Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

“Thank you, thank you!” said Mrs. Wilmot, rising to take her leave. “To-morrow, then, you will see me again, with my young charge.”

  CHAPTER XI.

  AN IMPORTANT CORRESPONDENCE, AND AN IMPORTANT INTERVIEW.

  On returning to her solitary quarters at the King’s Head, Mrs. Wilmot called for pen, ink, and paper, and wrote the following note to her young pupil.

  “My dear Agnes,

  “I am just returned from a visit to Compton Basett, where I was very kindly received by your aunt. She wishes to see you before you leave the neighbourhood, and I have promised to take you to her to-morrow morning; I will therefore call at eleven o’clock, when I hope I shall find you ready to accompany me. With compliments to Mrs. Barnaby, believe me, dear Agnes,

  “Affectionately yours,

  “Mary Wilmot.”

  To this epistle she speedily received the following answer.

  “Mrs. Barnaby presents her compliments to Mrs. Wilmot, and begs to know if there is any reason why she should not join the party to Compton Basett to-morrow morning? If not, she requests Mrs. Wilmot’s permission to accompany her in the drive, as the doing so will be a considerable convenience; Mrs. Barnaby wishing to pay her duty to her aunt before she leaves the country.”

  To return a negative to this request was disagreeable: being absolutely necessary, however, it was done without delay; but it was with burning cheeks and flashing eyes that Mrs. Barnaby read the following civil refusal.

  “Mrs. Wilmot regrets extremely that she is under the necessity of declining the company of Mrs. Barnaby to-morrow morning, but Miss Compton expressly desired that Agnes should be brought to her alone.”

  To this Mrs. Barnaby replied, —

  “As Mrs. Wilmot has been pleased to take upon herself the office of go between, she is requested to inform Miss Betsy Compton, that the aunt who has adopted Agnes Willoughby, intends to bestow too much personal care upon her, to permit her paying any visits in which she cannot accompany her.”

  The vexed and discomfited Mrs. Wilmot returned to Compton Basett with these two notes in her hand instead of the pretty Agnes, and her mortification was very greatly increased by perceiving that the disappointment of the old lady fully equalled her own. This obvious sympathy of feeling led to a more confidential intercourse than had ever before taken place between the solitary heiress and any other person whatever; so contrary, indeed, was this species of frank communication to her habits, that it was produced rather by the necessity of giving vent to her angry feelings, than for the gratification of confessing any other.

  In reply to her first indignant burst of resentment, Mrs. Wilmot said, —

  “I lament the consequences of this ill-timed impertinence, for my poor pupil’s sake, more than it is easy for me to explain to you, Miss Compton.... Do me the justice to believe that I am not in the habit of interfering in the family concerns of my pupils, and then you will be better able to appreciate the motives and feelings which still lead me to urge you not to withdraw your protection and kindness from Agnes Willoughby.”

  “I do believe that your motives are excellent; and I can believe, too, that if your pupil deserve half you have said of her, the protection and kindness even of such a being as myself might be more beneficial to her than being left at the mercy of this hateful, vulgar-minded woman.... But what would you have me do, Mrs. Wilmot?... You would not ask me to leave my flowers, my bees, my books, and my peaceful home, to keep watch over Mrs. Barnaby, and see that she does not succeed in making this poor girl as detestable as herself?... You would not expect me to do this, would you?”

  “No, Miss Compton; no one, I think, would willingly impose such a task upon you as that of watching Mrs. Barnaby. But I see no objection to your watching Agnes.”

  “And how is the one to be done without the other? It is quite natural that the child of one of Miss Martha Wisett’s daughters, should live with the other of them. My relationship to this girl is remote in comparison to hers.”

  “Miss Compton,” replied Mrs. Wilmot, “I fear that my acquaintance with you hardly justifies the pertinacity with which I feel disposed to urge this point; but, indeed, it is of vital importance to one that I very dearly love, and one whom you would dearly love too, would you permit yourself to know her.”

  “Do not apologise to me for the interest you take in her,” returned the old lady in a tone rather more encouraging.... “There is more need, perhaps, that I should apologise for the want of it ... and ... to say truth,” she added after a considerable pause, “I have no objection to explain my motives to you, ... though it has never fallen in my way before to meet any one to whom I wished to do this. My life has been an odd one; ... though surrounded by human beings with whom I have lived on the most friendly terms, I have passed my existence, as to anything like companionship, entirely alone. I have never been dull, for I have read incessantly, and altogether I think it likely that I have been happier than most people. But in the bosom of this unrepining solitude it is likely enough that I have nursed opinions into passions, and distastes into hatred. Thus, Mrs. Wilmot, the reasonable opinion that I set out with, for instance, when inheriting my father’s long-descended acres, that it was my duty in all things to sustain as much as in me lay the old claim to gentle blood which attached to my race, (injured, perhaps, in some degree, by this division of its patrimony in my favour,) even this reasonable opinion, Mrs. Wilmot, has by degrees grown, perhaps, into unreasonable strength; for I would rather, madam, press age and ugliness remarkable as my own to my heart, as the acknowledged descendant of that race, than a vulgar, coarse-minded, coarse-looking thing, though she were as buxom as Martha Wisett when my poor silly brother married her.”

  The latter part of this speech was uttered with great rapidity, and an appearance of considerable excitement; but this quickly subsided, and the little spinster became as pale and composed as usual, while she listened to Mrs. Wilmot’s quiet accents in reply.

  “There is nothing to surprise me in this, Miss Compton; the feeling is a very natural one. But the more strongly it is expressed, the more strongly must I wonder at your permitting the sole descendant of your ancient race to be left at the mercy of a Mrs. Barnaby.”

  Not all the eloquence in the world could have gone so far towards obtaining the object Mrs. Wilmot had in view as this concluding phrase.

  “You are right!... excellent woman!... You are right, and I deserve to see my father’s acres peopled by a race of Barnaby’s.... I will save her!...”

  But here the poor old lady stopped. A sudden panic seized her, and she sat for several minutes positively trembling at the idea that she might unadvisedly take some step which should involve her in the horrible necessity of being encumbered for the rest of her life with a companion whose looks or manner might remind her of a Martha Wisett, or a Mrs. Barnaby.

  “I dare not do it!” she exclaimed at last. “Do not ask it ... do not force me; ... or, at any rate, contrive to let me see her first, in a shop, or in the street, or any way.... I can decide on nothing till I have seen her!”

  “I would do anything within my power to arrange this for you,” replied Mrs. Wilmot; “but I cannot delay my return beyond to-morrow; nor do I believe that my agency would render this more easy. Why should you not at once call on both your nieces, Miss Compton? There would be no difficulty in this, and it would give you the best possible opportunity of judging both of the appearance and manners of Agnes.”

  “Both my nieces!... no difficulty!... You understand little or nothing of my feelings.... But go home, go home, Mrs. Wilmot. Do your own duty, which is a plain one, ... and leave me to find out mine, if I can.”

  “You will not, then, abandon the idea of seeing this poor girl, Miss Compton?”

  “No, I will not,” was the reply, pronounced almost solemnly.

  “Then, farewell! my dear madam; I can ask no more than this, except, indeed, your forgiveness for having asked thus much so perseveringly.”

  “I thank you for
it, Mrs. Wilmot.... I believe you are a very good woman, and I will endeavour to act, if God will give me grace, as I think you would approve, if you could read all the feelings of my heart. Farewell!”

  And so they parted; the active, useful matron to receive the eager welcome of her expecting family, and the solitary recluse to the examination of her own thoughts, which were alternately both sweet and bitter, sometimes cheering her with a vision of domestic happiness and endearment to soothe her declining age, and sometimes making her shudder as she fancied her tranquil existence invaded and destroyed by the presence of one whom she might strive in vain to love.

  CHAPTER XII.

  CHOOSING A LADY’S-MAID. — A HAPPY MEETING UNHAPPILY BROKEN IN UPON. — MISS COMPTON UTTERS A LONG FAREWELL TO AGNES.

  Mrs. Wilmot did not leave Silverton without taking an affectionate leave of Agnes, and when this was over, the poor girl felt herself wholly, and for ever, consigned to the authority and companionship of Mrs. Barnaby. It would be difficult to trace out the cause of the sharp pang which this conviction brought with it; but it was strong enough at that moment to rob the future of all the bright tints through which eyes of sixteen are apt to look at it. She cherished, certainly, a deep feeling of gratitude for the kindness that afforded her a home; but, unhappily, she cherished also a feeling equally strong, that it was less easy to repay the obligation with affection than with gratitude.

  Not a syllable had been said to her by Mrs. Wilmot respecting the interview she was still likely to have with her aunt Compton; for she had promised this secrecy to the nervous and uncertain old lady, who, while trembling with anxious impatience to see this important niece, shrunk before the difficulties she foresaw in finding such an opportunity as she sought, for she still resolutely persevered in her determination not to see Mrs. Barnaby with her; ... but yet, when finally she did contrive to come within sight of the poor girl, it was exactly under the circumstances she so earnestly wished to avoid.

  Mrs. Barnaby, in her often meditated estimate of revenue and expenses, had arrived at the conclusion that she ought not to travel without a maid, but that the said maid must be hired at the lowest rate of wages possible. The necessity for this addition to her suite did not arise from any idle wish for personal attendance, to which she had never been much accustomed, but from the conviction that there was something in the sound of “my maid” which might be of advantage to her on many occasions.

  The finding out and engaging a girl that might enact the character of lady’s-maid showily and cheaply, was the most important thing still left to be done before they quitted Silverton. The first qualification was a tall person, that might set off to advantage such articles of the widow’s cast-off finery as might be unnecessary for Agnes; the next, a willingness to accept low wages.

  While meditating on the subject, it occurred to Mrs. Barnaby that one of the girls she had seen walking in procession to church with the charity-school, was greatly taller than all the rest, and, in fact, so remarkably long and lanky, that she felt convinced she might, if skilfully dressed up, pass extremely well for a stylish lady’s-maid.

  Delighted at the idea, she immediately summoned Agnes to walk with her to the school-house, which was situated outside the town, about a mile, on the road leading to Compton Basett. On reaching the building, her knock was answered by the schoolmistress herself, who civilly asked her commands.

  “I must come in, Mrs. Sims, before I can tell you,” was the reply, and it was quite true; for, as Mrs. Barnaby knew not the name of her intended Abigail, the only mode of entering upon her business, must be by pointing out the girl whose length of limb had attracted her. But no sooner had she passed the threshold than she perceived the long and slender object of her search immediately opposite to her, in the act of taking down a work-basket from the top of a high commode; which manœuvre, as it placed her on tip-toe, and obliged her to stretch out her longitude to the very utmost, displayed her to the eyes of Mrs. Barnaby to the greatest possible advantage, and convinced her very satisfactorily that her judgment had not erred.

  “That is the girl I wanted to speak about,” she said, pointing to the lizard-like figure opposite to her. “What is her name, Mrs. Sims?”

  “This one, ma’am, as is fetching my basket?” interrogated Mrs. Sims in her turn.

  “Yes, that one ... that tall girl.... What is her name?”

  “Betty Jacks, ma’am, is her name.”

  “Jacks?” repeated Mrs. Barnaby, a little disconcerted; “Jacks!... that won’t do.... I can never call her Jacks; but for that matter, I could give her another name easy enough, to be sure.... And what is she good for?... what can she do?”

  “Not over much of anything, ma’am. She was put late to me. But she can read, and iron a little, and can do plain work well enough when she chooses it.”

  “When she chooses it!... and she’ll be sure to choose it, I suppose, when she goes to service. I want a girl to wait upon me, and to sew for me when she has nothing else to do, and I think this one will do for me very well.”

  “I ask your pardon, ma’am,” replied Mrs. Sims, “but if I might make so bold, I would just say that for a notable, tidy, good girl, Sally Wilkins there, that one at the end of the form, is far before Betty Jacks in being likely to suit.”

  “What!... that little thing? Why, she is a baby, Mrs. Sims.”

  “She is eleven months older than Betty Jacks, ma’am, and greatly beyond her in every way.”

  “But I don’t like the look of such a little thing. The other would do for what I want much better. Come here, Betty Jacks. Should you like to go out to service with a lady who would take care that you should always be well dressed, and let you travel about with her, and see a great deal of the world?”

  “Yes, my lady,” replied the young maypole, grinning from ear to ear, and shewing thereby a very fine set of teeth.

  “Well, then, Betty Jacks, I think we shall suit each other very well. But I shan’t call you Betty though, nor Jacks either ... mind that. You won’t care about it, I suppose, if I find out some pretty, genteel-sounding name for you, will you?”

  “No, my lady!” responded the delighted girl.

  “Very well; ... and I will give you three pounds a year wages, and good clothes enough to make you look a deal better than ever you did before. What do you say to it?”

  “I’ll be glad to come, and thankye, too, my lady, if father will let me.”

  “Who is her father, Mrs. Sims?”

  “Joe Jacks the carpenter, ma’am.”

  “I don’t suppose he is likely to make much objection to her getting such a place as mine, is he?”

  “That is what I can’t pretend to say, ma’am,” replied the schoolmistress very gravely.... “I don’t think Betty over steady myself, but of course it is no business of mine, and it will be far best that you should see Joe Jacks yourself, ma’am, and hear what he says about it.”

  “To be sure; ... and where can I see him?”

  “He’ll be certain to be here to-morrow morning, ma’am, for he’ll come to be paid for the bench he made for me; and if so be you would take the trouble to call again just about one, when Betty will be going home with him for the half holiday they always haves of a Saturday, why then, ma’am, you’d be quite sure to see him, and hear what he’d got to say.”

  “Very well, then, that will do, and we shall certainly walk over again to-morrow, if the weather is anything like fine. — Good morning to you, Mrs. Sims!... Mind what I have said to you, Betty; this is a fine chance for you, and so you must tell your father. Come along, Agnes.”

  It so chanced that within half an hour of their departure Miss Compton also paid a visit to the school. Mrs. Sims was one of the persons whom she had saved from severe, and probably lasting penury, by one of those judicious loans, which, never being made without good and sufficient knowledge of the party accommodated, were sure to be repaid, and enabled her to perform a most essential benefit without any pecuniary loss whatever.
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  There were no excursions which gave the old lady so much pleasure as those which enabled her to contemplate the good effects of this rational species of benevolence, and farmer Wright never failed to offer her a place in his chaise-cart whenever his business took him near any of the numerous cottages where this agreeable spectacle might greet her. On the present occasion he set her down at the door of the school-house, while he called upon a miller at no great distance; and Mrs. Sims, who was somewhat disturbed in mind by the visit and schemes of Mrs. Barnaby, no sooner saw her enter than she led her through the throng of young stitchers and spellers to the tidy little parlour behind.

  “Well, now, Miss Compton, you are kindly welcome,” she said; “and I wish with all my heart you had been here but a bit ago, for who should we have here, ma’am, but your own niece, Mrs. Barnaby.”

  Miss Compton knit her brows with an involuntary frown.

  “And that sweet, pretty creature, Miss Willoughby, comed with her.... She is a beauty, to be sure, if ever there was one.”

  “What did they come for, Mrs. Sims?” inquired Miss Compton with sudden animation.

  “Why, that is just what I want to tell you, ma’am, and to ask your advice about. She come here — Mrs. Barnaby I mean — to look after that saucy Betty Jacks, by way of taking her to be her servant, and travelling about with her; and, upon my word, Miss Compton, she might just as well take my cat there, for any good or use she’s likely to be of: and besides that, ma’am, I have no ways a good opinion of the child, — for child she is, though she’s such a monster in tallness; — she does not speak the truth, Miss Compton, and that’s what I can’t abide, and I don’t think she’ll do me any credit in any way; ... but yet I’m afraid it would be doing a bad action if I was to stand in the girl’s light, and prevent her going, by telling all the ill I think of her, when they comes again to-morrow to settle about it.”

  Mrs. Sims ceased, and certainly expected a decided opinion from Miss Compton on the subject, for that lady had kept her eyes fixed upon her, and appeared to be listening with very profound attention; but the only reply was, “And do you think the girl will come with her?”