Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  This day seemed sent by fate to make up for the misfortunes of the last. On entering the library, Mrs. Barnaby immediately placed herself before the authographic volume in which she took such particular interest, and hardly had she done so, when the tall and the short gentlemen entered the shop. Again it was decidedly evident that the tall one fixed his eyes on the widow, and the shorter one on her companion. The widow’s heart beat. Never had she forgotten the evident admiration her own face and manner produced on her fellow traveller from Silverton, or the chilling effect that followed the display of the calm features of her delicate niece. She knew that Agnes was younger, and perhaps even handsomer, than herself; but this only tended to confirm her conviction that an animated expression of countenance, and great vivacity of manner, would do more towards turning a young man’s head than all the mere beauty in the world.

  What would she have given at that moment for some one with whom she might have conversed with laughing gaiety ... to whom she might have displayed her large white teeth ... and on whom she might have turned the flashings of her lustrous eyes!

  It was in vain to look to Agnes at such a moment as this, for she well knew that nothing she could utter would elicit any better excuse for laughter than might be found in “Yes, aunt,” or “No, aunt.” So nothing was to be done but to raise a glass recently purchased to her eye, in order to recognize the unknown passers-by; but in doing this she contrived to make “le petit doigt” show off her rings, and now and then cast such a glance at the strangers as none but a Mrs. Barnaby can give.

  After this dumb show had lasted for some minutes, the two gentlemen each threw down the newspaper they had affected to read, and departed. Mrs. Barnaby’s interest in the subscription-book departed likewise; and after looking at the backs of one or two volumes that lay scattered about the counter, she, too, left the shop, and proceeded with a dignified and leisurely step along the pavement. The next moment was one of the happiest of her life, for on turning her head to reconnoitre a richly-trimmed mantilla that had passed her, she perceived the same pair of gentlemen at the distance of two paces behind them.

  This indeed was an adventure, and to the widow’s unspeakable delight it was made more piquant still by what followed. Near the end of the street was the well-frequented shop of a fashionable pastry-cook, — an establishment, by the way, which Mrs. Barnaby had not yet lived long enough to pass with indifference, for the two-fold reason, that it ever recalled the dear rencontres of her youth, when the disbursement of one penny was sure to secure a whole half hour of regimental flirting, and also because her genuine love for cakes and tarts was unextinguishable. There was now again a double reason for entering this inviting museum; for, in the first place, it would prevent the necessity of turning round as soon as they had walked up the street, in order to walk down it again, thereby proving that they had no engagements at all; and, secondly, it would give the two uncommonly handsome men an opportunity of following them in, if they liked it.

  And it so happened that they did like it. Happy Mrs. Barnaby!... No sooner had she seated herself beside the counter, with a plate of queen cakes and Bath buns beside her, than the light from the door ceased to pour its unbroken splendour upon her elegant dress, and on looking up, her eye again met the gaze first of the one, and then of the other stranger, as they entered the shop together.

  Agnes was standing behind her, with her face rather unmeaningly turned towards the counter, for when a plate with various specimens of pastry delicacies was offered to her by one of the shop-women, she declined to take anything by a silent bow.

  The two gentlemen passed her, and established themselves at a little table just beyond, desiring that ices might be brought to them.

  “You have ices, have you?” said Mrs. Barnaby, delighted at an opportunity of speaking; ... “bring me one, if you please.” And then, trusting to her niece’s well known discretion, she turned her chair, so as to front both Agnes and the two gentlemen, and said with great kindness of accent ... “Agnes, love!... will you have an ice?”

  “No, thank you, aunt,” ... the anticipated reply, followed.

  “Then sit down, dearest, will you?... while I take mine.”

  The younger of the two gentlemen instantly sprang from his chair, and presented it to her. Agnes bowed civilly, but passed on to a bench which flanked the narrow shop on the other side; but Mrs. Barnaby smiled upon him most graciously, and said, bowing low as she sat, —

  “Thank you, sir, very much ... you are extremely obliging.”

  The young man bowed again, reseated himself, and finished his ice in silence, when his companion having done the same, each laid a sixpence on the counter, and walked off.

  “Who are those gentlemen, pray?... do you know their names?” said Mrs. Barnaby eagerly to the shop-girl.

  “The tall gentleman is Colonel Hubert, ma’am; and the other, young Mr. Stephenson.”

  “Stephenson,” ... musingly repeated the widow,— “Stephenson and Hubert?... I am sure I have heard the names before.”

  “Sir Edward Stephenson was married on Saturday to Colonel Hubert’s sister, ma’am,” said the girl, “and it is most likely that you heard of it.”

  “Oh, to be sure I did!... I remember now all about it.... They said he was the handsomest man in the world — Colonel Hubert I mean ... and so he certainly is ... handsomer certainly than even Major Allen: don’t you think so, Agnes?”

  “I don’t know Major Allen, aunt.”

  “Not know Major Allen, child?... Oh! I remember ... no more you do, my dear ... come, get up; I have done.... The young man, Agnes,” she said, turning to her niece as they left the shop, “seemed, I thought, a good deal struck by you. I wish to goodness, child, you would not always keep that thick veil over your face so.... It is a very handsome veil I know, and certainly makes your mourning look very elegant; but it is only in some particular lights that one can see your face under it at all.”

  “I don’t think that signifies much, aunt, and it makes me feel so much more comfortable.”

  “Comfortable!... very well, child, poke along, and be comfortable your own way ... but you certainly have a little spice of the mule in you.”

  The widow was perhaps rather disappointed at seeing no more of the two strangers; they had turned off just beyond the pastry-cook’s shop, and were no longer visible; but, while she follows in gentle musings her walk home, we will pursue the two gentlemen who had so captivated her attention.

  The only resemblance between them was in the decided air of bon ton that distinguished both; in every other respect they were perfectly dissimilar. Mr. Stephenson, the shorter and younger of the two, had by far the more regular set of features, and was indeed remarkably handsome. Colonel Hubert, his companion, appeared to be at least ten years his senior, and looked bronzed by the effect of various climates. He had perhaps no peculiar beauty of feature except his fine teeth, and the noble expression of his forehead, from which, however, the hair had already somewhat retired, though it still clustered in close brown curls round his well-turned head. But his form and stature were magnificent, and his general appearance so completely that of a soldier and a gentleman, that it was impossible, let him appear where he would, that he should pass unnoticed ... which perhaps to the gentle-minded may be considered as some excuse for Mrs. Barnaby’s enthusiastic admiration.

  “For Heaven’s sake, Hubert!” said the junior to the senior, as they paced onwards, “do give me leave to know a pretty girl when I see one.... In my life I never beheld so beautiful a creature!... Her form, her feet, her movement, — and what a voice!”

  “Assuredly,” said Colonel Hubert in reply to this tirade, “the sweet variety of tone, and the charming change of her ever musical cadences, must naturally excite your admiration. ‘No, thank you, aunt,’ ... it was inimitable! You are quite right, Frederick; such words could not be listened to with indifference.”

  “You are an odious, carping, old, fusty, musty bachelor, and I hate you with all
my heart and soul!” exclaimed the young man. “Upon my honour, Hubert, I shudder to think that some ten or a dozen years hence I may be as hard, cold, and insensible as you are now.... Tell me honestly, can you at all recollect what your feelings were at two-and-twenty on seeing such a being as that sable angel from whom you have just dragged me?”

  “Perhaps not exactly; and besides, black angels were never the objects of my idolatry. But don’t stamp your foot at me, and I will answer you seriously. I do not think that from the blissful time when I was sixteen, up to my present solemn five-and-thirty, I could ever have been tempted to look a second time at any miss under the chaperonship of such a dame as that feather and furbelow lady.”

  “Then why, in the name of common sense, did you gaze so earnestly at the furbelow lady herself?”

  “To answer that truly, Frederick, would involve the confession of a peculiar family weakness.”

  “A family weakness?... Pray, be confidential; I will promise to be discreet; and, indeed, as my brother has just made, as the newspapers say, a ‘lovely bride’ of your sister, I have some right to a participation in the family secrets. Come, disclose!... What family reason have you for choosing to gaze upon a great vulgar woman, verging towards forty, and refusing to look at a young creature, as beautiful as a houri, who happens to be in her company?”

  “I suspect it is because I am near of kin to my mother’s sister.... Did you never hear of the peculiarity that attaches to my respected aunt, Lady Elizabeth Norris? She scruples not to avow that she prefers the society of people who amuse her by their absurdities to every other.”

  “Oh yes!... I have heard all that from Edward, who has, I can tell you, been occasionally somewhat horrified at what the queer old lady calls her soirées antíthèstiques. But you don’t mean to tell me, Hubert, that you ever take the fancy of surrounding yourself with all the greatest quizzes you can find in compliment to your old aunt?”

  “Why, no.... I do not go so far as that yet, and perhaps I sometimes wish that she did not either, for occasionally she carries the whim rather too far; yet I believe truly that I am more likely to gaze with attention at a particularly ridiculous-looking woman than at any young nymph under her protection ... or possessing the awful privilege of calling her AUNT!”

  “A young nymph!... what a hateful phrase! Elegant, delicate creature!... I swear to you, Colonel Hubert, that you have lowered yourself very materially in my estimation by your want of tact in not immediately perceiving that, although a nepotine connexion unhappily exists between them, by marriage probably, or by the half blood, there must still be something very peculiar in the circumstances which have brought so incongruous a pair together.”

  “Well, Frederick, you may be right ... and perhaps, my friend, my eyes begin to fail me; for, to tell you the truth, your adorable’s crape veil was too thick for me to see anything through it.”

  “To be sure it was!” cried Stephenson, quite delighted at the amende; “I thought it was impossible you could underrate such a face as that.”

  “It is a great blessing to have young eyes,” rejoined the Colonel, relapsing into his bantering tone.

  “What!... At it again, thou crusty old Mars?... Then I leave you.”

  “Au revoir, my Corydon!...” and so they parted.

  CHAPTER II.

  THE BALL.

  The evening of the ball, so much dreaded by the niece, and so much longed for by the aunt, arrived at last; and by a chance not over common in the affairs of mortals, while the hopes of the one lady were more than realised, the fears of the other were proved to be altogether groundless. Many favourable accidents, indeed, concurred to lessen the difficulties anticipated by Agnes. In the first place, her almost funereal robes (for which, if the truth be spoken, it must be avowed she had not the slightest partiality,) assumed an appearance, under her tasteful fancy, which surprised even herself; for though, when she set about it, she had a sort of beau ideal of a black crape robe floating in her imagination, her hopes of giving it form and substance by her own ingenuity were not very sanguine. Mrs. Barnaby, either from the depth of her sorrow, or the height of her elegance, had commanded, when she ordered her widow’s mourning, that one dress should touch the heart of every beholder by having a basement of sable crape one yard in breadth around it. This doleful dress was costly, and had been rarely worn at Silverton, that it might come forth in greater splendour at Exeter. But at Exeter, as we have seen, the widow’s feelings so completely overpowered her, that she could not wear it at all; and thus it came under the fingers of Agnes in very respectable condition. Of these circumambulatory ells of crape, the young artificer contrived to fabricate a dress that was anything but unbecoming. The enormous crape gigots (for those were the days of gigots), which made part of her black treasure, hung from her delicate fair arms like transparent clouds upon the silvery brightness of the moon ... so, at least, would Frederick Stephenson have described it ... while the simple corsage, drawn, à la vierge, rather higher than fashion demanded round her beautiful bust, gave a delicate and sober dignity to her appearance, that even those who would have deemed it “a pity to be so covered up” themselves, could not but allow was exceedingly becoming.

  As soon as her labour was ended, she prudently made an experiment of its effect; and then, in “trembling hope” of her aunt’s approval, made her appearance before her. Her success here perfectly astonished her.

  “Mercy on me, child! — What an elegant dress! — Where on earth did you get it from?”

  “From your gown, aunt.”

  “Oh, to be sure! — I understand. It is not many people that would give away such a dress as that, Agnes — perfectly new, and so extremely elegant. I hope it won’t turn your brain, my dear, and that you will never forget who gave it to you. Certainly I never thought you so handsome before; and if you will but study my manner a little, and smile, and show your fine teeth, I do really think I may be able to get a husband for you, which would certainly be more creditable than going out as a governess.... So you can work, Agnes, I see ... and a good thing too, considering your poverty. It does not look amiss upon the whole, I must say; though I don’t see any reason for your covering yourself up so; I am sure your neck is white enough to be seen, and it would be odd if it wasn’t, considering who your mother was; for both she and I were noted, far and near, for that beauty; but I can’t say I ever hid myself up in that way.... And what shoes, child, have you got to wear with it?”

  “These, aunt,” said Agnes, putting out her little foot incased in leather, with a sole of very respectable thickness.

  “Well, upon my word, that’s a pity ... it spoils all ... and I don’t think you could dance in them if you did get a partner.... What would you say, Agnes, if I bought you a thin pair of prunella pumps on purpose?”

  “I should be very much obliged to you, aunt.”

  “Well, then, for once I must be extravagant, I believe; so, get on your other gown, child, as quick as you can, and your bonnet and shawl, and let us go to the shop round the corner. I did not mean to stir out to-day ... there is wind enough to make one’s eyes perfectly blood-shot.... However, the shop’s close by.... Only, if you do marry well, I hope you will never forget what you owe me.”

  Agnes had been too hard at work to take any long walk, though invited to do it; but her friend Mary called upon her both Monday and Tuesday; and having found her way into the closet, seemed to think, as she pulled over Agnes’s books, and chatted with her concerning their contents, that they might often enjoy themselves tête-à-tête there.

  “Shall you like it, Agnes?” she added, after sketching such a scheme to her.

  “I think, Mary, you could make me like anything ... but can I really make you like sitting in this cupboard, instead of your own elegant drawing-room?”

  “If you will sit with me here, my new friend,” answered Miss Peters with an air of great sincerity.

  “Then must I not be wicked if I ever think myself unhappy again ... at least,
as long as we stay at Clifton.”

  “Dear girl!... you should not be so if I could help it.... But I must go ... nine o’clock this evening, remember, and wait for us in the outer room, if you do not find us already there.”

  These instructions Agnes repeated to her aunt; but that lady’s ardent temper induced her to order a fly to be at her door at half-past eight precisely; and when it arrived, she was for at least the fourth time putting the last finishing touch to her blonde, and her feathers, and her ringlets, and her rouge, and therefore it took her not more than five minutes for a last general survey, before she declared herself “ready!” and Jerningham received orders to precede her down the stairs with a candle.

  If the former descriptions of the widow’s appearance have not been wholly in vain, the reader will easily conceive the increased splendour of her charms when elaborately attired for a ball, without my entering into any minutiæ concerning them. Suffice it to say, that if the corsage of the delicate Agnes might have been deemed by some too high, that of Mrs. Barnaby might have been thought by others too low; and that, taken all together, she looked exceedingly like one of the supplementary dames brought forth to do honour to the banquet scene in Macbeth.

  Arriving half an hour before the time appointed, they, of course, did not find the Peters family; nor did this latter party make their appearance before the patience of Mrs. Barnaby had given way, and she had insisted, much to the vexation of Agnes, upon going on to the ball-room without them.

  There the atmosphere was already in some degree congenial to her. The lustres were blazing, the orchestra tuning, and a few individuals, as impatient as herself, walking up and down the room, and appearing greatly delighted at having something new to stare at.

  This parade was beginning to realize all the worst fears of Agnes, (for the room was filling fast, and Mrs. Barnaby would not hear of sitting down,) when she descried Mrs. Peters, her son, her three daughters, and two other gentlemen, enter the room.