Agnes was at a loss what to reply; she had still all the frank straight-forwardness of a child who has been educated by unaffected, sensible people, and yet she knew that she must not on this occasion say quite what she thought, which would probably have been, —
“Pray, don’t fancy that I want you to throw aside your widow’s weeds for me, aunt.... I don’t believe you are one half as sorry for uncle Barnaby’s death as I am”.... But fortunately there was no mixture of bêtise in her frankness; and though it might have been beyond her power to express any great satisfaction at being thus addressed, she had no difficulty in saying,— “You are very kind to me, aunt,” for this was true.
Notwithstanding this youthful frankness of mind, however, Agnes had by this time lost in a great measure that very childish look which distinguished her at the time her appearance so little pleased the fastidious taste of Miss Compton. She was still indeed in very good health, which was indicated by a colour as fresh, and almost as delicate too, as that of the wild rose; but her rapid growth during the last two years had quite destroyed the offensive “roundness,” and her tall, well-made person, gave as hopeful a promise as could be wished for of womanly grace and beauty. The fair face was already the very perfection of loveliness; and had the secretly proud Miss Compton seen her as she walked in her deep heavy mourning beside her wide-spreading aunt to church, on the Sunday when that lady first restored herself to the public eye, she might perchance have thought, that not only was she worthy to inherit Compton Basett and all its accumulated rents, but any other glory and honour that this little earth of ours could bestow.
A feeling of strong mutual affection between the parties, led both the Wilmot family and Agnes to petition earnestly that the few weeks which remained of the stipulated (and already paid for) five years, might be completed; and Mrs. Barnaby, though it was really somewhat against her inclination, consented.
But though she had not desired this renewed absence of her niece, the notable widow determined to put it to profit, and set about a final arrangement of all her concerns with an activity that proved good Mr. Barnaby quite right in not having troubled her with any assistant executor.
She soon contrived to learn who it was who wished to succeed her “dear Barnaby,” and managed matters so admirably well as to make the eager young man pay for the house, furniture, shop, &c. &c., about half as much again as they were worth, cleverly contriving, moreover, to retain possession for three months.
This important business being settled, she set herself earnestly and deliberately to consider what, when these three months should be expired, she should do with her freedom, her money, herself, and her niece. In deciding upon this question, she called none to counsel, for she had sense enough to avow to herself that she should pay not the slightest attention to any opinion but her own. In silence and in solitude, therefore, she pondered upon the future; and, to assist her speculations, she drew forth from the recesses of an old-fashioned bureau sundry documents and memoranda relative to the property bequeathed to her by her husband.
It was evident that her income would now somewhat exceed four hundred a-year, and this appeared to her amply sufficient to assist the schemes already working in her head for future aggrandizement, but by no means equal to what she felt her beauty and her talents gave her a right to hope for.
“It is, however, a handsome income,” thought she, “and such a one as, with my person, may, and must, if properly made use of, lead to all I wish!”...
Mrs. Barnaby had once heard it said by a clever man, that human wishes might oftener be achieved, did mortals better know how to set about obtaining them.
“First,” said the oracle, “let him be sure to find out what his wishes really are. This ascertained, let him, in the second place, employ all his acuteness to discover what is required for their fulfilment. Thirdly, let him examine himself and his position, in order to decide how much he, or it, can contribute towards this. Fourthly, let him subtract the sum of the capabilities he possesses from the total of means required. Fifthly, let him learn by, with, and in his heart of hearts, what it is that constitutes the remainder; and sixthly, and lastly, let him gird up the loins of his resolution, and start forth DETERMINED to acquire them. Whoso doeth this, shall seldom fail.”
In the course of her visitings, military friendships and all included, Mrs. Barnaby, even in the small arena of Silverton, had heard several wise things in her day; but none of them ever produced such lasting effect as the words I have just quoted. They touched some chord within her that vibrated, ... not indeed with such a thrill as they might have made to ring along the nerves of a fine creature new to life, and emulous of all things good and great, but with a little sharp twitch, just at that point of the brain where self-love expands itself into a mesh of ways and means, instinct with will, to catch all it can that may be brought home to glut the craving for enjoyment; and so pregnant did they seem to her of the only wisdom that she wished to master, that her memory seized upon them with extraordinary energy, nor ever after relinquished its hold.
Little, however, could it profit her at the time she heard it; but she kept it, “like an ape in the corner of his jaw, first mouthed, to be last swallowed.”
It was upon these words that she now pondered. Her two elbows set on the open bureau, her legs stretched under it, her lips resting upon the knuckles of her clasped hands, and her eyes fixed in deep abstraction on the row of pigeonholes before her, she entered upon a sort of self-catechism which ran thus: —
Q. What is it that I most wish for on earth?
A. A rich and fashionable husband.
Q. What is required to obtain this?
A. Beauty, fortune, talents, and a free entrance into good society.
Q. Do I possess any of these?... and which?
A. I possess beauty, fortune, and talents.
Q. What remains wanting?
A. A free entrance into good society.
“True!” she exclaimed aloud, “it is that I want, and it is that I must procure.”
Notwithstanding her sanguine estimate of herself, the widow, when she arrived at this point, was fain to confess that she did not exactly know how this necessary addition to her ways and means was to be acquired. Beyond the town of Silverton, and a thinly inhabited circuit of a mile or two round it, she had not a personal acquaintance in the world. This was a very perplexing consideration for a lady determined upon finding her way into the first circles, but its effect was rather to strengthen than relax her energies.
There was, however, one person, and she truly believed one only in the wide world, who might, at her first setting out upon her progress, be useful to her. This was a sister of Mr. Barnaby’s, married to a clothier, whose manufactory was at Frome, but whose residence was happily at Clifton near Bristol. She had never seen this lady, or any of her family, all intercourse between the brother and sister having of late years consisted in letters, not very frequent, and the occasional interchange of presents, — a jar of turtle being now and then forwarded by mail from Bristol, and dainty quarters of Exmoor mutton, and tin pots of clouted cream, returned from Silverton.
Nevertheless Mrs. Peters was her sister-in-law just as much as if they had lived next door to each other for the last five years; and she had, of course, a right to all the kindness and hospitality so near a connexion demands.
A clothier’s wife, to be sure, was not exactly the sort of person she would have chosen, had choice been left her; but it was better than nothing, infinitely better; ... “and besides,” as the logical widow’s head went on to reason, “she may introduce me to people above herself.... At a public place, too, like Clifton, it must be so easy! And then every new acquaintance I make will serve to lead on to another.... I am not so shy but I can turn all accidents to account; and I am not such a fool as to stand at one end of a room, when I ought to be at the other....”
Mrs. Barnaby never quoted Shakspeare, or she would probably have added here, —
“Wh
y, then the world’s mine oyster, which I with wit will open,” for it was with some such thought that her soliloquy ended.
Day by day the absence of Agnes wore away, and day after day saw some business preparatory to departure dispatched. Sometimes the hours were winged by her having to pull about all the finery in her possession, and dividing it into portions, some to be abandoned for ever, some to be enveloped with reverend care in cotton and silver paper for her future use, and some to be given to the favoured Agnes.
While such cares occupied her hands, her thoughts naturally enough hurried forward to the time when she should lay aside her weeds. This was a dress so hatefully unbecoming in her estimation, that she firmly believed the inventor of it must have been actuated by some feeling akin to that which instituted the horrible Hindoo rite of which she had heard, whereby living wives were sacrificed to their departed husbands.
“Only!” she cried, bursting out into involuntary thanksgiving, “ours, thank God! is not for ever!”
To appear for the first time in the fashionable world in this frightful disguise, was quite out of the question; and consequently she could not make her purposed visit to Clifton till the time was arrived for throwing them off, and till ... to use her own words, “lilacs and greys were possible”.... Yet there were other considerations that had weight with her too.
“His sister, however, shall just see me in my widow’s weeds,” thought she; “it may touch her heart perhaps, and must make her feel how very nearly we are related; ... but before any living soul out of the family can come near me, I will take care to look ... what I really am!... Six months!... it must, I suppose, be six months first!... Dreadful bore!”
The first half of this probationary term was to be passed at Silverton, — that was already wearing fast away, — and for the latter part of it she determined to take lodgings in Exeter.
“Yes ... it shall be Exeter!” she exclaimed, and then added, with a perfect quiver of delight, “Oh! what a difference now from what it was formerly!... How well I remember the time when a journey to Exeter appeared to me the very gayest thing in the world!... and now I should no more think of staying there than a queen would think of passing her life in her bed-room!”
The more she meditated on the future, indeed, the more enamoured did she become of it, till at length, her affairs being very nearly all brought to a satisfactory conclusion, a restless sort of impatience seized upon her; and nearly a fortnight before the time fixed for the return of Agnes she wrote a very peremptory letter of recall, but altogether omitted to point out either the mode of conveyance, or the protection she deemed necessary for her during the journey.
Perhaps Mrs. Wilmot was not sorry for this, as it afforded her an excuse for remaining herself to the last possible moment with a pupil who had found the way to create almost a maternal interest in her heart, and moreover gave her an opportunity of seeking an interview with the singular but interesting recluse who five years before had placed in her hands the endearing, though ignorant little girl, whose education had proved a task so unusually pleasing.
The principal reason, however, for Mrs. Wilmot’s wishing to pay Miss Compton a visit, arose from the description Agnes had given of her conduct towards her, and of the system of non-intercourse which it was so evidently the little lady’s intention to maintain.
Without having uttered a word resembling fault-finding or complaint, Agnes had somehow or other made the Wilmots feel that, though aunt Betsy certainly did not like her, she liked aunt Betsy a great deal better than she did aunt Barnaby; and this, added to the favourable impression Miss Compton had herself left upon their minds, made the good Mrs. Wilmot exceedingly anxious that she should not remain ignorant of the treasure she possessed in her young relation.
The delay of a few days before Mrs. Wilmot could take her pupil home, was inevitable; and when they arrived Mrs. Barnaby had bustled her affairs into such a state of forwardness, that, though she received them without any great appearance of melancholy or ill-humour, she hinted pretty plainly that Agnes came too late to be of much use to her in packing.
Mrs. Wilmot made a very sufficient apology for the delay, and then took leave, saying that she should remain in Silverton that night, and drive out the next morning to pay her compliments to Miss Compton. The bare mention of the spinster’s name at once converted the widow’s civility into rudeness; she offered her guest neither refreshment nor accommodation of any kind; and poor Agnes had the pain of seeing her dearest friend depart to pass the night at an inn, when she would have gladly stood by to watch her slumbers all night, might she have offered her own bed for her use.
On the following morning Mrs. Wilmot paid her purposed visit to Miss Compton, and found her, in dress, occupation, and mode of life, so precisely what she has been described before, that not a word need be added on the subject. Greatly different, however, was the welcome she accorded that lady to what we have formerly seen her bestow upon her relatives. She greeted her, indeed, with a smile so cordial, and a tone of voice so pleasantly expressive of the satisfaction her visit gave, that it was only when the object of it was brought forward, that Mrs. Wilmot, too, discovered that Miss Compton could be a very cross little old lady when she chose it.
“I shall quite long, my dear madam, to hear your opinion of my pupil,” said Mrs. Wilmot, “for I cannot but flatter myself that you will be delighted with her.”
“Then ask me nothing about her, ma’am, if you please,” replied the recluse.
“But it is near two years, Miss Compton, since you saw her, and she is wonderfully improved in that time,” said Mrs. Wilmot.... “Yet I own I should have thought that even then, two years ago, when you did see her, that you must have found her a very charming girl, full of sweetness and intelligence, and with a face....”
“We had better say no more about her, if you please, Mrs. Wilmot,” tartly interrupted the recluse.... “I dare say you made the best you could of her, and it is no fault of yours that old Wisett’s great grand-daughter should be a Wisett; ... but I hate the very sight of her, as I do, and have done, and ever shall do, that of all their kin and kind ... so it is no good to talk of it....”
“The sight of her!...” reiterated the astonished Mrs. Wilmot. “Why, my dear Miss Compton, she is reckoned by every one that sees her to be one of the loveliest creatures that nature ever formed.... If her timid, artless manners, do not please you, it is unfortunate; but that you should not think her beautiful, is impossible.”
“I beg your pardon, ma’am ... I should not care a straw for the manners of a child, for I know that time and care might change them, ... but it is her person that I can’t endure; ... there is no disputing about taste, you know. I should not have thought, indeed, that she was quite the style for you to admire so violently; ... but, of course, that is nothing to me.... I know that the look of her eyes, and the colour of her cheeks, is exactly what I think the most detestable; ... there is no right or wrong in the matter ... it is all fancy, and the sight of her makes me sick.... Pray, ma’am, say no more about her.”
There was but one way in which Mrs. Wilmot could comprehend this extraordinary antipathy to what was so little calculated to inspire it, and this was by supposing that Miss Compton’s personal deformity rendered the sight of beauty painful to her; an interpretation, indeed, as far as possible from the truth, for the little spinster was peculiarly sensible to beauty of form and expression wherever she found it; but it was the only explanation that suggested itself; and with mingled feelings of pity and contempt, Mrs. Wilmot replied,— “There may be no right or wrong, Miss Compton, in a judgment passed on external appearance only, for it may, as you observe, be purely a matter of taste; but surely it must be otherwise of an aversion conceived against a near relative whose amiable disposition, faultless conduct, and brilliant talents, justly entitle her to the love, esteem, and admiration of the whole world.... This is not merely a matter of taste, and in this there may be much wrong.”
Miss Compton a
ppeared struck by these words, but after pondering a moment upon them, replied,— “And how can I tell, Mrs. Wilmot, but that your judgment of this child’s character and disposition may be as much distorted by unreasonable partiality, as your opinion of her vulgar-looking person?”
A new light here broke in upon the mind of Mrs. Wilmot; she remembered the remarkable plumpness of the little Agnes before she made that sudden start in her growth which, in the course of two important years, had converted a clumsy-looking child into a tall, slight, elegantly made girl; and with greatly increased earnestness of manner she answered, —
“I only ask you to see her once, Miss Compton.... I have no wish whatever that your judgment should be influenced by mine with respect either to the person or the mind of Agnes Willoughby; but I greatly wish that your own opinion of her should be formed upon what she now is, and not upon what she has been. I am sure you must feel that this is reasonable.... Will you then promise me that you will see her?”
“I will,” ... replied Miss Compton. “The request is reasonable, and I promise to comply with it. Yet it can only be on one condition, Mrs. Wilmot.”
“And what is that, Miss Compton?”
“That I may see her without her horrid aunt Barnaby.”
Mrs. Wilmot smiled involuntarily, but answered gravely, “Of course, Miss Compton, that must be as you please.... Rather than you should fail to see my pretty Agnes, I will remain another day from home on purpose to bring her to you myself. Will you receive us if we come over to you at this hour to-morrow morning?”
“I will,” ... again replied the recluse; “and whatever may be the result of the interview, I shall hold myself indebted to the kind feelings which have led you to insist upon it.”
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 112