Mrs. Barnaby saw them too, and instantly began to stride towards them; but timidity now made Agnes bold, and she held back, still courageously retaining her aunt’s arm, and exclaiming eagerly, —
“Oh, let them come to us, aunt!”
“Nonsense, child!... Don’t hold me so, Agnes; it will be exceedingly rude if we do not join them immediately, according to our engagement.”
The pain of violently seizing upon Mrs. Peters was, however, spared her by the watchful kindness of Mary, who caught sight of them immediately, and, together with Elizabeth, hastened forward to meet them.
Miss Peters gave a glance of approbation and pleasure at the appearance of Agnes, who did not look the less beautiful, perhaps, from the deep blush that dyed her cheeks as she marked the expression of Mrs. Peters’ countenance, as she approached with her eyes fixed upon her aunt. That lady, however, let her have felt what she might at sight of her remarkable-looking sister-in-law, very honourably performed her part of the compact entered into with her daughters, smiling very graciously in return for her affectionate relative’s raptures at seeing her, and shewing no symptom of anything she felt on the occasion, excepting immediately retiring to the remotest corner of the room, where she very nearly hid herself behind a pillar.
Mrs. Barnaby of course followed her, with the young ladies, to the seat she had chosen; but her active genius was instantly set to work to discover how she might escape from it, for the feelings produced by such an eclipse were perfectly intolerable.
“I must pretend that I see some person whom I know,” thought she, “and so make one of the girls walk across the room with me;” but at the instant she was about to put this project into execution, James Peters came up to the party, and very civilly addressed her. This was something, for the young man was handsome and well-dressed; but better still was what happened next, for she immediately felt at once that she was about to become the heroine of an adventure. Major Allen, whose appearance altogether, including moustaches, favouris, collier grec, embroidered waistcoat, and all, was very nearly as remarkable as her own, entered the room, looked round it, fixed his eyes upon her spangled turban, and very decisively turned off from the throng in order to pay his compliments to the Peters’ party, distinguishing her by a bow that spake the profoundest admiration and respect.
Elizabeth was the last of the row, her mother (with Mrs. Barnaby next her) being at the other end of it; and close to Elizabeth the dashing Major placed himself, immediately entering into a whispered conversation with her, which obliged her to turn herself round from the rest, in such a manner that not even Lucy, who came next in order, could overhear much of what passed.... Nevertheless, the widow felt as certain as if she could have followed every word of it, that this earnest conversation was about her.
Nor was she mistaken, for thus it ran:
“Good evening, Miss Elizabeth.... You are just arrived, I presume.... An excellent ball, is it not?... I told you it would be.... What an exceedingly fine woman your aunt is, Miss Peters!... It is your aunt, I think?”
“Yes ... our aunt, certainly ... the widow of my mother’s brother, Major Allen.”
“Ay.... I understood she was your aunt.... She is a woman of large fortune, I hear?”
“Yes, very large fortune.”
“But she is in lodgings, is she not?... She does not seem to have taken the whole house.”
“Oh, no ... only quite small lodgings: but she does not spend the third of her income, nor near it.”
“Really?... then, I suppose, handsome as she is, that she is a little in the skin-flint line, eh?...” and here the Major shewed his horse-like teeth by a laugh.
“Not that at all, I assure you,” replied the young lady, amiably anxious to exonerate her aunt from so vile an aspersion; “indeed, I should say quite the contrary; for she has very generous and noble ideas about money, and the use a widow ought to make of a fortune left by her husband, in case she does not happen to marry again. I am sure I hope people won’t be so ill-natured as to say she is stingy because she does not choose to spend all her income; — it will be abominable if they do, because her motives are so very noble.”
“I am sure she has a most charming advocate in you.... And what, then, may I ask ... for what is noble should never be concealed ... what can be the reason of economy so unnecessary?”
“She does not think it is unnecessary, Major Allen; for she has an orphan niece who is left quite dependent upon her, and what she is saving will be for her.”
“Amiable indeed!... Then her property is only income, I presume? Really that is a pity, considering how remarkably well such a disposition would employ the capital.”
“Oh! no, that is not so neither; my uncle Barnaby left everything entirely at her own disposal; only she thinks,” ... and here the silly and loquacious Elizabeth stopped short, for the idea suddenly occurred to her that it was not right to talk so much of her aunt’s concerns to so slight an acquaintance as Major Allen; and not exactly knowing how to end her sentence, she permitted a sudden thought to strike her, and exclaimed, “I wonder when they will begin dancing?”
But the Major had heard enough.
He resumed the conversation, however, but very discreetly, by saying, “That young lady in mourning is her niece, I suppose? and a beautiful creature she is.... But how comes she to be in such deep mourning, when that of her aunt is so slight?”
Had the simple Elizabeth understood the principle of vicarial mourning upon which these habiliments had been transferred from the widow to her niece, she would doubtless, from the talkative frankness of her nature, have disclosed it; but as her confidential conversation with her new relative had left her ignorant of this, she answered, with rather a confused recollection of Mrs. Barnaby’s explanation, “I believe it is because she wears it out of romantic sorrow for her own papa, though he has been dead for years and years.”
“Will you ask your brother, Miss Peters, to introduce me to Mrs. Barnaby?”
“Certainly, Major Allen, if you wish it.... James,” added the young lady, stretching out her fan to draw his attention from Agnes, with whom he was talking, “James, step here ... Major Allen wishes you to introduce him to Mrs. Barnaby.”
The Major rose at the moment, and strengthened the request by adding, “Will you do me that honour, Mr. Peters?”
The young man bowed slightly, and without answering moved to the front of the happy widow, followed by the obsequious Major, and said, “Major Allen wishes to be introduced to you, Mrs. Barnaby.... Major Allen, Mrs. Barnaby.”
It was not without an effort that this consummation of her dearest hopes was received with some tolerable appearance of external composure by the lady; but she felt that the moment was an important one, and called up all her energy to support her under it. Perhaps she blushed, but that, for obvious reasons, was not perceptible; but she cast down her eyes upon her fan, and then raised them again to the face of the bending Major with a look that really said a great deal.
The established questions and answers in use on such occasions were going on with great zeal and animation on both sides, when a fresh source of gratification presented itself to the widow in the approach of Mr. Frederick Stephenson to Agnes, in a manner as flatteringly decided as that of the Major to herself; but, being quite a stranger to the Peters family, he was preceded by the master of the ceremonies, who whispered his name and family to Mrs. Peters, asking permission to present him to the young lady in mourning, who appeared to be of her party.
This was of course readily accorded; when the introduction took place, and was followed by a petition from the young man for the honour of dancing with her.
Agnes looked a vast deal more beautiful than he had ever dared to believe possible through her veil as she answered, “I am engaged.”
“Then the next?” said Mr. Stephenson eagerly.
Agnes bowed her blushing assent, and the young man continued to stand before her, going through pretty nearly the same process as th
e Major.
This lasted till the quadrilles began to form, when James Peters claimed her hand for the dance.
Two of the Miss Peters soon followed, when Major Allen said, “As the young ladies are forsaking you, madam, may you not be induced to make a party at whist?”
“I should have no objection whatever, Major,” replied Mrs. Barnaby, “provided there was room at a table where they did not play high.”
“Of course, if I have the honour of making a table for you, my dear madam, the stakes will be of your own naming.... Will you permit me to go and see what can be done?”
“You are excessively kind.... I shall be greatly obliged.”
The active Mars departed instantly, with a step, if not as light, at least as zealous in its speed, as that of Mercury when bent upon one of his most roguish errands, and in a wonderfully short space of time he returned with the intelligence that a table was waiting for her. He then presented his arm, which she took with condescending dignity, and led her off.
“Ah! sure a pair were never seen, So justly formed to meet by nature!”
exclaimed Mrs. Peters to Lucy, as they walked away; and greatly relieved, she rose and taking her daughter by the arm, joined a party of her friends in a more busy part of the room.
Meanwhile the quadrilles proceeded, and Agnes, notwithstanding the heart-beating shyness inevitably attending a first appearance, did not lose her look of sweet composure, or her graceful ease. James Peters was an attentive and encouraging partner, and she would probably soon have forgotten that this was the first time she had ever danced, except at school, had she not, when the dance was about half over, perceived herself to be an object of more attention to one of the standers-by than any girl, so very new, can be conscious of, without embarrassment. The eyes which thus annoyed her were those of Colonel Hubert. His remarkable height made him conspicuous among the throng, which was rendered more dense than usual by a wish, every moment increasing, to look at the “beautiful girl in deep mourning;” and perhaps her happening to know who he was, made her fancy that it was more embarrassing to be looked at by him than by any one else. The annoyance, however, did not last long, for he disappeared.
Colonel Hubert left the place where he had stood, and the study in which he had certainly found some interest, for the purpose of looking for his friend Stephenson. He found him in the doorway.
“Frederick, I want you,” said the Colonel. “Come with me, my good fellow, and I will prove to you that, notwithstanding my age and infirmities, I still retain my faculties sufficiently to find out what is truly and really lovely as ably as yourself. Come on, suffer yourself to be led, and I will show you what I call a beautiful girl.”
Stephenson quietly suffered himself to be led captive, and half a dozen paces placed him immediately opposite to Agnes Willoughby.
“Look at that girl,” said Colonel Hubert in a whisper, “and tell me what you think of her.”
“The angel in black?”
“Yes, Frederick.”
“This is glorious, by Heaven!... Why, Hubert, it is my own black angel!”
“You do not mean to tell me that the girl we saw with that horribly vulgar woman, and this epitome of all elegance, are the same?”
“But, upon my soul, I do, sir.... And now what do you say to the advantage of being able to see through a thick veil?”
“I cannot believe it, Stephenson,” ... replied Colonel Hubert, again fixing his eyes in an earnest gaze upon Agnes.
“Then die in your unbelief, and much good may it do you. Why, I have been introduced to her, man ... her name is Willoughby, and I am to dance the next quadrille with her.”
“If this be so ... peccavi!...” said the Colonel, turning abruptly away.
“I think so,” replied his friend following, and relinquishing even the pleasure of looking at Agnes for that of enjoying his triumph over Hubert. “Won’t this make a good story?... And don’t you think, Colonel, that for a few years longer, at least, it may be as well to postpone the adoption of your lady aunt’s system, and when you see two females together, look at both, to ascertain whether one of them may not be the loveliest creature in the universe, before you give up your whole soul to the amiable occupation of quizzing the other?”
“You think this is a very good jest, Frederick ... but to me, I assure you, it seems very much the contrary.”
“Because it is so melancholy for a man of five-and-thirty to lose his eye-sight?”
“Because, Stephenson, it is so melancholy to know that such a being as that fair girl is in the hands of a woman whose appearance speaks her to be so utterly vulgar, to say the very least of it.”
“Take care, my venerable philosopher, that you do not blunder about the old lady as egregiously as you before did about the young one. When I got the master of the ceremonies to perform for me the precious service of an introduction, I inquired about the party that she and the furbelow aunt were with, and learned that they were among the most respectable resident inhabitants of Clifton.”
“I am heartily glad of it, Frederick ... and yet, if their party consisted of the noblest in the land, I should still feel this aunt to be a greater spot upon her beauty than any wart or mole that ever disfigured a fair cheek ... at least, it would, I think, be quite sufficient to keep my heart safe, if I thought this uncommon-looking creature still more beautiful than I do ... which, I confess, would not be easy.”
“I wish your heart joy of its security,” returned Stephenson. “And now be off, and leave me to my happiness; for see, the set breaks up, and I may follow her to her place, and again present myself.... Come, tell me honestly, do you not envy me?”
“I never dance, you know.”
“So much the worse for you, mon cher,” and the gay young man turned off, to follow the way that he saw Agnes lead. This was to the quarter where she had left her aunt and Mrs. Peters, but she found neither.
“Don’t be frightened,” said her good-natured partner; “we shall find my mother in a moment.”... And when they did find her, she received Agnes with a smiling welcome, which contrasted pretty strongly with the stately and almost forbidding aspect with which she ever regarded Mrs. Barnaby.
Young Stephenson saw this reception, and saw also the empressement with which the pretty, elegant Mary Peters seemed to cling to her. More than ever persuaded that he was right, and his friend wrong, he suddenly determined on a measure that he thought might ensure a more permanent acquaintance than merely being a partner of a dance; and before presenting himself to claim her hand, he again addressed the master of the ceremonies with a request that he would present him to Mrs. Peters.
That obliging functionary made not the least objection; indeed he knew that there was not a lady in the room, either young or old, who would not thank him for an introduction to Sir Edward Stephenson’s handsome brother, himself a Cornet in the Blues, and the inheritor of his mother’s noble estate in Worcestershire, which made him considerably a richer man than his elder brother. All this was known to everybody, for the beautiful Miss Hubert and her lover Sir Edward had been for a week or two the lions of Clifton; and though they had mixed very little in its society, there was nobody who could be considered as anybody, who would not have been well pleased at making the acquaintance of Frederick Stephenson. The young man, too, knew well how to make the most of the ten minutes that preceded the second dance; and Mrs. Peters smiled to think, as she watched him leading Agnes to join the set, how justly her keeping faith had been rewarded by this introduction of the most desiré partner in the room.
Meanwhile Mrs. Barnaby was led to the card-room by Major Allen; but he led her slowly, and more than once found himself obliged to stop for a minute or two, that she might not be incommoded by pressing too quickly through the crowd. And thus it was they talked, as they gently won their way.
“And what may be the stake Mrs. Barnaby permits herself?” said the Major, bending forward to look into the widow’s eyes.
“Very low, I assur
e you, Major!” replied the lady, with a wave of the head that sent her plumes to brush the hirsute magnificence of his face.
“Shorts and crown points, perhaps,” rejoined the Major, agreeably refreshed by the delicate fanning he had received.
“Oh fie! Major ... how can you suspect me of such extravagance?... No, believe me, I know too well how to use the blessings of wealth, to abuse them by playing so high as that ... but I believe gentlemen think that nothing?”
“Why no, my dear madam, I cannot say that men ... that is, men of a certain fashion and fortune, think much of crown points.... For my own part, I detest gambling, though I love whist, and never care how low I play ... though occasionally, when I get into a certain set, I am obliged to give way a little ... but I never exceed five pound points, and twenty on the rubber; and that you know, unless the cards run extravagantly high, cannot amount to anything very alarming ... especially as I play tolerably well, and, in fact, never play so high if I can help it....”
“But, Major,” said the lady, stopping short in their progress, “I really am afraid that I must decline playing at your table ... the amount of what I could lose might not perhaps be a great object to me, any more than to you ... but it is a matter of principle with me, and when that is the case I never swerve ... so take me back again, will you, to my sister Peters and my party.”
This was said with a sort of clinging helplessness, and delicate timidity, that was very touching.
“Good heavens!” exclaimed the Major with great animation, “how very little you know me!... I would take you, charming Mrs. Barnaby, to the world’s end, if you would consent to go with me; ... but think not that I would sit down at one table, though I might sweep from it stakes amounting to thousands, when I could play with you for straws at another!”
Remember, reader, that she to whom this was said had been Miss Martha Compton of Silverton but six short years before, and then judge with what feelings she listened to it. They were such, that for a moment no power of speech was left to her ... but she abandoned her purpose of retreat; and when at length they stood before the table at which two sporting-looking gentlemen were waiting to receive them, she gently seated herself, murmuring at the same time in the Major’s ear, “Not higher than half-crowns, if you please.”
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 124