CHOOSING A LADY'S-MAID.—A HAPPY MEETING UNHAPPILY BROKEN IN UPON.—MISS COMPTON UTTERS A LONG FAREWELL TO AGNES.
Mrs. Wilmot did not leave Silverton without taking an affectionate leave of Agnes, and when this was over, the poor girl felt herself wholly, and for ever, consigned to the authority and companionship of Mrs. Barnaby. It would be difficult to trace out the cause of the sharp pang which this conviction brought with it; but it was strong enough at that moment to rob the future of all the bright tints through which eyes of sixteen are apt to look at it. She cherished, certainly, a deep feeling of gratitude for the kindness that afforded her a home; but, unhappily, she cherished also a feeling equally strong, that it was less easy to repay the obligation with affection than with gratitude.
Not a syllable had been said to her by Mrs. Wilmot respecting the interview she was still likely to have with her aunt Compton; for she had promised this secrecy to the nervous and uncertain old lady, who, while trembling with anxious impatience to see this important niece, shrunk before the difficulties she foresaw in finding such an opportunity as she sought, for she still resolutely persevered in her determination not to see Mrs. Barnaby with her; ... but yet, when finally she did contrive to come within sight of the poor girl, it was exactly under the circumstances she so earnestly wished to avoid.
Mrs. Barnaby, in her often meditated estimate of revenue and expenses, had arrived at the conclusion that she ought not to travel without a maid, but that the said maid must be hired at the lowest rate of wages possible. The necessity for this addition to her suite did not arise from any idle wish for personal attendance, to which she had never been much accustomed, but from the conviction that there was something in the sound of "my maid" which might be of advantage to her on many occasions.
The finding out and engaging a girl that might enact the character of lady's-maid showily and cheaply, was the most important thing still left to be done before they quitted Silverton. The first qualification was a tall person, that might set off to advantage such articles of the widow's cast-off finery as might be unnecessary for Agnes; the next, a willingness to accept low wages.
While meditating on the subject, it occurred to Mrs. Barnaby that one of the girls she had seen walking in procession to church with the charity-school, was greatly taller than all the rest, and, in fact, so remarkably long and lanky, that she felt convinced she might, if skilfully dressed up, pass extremely well for a stylish lady's-maid.
Delighted at the idea, she immediately summoned Agnes to walk with her to the school-house, which was situated outside the town, about a mile, on the road leading to Compton Basett. On reaching the building, her knock was answered by the schoolmistress herself, who civilly asked her commands.
"I must come in, Mrs. Sims, before I can tell you," was the reply, and it was quite true; for, as Mrs. Barnaby knew not the name of her intended Abigail, the only mode of entering upon her business, must be by pointing out the girl whose length of limb had attracted her. But no sooner had she passed the threshold than she perceived the long and slender object of her search immediately opposite to her, in the act of taking down a work-basket from the top of a high commode; which manœuvre, as it placed her on tip-toe, and obliged her to stretch out her longitude to the very utmost, displayed her to the eyes of Mrs. Barnaby to the greatest possible advantage, and convinced her very satisfactorily that her judgment had not erred.
"That is the girl I wanted to speak about," she said, pointing to the lizard-like figure opposite to her. "What is her name, Mrs. Sims?"
"This one, ma'am, as is fetching my basket?" interrogated Mrs. Sims in her turn.
"Yes, that one ... that tall girl.... What is her name?"
"Betty Jacks, ma'am, is her name."
"Jacks?" repeated Mrs. Barnaby, a little disconcerted; "Jacks!... that won't do.... I can never call her Jacks; but for that matter, I could give her another name easy enough, to be sure.... And what is she good for?... what can she do?"
"Not over much of anything, ma'am. She was put late to me. But she can read, and iron a little, and can do plain work well enough when she chooses it."
"When she chooses it!... and she'll be sure to choose it, I suppose, when she goes to service. I want a girl to wait upon me, and to sew for me when she has nothing else to do, and I think this one will do for me very well."
"I ask your pardon, ma'am," replied Mrs. Sims, "but if I might make so bold, I would just say that for a notable, tidy, good girl, Sally Wilkins there, that one at the end of the form, is far before Betty Jacks in being likely to suit."
"What!... that little thing? Why, she is a baby, Mrs. Sims."
"She is eleven months older than Betty Jacks, ma'am, and greatly beyond her in every way."
"But I don't like the look of such a little thing. The other would do for what I want much better. Come here, Betty Jacks. Should you like to go out to service with a lady who would take care that you should always be well dressed, and let you travel about with her, and see a great deal of the world?"
"Yes, my lady," replied the young maypole, grinning from ear to ear, and shewing thereby a very fine set of teeth.
"Well, then, Betty Jacks, I think we shall suit each other very well. But I shan't call you Betty though, nor Jacks either ... mind that. You won't care about it, I suppose, if I find out some pretty, genteel-sounding name for you, will you?"
"No, my lady!" responded the delighted girl.
"Very well; ... and I will give you three pounds a year wages, and good clothes enough to make you look a deal better than ever you did before. What do you say to it?"
"I'll be glad to come, and thankye, too, my lady, if father will let me."
"Who is her father, Mrs. Sims?"
"Joe Jacks the carpenter, ma'am."
"I don't suppose he is likely to make much objection to her getting such a place as mine, is he?"
"That is what I can't pretend to say, ma'am," replied the schoolmistress very gravely.... "I don't think Betty over steady myself, but of course it is no business of mine, and it will be far best that you should see Joe Jacks yourself, ma'am, and hear what he says about it."
"To be sure; ... and where can I see him?"
"He'll be certain to be here to-morrow morning, ma'am, for he'll come to be paid for the bench he made for me; and if so be you would take the trouble to call again just about one, when Betty will be going home with him for the half holiday they always haves of a Saturday, why then, ma'am, you'd be quite sure to see him, and hear what he'd got to say."
"Very well, then, that will do, and we shall certainly walk over again to-morrow, if the weather is anything like fine.—Good morning to you, Mrs. Sims!... Mind what I have said to you, Betty; this is a fine chance for you, and so you must tell your father. Come along, Agnes."
It so chanced that within half an hour of their departure Miss Compton also paid a visit to the school. Mrs. Sims was one of the persons whom she had saved from severe, and probably lasting penury, by one of those judicious loans, which, never being made without good and sufficient knowledge of the party accommodated, were sure to be repaid, and enabled her to perform a most essential benefit without any pecuniary loss whatever.
There were no excursions which gave the old lady so much pleasure as those which enabled her to contemplate the good effects of this rational species of benevolence, and farmer Wright never failed to offer her a place in his chaise-cart whenever his business took him near any of the numerous cottages where this agreeable spectacle might greet her. On the present occasion he set her down at the door of the school-house, while he called upon a miller at no great distance; and Mrs. Sims, who was somewhat disturbed in mind by the visit and schemes of Mrs. Barnaby, no sooner saw her enter than she led her through the throng of young stitchers and spellers to the tidy little parlour behind.
"Well, now, Miss Compton, you are kindly welcome," she said; "and I wish with all my heart you had been here but a bit ago, for who should we have here, ma'am, but your own niece, Mrs. Barnaby."
Miss Compton knit her brows with an involuntary frown.
"And that sweet, pretty creature, Miss Willoughby, comed with her.... She is a beauty, to be sure, if ever there was one."
"What did they come for, Mrs. Sims?" inquired Miss Compton with sudden animation.
"Why, that is just what I want to tell you, ma'am, and to ask your advice about. She come here—Mrs. Barnaby I mean—to look after that saucy Betty Jacks, by way of taking her to be her servant, and travelling about with her; and, upon my word, Miss Compton, she might just as well take my cat there, for any good or use she's likely to be of: and besides that, ma'am, I have no ways a good opinion of the child,—for child she is, though she's such a monster in tallness;—she does not speak the truth, Miss Compton, and that's what I can't abide, and I don't think she'll do me any credit in any way; ... but yet I'm afraid it would be doing a bad action if I was to stand in the girl's light, and prevent her going, by telling all the ill I think of her, when they comes again to-morrow to settle about it."
Mrs. Sims ceased, and certainly expected a decided opinion from Miss Compton on the subject, for that lady had kept her eyes fixed upon her, and appeared to be listening with very profound attention; but the only reply was, "And do you think the girl will come with her?"
"Come with who, ma'am?"
"With Mrs. Barnaby, to be sure."
"Oh no, ma'am! she won't come with her.... She will go home, as usual, to-night, and is to come back to meet the ladies here, a little after noon to-morrow, with her father."
"But Agnes ... Miss Willoughby I mean, ... are you sure she will come back with her aunt to-morrow?"
"I am sure I can't say, ma'am, ... but I think she will; for I well remember Mrs. Barnaby said with her grand way, ... 'We will walk over to-morrow if the weather be anyways fine.'"
Miss Compton now seemed sunk in profound meditation, of which Mrs. Sims fully hoped to reap the fruits; but once more she was disappointed, for when Miss Compton again spoke, it was only to say,—
"I want to see Agnes Willoughby, Mrs. Sims, and I do not want to see Mrs. Barnaby. Do you think you could manage this for me, if I come here again to-morrow?"
"I am sure, ma'am," replied Mrs. Sims, looking a little surprised and a little puzzled—"I am sure there is nothing that I am not in duty bound to do for you, if done it can be; and if you will be pleased to say how the thing shall be managed, I will do my part with a right good will to make everything go as you wish."
This was a very obliging reply, but it shewed Miss Compton that she must trust to her own ingenuity for discovering the ways and means for putting her design in practice. After thinking about it a little, and looking round upon the locale, she said,—
"I will tell you how it must be. I will be here to-morrow before the time you have named to them, and you shall place me in this room. When Mrs. Barnaby is engaged in talking to the girl and her father, take Agnes by the hand and lead her in to me, saying, if you will, that you have something you wish her to see, ... which will be no more than the truth. If Mrs. Barnaby happens to hear this, and offers to follow, then, as you value my friendship, close the door and lock it,—never mind what she thinks of it.... I will take care her anger shall do you no harm."
"Oh dear, ma'am! I'm not the least afraid of Mrs. Barnaby's anger, ... nor do I expect she will take any notice. She seems so very hot upon having that great awkward hoyden, Betty Jacks, that I don't think, when she is engaged with the father about it, she will be likely to take much heed of Miss Agnes and me. But at any rate, Miss Compton, I'll take good care, ma'am, that she shan't come a-near you. And now, ma'am, will you be so good as to tell me if you think I shall be doing a sin letting this idle hussy set off travelling with her?"
"No sin at all, Mrs. Sims," replied Miss Compton with decision. "Let the girl be what she may, depend upon it she is quite ..." but here she stopped; adding a minute after, "Do go, Mrs. Sims, and see if farmer Wright's cart is come back."
A few minutes more brought the humble vehicle to the door, when the heiress climbed to her accustomed place in it, and gave herself up to meditation so unusually earnest, as not only to defeat all the good farmer's respectful attempts at conversation, but to occupy her for one whole hour after her return, and that so completely as to prevent her from opening her half-read volume, though that volume was Walter Scott's.
Thoughts and schemes were working and arranging themselves in her head, which were, in truth, important enough to demand some leisure for their operations. This "beauty if ever there was one," this poor motherless and father-forgotten Agnes, this inevitable heiress of the Compton acres, ought she, because she had found her short and fat two years before, to abandon her to the vulgar patronage of the hateful Mrs. Barnaby? A blush of shame and repentance mantled her pale cheek as this question presented itself, and she acknowledged to her own heart the sin and folly of the prejudice which had led her to turn away from the only being connected with her, to whom she could be useful. She remembered, too, in this hour of self-examination and reproach, that the father of this ill-treated girl was a gentleman; and that she ought, therefore, to have been kindly fostered by the last of the Comptons as a representative more worthy to revive their antiquated claims to patrician rank, than could have been reasonably expected from any descendant of her brother Josiah.
These thoughts having been sufficiently dwelt upon, examined, and acknowledged to be just, the arrangement of her future conduct was next to be considered; and, notwithstanding the singularly secluded life she had led, the little lady was far from being ignorant of the entire change it would be her duty to make in the whole manner of her existence, should she decide upon taking Agnes Willoughby from Mrs. Barnaby, and becoming herself her sole guardian and protectress.
Could she bear this?... and could she afford it? The little, weak-looking, but wirey frame of the spinster, had a spirit within it of no inconsiderable firmness; and the first of these questions was soon answered by a mentally ejaculated "I WILL," which, in sincerity and intensity of purpose, was well worth the best vow ever breathed before the altar. For the solution of the other, the old lady turned to her account books, and found the leading items in the column of receipts to be as follows:—
| £. | |
| By annual rent from the Compton Basett farm | 600 |
| By interest on 12,000l. in the Three per Cents | 360 |
| By interest on 1800l. lent on mortgage at 5l. per cent | 90 |
| By interest on 6000l. lent on mortgage at 4l. per cent | 240 |
| By interest on 2500l. lent on mortgage at 5l. per cent | 125 |
| —— | |
| £1415 |
Of this income, (the last item of which, however, had been entered only three weeks before, being the result of the latest appropriation of her savings,) Miss Compton spent not one single farthing, nor had done so since the payment in advance of three hundred and fifty pounds to Mrs. Wilmot for the education and dress of Agnes. In fact, the profits arising from the honey she sold, fully furnished all the cash she wanted; as her stipulated supplies from the farm amounted very nearly to all that her ascetic table required.... She used neither tea nor wine, milk supplying their place.... She had neither rent, taxes, nor servants, to pay; and her toilet, though neat to admiration, cost less than any lady would believe possible, who had not studied the enduring nature of stout and simple habiliments, when worn as Miss Compton wore them.
Such being the facts, it might be imagined that a schedule like the above would have appeared to such a possessor of such an income a sufficient guarantee against any possible pecuniary embarrassment from inviting one young girl to share it with her. But Miss Compton, as she sat in her secluded bower, had for years been looking out upon the fashionable world through the powerful though somewhat distorting lunette d'approche furnished by modern novels; and if she had acquired no other information thereby, she at least had learned to estimate with some tolerable degree of justness the difference between the expense of living in the world, and out of it.
"If I do adopt her, and make her wholly mine," thought she, "it shall not be for the purpose of forming her into a rich country-town miss.... She shall be introduced into the world, ... she shall improve whatever talents Nature may have given her by lessons from the best masters; ... her dress shall be that of a well-born woman of good fortune, and she shall be waited upon as a gentlewoman ought to be. Can I do all this, and keep her a carriage besides, for fourteen hundred a-year?... No!..." was uttered aloud by the deeply meditative old lady. "What then was she to decide upon? Should she wait for two more years before she declared her intentions, and by aid of the farther sum thus saved enable herself to reach the point she aimed at?" Something that she took for prudence very nearly answered "YES," but was checked by a burst of contrary feeling that again found vent in words,—"And while I am saving hundreds of pounds, may she not be acquiring thousands of vulgar habits that may again quench all my hopes?... No; it shall be done at once." So at length she laid her head on her pillow resolved to take her heiress immediately under her own protection ... (provided always that the examination which was to take place on the morrow should not prove that the Wisett style of beauty was unbearably predominant,) and that having arranged with her honest tenant some fair equivalent for her profitable apiary, her lodgings, and her present allowances, she should take her at once to London, devote one year to the completion of her education, and leave it to fate and fortune to decide what manner of life they should afterwards pursue.
For a little rustic old woman who had never in her life travelled beyond the county town of her native shire, this plan was by no means ill concocted, and must, I think, display very satisfactorily to all unprejudiced eyes the great advantages to be derived from a long and diligent course of novel-reading, as, without it, Miss Compton would, most assuredly, never have discovered that fourteen hundred a-year was insufficient to supply the expenses of herself and her young niece.
But, alas!... All this wisdom was destined to be blighted in the bud.
Miss Compton was true to her appointment, and so was Mrs. Barnaby; the fair Agnes, too, failed not to make her appearance; and moreover the critical eyes of the old lady failed not to discover, at the very first glance, that no trace of Wisett vulgarity was there to lessen the effect of her exceeding loveliness. But all this was of no avail ... for the matter went in this wise.
The first who arrived of the parties expected by Mrs. Sims, was Joe Jacks the carpenter. His daughter Betty had given him such an account of the proposal made to her, as caused him to be exceedingly anxious for its acceptance; and he now came rather before the appointed time, in order to hint pretty plainly to Mrs. Sims that he should take it very ill, if she did not give a good word to help his troublesome Betty off his hands.
Then came Miss Compton, who walked straight through the school-room, and ensconced herself in the little parlour behind it, and in about ten minutes afterwards the stately Mrs. Barnaby and her graceful companion arrived also.
Mrs. Sims was by no means deficient in her manner of managing the little intrigue intrusted to her; she waited very quietly till she perceived Mrs. Barnaby completely occupied in making the carpenter understand, that if she engaged to find shoes, shifts, and flannel petticoats for his daughter, as well as all her finery, the wages could not be more than two pounds.... And then she laid a gentle hand on Agnes, who, not being particularly interested in the discussion, suffered herself to be abducted without resistance, and in the next moment found herself in the presence of Miss Compton.
The young girl knew her in a moment, for she had made a deep impression on her memory, both by her kindness at one period, and her capricious want of it at another. But far different was the effect of memory in the old lady; for not only was she unable to recognize in the figure before her the Agnes of her recollection, or rather of her fancy, but it was not immediately that she could be made to believe in the identity.
"You do not mean to tell me, Mrs. Sims, that this young lady is Agnes Willoughby?" said she, rising up, and really trembling from agitation.
"Dear me, yes, Miss Compton, to be sure it is."
"Do you not know me, dear aunt?" said Agnes, approaching her, and timidly holding out her hand.
"Your aunt?... am I really your aunt?... Is it possible that you are my poor brother's grandchild?"
"I am Agnes Willoughby," replied the young girl, puzzled and almost frightened by the doubts and the agitation she witnessed.
"If you are!" exclaimed Miss Compton, suddenly embracing her, "I am a more guilty creature than I ever thought to be!"
At this moment, and while the arms of the diminutive spinster were still twined round the person of Agnes, who had just decided in her own mind that her great-aunt was the most unintelligible person in the world, the door of the little parlour opened with a jerk that shewed it yielded to no weak hand, and the full-blown person of the widow Barnaby stood before them. Her eyes and her rouge were as bright as ever, and her sober cap and sable draperies vainly, as it should seem, endeavoured to soften those peculiarities of the Wisett aspect against which Miss Compton had sworn eternal hatred, for never had she appeared more detestable; her usual bravura manner indeed was somewhat exaggerated by her indignation at the concealment which had been attempted, and which had been adroitly pointed out to her by the sharp-witted Betty Jacks.
"Soh!... you thought I should not find you out, I suppose!" she exclaimed, as she shut the door behind her.
"God give me patience!" cried the irritated recluse, suddenly disengaging herself from Agnes. "This is strange persecution, Mrs. Barnaby," and as she spoke she endeavoured to effect her retreat. But this could not be done in a straight direction, inasmuch as it required a considerable circuit safely to weather either side of the expansive widow; and before Miss Compton reached the door, that lady had so established herself before it as to render her leaving the room without permission absolutely impossible.
The time had been, when the hope of "getting something out of the little hunch-back," would have enabled Mrs. Barnaby to put a very strong restraint upon any feeling likely to offend her, but this was over. She thought her turn was come now, and considered her own revenues and her own position as so immeasurably superior to those of the little "old woman clothed in grey" who stood shaking before her, that her pride would never have forgiven her avarice had it led her to neglect this favourable opportunity of displaying some of the contempt and scorn which she had felt she had heretofore received from her.
"Upon my word, Miss Compton," she began, "I do really wonder you are not ashamed of yourself, to come visiting this vulgar body Mrs. Sims, instead of profiting by the notice of your own relations, which might do you honour. And your dress, Miss Compton!... What must my niece, Miss Willoughby, think, at seeing the sister of her own grandfather going about in such a horrid, coarse, miserable stuff gown as that? We all know how you have been squandering your little property upon the beggars you get to flatter you, but that is no reason for behaving as you do towards me. My excellent husband has left me in circumstances of such affluence as might enable me to assist you by the gift of some of my own clothes, if you conducted yourself as you ought to do."
This harangue would probably have been cut short, had Miss Compton retained breath enough to articulate; but astonishment and indignation almost choked her; instead of speaking, she stood still and panted, till Agnes, inexpressibly shocked and terrified, moved a chair towards her, and entreated her to sit down. Her only reply, however, was rudely pushing Agnes and her chair aside, and then, with a sort of desperate effort, exclaiming,—
"Woman!... Let me pass!"
"Oh! yes—you may pass and welcome," said Mrs. Barnaby, standing aside.—"You have behaved to me from first to last more like a fiend than an aunt, and I certainly shall not break my heart if I never set my eyes on you again. Come, Agnes, my love, I have concluded my business in this musty-smelling place, and now let us be gone.... Don't stand fawning upon her.... I promise you it will be all in vain.... You will get nothing by it, my dear."
Distressed beyond measure at this painful scene, and not well knowing how to express the strong feeling which drew her to the side of Miss Compton, Agnes stood timidly uncertain what she ought to do, when Mrs. Barnaby's authoritative voice again uttered, "Come, my dear Agnes, I am impatient to take you away from what I consider so very disgraceful a meeting."
Thus painfully obliged to decide upon either taking leave of her older relative, or of departing without it, Agnes turned again towards Miss Compton, and silently bending down, offered to kiss her cheek. But the angry old lady started away from her, saying,—"None of that, if you please!—No fawning upon me. You are her 'dear love,' and her 'dear Agnes,' ... and none such shall ever be graced or disgraced by me!" And thus saying, she walked past the tittering Mrs. Barnaby, and out of the house; preferring the chance of toiling two miles to reach her home, rather than endure another moment passed under the same roof with her.