“I have promised to do so,” replied Agnes; “and as I may have an answer here on Thursday, I think, at latest, I would not risk the danger of offending her by putting it out of my power immediately to obey her commands, if she should be so kind as to give me any.”
The eyes of Agnes were fixed for a moment on his as she concluded this speech, and there was something in the expression of that look that shook the sternness of his belief in her indifference. He rose again, and making a step towards her, said, with a violence of emotion that entirely changed the tone of his voice, —
“Agnes!... Miss Willoughby!... answer me one question.... Should my aunt herself plead for me ... could you, would you, be my wife?”
Agnes, equally terrified lest she should say too little or too much, faltered as she replied, “If it were possible, Colonel Hubert ... could I indeed believe that your aunt, your sister, would not hate and scorn me....”
“You might!... You will let me believe it possible you could be brought to love me?... To love me, Agnes?... No! do not answer me ... do not commit yourself by a single word!... Stay, then, here; ... but do not leave the house!... Stay till.... Yet, alas! I dare not promise it!... But you will not leave this house, Miss Willoughby, with any aunt, without letting me ... my family, know where you may be found?”
“Oh no!...” said Agnes with a reviving hope, that if they must be parted, which this reference to her aunt and his own doubtful words made it but too probable would be the end of all, at least it would not be because he thought she was too young to love him.... “Oh no!” she repeated; “this letter will not be left without an answer.”
“And you will not stir from these rooms alone?” he replied, once more taking her hand.
“Not if you think it best,” she answered, frankly giving hers, and with a smile, moreover, that ought to have set his heart at ease about her thinking him too old to love. And for the moment perhaps it did so, for he ventured to press a kiss upon that hand, and uttering a fervent “Heaven bless and guard you!” disappeared.
And Agnes then sat down to muse again. But what a change had now come o’er the spirit of her dream!... Where was her abject misery? Where the desolation that had made her almost fear to look around and see how frightfully alone she was? Her bell was rung, her candles brought her, tea was served; and though there was a fulness and palpitation at the heart which prevented her taking it, or eating the bread and butter good-naturedly intended to atone for her untasted dinner, quite in the tranquil, satisfactory, and persevering manner that might have been wished, everything seemed to dance before her eyes en coleur de rose, till at last, giving up the attempt to sit soberly at the tea-table, she rose from her chair, clasped her hands with a look of grateful ecstasy to heaven, and exclaimed aloud, “He loves me! Hubert loves me!... Oh, happy, happy Agnes!”
“Did you call, miss?” said the maid entering, from having heard her voice as she passed up the stairs.
Agnes looked at her and laughed. “No, Susan,” she replied; “I believe I was talking to myself.”
“Well, that is funny,” said the girl; “and I’m sure it is a pity such a young lady as you should have no one else to talk to. Shall I take the things away, miss?”
Once more left to herself, Agnes set about reading the letter, which hitherto had lain untouched upon the table, blushing as she opened it now, because it had not been opened before.
The first page was from Lady Elizabeth, and only expressed her commands, given in her usual peremptory tone, but nevertheless mixed with much kindness, that Agnes should leave London with as little delay as possible, and consider her house as her home till such time as an eligible situation could be found, in which her own excellent talents might furnish her with a safer and more desirable manner of existence than any her aunt Barnaby could offer. The remainder of the letter was filled by Lady Stephenson, and expressed the most affectionate anxiety for her welfare; but she too referred to the hope of being able to find some situation that should render her independent; so that it was sufficiently evident that neither of them as yet had any idea that this independence might be the gift of Colonel Hubert.
“It is nonsense to suppose they will ever consent to it,” thought Agnes; and this time her spirits were not so exalted as to make her breathe her thoughts aloud; “but I never can be so miserable again as I have been ... it is enough happiness for any one person in this life ... that everybody says is not a happy one ... it is quite enough to know that Hubert loves me ... Oh Hubert!... noble Hubert! how did I dare to fix my fancy on thee?... Presumptuous!... But yet he loves me!”
And with this balm, acting like a gentle opiate upon her exhausted spirits, she slept all night, and dreamed of Hubert.
The four o’clock delivery of the post on the following day brought her this letter from her aunt Barnaby.
“Dear Agnes,
“The brutality of these Cheltenham people is perfectly inconceivable. Mr. Crayton my broker, and my poor father’s broker before me, came to me as early as it was possible last night; and I explained to him fully, and without a shadow of reserve, the foolish scrape I had got into, which would have been no scrape at all if I had not happened to fall into the hands of a parcel of rascals. He undertook to get the sum necessary to release me by eleven o’clock this morning, which he did, good man, with the greatest punctuality ... paid that villanous Simmons, got his receipt, and my discharge, when, just at the very moment when I was stepping into the coach that was to take me from this hateful place, up come the same two identical fellows that insulted us in Half-Moon Street, and arrest me again at the suit of Wright.... Such nonsense!... As if I could not pay them all ten times over, as easy as buy a pot of porter. But they care no more for reason than a pig in a sty; so here I am, shut up again till that dear old man Crayton can come, and get through all the same tedious work again. You can’t conceive how miserably dull I am; and what’s particularly provoking, I gave over trying to have you in with me as soon as old Crayton told me I should be out by noon to-day; and therefore, Agnes, I want you to set off the very minute you receive this, and come to me for a visit. You may come to me for a visit, though I can’t have you in without special leave. Mind not to lose your way; but it’s uncommonly easy if you will only go by what I say. Set out the same way that we went to the church, you know, and keep on till you get to the Haymarket, which you will know by its being written up. Then, when you’ve got down to the bottom of it, turn sharp round to your left, and just ask your way to the Strand; and when you have got there, which you will in a minute, walk on, on, on, till you come to the bottom of a steep hill, and then stop and ask some one to shew you the way to the Fleet Prison. When you get there, any of the turnkeys will be able to shew you to my room; and a comfort I’m sure it will be to see you in such a place as this.... And do, Agnes, buy as you come along half a dozen cheesecakes and half a dozen queen-cakes, and a small jar, for about four or five shillings, of brandy cherries.... And what’s a great comfort, I may keep you till it’s dark, which is what they call shutting-up time, and then you can easy enough find your way back again by the gaslight, which is ten times more beautiful than day, all along the streets from one end of the town to the other.... Only think of that dirty scoundrel Morrison never coming near me ... after all that passed too, and all the wine he drank, shabby fellow!... There is one very elegant-looking man here that I meet in the passage every time I go to my bed-room. He always bows, but we have not spoken yet. Bring five sovereigns with you, and be sure set off the moment you get this.
“Your affectionate aunt,
“Martha Barnaby.”
It needs not to say the sort of effect which the tone of this letter produced on a mind in itself delicate and unsunned as the bells of the valley lily, and filled to overflowing with the image of the noble Hubert. Yet there were other feelings that mingled with this deep disgust; she pitied her aunt Barnaby, and could any decent or womanly exertion have done her good, or even pleasure, she would not have shr
unk from making it. But what she asked was beyond her power to perform; and, moreover, she had promised Colonel Hubert not to leave the house. How dear to her was the recollection of this injunction!... how delightful the idea that his care and his commands protected her from the horrors of such a progress as that sketched out by her aunt Barnaby. To obey her was therefore altogether out of the question; but she sat down to write to her, and endeavoured to soften her refusal by pleading her terror of the streets at any hour, and her total want of strength and courage to undertake such an expedition; adding, that she supposed by her account there could be no doubt of their meeting in Half-Moon Street on the morrow.
But the morrow and its morrow came, without bringing Mrs. Barnaby. In fact, writ after writ had poured in upon her, but hoping still to evade those yet to come, she only furnished herself with what each one required, and so prolonged her imprisonment to the end of the week. Her indignation at Agnes’s refusal to come to her was excessive, and she answered her letter by a vehement declaration that she would never again inhabit the same house with her. This last epistle ended thus: —
“If you don’t wish to be turned neck and heels into the street the moment I return, look out for a nursery-maid’s or a kitchen-maid’s place if you will ... only take care never to let me set eyes upon you again. Ungrateful wretch!... What is Morrison’s ingratitude to yours? For nearly seven months you have eaten at my cost, been lodged at my cost, travelled at my cost, ay, and been clothed at my cost too. And what is the return?... I am in prison for debts, which, of course, were incurred as much for you as for myself; and you refuse to come to me!... Never let me see you more — never let me hear your name, and never again turn your thoughts or hopes to your for ever offended aunt,
“Martha Barnaby.”
Little as Agnes wished to continue under the protection of Mrs. Barnaby, this peremptory dismissal was exceedingly embarrassing. She had declined immediately accepting the invitation of Lady Elizabeth in a manner that made her very averse to throwing herself upon it, till a positive refusal of assistance from her aunt Compton obliged her to do so; and being absolutely penniless (excepting inasmuch as she was entrusted with the key that secured the widow’s small stock of ready money), her only mode of not undergoing, to the letter, the sentence which condemned her to wander in the streets, was remaining where she was till she received an answer from Miss Compton.
It is certain that she submitted to thus seizing upon hospitality with the strong hand the more readily, as by doing so she was enabled to obey the parting injunction of Colonel Hubert; and bracing her courage to the meeting that must take place should Mrs. Barnaby’s release precede her own, she suffered the heavy interval of doubt to steal away with as little of the feverish restlessness of impatience as possible.
CHAPTER VI.
AGNES RECEIVES ANOTHER UNEXPECTED VISIT. — MRS. BARNABY RETURNS TO HER LODGINGS AND CATCHES THE VISITER THERE.
The seven or eight months elapsed since the reader parted from Miss Compton, passed not over the head of the secluded spinster as lightly as the years which had gone before ... for her conscience was not quite at rest. For some time the vehemence of the indignation and disgust excited by Mrs. Barnaby, during their last interview, sustained her spirits, much as a potent but noxious dram might have done; and during this time the fact of Agnes being her inmate and companion, was quite sufficient to communicate such a degree of contamination to her, as made the choleric old lady turn from all thought of her with most petulant dislike. The letter of Mrs. Barnaby, demanding an allowance for Agnes, reached her just when all this violence was beginning to subside, and acting like turpentine on an expiring flame, made her anger and hatred rage again with greater fury than ever. This demand was refused, as we have seen, in the harshest manner possible, and the writing this insulting negative was a considerable relief to the spinster’s feelings. But when this was done, and all intercourse, as it should seem, finally closed between herself and the only human being concerning whom she was capable of feeling any lively interest, her anger drooped and faded, and her health and spirits drooped and faded too. She remembered, when it was too late, that it was not Agnes’s fault that she was living with Mrs. Barnaby; and conscience told her, that if she had come forward, as she might and ought to have done, at the time of her brother’s death, the poor child might have been saved from the chance of any moral resemblance to the object of her aversion, however much she might unhappily inherit the detestable Wisett beauty. Then, too, came the remembrance of the beautiful vision, whose caresses she had rejected when irritated almost to madness by the tauntings of Mrs. Barnaby; and the idea that the punishment allotted to her in this world for this flagrant act of injustice, was the being doomed never to behold that fair young creature more, lay with a daily increasing weight of melancholy on her spirits.
It was on the afternoon of a fine September day that the letter of Agnes reached her. As usual, she was sitting in her bower, and her flowers bloomed and her bees hummed about her as heretofore, but the sprightly black eye that used to watch them was greatly dimmed. She had almost wholly lost her relish for works of fiction, and reading a daily portion of the Bible, which she had never omitted in her life, was perhaps the only one of all her comfortable habits that remained unchanged.
It would be no easy matter to paint the state into which the perusal of Agnes’s letter threw her. Self-reproach was lost in the sort of ecstasy with which she remembered how thriftily she had hoarded her wealth, and how ample were the means she possessed to give protection and welcome to the poor orphan who thus sought a refuge in her bosom. All the strength and energy she had lost seemed to rush back upon her as her need called for them, ... and there was more of courage and enterprize within that diminutive old woman than always falls to the lot of a six-foot-two dragoon.
Her resolution as to what she intended to do was taken in a moment, and without any weakening admixture of doubts and uncertainties as to when and how; but she knew that she should want her strength, and must therefore husband it. Her step was, therefore, neither hurried nor unsteady as she returned to the house, and mounted to her sitting-room. The first thing she did on entering it was to drink a glass of water, the next to endite a note to the postmaster at Silverton, ordering a chaise and four horses to be at Compton Basett by daybreak to take her the first stage towards London. She then rang her bell, gave her note to Peggy Wright, the farmer’s youngest daughter, who was her constant attendant, and bade her request that her father, if in the house, would come to her immediately. There was enough in the unusual circumstances of a letter received, and a note sent, to excite the good farmer’s curiosity, and he was in the presence of his landlady as quickly as she could herself have wished.
“Sit down, Farmer Wright,” said Miss Compton, and the farmer seated himself.
“I must leave Compton Basett to-morrow morning, Farmer Wright,” she resumed. “My niece — my great niece, I mean, Miss Willoughby, has written me a letter, which determines me to go to London immediately for the purpose of taking charge of her myself.”
“Sure-ly, Miss Compton, you bean’t goen’ to set off all by your own self for Lunnun?” exclaimed the farmer.
“Not if I can manage before night to get a couple of servants to attend me.”
Farmer Wright stared; there was something quite new in Miss Betsy’s manner of talking.
“You are a very active man, farmer, in the haymaking season,” continued Miss Compton with a smile; “do you think, that to oblige and serve me, you could be as much on the alert for the next three or four hours as if you had a rick to save from a coming storm of rain?”
“That I wool!” replied Wright heartily. “Do you but bid me do, Miss Betsy, and I’ll do it.”
“Then go to your sister Appleby’s, and inquire if her son William has left Squire Horton’s yet.”
“I need not go so far for that, Miss Compton; Will is down stairs with my missus at this very minute,” said the farmer.
“That is fortunate!... He is not likely to go away directly, is he?”
“No, not he, Miss Betsy; he is come to have a crack with our young ‘uns, and it’s more likely he’ll stay all night than be off in such a hurry.”
“Then, in that case, have the kindness, Farmer Wright, to saddle a horse, while I write a line to the bank.... I want you to ride over to Silverton for me, to get some money.”
“And I’ll do it,” replied her faithful assistant, leaving the room.
Fortunately for her present convenience, Miss Compton always kept a deposit of about one hundred pounds in the bank at Silverton in case of need, either for the purpose of making the loans which have been already mentioned as a principal feature in her works of charity, or for any accidental contingency. Beyond this, however, she had no pecuniary transactions there, as her habitual secrecy in all that concerned her money affairs made it desirable that her agent should be more distant. This fund, however, was quite sufficient for the moment, for, as will be easily believed, Miss Compton had no debts.
Farmer Wright speedily re-appeared, equipped for his ride.
“You will receive ninety-seven pounds sixteen and two-pence, Wright,” said the spinster, giving her draught.
“Would it suit you best to receive the rent, Miss Betsy, before you set off?” said the farmer. “It will make no difference, you know, ma’am, if I pays it a fortnight beforehand.”
“Not an hour, upon any account, Wright,” replied his punctilious landlady. “I will leave written instructions with you as to what you are to do with it, and about all my other affairs in which you are concerned. And now send William Appleby to me.”
This young man, the nephew of her tenant, and the ex-footman of a neighbouring family, had been favourably known to her from his childhood; and a very few minutes sufficed to enrol him as her servant, with an understanding that his livery was to be ordered as soon as they reached London.
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 148