Such was the idea; but the project was concerning a much more serious matter, — namely, that a marriage between the parties might easily be brought about; and, moreover, that the effecting this would be one of the very best actions to which it could be possible to dedicate her endeavours.
To do Miss Peters justice, she was in general neither a busy body nor a match-maker; but she was deeply touched by the melancholy feeling Agnes had expressed respecting her own position; she felt, too, both the justness of it, and the utter helplessness of the poor girl herself either to change or amend it.
“Nothing but her marrying can do it,” thought Mary; “and why should she not marry this young man, who is so evidently smitten with her?... Poor Agnes!... What a change — what a contrast it would be!... And if mamma will help me, I am sure we may bring it about. He is perfectly independent, and violently in love already, ... and she is a creature that appears more beautiful and more fascinating every time one sees her.”
It was exactly when her meditations reached this point that she discovered it to be necessary that she should go home directly, and home she accordingly went, luckily finding her mother alone in her dressing-room.
“I am delighted to find you by yourself, mamma,” began Mary, “I have a great deal to say to you,” and then followed a rapid repetition of all Agnes had just said to her.
“Is it not a dreadful situation, mamma?” she added.
“So dreadful, Mary,” replied Mrs. Peters, “that were not the youngest of you about three years older than herself, I really think I should propose taking her as a finishing governess. Poor little thing!... what can we do for her?”
“Now listen, mamma,” answered Mary, raising her hand gravely, as if to bespeak both silence and attention, “and do not, I implore you, mar the usefulness of what I am going to say by turning it into jest, ... it is no jest, mother. Mr. Stephenson, the young man we saw last night, is most certainly captivated by the beauty of Agnes in no common degree. I was near enough to her all the evening to see plainly how things were going on; and were she less miserable in her present condition, I might think it a fair subject for a jest, or a bet perhaps on the chances for and against his proposing to her. But as it is, — thinking of her as I do, feeling for her as I do, — I think, mamma, that it is my duty to endeavour, by every means in my power, to turn these chances in her favour. Dearest mother, will you help me?”
“But what means have you, my dear girl?” replied Mrs. Peters gravely. “I believe I share both your admiration and your pity for Agnes as fully as you could desire; but I really see not what there is that we can with propriety do to obtain the object you propose ... though I am quite aware of its value.”
“I will ask you to do nothing, my dearest mother, in which you shall find a shadow of impropriety. Would there be any in inviting this young man to your house, should you chance to become better acquainted with him?”
“No; but I think we must take some strangely forward steps to lead to this better acquaintance.”
“That will depend altogether upon his degree of inclination for it. Should he prove ritroso, I consent to draw off my forces instantly; but if, as I anticipate, he should push himself upon us as an acquaintance, I want you to promise that you will not on your part defeat his wishes, — nay, a little more perhaps ... I would wish you, dear mother, to feel with me, that it would be right and righteous to promote them.”
“I rather think it would, Mary, as you put the case. Agnes Willoughby is by no means lowly born: her father was a gentleman decidedly; and I understood from my brother that the Comptons, though for some centuries, I believe, rather an impoverished race, derive their small property from ancestors of very great antiquity; so there is nothing objectionable on that tender point.... And for herself, pretty creature, she would certainly be an ornament and a grace as head and chieftainess of the most aristocratic establishment in the world; so, as a matter of conscience, I have really no scruples at all; but, as matter of convenance, I can only promise not to check, by any want of civility on my part, whatever advances the gentleman may choose to make. Will this content you, my little plotter?”
“Yes ... pretty well; for I am not without hope that you will warm in the cause, if it goes on at all, and then, perhaps, I shall squeeze an invitation out of you, and so on. And, by the way, mamma, when are we to have our little musical soirée? I believe young De Lacy is not going to stay much longer, and if he goes, what are we to do for our bass?”
“We shall be puzzled, certainly. You may write the cards directly, Mary, if you will.”
Mary rose at once to set about it; but on opening a certain drawer in the commode, and examining its contents, she said, “We must send to the library, mamma; there are not half enough cards here,... besides ... I want you to walk with us, and I want Agnes to join the party. May I send her a note desiring her to come to take her luncheon here?”
“I comprehend your tactics, my dear.... Agnes is to walk with us just about three o’clock, when all the world are out and about.... We want invitation cards, and may just as well, when we are out, go to the library for them ourselves.... There we shall be sure of seeing Mr. Stephenson ... he will be very likely to join us ... etc. etc. etc.... Is not that your plan?”
“And if it is, mamma,” replied Mary, laughing, “I see not that it contains anything beyond what has been agreed to by our compact.”
“Very well, Mademoiselle Talleyrand ... write your note.”
This was promptly done, and promptly dispatched, and reached Agnes about two minutes after Major Allen had taken his departure. She was aware of his visit; for Betty Jacks had obligingly opened her closet-door to inform her of it; and she now stood with the welcome note in her hand, meditating on the best manner of forwarding the petition to her aunt, not quite liking to send in the note itself, doubtful of Betty’s delivering a message on the subject so as to avoid giving offence, but dreading, beyond all else, the idea of presenting herself before the Major.
“Major Allen is still there, Jerningham, is he not?... I have seen nothing of my aunt.”
“No, miss, he is this moment gone ... and a beautiful, sweet man he is, too.”
Agnes hesitated no longer, but, with Mary’s note in her hand, entered the drawing-room to ask leave to obey the summons it contained. She found Mrs. Barnaby in a state of considerable, but very delightful agitation. The album was open before her, her two elbows rested on the table, and her hands shaded her eyes, which were fixed on the interesting name of Isabella d’Almafonte in a fit of deep abstraction.
Agnes uttered her request, but was obliged to repeat it twice before the faculties of the widow were sufficiently recalled to things present for her to be able to return a coherent answer. When at length, however, she understood what was asked, she granted her permission with quite as much pleasure as Agnes received it. At that moment she could endure nothing but solitude, or Major Allen, and eagerly answered ... “Oh yes, my dear! go, go; I do not want you at all.”
A liberated bird is not more quick in reaching the shelter of the desired wood, than was Agnes in making her way from Sion Row to Rodney Place; and so great was her joy at finding herself there, that for the moment she forgot all her sorrows, and talked of the ball as if she had not felt infinitely more pain than pleasure there. As soon as the luncheon was ended, Mrs. Peters and Elizabeth, Mary and Agnes, set off upon their walk, not “over the hills, and far away,” as heretofore, but along the well-paved ways that led most certainly to the resorts of their fellow mortals. Lucy and James, having heard that the evening for their music party was fixed at the distance only of one fortnight, declared that it was absolutely necessary to devote the interval to “practice,” and therefore they remained at home.
If the plan of Mary Peters was such as her mother had described it, nothing could have been more successful; for even before they reached the library, they met Mr. Stephenson and Colonel Hubert. The moment the former perceived them, he stepped forward, quittin
g the arm of his friend, who certainly rather relaxed than accelerated his pace, and having paid his compliments with the cordial air of an old acquaintance to Mrs. Peters and Elizabeth, passed them and took his station beside Agnes. Both she and her friend received his eager salutation with smiles: Mary, as we know, had her own motives for this; and Agnes had by no means forgotten how seasonably he had led her off on the preceding evening from her aunt, Major Allen, and the forsaken tea-table. Her bright smile, however, soon faded as she marked the stiff bow by which Colonel Hubert returned Mrs. Peters’s civil recognition of him. He too passed the first pair of ladies, and joined himself to the second; but though he bowed to both of them, it seemed that he turned and again took the arm of Stephenson, solely for the purpose of saying to him, “Are you going to give up your walk to the Wells, Frederick?”
“Most decidedly, mon cher,” was the cavalier reply.
“Then I must wish you good morning, I believe,” said Colonel Hubert, attempting to withdraw his arm.
“No, don’t,” cried the gay young man good-humouredly, and retaining his arm with some show of violence; “I will not let you go without me: you will find nothing there, depend upon it, to reward you on this occasion for your pertinacity of purpose.”
Colonel Hubert yielded himself to this wilfulness, and passively, as it seemed, accompanied the party into the library. Nothing could be more agreeable than the animated conversation of young Stephenson: he talked to all the ladies in turn, contrived to discover a multitude of articles of so interesting a kind, that it was necessary they should examine and talk about them; and finally, bringing forward the book of names, fairly beguiled Mrs. Peters and her daughters into something very like a little gossip concerning some among them.
It was while they were thus employed that Colonel Hubert approached Agnes, who, of course, could take no part in it, and said,... “Are you going to remain long at Clifton, Miss Willoughby?”
Agnes blushed deeply as he drew near, and his simple question was answered in a voice so tremulous, that he pitied the agitation (resulting, as he supposed, from their meeting in the morning) which she evinced; and feeling perhaps that she was not to blame because his headstrong friend was determined to fall in love with her, he spoke again, and in a gentler voice said, “I hope you have forgiven me for the blunt advice I ventured to give you this morning.”
“Forgiven!” repeated Agnes, looking up at him, and before her glance fell again it was dimmed by a tear. “I can never forget your kindness!” she added, but so nearly in a whisper, that he instantly became aware that her friends had not been made acquainted with the adventure, and that it was not her wish they should be. He therefore said no more on the subject; but, led by some impulse that seemed not, certainly, to proceed from either unkindness or contempt, he continued to converse with her for several minutes, and long enough indeed to make her very nearly forget the party of friends whose heads continued to be congregated round the librarian’s register of the Clifton beau monde.
Frederick Stephenson meanwhile was very ably prosecuting the object he had in view, namely, to establish himself decidedly as an acquaintance of Mrs. Peters; and so perfectly comme il faut in all respects was the tone of herself and her daughters, that he was rapidly forgetting such a being as Mrs. Barnaby existed, and solacing his spirit by the persuasion that the only girl he had ever seen whom he could really love was surrounded by connexions as elegant and agreeable as his exigeante family could possibly require. Nor, to say truth, was his friend greatly behind-hand in the degree of oblivion which he permitted to fall upon his faculties respecting this object of his horror and detestation. It was not very easy, indeed, to remember Mrs. Barnaby, while Agnes, awakened by a question as to what part of England it was in which she had enjoyed the rural liberty of which he had heard her speak, poured forth all her ardent praise on the tranquil beauty of Empton.
“It is not,” said she, beguiled, by the attention with which he listened to her, into forgetfulness of the awe he had hitherto inspired,— “it is not so majestic in its beauty as Clifton; we have no mighty rocks at Empton — no winding river that, quietly as it flows, seems to have cut its own path amongst them; but the parsonage is the very perfection of a soft, tranquil, flowery retreat, where neither sorrow nor sin have any business whatever.”
“And was Empton parsonage your home, Miss Willoughby?”
“Yes ... for five dear happy years,” replied Agnes, in an accent from which all gaiety had fled.
“You were not born at Empton, then?”
“No; I was only educated there; but it was there at least that my heart and mind were born, and I do not believe that I shall ever feel quite at home anywhere else.”
“It is rather early for you to say that, is it not?” said Colonel Hubert with a smile more calculated to increase her confidence than to renew her awe.... “May I ask how old you are?”
“I shall be seventeen in August,” replied Agnes, blushing at being obliged to confess herself so very young.
“She might be my daughter,” thought Colonel Hubert, while a shade of melancholy passed over his countenance which it puzzled Agnes to interpret. But he asked her no more questions; and the conversation seemed languishing, when Frederick Stephenson, beginning to think that it was his turn now to talk to Agnes, and pretty well satisfied, perhaps, that he had made a favourable impression upon the Peters family, left the counter and the subscription-book, and crossed to the place where she had seated herself. Colonel Hubert was still standing by her side, but he instantly made way for his friend; and had he at that moment spoken aloud the thoughts of his heart, he might have been heard to say,— “There is nothing here to justify the rejection of any family ... she is perfect alike in person and in mind ... things must take their course: I will urge his departure no further.”
Scarcely, however, had these thoughts made their rapid way across his brain, before his ears were assailed by the sound of a laugh, which he recognised in an instant to be that of Mrs. Barnaby. A flush of heightened colour mounted to his very eyes, and he felt conscience-struck, as if whatever might hereafter happen to Stephenson, he should hold himself responsible for it, because he had mentally given his consent to his remaining where the danger lay. And well might the sound and sight of Mrs. Barnaby overturn all such yielding thoughts. She came more rouged, more ringleted, more bedizened with feathers and flowers, and more loud in voice than ever.... She came, too, accompanied by Major Allen.
No thunder-cloud, sending forth its flashings before it, ever threw a more destructive shadow over the tranquil brightness of a smiling landscape, than did this entrée of the facetious pair over the happy vivacity of the party already in possession of the shop. Mrs. Peters turned very red; Miss Willoughby turned very pale; Mary stopped short in the middle of a sentence, and remained as mute as if she had been shot; even the good-natured Elizabeth looked prim; and the two gentlemen, though in different ways, betrayed an equally strong consciousness of the change that had come over them. Mr. Stephenson put on the hat which he had laid beside him on the counter; and though he drew still nearer to Agnes than before, it was without addressing a word to her. Colonel Hubert immediately passed by them, and left the shop.
This last circumstance was the only one which could at that moment have afforded any relief to Agnes; it at once restored her composure and presence of mind, though it did not quite bring back the happy smiles with which she had been conversing five short minutes before.
“Ah! my sister Peters and the children here!” cried Mrs. Barnaby, flouncing gaily towards them.... “I thought we should meet you.... What beautiful weather, isn’t it? How d’ye do, sir? (to Mr. Stephenson). I think you were among our young ladies’ partners last night?... Charming ball, wasn’t it?... Dear Major Allen, do look at these Bristol stones! ain’t they as bright as diamonds?... Well, Agnes, you have had your luncheon, I suppose, with the dear girls, and now you will be ready to go shopping with me. We are going into Bristol, and I will take
you with us.”
Agnes listened to her doom in silence, and no more thought of appealing from it than the poor criminal who listens to his sentence from the bench; but Mr. Stephenson turned an imploring look on Mrs. Peters, which spoke so well what he wished to express, that, she exerted herself so far as to say, “We had hoped, Mrs. Barnaby, that you meant to have spared Agnes to us for the rest of the day, and we shall be much obliged if you will leave her with us.”
“You are always very kind, dear Margaret,” returned the widow, “but I really want Agnes just now.... She shall come to you, however, some other time.... Good-b’ye! good-b’ye! — we have no time to lose.... Come, Agnes, let’s be off.”
A silent look was all the leave-taking that passed between Agnes and her greatly annoyed friends. Mrs. Barnaby took her arm under her own, and as soon as they quitted the shop bestowed the other on Major Allen; she was in high spirits, which found vent in a loud laugh as soon as they had turned the corner.
“What a stuck-up fellow that great tall Colonel is, Major Allen,” said she. “Do you know anything of him?... If I am not greatly mistaken, he is as proud as Lucifer.”
“I assure you, if he is proud, my dear madam, it must be a pride of the very lowest and vilest kind, merely derived from the paltry considerations of family and fortune; for, entre nous, he is very far from having been a distinguished officer. The Duke of Wellington, indeed, has always been most ridiculously partial to him; but you,” lowering his voice, “you are a pretty tolerable judge of what his good opinion is worth.”
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 128