“Believe me, now and for ever,
“Very faithfully your friend,
“Montague Hubert.”
The effort necessary for writing and dispatching this letter by the post, was of service to him; it tended to make him feel more reconciled to himself, and less impatient under the infliction of hearing the favoured position of Miss Willoughby descanted upon. But much anxiety, much suffering, still remained.... How should he again meet Agnes?... Despite a thousand dear suspicions to the contrary, he could not wholly conquer the belief that it was her indifference, or some feeling connected with the disparity of their age, which dictated the too-well-remembered words.... “I never will be your wife;” and his best consolation under the terrible idea that he had recalled a rival to compete with him, arose from feeling that if, when his own proposals and those of Frederick were both before her, she should bestow herself on him, he might and must believe that, spite of his thirty-five years, she loved him; ... but though he hailed such comfort as might be got from this, it could not enable him to see Agnes, while this uncertainty remained, without such a degree of restraint as must convert all intercourse with her into misery.
Agnes meanwhile was indulging herself with all the happy confidence of youthful friendship in relating to her friend everything that had happened since they parted, and returned to the Mall soon after Lady Elizabeth had left it, with a heart glowing with love, gratitude, hope, and joy. The narrative with which Miss Compton welcomed her, was just all she wished and expected; and when told that the evening was to be passed at the lodgings of Lady Elizabeth Norris, she thanked the delighted old lady for the intelligence with a kiss that spoke her gladness better than any words could have done.
The evening came, and found the aunt and niece ready to keep their engagement, with such an equality of happiness expressed in the countenance of each, as might leave it doubtful which enjoyed the prospect of it the most. The pretty dress of Agnes, with all its simplicity, was rather more studied than usual; and it was the consciousness of this, perhaps, which occasioned her to blush so beautifully when Miss Compton made her a laughing compliment upon the delicate style of it....
“You look like a lily, my Agnes!” said the old lady, gazing at her with fond admiration. “You have certainly got very tired of black, my dear child, for I perceive that whenever you wish to look very nice, you select unmixed white for your decoration.”
“I think it best expresses the change in my condition,” replied Agnes. “Oh! my dear aunt, ... how very, very happy you have made me!”
Nothing could be more gratifying than the manner in which they were received by Lady Elizabeth, Lady Stephenson, and Sir Edward; ... but Colonel Hubert was not in the drawing-room when they entered. For a short time, however, his absence was not regretted, even by Agnes, as she was not sorry for the opportunity it gave her of receiving the affectionate congratulations of her future sister, and it was with a feeling likely to produce much lasting love between them, that the one related, and the other listened to, the history of Colonel Hubert’s return from London, of his first bold avowal of his love to his aunt, and of the comfort he had found in the reception given to this avowal by Lady Stephenson herself; ... but still Colonel Hubert came not; and at length Lady Elizabeth exclaimed, with a spice of her usual vivacity,...
“Upon my word, I believe that Montague is writing an account of his felicity to every officer in the British army.... He darted out of the room this morning before I had half finished what I had to say to him.... He hardly spoke three words while dinner lasted, and off he was again as soon as the cloth was removed, and each time something about writing letters was the only intelligible words I got from him.... I wish you would go, Sir Edward, and see if he is writing letters now, ... and I will ring for tea.... I mean to make Montague sing to-night with Agnes. Emily has taken care that you should have a good piano, my dear ... and you must take care that, while I stay here, I have music enough to make up for the loss of my menagerie, ... for I don’t think I shall begin collecting again just yet.”
Sir Edward obeyed the old lady’s wishes, and when the tea was half over, returned with his brother-in-law. This was the first time that Colonel Hubert had been seen by Miss Compton, and the moment was not a favourable one for removing the idea which she had originally conceived, of his being too old for the lover and husband of her beautiful niece. He was looking pale, harassed, and fatigued; but while Agnes feared only that he might be unwell, her aunt, though she could not deny that he was a gentleman of a most noble presence, (it was thus she expressed herself in speaking of him to Mrs. Peters,) thought that it was strange so young a girl should have fixed her fancy upon him, in preference to all the world beside. In fact, Miss Compton’s notions of a lover being drawn solely from the imaginary models she had made acquaintance with among her bees and flowers, she would have been better pleased to see a bright-eyed youth of twenty-one as the hero of her own romance, than the dignified but melancholy man who now stood before her. Having received his salutation, and returned it with that tone and look of intelligent cheerfulness which redeemed all she said from any imputation of want of polish, or deficiency of high-bred elegance, she turned her eyes on the face of Agnes, and there she read such speaking testimony of love and admiration, that all her romantic wishes for her perfect bliss were satisfied; and following the direction of those speaking eyes, and once more examining the features and person of Hubert, she satisfied herself by the conviction, that if not young, he was supremely elegant; and that if his complexion had lost its bloom, his manners had attained a degree of dignity superior, as she thought, to anything described among the young gentlemen whose images were familiar to her imagination.
It was slowly that Colonel Hubert approached Agnes, and mournfully that he gazed upon her; but there was to her feelings a pleasure in his presence, which for a long time prevented her being fully conscious that he, on his part, was not so happy as she had hoped it was in her power to make him. By degrees, however, the conviction of this sad truth made its way to her heart, and from that moment her joy and gladness faded, drooped, and died away, like a flower into which a gnawing worm has found its way, and nestled in the very core. This did not happen on this first evening of their meeting under the roof of Lady Elizabeth, for Agnes indulged her with every song she desired to hear. Lady Stephenson sang too, nor could Colonel Hubert refuse to join them, so that to the unsuspicious Agnes that evening seemed delightful; but a silent, melancholy walk on the following morning, made her ask herself where was the ardent love for which he had pleaded in Half-Moon Street?... Had she mistaken him when he said that his happiness depended wholly on her?... And if not, what was it had turned him thus to stone?
Poor Agnes!... she could have no confident in this new sorrow. Her aunt Compton and her friend Mary had both spoken of him as too old to be a lover; and did she breathe to either a fear that his affection had already grown cold, might they not tell her that it was but natural?... Such words she thought would break her heart, for every hour he became dearer to her than before, as she saw he was unhappy; and, thinking more of him than of herself, mourned more for his sorrow, of which she knew nothing, than for her own, though it was rapidly undermining her health and destroying her bloom.
CHAPTER XIV.
RETURNS TO MRS. BARNABY, AND RELATES SOME OF THE MOST INTERESTING AND INSTRUCTIVE SCENES OF HER LIFE, TOGETHER WITH SEVERAL CIRCUMSTANCES RELATIVE TO ONE DEARER TO HER THAN HERSELF.
The real heroine of this love story has been left too long, and it is necessary we should return to see in what way her generous friendship for Mr. O’Donagough was likely to end. Having kept her promise, and paid the debt for which he had been detained, as well as comforted him by the farther loan of 2l. 10s. 4d., she stated to him her intention of remaining for a month longer at her lodgings in Half Moon-street, adding, with a degree of naïveté that O’Donagough felt to be extremely touching —
“Let this be a month of probation, my dear friend, fo
r us both. We met under circumstances too much calculated to soften the heart for either of us, perhaps, to be able fairly to judge how we may feel when those circumstances are past. Let me see as much of you as your occupations will permit.... I shall dine at five o’clock, because the evenings are drawing in, and I don’t love candle-light before dinner.... You will always find a steak or a chop, and a little brandy and water, or something of that sort.... And now adieu!... This is a disagreeable place to pay or receive visits in, and I flatter myself that I now leave it for ever.”
Let the most glowing gratitude that heart can feel be set forth in words of fluent eloquence such as befit the class to which Mr. O’Donagough belonged, and the answer which he gave to this speech will be the product.
Nevertheless, Mr. O’Donagough knew what it meant perfectly well. It meant that the Widow Barnaby, although she had made up her mind to give herself and whatever she might happen to possess to a husband, and although she was exceedingly well inclined to let that husband be Mr. Patrick O’Donagough, she did not intend to go thus far in manifesting her favour towards him, without knowing a little more than she did at present respecting the state of his affairs. In a word, he perceived, as he repeated to himself, with an approving smile —
That though on marriage she was bent, She had a prudent mind.
Nor was he, notwithstanding the little irregularities into which he had heretofore fallen, unworthy of becoming an object of tender attention to Mrs. Barnaby. Much as he admired her, he had steeled his soul to the virtuous resolution of putting a sudden stop to all farther intercourse between them, should he find upon inquiry that prudence did not justify its continuance.
Whatever deficiency of wisdom, therefore, the conduct of either had before shown, it was evident that both were now actuated by a praiseworthy spirit of forethought that ought to have ensured the felicity of their future years.
It will be evident to all who study the state of the widow’s mind at this period, that she had considerably lowered the tone of her hopes and expectations from the moment she became aware of the defection of Lord Mucklebury. The shock which her hopes had received by the disagreeable denouement of her engagement with Major Allen had been perfectly cured, at least for a time, by the devotion of the noble Viscount; and so well satisfied was she herself at an escape which had left her free to aim at a quarry so infinitely higher, that what had been a mortification turned to a triumph, and she enjoyed the idea, that when “she seemed to slip,” she had so gloriously recovered herself as to leave Mrs. Peters, and other envious wonderers, cause to exclaim, “She rises higher half her length!”... But from the time this coroneted bubble burst, her courage fell. Her arrest was another blow.... Mr. Morrison’s desertion one heavier still; and, little as she cared for Agnes, or, in truth, for anybody living but herself, the manner of her departure vexed and humbled her.
“That crooked hag,” thinks she, “has made me truckle to her!” she exclaimed, as her aunt and her niece drove off, on the night that Agnes first took up her abode with Miss Compton.... “She thinks that because she spent some of her beggar’s money to hire a carriage in order to bully me, I shall count myself despised and forsaken. But the spiteful old maid shall hear of my being married again, and that will be wormwood, I’ll answer for it.”
It was in this spirit that she set about inquiring into the private character and prospects of young Mr. O’Donagough, and her first step in the business showed at once her judgment and her zeal.
In the history he had given of himself, he had spoken of a certain most respectable book-seller, who, (as he modestly hinted,) knowing his worth, and the exemplary manner in which he had turned from horse-racing to preaching, had exerted himself in the kindest manner to obtain some situation for him that should atone for the severity of his father. It was to him he had owed the engagement as domestic chaplain in the family of the nobleman formerly mentioned, and it was to him Mrs. Barnaby addressed herself for information that might lead to an engagement of still greater importance.
It was not, however, her purpose that her real object should be known, and she, therefore, framed her inquiries in such a manner as to lead Mr. Newbirth to suppose that her object was to obtain either a teacher or a preacher for her family circle.
Having made it known that she wished a few minutes private conversation with the principal, she was shown into a parlour by one of the clerks, and civilly requested to sit down for a few minutes till Mr. Newbirth could wait upon her. It must be the fault of every individual so placed, if such few minutes have not turned to good account; for the table of this exemplary publisher was covered elbow-deep in tracts, sermons, missionary reports, mystical magazines, and the like; but as Mrs. Barnaby was not habitually a reader, she did not profit so much as she might have done by her situation, and, before Mr. Newbirth’s arrival, had begun to think the “few minutes” mentioned by his clerk were unusually long ones.
At length, however, he appeared, and then it was impossible to think she had waited too long for him, for the gentle suavity of his demeanour made even a moment of his presence invaluable.
“You have business with me, madam?” he said, with his heels gracefully fixed together, and his person bent forward in humble salutation, as far as was consistent with the safety of his nose.... “Pray do not rise. I have now five minutes that I can spare, without neglecting any serious duty;” and so saying, he placed himself opposite to the lady in act to listen.
“I have taken the liberty of waiting upon you, sir,” replied Mrs. Barnaby, a little alarmed at the hint that her business must be completed in the space of five minutes, “in order to make some inquiries respecting a Mr. O’Donagough, who is, I believe, known to you.”
“Mr. O’Donagough? The Reverend Mr. O’Donagough, madam?”
The widow, though well disposed to enlarge her knowledge, and extend the limits of her principles, was not yet fully initiated into the mysteries of regenerated ordinations, and therefore replied, as the daughter of an English clergyman might well be excused for doing— “No, sir ... the gentleman I mean is Mr. Patrick O’Donagough; he was not brought up to the church.”
But there was something in the phrase, “brought up to the church,” that grated against the feelings of Mr. Newbirth, and his brow contracted, and his voice became exceedingly solemn, as he said, “I know Mr. Patrick O’Donagough, who, like many other shining lights, was not brought up to the church; but has, nevertheless, received the title of reverend from the congregation which has the best right to bestow it, even that to which he has been called to preach.”
Mrs. Barnaby was not slow in perceiving her mistake, and proceeded with her inquiries in such a manner as to prove that she was not unworthy to intercommune either with Mr. Newbirth himself, or any of those to whom he extended his patronage. The result of the interview was highly satisfactory; for though it seemed clear that Mr. Newbirth was aware of the vexatious accident which had for some months checked the young preacher’s career, it was equally evident, that the circumstance made no unfavourable impression, and Mrs. Barnaby returned to her lodgings with the pleasing conviction that now, at least, there could be no danger in giving way to the tender feeling which had so repeatedly beguiled her. “The reverend Mr. O’Donagough” would look very well in the paragraph which she was determined should record her marriage in the Exeter paper; and being quite determined that the three hundred and twenty-seven pounds per annum, which still remained of her income, should be firmly settled on herself, she received her handsome friend, when he arrived at the hour of dinner, in a manner which showed he had lost nothing in her esteem since they parted.
It had so happened, that within half an hour of the widow’s quitting the shop of Mr. Newbirth, Mr. O’Donagough entered it. His patron received him very graciously, and failed not to mention the visit he had received, which, though not elucidated by the lady’s leaving any name, was perfectly well understood by the person principally concerned.
There are some men who
might have felt offended by learning that such a means of improving acquaintance had been resorted to; but its effect on Mr. O’Donagough was exactly the reverse. His respect and estimation for the widow were infinitely increased thereby; for though still a young man, he had considerable experience, and he felt assured, that if Mrs. Barnaby had not something to bestow besides her fair fat hand, she would have been less cautious in letting it follow where it was so certain her heart had gone before.
The conviction thus logically obtained, assisted the progress of the affair very essentially. Having learnt from Mr. Newbirth that the place he had lost by the ill-timed arrest was filled by another who was not likely to give it up again, he once more contrived to make his way to the presence of his father, and gave him very clearly to understand, that the very best thing he could do would be once more to furnish the means for his departure from Europe.
“That you may spend it again at the gaming-table, you audacious scamp!” responded his noble but incensed progenitor.
“Not so, sir,” replied the soft-voiced young preacher; “you are not yet aware of the change in my principles, or you would have no such injurious suspicion.”
“As to your principles, Pat,” replied his lordship, beguiled into a smile by the sanctified solemnity of his versatile son, “I do not comprehend how you could change them, seeing that you never had any.”
“Then, instead of principles, sir, let me speak of practice: it is now several months since I exchanged the race-course, the billiard-table, and the dice-box, for the course of an extemporary preacher. I am afraid, my lord, that your taste rather leads you to performances of a different kind, or I would ask you to attend the meeting at which I am to expound next Wednesday evening, after which you could hardly doubt, I imagine, the sincerity of my conversion.”
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 157