THE ENTRÉE OF MRS. BARNABY IN MRS. PETERS'S DRAWING-ROOM.—FAMILY CONSULTATIONS.—ARRANGEMENTS FOR MISS WILLOUGHBY'S DRESS FOR SOME TIME TO COME.
In one respect Mrs. Barnaby was considerably more fortunate than she had ventured to hope, for the "clothier," and the clothier's family, held a much higher station in society than she had anticipated. Mr. Peters had for many years been an active and prosperous manufacturer, neither above his business, nor below enjoying the ample fortune acquired by it; his wife was a lively, agreeable, lady-like woman, formed to be well received by any society that the chances of commerce might have thrown her into, being sufficiently well educated and sufficiently gifted to do credit to the highest, and without any pretensions which might have caused her either to give or receive pain, had the chances been against her, and she had become the wife of a poor instead of a rich manufacturer. The eldest son, who was excellently well calculated to follow the steps of his lucky father, was already married and settled at Frome, with a share of the business of which he was now the most efficient support; the younger son, who was intended for the church, was at present at home for a few months previous to his commencing term-keeping at Oxford; and the three daughters, from appearance, education, and manners, were perfectly well qualified to fill the situation of first-rate belles in the Clifton ball-room. Their house and its furniture, their carriage and establishment, were all equally beyond the widow's expectations, so that, in short, a very agreeable surprise awaited her arrival at Clifton.
It was a lovely evening of the last week in June, that a Bristol hackney-coach deposited Mrs. Barnaby, her niece, her Jerningham, and her trunks, at No. 4, Rodney Place. The ladies of the Peters family had just left the dinner-table, and were awaiting their relative in the drawing-room. Let it not be supposed that the interesting widow made her entrée among them in the dress she had indulged in during her residence at Exeter; she was not so thoughtless; and so well had poor Agnes already learned to know her, that she felt little surprise when she saw her, the day before they left that city, draw forth every melancholy article that she had discarded, and heard her say,—
"My life passes, Agnes, in a constant watchfulness of the feelings of others.... It was for your sake, dear girl, that I so early put off this sad attire, and the fear of wounding the feelings of my dear sister-in-law now induces me to resume it, for a few days at least, that she may feel I come to find my first consolation from her!"
So the next morning Mrs. Barnaby stepped into the stage-coach that was to convey her to Bristol with her lilacs, her greys, and her pink whites, all carefully shrouded from sight in band-boxes, and herself a perfect model of conjugal woe.
"Shew me to my sister!" said the widow, as soon as she had counted all her own packages, and with a cambric handkerchief, without an atom of embroidery, in her hand, her voice ready to falter, her knees to tremble, and her tears to flow, she followed the servant up stairs.
Mrs. Peters came very decorously forward to meet her, but she was, perhaps, hardly prepared for the very long embrace in which her unknown sister held her. Mrs. Peters was a very little woman, and was almost lost to sight in the arms and the draperies of the widow; but when at last she was permitted to emerge, Agnes was cheered and greatly comforted by the pleasing reception she gave her; while the young ladies in their turn (with the exception of the grave and reasonable Elizabeth, perhaps,) submitted rather impatiently to the lingering and sobbing embraces of their new aunt, as they had by no means gazed their fill on the lovely creature she brought with her.
Though there was certainly no reason in the world why the niece of Mrs. Barnaby should not be beautiful, both Mrs. Peters and her daughters gazed on her with something like astonishment. It seemed as if it were strange that they had not heard before of what was so very much out of the common way; and so great was the effect her appearance produced, and so engrossing the attention she drew, that Mrs. Barnaby passed almost uncriticised; and when the ladies of the family met afterwards, a female committee, in Mrs. Peters's dressing-room, and asked each other what they thought of their new relation, no one seemed prepared to say more of her than ... "Oh!... she has been handsome, certainly ... only she rouges, and is a great deal too tall; .... But, did you ever see so beautiful, so elegant a creature, as her niece?" Such, with a few variations, according to the temper of the speaker, was the judgment of all.
Before this judgment was passed upon the new arrivals in the dressing-room, the aunt and niece had also undergone the scrutiny of both father and son, who had joined them at the tea-table.
They, too, had held their secret committee, and freely enough exchanged opinions on the subject.
"Upon my word, James, she is an extremely fine woman, and I really never saw any person conduct herself better upon such an occasion. All strangers, you know, and she, poor soul!... with her heart breaking to think what she has lost!... I really cannot but admire her, and I flatter myself we shall all find means to make her like us too. I hope you agree with me, James, in my notions about her!"
"Oh! dear, yes.... I am sure I do ... a very excellent person—indeed, I have no doubt of it.... But did you ever, sir, see such a creature as her niece? She seemed to me something more like a vision—an emanation—than a reality."
"A what, James?"
"I beg your pardon, my dear sir, but I believe I have lost my senses already. Don't you think, father, I had better set off for Oxford to-morrow morning?"
"Good gracious! no, James.... Why should you go away just as your aunt Barnaby is come, and she having such kind intentions towards you all?"
"Very well, sir," replied the gay-hearted youth; "if such be your pleasure, I will brave the danger, and trust to Providence.... But, good night, father!... I must say one word to my sisters before they go to bed".... And the privileged intruder entered his mother's dressing-room while the party were still discussing the merits of the new-comers.
"Oh! here comes James," exclaimed Lucy, making room for him on the sofa where she was seated. "That's delightful! Come, mamma, sit down again ... let us hear what this accomplished squire of dames says of her.... Do you think now, James, that Kattie M'Gee is the prettiest girl you ever saw?"
"Prettiest?—why, yes, prettiest, as contra-distinguished from most beautiful,—perhaps I do," replied the young man, with an ex-cathedra sort of air; ... "but if you mean to ask who I think the very loveliest creation ever permitted to consecrate the earth by setting her heaven-born feet upon it, I reply Miss Agnes Willoughby!"
"Bravo!... That will do," replied Lucy. "I thought how it would fare with the puir Scottish lassie the moment I beheld this new divinity."
"Poor James! I am really sorry for you this time," said his mother, "for I cannot give you much hope of a cure from the process that has hitherto proved so successful.... I see no chance whatever of a "fairer she" coming to cauterize, by a new flame, the wound inflicted by this marvellous Miss Willoughby."
"They jest at scars who never felt a wound!" exclaimed the young man fervently.... "Mary!... Elizabeth!... have you none of you a feeling of pity for me?... Oh! how I envy you all!... for you can gaze and bask in safety in the beams of this glorious brightness, while I, as my mother says, am doomed to be scorched incurably!"
"If you have any discretion, James, you will run away," said his eldest sister.... "Her generous aunt, you know, has declared that she shall never have any of uncle Barnaby's money; and if you stay you may depend upon it that, while you are making love to the niece, I shall be winning the heart of the aunt, and contrive by my amiable cajoleries to get your share and my own too of all she so nobly means to bestow upon us."
"Nonsense, Mary!... Don't believe her, James!..." cried the worthy matter-of-fact Elizabeth. "If you are really in love with her already, I think it would be a very good scheme indeed for you to marry her, because then Mrs. Barnaby could be doing her duty to you both at once."
"Very true, Elizabeth," ... said the mother; "but you none of you recollect that while you have been regaling yourselves with the charms of the young lady, I have been worn to a thread by listening to the noble sentiments of the old ... old?... mercy on me! the elder one. Pray, offer to set off with them, James, in quest of lodgings as soon as breakfast is over to-morrow, for I foresee that I cannot stand it long.... And now go away all of you, for I am tired to death. Good night!... Good night!"
And now let us see the impression made on the aunt and niece by their reception, for, though separate rooms were prepared for them, Mrs. Barnaby did not permit the weary Agnes to enjoy the supreme luxury of this solitary apartment till she had indulged herself with a little gossip.
Mrs. Peters had herself shewn Mrs. Barnaby to her room, at the door of which she was preparing to utter a final good night, but was not permitted to escape without another sisterly embrace, and being held by the hand for some minutes, while the widow said,—
"You know not how soothing it is to my feelings, dearest Margaret!... you must allow me to call you Margaret ... you know not how soothing, how delightful it is to my feelings to lay my head and poor aching heart to rest under the roof of my dear Barnaby's sister!... Alas! none but those who have suffered as I have done, can fully understand this.... And yet I so much wish you to understand me, dearest sister!... I so long to have my heart appreciated by you!... Step in for one moment, will you?"... And the request was seconded by a gentle pulling, which sufficed to bring the imprisoned Mrs. Peters safely within the door.... "I cannot part with you till I have explained a movement ... a rush of sentiment, I may call it,—that has come upon me since I entered this dear dwelling. The time is come, is fully come, you know, when fashion dictates the laying aside this garb of woe; and as my excellent mother brought me up in all things respectfully to follow the usages of society, I have been struggling to do so in the present instance ... and have actually already furnished myself with a needful change of apparel ... never yet, however, dearest Margaret!"—and here she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes,—"never yet have I had the courage to wear it. But, thank Heaven! I now feel strengthened, and when we meet to-morrow you shall see the influence the sight of you and your dear family has had upon me. And now, good night, my sister!... I will detain you no longer,... but do explain to your charming family, dear Margaret! how this sudden change in my appearance has been wrought.... Good night!... But where is Agnes?... Poor love! she will not sleep, even in your elegant mansion, till she has received my parting kiss. She perfectly dotes upon me!... Will you have the kindness to let her be sent to me?"
In the happiest state of spirits from the conscious skill with which she had managed this instantaneous change of garments ... delighted with the unexpected elegance of the house, and all within it ... with her reception, ... and, above all else, with the recollection of the able manner in which she had propitiated the favour of these important relatives by her letter, the widow rang the bell for her Jerningham, and anxiously awaited her arrival and that of her niece, that she might indulge a little in the happy, boastful vein that swelled her bosom.
"Well, my dear," she broke out, the instant Agnes entered, "I hope you like my brother and sister, and my nieces and my nephew.... Upon my word, Agnes, you are the luckiest girl in the world! What a family for you to be introduced to, on a footing of the greatest intimacy too, and that on your very first introduction into life! They must be exceedingly wealthy ... there can be no doubt of it. I suppose you have seen a great many servants, Jerningham?"
"Oh my!—sure enough, ma'am!... There's the footman, and the boy, and the coachman."
"A coachman!" interrupted Mrs. Barnaby; "they keep a carriage, then?... I really had no idea of it. My dear Barnaby never told me that.... I wonder at it!... And well, Jerningham, how many maids are there?
"Oh lor! ma'am, I hardly can tell, for I was tooked to sit in one room, and there was one, and maybe two maids, as bided in another; that was the kitchen I sem, ma'am, and everything was so elegant, ma'am...."
"I dare say it was, Jerningham, ... and you must be very careful to keep up your own consequence, and mine too, in such a house as this. You understand me, Jerningham: I have already, you remember, given you some hints.... You have not forgotten, I hope?"
"No, that I haven't, ma'am," replied the girl; "and ... I mean to tell 'em ..." but looking at Agnes, she stopped short, as it seemed, because she was there.
"Very well ... that's quite right, ... and I'll give you these gloves of mine. Mend them neatly to-morrow morning, and never be seen to go out without gloves, Jerningham.... And now unpack my night-bag, ... and you had better just open my trunk too. Remember to learn the hour of breakfast, and come to me exactly an hour and a half before. I shall put on my black satin to-morrow, and my lavender trimmings.... You know where to find them all, don't you?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Very well, forget nothing, and I will give you that cap with the lilac bows that I dirtied-out at Exeter.... Mercy on me, Agnes, how you are yawning!"
"I am very tired, aunt, and I will wish you good night now, if you please."
"What!... without one word of all you have seen? Well, you are a stupid girl, Agnes, and that's the fact.... You find nothing, I suppose, to like or admire in my sister's house, or in those delightful, fashionable-looking young people?"
"Yes, indeed I do, aunt, ... only I think I am too sleepy to do justice to them. They are very agreeable, and I like them very much indeed."
"I am glad to hear it, child, ... and I hope you will do your best to make yourself agreeable to them in return. If you were not such a baby, that young man would make a capital match for you, I dare say. But we must not think about that, I suppose.... And, now you may go; ... but stay one minute. Observe, Agnes, I have explained to my sister all my feelings about my mourning, and you must take care to let the young people understand that you keep on with crape and bombasin some time longer, because you like it best.... And, by the by, I may as well tell you at once, my dear, that as you look so particularly well in deep mourning, and are so fond of wearing it, you had better not think of a change for some time to come. I am sorry to tell you, my dear, that I find everything as I come up the country a vast deal indeed dearer than I expected, and therefore it will be absolutely necessary to save every penny I can. Now the fact is, that my mourning has been taken so much care of, and altogether so little worn, that the best gown is very nearly as good as new, and the worst has still a deal of wear left in it. So, I think the best thing we can do, Agnes, is to have both of them made up to fit you, that is, when your own are quite worn-out; ... and my bonnets too, if I can teach Jerningham to wash the crape nicely in a little small beer, they will come out looking quite like new, ... and they are so becoming to you!... and in this way, you see, my dear, a great many pounds may be saved."
"Thank you, aunt," meekly replied Agnes.
"Well, there's a good girl, go to bed now, and be sure to make the young ladies understand that you go on with crape and bombasin because you like it."