Notwithstanding all these disagreeable imaginings, however, the old lady gradually recovered both her health and her usual tranquil equality of spirits, sometimes even persuading herself that she was very glad she had not been seduced, by the appearance of Agnes, to sacrifice her own comfort for the advantage of an artful girl, who was, after all, quite as much the grand-daughter of a Wisett as of a Compton.
Never during the prosperous years that Mrs. Barnaby had been the mistress of her comfortable house at Silverton, (excepting, perhaps, for the delightful interval while she was treated throughout the town as a bride,) did she feel half so grand or so happy a personage as now that she had no house at all. There was an elegance and freedom, which she never felt conscious of before, in thus setting off upon her travels with what she believed to be an ample purse, of which she was the uncontrolled mistress, a beautiful niece to chaperone, and a lady’s-maid to wait upon her; and had Agnes, who sat opposite to her, been less earnestly occupied in recalling all the circumstances of her last strange interview with her aunt Compton, she must have observed and been greatly puzzled by the series of (perhaps) involuntary grimaces which accompanied Mrs. Barnaby’s mental review of her own situation.
“A rich and handsome widow!... Could fate have possibly placed her in any situation she should have liked so well?” This was the question she silently asked herself, and cordially did her heart answer “No.”
As these thoughts worked in her mind her dark, well-marked eyebrows raised themselves, her eyes flashed, and her lips curled into a triumphant smile.
The person who occupied the transverse corner to herself was a handsome young man, who had joined the Silverton coach, from the mansion of a gentleman in the neighbourhood, to which, however, he was himself quite a stranger; and having in vain tried to get sight of the features concealed by the long crape veil beside him, he took to watching those no way concealed by the short crape veil opposite.
“Mother and daughter, of course,” thought he. “A young specimen, without rouge or moustache, would not be amiss.”
Mrs. Barnaby perceived he was looking at her, and settled her features into dignified but not austere harmony.
“It is very pleasant travelling this morning, ma’am,” said the young man.
“As pleasant as a stage-coach can be, I imagine; ... but I am so little accustomed to the sort of thing that I am not a very good judge. Do you know, sir, where the coach stops for dinner?”
“I cannot say I do; I never travelled this road before.”
“Then you are not a resident in the neighbourhood?”
“No, ma’am, quite a bird of passage. It is the first time I have ever been in Devonshire. It seems to be a beautiful county indeed.”
“Very!”... Mrs. Barnaby heartily hoped that no comparisons would follow, as it was not at all her intention to confess, either on the present or any future occasion, that she had never seen any other; and she therefore rather abruptly changed the conversation by adding, “Do you know, sir, whether there are many outside passengers?... I hope my maid will not be annoyed in any way.... It is the first time I ever put her outside a coach!”
“Poor woman!” thought the young man— “lost her husband, and her money with him, I suppose. I must contrive to look at this tall, slender girl, though.”
But Agnes seemed little disposed to give him any opportunity of doing so, for she continued to keep her eyes fixed on the scene without, thus very nearly turning her back on her curious neighbour.
Mrs. Barnaby’s first act of active chaperonship was a very obliging one; she perceived the young man’s object, and not having the slightest inclination to conceal the beauty of Agnes, which she held to be one of the many advantages with which she was herself surrounded, she said, —
“My dear Agnes, do look at that pretty cottage; it is a perfect picture of rural felicity!”
Agnes obeyed the words, and followed with her eyes the finger that pointed through the opposite window, thus indulging her neighbour with a full view of her exquisite profile. The effect was by no means what Mrs. Barnaby expected; the young man looked, and instead of being led by what he saw into talkative civility, he became very respectfully silent. But respectful silence was not an offering to which Mrs. Barnaby in the most brilliant season of her beauty had ever been accustomed; it puzzled her, till a thought struck her which is worth recording, because it very greatly influenced her conduct and feelings for a long time afterwards. This gentleman, whose attentions for the journey she greatly wished to conciliate, had addressed her in the easy style by which “fast” young men are apt to believe they can propitiate the favour of every woman somewhat under fifty years of age, and somewhat, too, beneath themselves in condition. Our traveller had no fear of blundering when he settled that Mrs. Barnaby belonged to this class; but the instant he caught a glimpse of the countenance of Agnes, he became equally sure that she at least belonged to a higher one. It was not wonderful that poor Miss Compton doubted, when she looked at her, the possibility of her being a descendant of the buxom Martha Wisett, for, excepting something in the form and soft lustre of her dark-brown eyes, her features bore no resemblance to her mother, or her mother’s family, but a most decided one to that of her father, who, though a very foolish, hot-headed lieutenant, when we made his acquaintance, was descended from a race of aristocratic ancestors, rather remarkable for their noble and regular cast of features, which appeared indeed to be their least alienable birthright.
The traveller, though a young man, had lived sufficiently in the world to have learned at least the alphabet of character as written on the countenances of those he met, and he spelt gentlewoman so plainly on that of Agnes, that he felt no more right to address her without introduction than he would have done had the stage-coach been an opera-box.
“That’s very odd,” ... thought Mrs. Barnaby. “She certainly is a most beautiful creature ... quite as handsome as I was even in poor dear Tate’s days, and yet the moment he got a sight of her, his pleasant, gay manner, changed all at once, and he now looks as glum as a boy at school.... Though she is my niece, she is not like me; that’s certain, ... and who knows but that many men may still prefer my style to hers?... As to this one, at least, it is impossible to doubt it, and it will be great folly in me to set out with a fancy that my face and figure, especially when I get back to dress again, will not stand a comparison with hers. For some years, at any rate, in justice to myself, I will keep this in mind; and not take it for granted that every glance directed towards us is for the child, and not for the woman.”
This agreeable idea seemed all that was wanting to make the journey perfectly delicious, and not even the continued reserve of the young man could affect in any great degree the charming harmony of her spirits. We hear much of the beautiful freshness of hope in young hearts just about to make their first trial of the joys of life; but it is quite a mistake to suppose that any such feeling can equal the fearless, confident, triumphant mastery and command of future enjoyment, which dilates the heart, in the case of such an out-coming widow as Mrs. Barnaby.
The Silverton coach set its passengers down at Street’s hotel, in the Church-yard; and my heroine, who now for the first time in her life found herself at an inn, with the power of ordering what she chose, determined to enjoy the two-fold gratification of passing for a lady of great fashion and fortune, and of taking especial care of her creature-comforts into the bargain.
“Do you want rooms, ma’am?” said the head of a waiter, suddenly placing itself among the insides.
“Yes, young man, I want the best rooms in the house.... Where is my maid? — Let her be ready to attend me as soon as I get out. We have nothing with us but three trunks, one square box, one hat-box, two carpet-bags, and my dressing-case. Let everything be conveyed to my apartments. Now open the door, and let me get out.... Follow me, Agnes.... You will come, if you please, without delay, young man, to receive my orders respecting refreshments.”
Two lighted candles
were snatched up as they passed the bar, and Mrs. Barnaby proceeded up the stairs in state, the waiter and his candles before, Agnes and “my maid” behind.
“This room is extremely dark and disagreeable.... Pray, send the master of the house to me; I wish to give my orders to him.”
“My master is not at home, ma’am.”
“Not at home?... Extremely negligent, I must say. Perhaps it will be better for me to proceed to some other hotel, where I may be able to see the head of the establishment. I have not been accustomed to be treated with anything like neglect ... people of my condition, indeed, seldom are.”
“If you will be pleased, my lady, to give your orders to me,” said the waiter very respectfully, “you shall find nothing wanting that belongs to a first-rate house.”
“Then, pray, send my maid to me.... Oh! there you are, Jerningham.”
“Yes, ma’am,” answered the gawky soubrette, tucking back the veil with which Mrs. Barnaby had adorned one of her own bonnets, and staring at the draperied windows, and all the other fine things which met her eyes.
“You will see, Jerningham, that my sleeping apartment is endurable.”
Now Betty Jacks, though careless and idle, was by no means a stupid girl; but she was but fifteen years old, and her experiences not having hitherto been upon a very extended scale, she found herself at a loss to understand what her new mistress meant, about nine times out of every ten that she spoke to her. On receiving the order above mentioned, she meditated for an instant upon what an “endurable sleeping apartment” might be; but the sagacity which failed to discover this, sufficed to suggest the advantage of not confessing her ignorance; and she answered boldly, “Yes, sure, ma’am.”
“Go, then,” said the lady, languidly throwing her person upon a sofa; and then turning to the waiter, who still remained with the door in his hand, she pronounced with impressive emphasis, —
“Let there be tea, sugar, and cream brought, with buttered toast, and muffins also, if it be possible.... Agnes, my love, I am afraid there is hardly room for you on the sofa; but sit down, dear, and try to make yourself comfortable on a chair.”
The two ladies were now left to themselves, Betty Jacks joyfully accompanying the smart young waiter to the regions below. “And who may be your missus, my dear?” he said, giving her an encouraging chuck under the chin; “she can’t have much to do, I’m thinking, with any of the county families, for they bean’t much given to stage-coaches, and never without their own gentlemen to guard ’em.... Is she a real grand lady, or only a strutting make-believe?”
Betty, thinking it much more for her own credit to serve a real grand lady than a make-believe, readily answered.
“To be sure, she is a real grand lady, Mr. Imperdence.... We comes up along from Silverton, and she’s one of the finest ladies in the town.”
“In the town,” repeated the knowing waiter significantly.... “I understand.... Well, she shall have some tea; .... And now, my girl, you had better go and do what she bid you.”
“Well now, if I hav’n’t downright forgot already!” said the unblushing Betty. “Will you tell me what it was then?”
“How old are you, my dear?” was the unsatisfactory reply.
“And pray what’s that to you?... But come now, do tell me, willy’, what was it missus told me to do?”
“To go see after her bed, my dear, and all that, and unpack her nightcap, I suppose.”
“Well, then, give me a candle, — that’s a good man.... But where is her bed, though?”
“You bean’t quite hatched yet, my gay maypole, but you’ll do well enough some of these day.... Here, Susan! shew this young waiting-maid a bed-room for two ladies — and one for yourself too, I suppose, my dear. I shouldn’t wonder, Susan, if it was possible the grand lady up stairs may pay less than a duchess; but take my word for it she’ll blow you sky high, if you don’t serve her as if you thought she was one.”
“How did she come?” snappishly inquired the chamber-maid.
“By the Royal Regulator,” answered the waiter. “But inside, Susan, inside, you know, and with her lady’s-maid here to wait upon her; so mind what you’re about, I tell you.”
“Come this way, young woman, if you please,” said the experienced official, who was not to be bullied out of a first-floor room by the report of duchess-like airs, or the sight of a lanky child for a waiting-maid. So Betty was made to mount to a proper stage-coach elevation.
Mrs. Barnaby, however, got her tea, and her toast, and her muffins, greatly to her satisfaction, even though the master of the establishment knew nothing about it; and though she did make Agnes’s slender arm pay for the second flight of stairs, in order to prove how very little used she was to such fatigue, she was, on the whole, well pleased with her room when she reached it, well pleased with her bed, well pleased with her breakfast, and ready to set off as soon as it was over to look out for lodgings and adventures.
CHAPTER XIV.
HOW TO CHOOSE LODGINGS. — REASONS FOR LAYING ASIDE WIDOW’S WEEDS. — LADY-LIKE ACCOMPLISHMENTS. — AFFECTIONATE FORETHOUGHT. — CHARMING SENSIBILITY. — GENEROUS INTENTIONS. — A CLEVER LETTER, BUT ONE UPON WHICH DOCTORS MAY DISAGREE.
Of lodgings Mrs. Barnaby saw enough to offer a most satisfactory selection, and heartily to weary Agnes, who followed her up and down innumerable stairs, and stood behind her, during what seemed endless colloquies with a multitude of respectable-looking landladies, long after she had flattered herself that her aunt must have been suited to her heart’s desire by what she had already seen. Of adventures the quiet streets of Exeter were not likely to produce many; but the widow had the satisfaction of observing that lounging gentlemen were abundant, a cavalry officer still visible now and then, and that hardly one man in ten of any class passed her without staring her full in the face.
At length, after having walked about till she was sufficiently tired herself, and till poor Agnes looked extremely pale, she entered a pastry-cook’s shop for the purpose of eating buns, and of taking into deliberate consideration whether she should secure apartments in the Crescent, which were particularly comfortable, or some she had seen in the High Street, which were particularly gay.
Mrs. Barnaby often spoke aloud to herself while appearing to address her niece, and so she did now.
“That’s a monstrous pretty drawing-room, certainly; and if I was sure that I should be able to get any company to come and see me, I’d stick to the Crescent.... But it’s likely enough that I shall find nobody to know, and in that case it would be most horribly dull.... But if we did not get a soul from Monday morning to Saturday night, we could never be dull in the High Street. Such lots of country gentlemen!... And they always look about them more than any other men.” And then, suddenly addressing her niece in good earnest, she added, —
“Don’t you think so, Agnes?”
“I don’t know, ma’am,” replied Agnes, in an accent that would have delighted her aunt Compton, and which might have offended some sort of aunts; but it only amused her aunt Barnaby, who laughed heartily, and said, for the benefit of the young woman who presided at the counter, as well as for that of her niece, —
“Yes, my dear, that’s quite right; that’s the way we all begin.... And you will know all, how, and about it, too, long and long before you will own it.”
Agnes suddenly thought of Empton parsonage, its pretty lawn, its flowers, its books, and its gentle intellectual inmates, and involuntarily she closed her eyes for a moment and sighed profoundly; but the reverie was not permitted to last long, for Mrs. Barnaby, having finished her laugh and her bun, rose from her chair, saying, —
“Come along, child!... The High Street will suit us best, won’t it, Agnes?”
“You must best know what you best like, aunt,” replied the poor girl almost in a whisper, “but the Crescent seemed to me very quiet and agreeable.”
“Quiet!... Yes, I should think so!... And if that’s your fancy, it is rather lucky that it’s my busi
ness to choose, and not yours. And it’s my business to pay too.... It’s just sixpence,” she added with a laugh, and pulling out her purse. “One bun for the young lady, and five for me. Come along, Agnes ... and do throw back that thick crape veil, child.... Your bonnet will look as well again!”
Another half hour settled the situation of their lodgings in Exeter. Smart Mrs. Tompkin’s first-floor in the High Street, with a bed in the garret for Jerningham, was secured for three months; at the end of which time Mrs. Barnaby was secretly determined as nearly as possible to lay aside her mourning, and come forth with the apple blossoms, dazzling in freshness, and couleur de rose. The bargain for the lodgings, however, was not concluded without some little difficulty, for Mrs. Tompkins, who owned that she considered herself as the most respectable lodging-house keeper in Exeter, did not receive this second and conclusive visit from the elegant widow with as much apparent satisfaction as was expected.
“Here I am again, Mrs. Tompkins!” said the lively lady in crape and bombasin. “I can see no lodgings I like as well as yours, after all.”
“Well.... I don’t know, ma’am, about that,” replied the cautious Mrs. Tompkins; “but, to say the truth, I’m not over and above fond of lady lodgers ... they give a deal more trouble than gentlemen, and I’ve always been used to have the officers as long as there were any to be had; and even now, with only three cavalry companies in the barracks, it’s a rare chance to find me without them.”
“But as you do happen to be without them now, Mrs. Tompkins, and as your bill is up, I suppose your lodgings are to let, and I am willing to take them.”
“And may I beg the favour of your name, ma’am?” said the respectable landlady, stiffly.
“Barnaby!” answered the widow, with an emphasis that gave much dignity to the name. “I am the widow of a gentleman of large fortune in the neighbourhood of Silverton, and finding the scene of my lost happiness too oppressive to my spirits, I am come to Exeter with my niece, and only one lady’s-maid to wait upon us both, that I may quietly pass a few months in comparative retirement before I join my family and friends in the country, as their rank and fortune naturally lead them into more gaiety than I should at present like to share. I am not much accustomed to be called upon thus to give an account of myself; but this is my name, and this is my station; and if neither happens to satisfy you, I must seek lodgings elsewhere.”
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 115