Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  The majestic lady then led the way to their “apartments,” which consisted of a small bed-room behind the drawing-room, and a very small closet, with a little camp-bed behind that.

  “Here, my dear, is the room I intend for you. It is, I believe, generally used for a servant, but I have been at the expense of hiring a garret for Jerningham on purpose that you might have the comfort of this. In fact, that bed of mine is not larger than I like for myself, and the drawers, and all that, are not at all more than I shall want; so remember, if you please, not to let any single article of yours, great or small, be ever seen in my room; I shall be puzzled enough, I am sure, as it is, to find room for my own things. You have a great advantage over me there, Agnes; ... that fancy of yours for keeping yourself in deep mourning makes it so easy for you to find space enough for everything.”

  “Oh yes!” replied Agnes joyfully, “everything shall be put into the closet. What very pleasant lodgings these are, aunt ... so much better than those at Exeter! It is such a nice closet this, and I am so much obliged to you for giving it up to me!”

  “I shall be always ready to make sacrifices for you, Agnes, so long as you continue to behave well. Here come some of the boxes ... now then, you must kneel down and help to unpack them.”

  It was a long and a wearisome task that unpacking, and often did Agnes, as the sun shone in upon them while they performed it, think of her pleasant walks with her new friends, and long to breathe again the air that blew upon her as she stood on the top of St. Vincent’s rocks.

  Mrs. Barnaby, on the contrary, was wholly present to the work before her; and though she waxed weary and warm before it was completed, her spirits never flagged, but appeared to revive within her at every fresh deposit of finery that she came upon, and again and again did she call upon Agnes and Jerningham to admire the skill with which she had stowed them.

  At length the work was done, and every disposable corner of her room filled; under the bed, over the bed, in the drawers, and upon the drawers, not an inch remained unoccupied by some of the widow’s personalities.

  It was by this time so late that the cake scheme was given up, and the drawing-room being restored to order, the two ladies sat down to tea. It was then that Mrs. Barnaby’s genius displayed itself in sketching plan’s for the future: she had learned from Mrs. Peters and the simple-minded Elizabeth, during their drive to and from Bristol, all particulars respecting the Clifton balls, and moreover that the Peters family seldom failed to attend them.

  “This will be quite enough to set us going respectably: people that come in their own carriage, must have influence. I trust that those stupid humdrums, the Wilmots, gave you some dancing lessons, Agnes?”

  “Yes, aunt.”

  “You are always so short in your answers, you never tell me anything. Do you think you could get through a quadrille without blundering?”

  “Yes, I hope so, aunt.”

  “Remember, if you can’t, I shall be most dreadfully angry, for it would destroy all my plans entirely. — I mean, Agnes, that you shall dance as much as possible; — nothing extends one’s acquaintance among young men so much. I am not quite sure myself about dancing. I don’t think I shall do it here, on account of dear Margaret ... perhaps she might think it too soon. I shall probably take to cards; that’s not a bad way of making acquaintance either; but in all things remember that you play into my hands, and whenever you have a new partner remember that you always say to him, ‘You must give me leave to introduce you to my aunt’.... Do you hear me, Agnes?”

  “Yes, aunt,” replied the poor girl with an involuntary sigh.

  “What a poor, stupid creature you are, to be sure!” returned Mrs. Barnaby in a tone of much displeasure. “What in the world can you sigh for now, just at the very moment that I am talking to you of balls and dancing? I wish to Heaven you were a little more like what I was at your age, Agnes! Be so good as to tell me what you are sighing for?”

  “I don’t know, aunt; I believe I am tired.”

  “Tired?... and of what, I should like to know? Come, come, let us have no fine lady airs, if you please; and don’t look as if you were going to cry, whatever you do. There is nothing on earth I dislike so much as gloom. I am of a very cheerful, happy temper myself, and it’s perfect misery to me to see anybody look melancholy.... I declare, Agnes, I am as hungry as a hound!... I don’t like to ring for Jerningham again, she looked so horridly cross; and I wish, my dear, you would just toast this round of bread for me. Mrs. Peters was quite right about the fire ... it is such a comfort! and coals are so cheap here.... Let me stir it up a little ... there, now its as bright as a furnace; you can just kneel down in the middle here upon the rug.”

  Agnes obeyed, and after some minutes’ assiduous application to the labour imposed, she presented the toasted bread, her own fair face scarcely less changed in tint by the operation.

  “Gracious me, child! what a fright you have made of yourself!... you should have held the other hand up before your face.... You are but a clumsy person, I am afraid, at most things, as well as at satin-stitch. Will you have some more tea, my dear?...” draining, as was her habit, the last drop into her own cup before she asked the question, and then extending her hand to that genial source of hospitality, the tepid urn.

  “No more, thank you, aunt.... I will go now, if you please, and take all my things out of your way ... and I shall make my closet so comfortable!...”

  “I dare say you will. But stay a moment, Agnes: if you find you have more room than you want, do put my two best bonnet-boxes somewhere or other among your things, so that I can get at them ... so that Jerningham can get at them, I mean, easily.”

  “I will, if I can, aunt, but I am afraid there will hardly be room for my chair. However, you shall come and see, if you please, yourself, and then you will be the best judge; but I will go first, and get everything in order.”

  “Very well, then, Agnes, you may tell Jerningham to separate everything like mourning from my things, and give it all to you. And you must contrive, my dear, to cut and make up everything to fit yourself, for I really can be at no expense about it. It is perfectly incredible how money goes in this part of the country, so different from our dear Silverton!... However, I will not grumble about it, for I consider it quite my duty to bring you out into the world, and I knew well enough before I set out, that it could not be done for nothing. But it is a sort of self-devotion I shall never complain of, if you do but turn out well.”

  Agnes was standing while this affectionate speech was spoken, and having quietly waited for its conclusion, again uttered her gentle “thank you, aunt,” and retired to arrange the longed-for paradise of her little closet.

  Darkness overtook her before she had fully completed her task; but, perhaps, she wilfully lingered over it, for it kept her alone, and permitted her bright and innocent spirit to indulge itself by recalling all the delight she had felt in looking down upon the bold and beautiful scenery of the Avon, and she blessed Heaven for the fund of happiness she was now conscious existed within her, since the power of looking out upon Nature seemed sufficient to produce a joy great enough to make her forget aunt Barnaby, and everything else that gave her pain. A part, too, of her hours of light, was spent in opening more than one of her dear little volumes to seek for some remembered description of scenery which she thought would be more intelligible to her now than heretofore; and as Spencer happened to fall into her hands, it was no great wonder if his flowery meads and forests drear, tempted her onwards till she almost lost herself among them.

  At length, however, she had done all that she thought she could do towards giving a closet the appearance of a room; and having stowed her tiny looking-glass out of the way, and placed pens, ink, and a book or two, on the rickety little table in its stead, she looked round in the dusky twilight with infinite satisfaction, and thought, that were she quite sure of taking a long country walk about three times a week with the Peterses, she should be very, very happy, let everyth
ing else go on as it might.

  Having come to this satisfactory conclusion, (for a walk three times a week was an indulgence she might reasonably hope for,) she cast one fond look round upon her dark but dear solitude, and then went to rejoin her aunt in the drawing-room, and announce its state of perfection to her. She found her seated at the open window.

  “What have you been about, Agnes, all this time?” she said. “It is lucky that my cheerful, happy temper, does not make solitude as dreadful to me as it is to most people, or I should be badly off, living with you. You are but a stupid, moping sort of a body, my dear, I must say, or you would have guessed that there was more to see at the front of the house than at the back of it. I declare I never saw such a delightful window as this in my life. You would never believe what a mall there has been here from the moment I took my place till just now, that it’s got almost dark; ... and even now, Agnes, if you will come here,” ... she added in a whisper, ... “but don’t speak ... you may see one couple left, and lovers they are, I’ll be bound for them.... Here, stand here by me.”

  “No, thank you, aunt,” said Agnes, retreating; “I don’t want to see them, and I think it is more comfortable by the fire.”

  “You don’t choose to spoil sport, I suppose; ... but don’t be such a fool, and pretend to be wiser than your betters. Come here, I say; you shall take one peep, I am determined.”

  And as this determination was enforced by a tolerably strong pull, Agnes yielded, and found herself, greatly against her inclination, standing at the open window, with her head obligingly thrust out of it by her resolute aunt.

  The lamps were by this time lighted, and at that moment a remarkably tall, gentleman-like looking personage passed beneath one that stood almost immediately below the window, receiving its full glare upon his features. Beside him was a lady, and a young one, slight, tall, and elegant-looking, who more than leaned upon his arm, for her head almost reclined upon his shoulder; and, as they passed, Agnes saw his hand raised to her face, and he seemed to be playing with her ringlets.

  Agnes forcibly withdrew her head, while Mrs. Barnaby threw herself half out of the window for a minute, then drew back, laughing heartily, and shut down the sash.

  “That’s capital!...” she cried; “they fancied themselves so very snug. But wasn’t he a fine figure of a man, Agnes? I never saw a finer fellow in my life. He’s taller than Tate by half a head, I am sure. But you’re right about the fire too, for the wind comes over that down uncommonly cold. I shall go to work for an hour, and then have a little bread and cheese and a pint of beer.”

  Mrs. Barnaby suited the action to the word, and unlocked her work-box, in which she found ready to her hand good store of work prepared for her beloved needle.

  “Now, only see, Agnes, what a thing it would have been for you, if you had learned to work satin-stitch!” she said, “Here am I, happy and amused, and before I go to bed I dare say I shall have done a good inch of this beautiful collar.... And only look at yourself! What earthly use are you of to anybody?... I wonder you are not ashamed to sit idle in that way, while you see me hard at work.”

  “May I get a book, aunt?”

  “Books, books, books!... If there is one thing more completely full of idleness than another, it is reading, — just spelling along one line after another.... And what comes of it? Now, here’s a leaf done already, and wait a minute and you’ll see a whole bunch of grapes done in spotting. There is some sense in that: but poring over a lot of rubbishly words is an absolute sin, for it is wasting the time that Heaven gives us, and doing no good to our fellow-creatures.”

  “And the grapes!” thought Agnes, but she said nothing.

  “Why don’t you answer when I speak to you, child?... Did that stupid Mrs. Wilmot never tell you to speak when you were spoken to?... What a different creature you would have been if I had had the placing you, instead of that crooked, frumpish old maid!... But I am sadly afraid it is too late now to hope that you will ever be good for much.”

  “I should be very glad to try to make myself competent for the situation of a governess, aunt, as you once mentioned to me,” replied Agnes.

  “Oh! by the by, I want to speak to you about that. You are not to say one word on that subject here, remember, nor indeed anywhere, till at such time as I shall give you leave. It will be cruelly hard for me to have the monstrous expense of maintaining you, exactly as if you were my own child, and not have the credit of it. And, besides I don’t feel quite sure that I shall send you out as a governess ... it must depend upon circumstances. Perhaps I shall get you married, and that might suit me just as well. All you have to do is to keep yourself always ready to go out at a minute’s warning, if I say the word; but you need mention it to nobody, and particularly not to my relations here.”

  “Very well, aunt.... I will say nothing about it. But in order to be ready when you say the word, I think I ought to study a good deal, and I am willing to do it if you will give me leave.”

  “How you do plague me, child, about your learning! Push the candles this way, can’t you, and snuff them, when you see me straining my poor eyes with this fine work.... And do you know, miss, I think it’s very likely those books you are so mighty fond of are nothing in the world but trumpery story-books, for I don’t believe you’d hanker after them so, if they were really in the teaching line. For, after all, Agnes, if I must speak the truth, I don’t believe you ever did pay attention to any single thing that could be really useful in the way of governessing. Now, music, for instance, nobody ever heard you say a word about that; and you ought to sing too, if you wer’n’t more stupid than anything ever was, for both your father and mother sang like angels.”

  “I can sing a little, aunt,” said Agnes.

  “There, now, ... isn’t it as plain as possible that you take no pleasure in it?... though everybody said your poor dear mother could have made her fortune by singing. But you care for nothing but books, books, books!... and what profit, I should like to know, will ever come of that?”

  “But I do care very much indeed for music, aunt,” said Agnes eagerly, “only I did not talk about it, because I thought it might not be convenient for you to have an instrument for me. But I believe I could learn to get my bread by music, if I had a pianoforte to study with.”

  “Grant me patience!... And you really want me to go and get you a pianoforte, which is just the most expensive thing in the world?... And that after I had so kindly opened my heart to you about my fears of not having money enough!... I do think that passes anything I ever heard in my life!”

  “Indeed, aunt, I never would have said a word about it if....”

  “If?... if what, I should like to know? Heaven knows it is seldom I lose my temper about anything, but it is almost too much to hear you ask me to my face to ruin myself in that way, ... and you without a chance of ever having a penny to repay me!”

  “Pray forget it, aunt!... Indeed I do not wish to be an expense to you, and will very gladly try to labour for my own living, if you will let me.”

  “Mighty fine, to be sure!... Much you’re good for, ar’n’t you?... I wish you’d get along to bed. My temper is too good to bear malice, and I shall forget all about it to-morrow, perhaps; but I can’t abide to look at you to-night after such a speech as that ... there’s the truth; ... so get to bed, that’s a good girl, as fast as you can.... There are some things too much even for an angel to bear!”

  Agnes crept to her little bed, and soon cried herself to sleep.

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  CONDITIONS OF AN AGREEMENT BETWEEN MRS. PETERS AND HER DAUGHTERS. — MRS. BARNABY BEGINS HER FASHIONABLE CAREER UNDER THE PROTECTION OF MISS ELIZABETH. — SHE REHEARSES A BALL IN HER HEART AS SHE EXAMINES THE ROOM. — THE LIBRARY.

  Mrs. Barnaby was quite right in thinking that the Peters family would be very useful acquaintance; for prodigiously as Mrs. Peters disliked her sister-in-law, she no sooner ceased to be galled by her unwelcome presence in her house, than she recovered
her good-humour, and felt as much aware as any reasonable person could desire, of the claim her brother’s widow really had upon her and her family. These excellent dispositions were assiduously fostered by her daughters, to whose wishes she never turned a deaf ear. She found the eldest and the youngest very seriously interested in Agnes, and earnest in their desire to see more of her; while Elizabeth persevered in her belief that poor Mrs. Barnaby was one of the very best-hearted women in the world, and very much to be pitied, because nobody seemed to like her ... though she did mean to divide her fortune so generously amongst them.

  “I hope, mamma,” said the eldest Miss Peters, when the ladies of the family were sitting round the drawing-room fire after dinner, “I hope that you will overcome your terror of Mrs. Barnaby and her rouge sufficiently before Tuesday night to permit her joining our party in the ball-room, for I would not forsake that sweet Agnes upon such an occasion for more than I will say.”

  “Why, I do feel my spirits revive, Mary, considerably, since I have felt quite certain that none of my dear sister’s amiable feelings were likely to involve me in the necessity of enduring her presence in my house for evermore. You may fancy you exaggerate, perhaps, when you talk of my terrors; ... but no such thing, believe me. It was terror she inspired, and nothing short of it.”

  “And Agnes, mamma?... what did she inspire?” said Mary.

  “Pity and admiration,” replied her mother.

  “Very well, then,” returned the petted girl, kissing her, “we shall not quarrel this time; but I was half afraid of it. It would, in truth, have been very foolish, and very unlike you, mamma, who understand the sort of thing better than most people, I believe, if we had lost the great pleasure of being kind to Miss Willoughby, and behaved extremely ill to uncle Barnaby’s widow into the bargain, solely because you don’t like tall massive ladies, with large black eyes, who wear rouge, and talk fine; ... for you must confess, if you will be quite honest and speak the truth, that Mrs. Peters is rather too well-established a person at Clifton, to fear losing caste by being seen with a Mrs. Barnaby, even had the association not been redeemed by the matchless elegance of her beautiful niece.”