Heaven reward you, madam, for this blessed proof of christian
feeling.... How can I suitably speak my gratitude?"
"I do assure you, Mr. O'Donagough, that you are quite right in thinking
that I come wholly and solely from a christian spirit, and a wish to do
my duty," said Mrs. Barnaby.
Mr. O'Donagough looked extremely handsome as he answered with a
melancholy smile, "Alas! madam ... what other motive could the whole
world offer, excepting obedience to the will of Heaven, sufficiently
strong to bring such a person as I now look upon voluntarily within
these fearful walls?"
"That is very true indeed!... There _is_ nothing else that could make
one do it. Heaven knows I suffered too much when I was here myself, to
feel any inclination for returning; ... but I thought, Mr. O'Donagough,
that it would be very unfeeling in me, who witnessed your distress, to
turn my back upon you when my own troubles are past and over; and so I
am come, Mr. O'Donagough, to ask if I can be of any use to you in any
way before I set off upon my travels, ... for I intend to make a tour to
France, and perhaps to Rome."
The widow looked at Mr. O'Donagough's eyes, to see how he took this
news; for, somehow or other, she could not help fancying that the poor
young man would feel more forlorn and miserable still, when he heard
that not only the walls of the Fleet Prison, but the English Channel,
was to divide them: nor did the expression of the eyes she thus
examined, lessen this idea. A settled, gentle melancholy seemed to rise
from his heart, and peep out upon her through these "_windows_ of the
soul."
"To France!... To Rome!..." A deep sigh followed, and for a minute or
two the young man remained with his eyes mournfully fixed on her face.
He then rose up, and stepping across the narrow space occupied by the
table that stood between them, he took her hand, and in a deep, sweet
voice, that almost seemed breaking into a sob, he said,--"May you be
happy whithersoever you go!... My prayers shall follow you.... My ardent
prayers shall be unceasingly breathed to heaven for your safety; ... and
my blessing ... my fervent, tender blessing, shall hover round you as
you go!"
Mrs. Barnaby was exceedingly affected. "Don't speak so!... Pray, don't
speak so, Mr. O'Donagough!" she said, in a voice which gave her very
good reason to believe that tears were coming. "I am sure I would pray
for you too, when I am far away, if it would do you any good," and here
one of her worked pocket-handkerchiefs was really drawn out and applied
to her eyes.
"IF, Mrs. Barnaby!" exclaimed the young man fervently, "IF ... oh! do
not doubt it ... do not for a moment doubt that I should feel the
influence of it in every nerve. Let me teach you to understand me, Mrs.
Barnaby, ... for I have made an examination into the effects of
spiritual sympathies the subject of much study.... Lay your hand upon my
heart ... nay, let it rest there for a moment, and you will be able to
comprehend what I would explain to you. Does not that poor heart beat
and throb, Mrs. Barnaby?... and think you that it would have fluttered
thus, had you not said that you would pray for me?... Then can you doubt
that if, indeed, you should still remember the unhappy O'Donagough as
you pursue your jocund course o'er hill and vale ... if, indeed, you
should breathe a prayer to Heaven for his welfare, can you doubt that it
will fall upon him like the soft fanning of a seraph's wing, and heal
the tumult of his soul, e'en in this dungeon?"
There was so much apparent sincerity, as well as tenderness, in what the
young man uttered, that a feeling of conviction at once found its way to
the understanding of Mrs. Barnaby; and little doubt, if any, remained on
her mind as to the efficacy of her prayers.... "Indeed, Mr. O'Donagough,
I will pray for you then, ... and I'm sure I should be a very wicked
wretch if I did not.... But is there nothing else I could do to comfort
you?"
Mr. O'Donagough had often found his handsome and expressive countenance
of great service to him, and so he did now. No answer he could have
given in words to this kind question, could have produced so great
effect as the look with which he received it. Mrs. Barnaby was
fluttered, agitated, and did not quite know what to do or say next: but
Mr. O'Donagough did. He rose from his chair, and raising his arms above
his head to their utmost length, he passionately clasped his hands, and
stood thus,--his fine eyes communing with the ceiling,--just long enough
to give the widow time to be aware that he certainly was the very
handsomest young man in the world; ... and then ... he drew his chair
close beside her, took her hand, and fixed those fine eyes very
particularly upon hers.
"Comfort me!..." he murmured in a soft whisper, which, had it not been
breathed very close to her ear, would probably have been lost....
"Comfort me!... you ask if you could comfort me?... Oh! earth, Oh!
heaven, bear witness as I swear, that to trace one single movement of
pity on that lovely face, would go farther towards healing every sorrow
of my soul, than all the wealth that Plutus could pour on me, though it
should come in ingots of gold heavy enough to break the chains that hold
me!"
"Oh! Mr. O'Donagough!..." was all Mrs. Barnaby could utter; but she
turned her face away, nor was the fascinating prisoner again indulged
with a full view of it, though he endeavoured to make his eyes follow
the way hers led, till he dropped down on his knees before her, and by
taking possession of both her hands, enabled himself to pursue his
interesting speculations upon its expression, in spite of all she could
do to prevent it. This brought the business for which Mrs. Barnaby
came, ... namely, the inquiry into what she could do to be serviceable
to Mr. O'Donagough, before she left London, ... to a very speedy
termination; for with this fair index of what he MIGHT say before his
eyes, the enterprising prisoner ventured to hint, that nothing would so
effectually soothe his sorrows as the love of the charming being who had
already expressed such melting pity for him. He moreover made it
manifest that if she would, with the noble confidence which he was sure
made a part of her admirable character, lend him wherewithal to
liquidate the paltry debt for which he had been so treacherously
arrested, he could find means again to interest his noble father in his
behalf, and by giving him such a guarantee for his future steadiness as
an honourable attachment was always sure to offer, he should easily
induce him to renew his intention of fitting him out handsomely for an
expedition to Australia, to which, as he confessed, he was more strongly
inclined than even to persevere in listening to the call he had received
to the ministry.
Notwithstanding the tender agitation into which such a conversation
must inevitably throw every lady who would listen to it, Mrs. Barnaby
did not so completely lose her presence of mind, as not to remember that
it would be better to look about her a little before she positively
promised to marry and accompany to Australia the captivating young man
who knelt at her feet. But this praiseworthy degree of caution did not
prevent her from immediately deciding upon granting him the loan he
desired; nay, with thoughtful kindness, she herself suggested that it
might be more convenient to make the sum lent 40_l._ instead of 37_l._
9_s._ 8_d._; and having said this with a look and manner the most
touching, she at length induced Mr. O'Donagough to rise; and after a few
such expressions of tender gratitude as the occasion called for, they
parted, the widow promising to deliver to him with her own fair hands on
the morrow the sum necessary for his release; while he, as he fervently
kissed her hand, declared, that deeply as he felt this generous
kindness, he should wish it had never been extended to him, unless the
freedom thus regained were rendered dear to his soul by her sharing it
with him.
"Give me time, dear O'Donagough!... Give me time to think of this
startling proposal, ... and to-morrow we will meet again," were the
words in which she replied to him; and then, permitting herself for one
moment to return the tender glances he threw after her, she opened the
room-door and passed through it, too much engrossed by her own thoughts,
hopes, wishes, and speculations, to heed the variety of amusing grimaces
by which the various turnkeys hailed her regress through them.
It would be unreasonable for any one to "desire better sympathy" than
that which existed between my heroine and Mr. O'Donagough when they thus
tore themselves asunder; he remaining in durance vile till such time as
fate or love should release him, and she to throw herself into a hackney
coach, there to meditate on the pleasures and the pains either promised
or threatened by the proposal she had just received.
The sympathy lay in this, ... that both parties were determined to
inform themselves very particularly of the worldly condition of the
other, before they advanced one step farther towards matrimony, for
which state, though the gentleman had spoken with rapture, and the lady
had listened with softness, both had too proper a respect to think of
entering upon it unadvisedly.