THE WIDOW BARNABY.

BY FRANCES TROLLOPE,

AUTHOR OF "THE VICAR OF WREXHILL," "A ROMANCE OF VIENNA," ETC.

IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.

LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.

1839.

LONDON:
PRINTED BY SAMUEL BENTLEY,
Dorset Street, Fleet Street.

CONTENTS

[CHAPTER I.]
[CHAPTER II.]
[CHAPTER III.]
[CHAPTER IV.]
[CHAPTER V.]
[CHAPTER VI.]
[CHAPTER VII.]
[CHAPTER VIII.]
[CHAPTER IX.]
[CHAPTER X.]
[CHAPTER XI.]
[CHAPTER XII.]
[CHAPTER XIII.]
[CHAPTER XIV.]
[CHAPTER XV.]
[CHAPTER XVI.]
[CHAPTER XVII.]
[CHAPTER XVIII.]

THE WIDOW BARNABY.

CHAPTER I.

MRS. BARNABY LOSES HER SENSES, AND RECOVERS THEM.—SHE TAKES A DESPERATE RESOLUTION.—MISS MORRISON PROVES HERSELF A FRIEND IN NEED.—AGNES FINDS CONSOLATION IN SORROW.

Mrs. Barnaby's horror on recovering her senses (for she really did fall into a swoon) was in very just proportion to the extent of the outlay her noble vision had cost her. To Miss Morrison, who had listened to all her hopes, she scrupled not to manifest her despair, not, however, entering into the financial part of it, but leaving it to be understood by her sympathizing friend, that her agony proceeded wholly from disappointed love.

"What a Lovelace!... what a Lothario!... what a finished deceiver!... Keloreur!..." exclaimed the pitying spinster.... "And how thankful ought I to be that no man can ever again cause me such terrible emotion.... Nong jammy!"

"Gracious Heaven! what is to become of me?" cried Mrs. Barnaby, apparently but little consoled by this assurance of her friend's exemption from a similar misfortune; "what ought I to do, Miss Morrison?... If I set off instantly for London, do you think I could reach it before he leaves it for Rome?"

Miss Morrison, having turned to the newspaper, examined its date, and read the fatal paragraph again, replied, "You certainly could, my dear Mrs. Barnaby, if this statement be correct; but I would not do it, if I were you, without thinking very seriously about it.... It is true I never had a lord for a lover myself, but I believe when they run restive, they are exceedingly difficult to hold; and if you do go after him, and fail at last to touch his cruel heart, you will be only worse off than you are now.... Say clare."

"That may be all very true in one sense, Miss Morrison," replied the unhappy widow; "but there is such a thing as pursuing a man lawfully for breach of promise of marriage, and ... though money is no object to me ... I should glory in getting damages from him, if only to prove to the world that he is a scoundrel!"

"That is quite another thing, indeed," said the confidant, "toot a fay; and, if you mean to bring an action against him, I am pretty sure that I could be very useful to you; for my brother is an attorney in London, and is reckoned particularly clever about everything of the kind. But have you any proof, my dear lady?... that is what my brother will be sure to say to you.... I know you have had lots of letters; and if you have kept them all, it is most likely my brother may find out something like proof.... Eel ay see abeel!"

"Proof?... To be sure I have proof enough, if that's all that's wanted; and I'll go to your brother at once, Miss Morrison, for revenge I'll have ... if nothing else."

"Then of course you'll take all his love letters with you, Mrs. Barnaby; and I think, if you would let me look over them, I should be able to tell you whether they would answer the purpose or not.—Jay me coney ung pew."

"I should have no objection in the world to your seeing them every one," replied the outraged lady; ... "but I am thinking, Miss Morrison, that I have an immense deal of business to do, and that I shall never get through it without your friendly help ... I am thinking...."

And Mrs. Barnaby was thinking, and very much to the purpose too. She was thinking, that though she had squandered about seventy or eighty pounds in trifling purchases, by far the greater part of the expenses her noble lover had induced her to run into, were still in the shape of debts, the money with which she proposed to discharge them being as yet paying her interest in the funds. Could she contrive to leave the heaviest of these debts unpaid till she knew the result of her intended attack upon Lord Mucklebury's purse, it would be very convenient. Perhaps some vague notion that she, too, might visit the continent, and thus escape the necessity of paying them at all, might mix itself with her meditations; but at any rate she very speedily decided upon leaving Cheltenham the following day without mentioning her intention to her milliner, mercer, tailor, shoemaker, hosier, perfumer, livery-stable keeper, librarian, or even to her hair-dresser. If she got damages, she should certainly return and pay them all with great éclat; if not ... circumstances must decide what it would be most advisable for her to do.

Great as was her esteem and affection for Miss Morrison, she did not think it necessary to trouble her with all these trifling details, but resumed the conversation by saying,—

"Yes, my dear Miss Morrison, I am thinking that the best thing I can do will be to go to London for a day or two, see your brother, put all my documents into his hands, and then return to Cheltenham for the remainder of the season, for I am sure I should be more likely to recover my spirits in your friendly society than anywhere else."

"Indeed I approve your resolution altogether," replied Miss Morrison; "and I will write a line by you to my brother, telling him that whatever he does to assist you, I shall take as a personal favour to myself."

"I cannot thank you enough!" said the widow, pressing her hand.... "We shall be able to get everything ready to-night I hope; and when my coachman comes as usual for orders at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning, tell him, my dear friend, to drive you about wherever you like to go.... And you may mention, if you please, that I shall want him to take us a long drive on Saturday to see the Roman Pavement.... I mean to return on Friday night ... for what will be the use, you know, of my staying in town?"

"None in the world ... but I think you had better name Monday for the drive ... for fear you should be too tired on Saturday."

"Well, just as you please about that ... but you had better go and write your letter, and I'll speak to Agnes and my maid about packing."

"Perhaps you will not like to take Miss Willoughby.... I will take the greatest care of her, if you will leave her in my charge."

"How very kind!... But I would rather take her.... I can't do without somebody to lace my stays and fasten my dress, and I want my maid to finish the work she is about.... She is an exquisite darner, and I have set her to mend the rent that hateful Lord Mucklebury made in my India muslin.... So I don't mean to take her."

Nothing of any kind occurred to interfere with the execution of this hastily, but by no means unskilfully, imagined plan. The ready-money expenditure of Mrs. Barnaby had been so lavish, that she had bought golden opinions from master, mistress, men, and maids throughout the establishment; and when she summoned Mr. ——, the landlord, to her presence, and informed him that she was going to London for a couple of days on business, but should not give up her rooms, as she should take neither of her servants with her, he received the communication with great satisfaction, and promised that no one but her own people should enter her drawing-room till her return.

This preliminary business happily settled, Mrs. Barnaby mounted the stairs to her bed-room, where, as usual, she found Agnes busily occupied in her corner, the hour for an evening engagement made with Lady Stephenson not having yet arrived.

For some reason or other Mrs. Barnaby never enjoyed any flirtation so much in the presence of Agnes as without her; and it was for this reason that at Cheltenham, as well as at Clifton, she had encouraged her making acquaintance for herself; thus her constant intercourse with Lady Elizabeth Norris and Lady Stephenson had never in any degree been impeded by her aunt.

Mrs. Barnaby was aware that Agnes had engaged to pass this evening with them; and when she looked at her tranquil face as she entered the room she felt greatly disposed to plague her by saying that she must stay at home to pack, and could not go.... But a moment's reflection suggested to her that the less fuss she made about this packing the better, and therefore only told her that she was obliged to set off by seven o'clock the next morning for London, on business that would detain her for a day or two ... that she meant to take her, and leave her maid; and that before she set off upon her gossiping visit, it would be necessary to pack her trunk.

Agnes laid down her book, and looked surprised.

"Don't stare so like a fool, Agnes.... Do what I bid you instantly."

"There will be no occasion for me to pack much, aunt, if we are only to stay a day or two," said Agnes.

"When I tell you to pack your trunk, miss, I mean that your trunk shall be packed, and I won't trouble you to give me any opinion on the subject."

"Am I to put everything into it, aunt?"

"Plague of my life, yes!" replied Mrs. Barnaby, whose vexed spirit seemed to find relief in speaking harshly.

Without further remonstrance Agnes set about obeying her; and the little all that formed her mourning wardrobe was quickly transferred from the two drawers allowed her to the identical trunk which aunt Betsy had provided for her first journey from Silverton to Empton.

"And my books, aunt?..." said Agnes, fixing her eyes on the heated countenance of the widow with some anxiety.

Mrs. Barnaby hesitated, and Agnes saw she did. It was not because the little library of her niece formed the chief happiness of her life that she scrupled at bidding her leave them behind, but because she suspected that they, and their elegant little case, were of some marketable value.... "You may take them if you will," she said at length.... "I don't care a straw what you take, or what you leave ... only don't plague me.... You must know, I suppose, if you are not quite an idiot, that when people go to London on business, it is possible they may stay longer than they expect."

Agnes asked no more questions, but quietly packed up everything that belonged to her; and when the work, no very long one, was completed, she said,—

"Can I be of any use to you, aunt, before I go out?"

"I should like to know what use you are ever likely to be of to anybody," ... was the reply. "Take yourself off, in God's name!—the sooner the better."

The very simple toilet of Agnes was soon arranged; and having left everything in perfect order for departure, she uttered a civil but unanswered "Good-b'ye, aunt," and went away.

It so chanced that a little volume of poems, lent to her by Lady Stephenson, had been left in the drawing-room, and Agnes, wishing to return it before leaving Cheltenham, entered the room to look for it. As a good many circulating-library volumes were lying about, it was some minutes before she found it; and just as she had succeeded, and was leaving the apartment, Miss Morrison appeared at the door. She had a letter in her hand, and a bustling, busy look and manner, which led Agnes to suppose that she had something of consequence to say to her aunt.

"Shall I run up stairs and desire my aunt to come to you, Miss Morrison?" said she.

"No, thank you, my dear ... you are very kind, but I think I had better go up to her; I only stepped in first to see if she was here.... She is very busy packing, I suppose, and perhaps I can help her."

"Then you know, Miss Morrison, that she is going to London to-morrow?" said Agnes.

"Oh! dear, yes: I believe it was I put it into her head first, ... and this is the letter she is to take to my brother. I am sure I hope she'll succeed with all my heart; and I should like to hear that Lord Mucklebury had ten thousand pounds to pay her for damages."

"Damages!" repeated Agnes; "what for?"

"What for, my dear child?.... Why, for having used her so abominably ill, to be sure ... there is nobody that saw them together as I did, but must have supposed he intended to marry her."

"And if he has used her ill, Miss Morrison," said Agnes, looking greatly alarmed, "will it not be exposing herself still more if she goes to law about it? Indeed, Miss Morrison, you should not advise her to do anything so very wrong and disagreeable."

"Don't blame me, my dear, I beg of you ... the idea was quite her own toot a fay, I assure you, and all I have done to further it was just writing this letter to my brother for her. He is a very clever lawyer, and I'm sure she could not do better."

"It would be much better, Miss Morrison, if she did not do anything," said Agnes, while tears started to her eyes at the idea of this fresh exposure.

"I don't think, my dear Miss Agnes, that you can be much of a judge," retorted the adviser. "However, as you do choose to give an opinion upon the subject, and seem to be so very much afraid that she should expose herself, I must just tell you that you owe it to me if she does not go galloping after Lord Mucklebury all the way to Rome.... She had the greatest possible inclination to do so, I assure you.... However, I think that I have put it out of her head by talking to her of damages.... But you are going down stairs, and I am going up ... so, good-bye.... Don't frighten yourself more than is needful; it is as likely as not that you will never be called into court.... O revor!"

Agnes, sick at heart, and trembling for the future, repaired to the house of Lady Elizabeth. Lady Stephenson was at the pianoforte, and the old lady reading near a window; but as soon as her young guest was announced, she closed her volume, and said, "You are late, little girl ... we have been expecting you this hour, and this is the last evening we shall have quietly to ourselves; for Colonel Hubert writes us word that he is coming to-morrow, and he is a much more stay-at-home person than Sir Edward."

Colonel Hubert coming to Cheltenham the very day she was to leave it!... These were not tidings to cheer her spirits, already agitated and depressed, and when she attempted to speak, she burst into tears. Lady Stephenson was at her side in a moment. "Agnes!..." she said, "what ails you?... You are as white as a ghost.... Had you heard any agitating news before you came here?"

Struck by the accent with which this was spoken, and perceiving in a moment that Lady Stephenson thought the mention of Colonel Hubert's arrival had caused her emotion, she hastened to reply, and did so perhaps with more frankness than she might have shewn had she not been particularly anxious to prove that there were other and very sufficient reasons for her discomposure.

"News most painful and most sad to me, Lady Stephenson," she said.... "I believe you have heard my aunt Barnaby's foolish flirtation with Lord Mucklebury spoken of.... Lady Elizabeth was laughing about it the other day."

"And who was not, my dear?... The saucy Viscount has made her, they say, the subject of a ballad.... But is it for this you weep?... Or is it because he is gone away, and that there's an end of it?"

"Alas! Lady Elizabeth, there is not an end of it, and it is for that I weep ... though indeed I ought to beg your pardon for bringing such useless sorrow here; ... but I find that my aunt fancies she has a claim upon him—a legal claim, and that she is going to London to-morrow to bring an action against him."

"Is it possible?" exclaimed the old lady, looking at poor Agnes with very genuine compassion.... "God knows you may well weep, my poor child.... I shall begin to think I gave but sorry advice, Agnes, when I told you to stay with her. It may, after all, be better to run some risk in leaving her, than brave certain disgrace and ridicule by remaining to reside in her family."

"Is she going to take you to town with her, Agnes?" inquired Lady Stephenson with a look of deep concern.

"Yes, Lady Stephenson, I am to go with her."

There was a very painful silence of a minute or two. Both the admiring friends of Agnes would have done much to save her from being a sharer in such an enterprize; but to interfere with the indisputable authority of such a woman as Mrs. Barnaby in her arrangements concerning a niece, who had no dependence but on her, was out of the question, and the conviction that it was so kept them silent.

"How did you hear this strange story, my dear?" said Lady Elizabeth.... "Did your aunt explain to you her ridiculous purpose herself?"

"No, Lady Elizabeth ... she only bade me prepare my trunk for going to London with her.... It was Miss Morrison, whom I met by chance as I came out, who told me the object of the journey; ... and dreadful as this going to law would be, it is not the worst thing I fear."

"What worse can there be, Agnes?" said Lady Stephenson.

"I am almost ashamed to tell you of such fears, ... but when I uttered something like a reproach to Miss Morrison for having advised this journey, and writing a letter about it to her brother, who is a lawyer in London, she told me that I ought to be grateful to her for preventing my aunt's following Lord Mucklebury all the way to Rome, for that such was her first intention ... and" ... continued Agnes, bursting anew into tears, "I greatly, greatly suspect that she has not given up this intention yet."

The two ladies exchanged glances of pity and dismay, and Lady Elizabeth, making her a sign to come close to her, took her kindly by the hand, saying, in accents much more gentle than she usually bestowed on any one, "My poor, dear girl, what makes you think this? Tell me, Agnes, tell me all they have said to you."

Agnes knelt down on the old lady's foot-stool, and gently kissing the venerable hand which held hers, said, "It is very, very kind of you to let me tell you all, ... and your judgment will be more to be trusted than mine as to what it may mean; but my reason for thinking that my aunt is going to do more than she confesses to Miss Morrison is, that she has publicly declared her intended absence will be only for two days; and yet, though she told me this too, she ordered me to pack up everything I had, ... even the little collection of books I told you of, Lady Stephenson, ... and, moreover, instead of letting her maid put up her things, I left her doing it herself, and saw her before I came away putting a vast variety of her most valuable things in a great travelling trunk that she could never think of taking, if it were really her intention to stay in London only two days, and then return to Cheltenham."

"Very suspicious ... very much so indeed," said the old lady; "and all I can say to you in reply, my poor child, is this. You must not go abroad with her! I am not rich enough to charge myself with providing for you, nor must your friend Emily here frighten her new husband by talking of taking possession of you, Agnes, ... but ... you must not go abroad with that woman. Governess you must be, I suppose, if things go on in this way; and instead of opposing it, I will try if I cannot find a situation in which you may at least be safer than with this aunt Barnaby. Whatever happens, you must let us hear from you; and remember, the moment you discover that she really proposes to take you abroad, you are to put yourself into a Cheltenham coach, and come directly to me."

What words were these for Agnes to listen to!... Colonel Hubert was to take up his residence in that house on the morrow; and she was now told in a voice of positive command, that if what she fully expected would happen, did happen, she was at once to seek a shelter there! She dared not trust her voice to say, "I thank you," but she ventured to raise her eyes to the hard-featured but benignant countenance that bent over her, and the kiss she received on her forehead proved that though her silence might not be fully understood, her gratitude was not doubted.

The evening was not, like many others recently passed there, so happy, that Mrs. Barnaby's footman often came to escort her home before she thought the time for parting could be half arrived. They had no music, no scraps of poetry in Italian or in English, as touch-stones of taste and instruction, with which Lady Stephenson loved to test the powers of her young favourite; but the conversation rested almost wholly upon the gloomy and uncertain future. At length the moment came in which she was to bid these valued friends adieu; they embraced and blessed her with tenderness, nay, even with tears; but little did they guess the tumult that swelled the breast of Agnes. It was Hubert's sister to whom she clung ... it was Hubert's aunt—almost his mother—who hung over her, looking as if she were her mother too!... and on the morrow he would be with them, and he would hear her named; for notwithstanding their unmeasured superiority to her in all ways, they could not forget her so soon, ... he would hear of her sorrows, of the dangers that surrounded her; and he would hear too, perhaps, of the shelter offered her in the very house he dwelt in.

All these thoughts were busy in her head as she uttered the last farewell, and turned again in passing through the door to look once more on those who would so soon be looked at by him.

There was certainly a strange pleasure mixed with all this sadness, for though she wept through half the night, she would not have exchanged the consciousness of having been brought nearer to him, even by the act of having mingled tears in parting with his nearest relations, for all the enjoyment that a tranquil spirit and a calm night's rest could offer in exchange for it.

CHAPTER II.

MRS. BARNABY EFFECTS HER RETREAT FROM CHELTENHAM.—SHE CARRIES WITH HER A LETTER.—ITS EFFECT.—AN AMIABLE ATTORNEY.—SPECIMENS OF A NOBLE STYLE OF LETTER-WRITING.—CONSOLATION.

Though the baggage of Mrs. Barnaby was strangely disproportionate to the period she had named for her absence, it seemed not to excite suspicion, which might, perhaps, be owing to the well known splendour of her elaborate toilet, which she not unfrequently changed four times in a day, requiring—as all who thought on the subject must be aware—an extent of travelling equipment much exceeding the portion assigned to ordinary ladies.

So she passed forth unchallenged, and unchallenged saw her treasures deposited on roof and in rumble-tumble till all were stowed away; and then, having affectionately squeezed the hand of Miss Morrison, who accompanied her to the stage, she climbed into it, followed by the pale and melancholy Agnes.

Our widow was now beginning to be an experienced traveller, and her first care on reaching London was to secure rooms in a private lodging-house. Notwithstanding the noble visions with which she had recreated her fancy during the last month, she now with great good sense sent them all to the moon, knowing she could easily call them back again if all went well with her; but determined that they should in no way interfere with her enjoyment of the more substantial goods that were still within her reach; so, she commissioned the maid of the house to procure her three dozen of oysters and a pot of porter, with which, while Agnes wept herself to sleep, she repaid herself for her day's fatigue, and wisely laid in a stock of strength for the morrow.

Her first object, of course, was to hold communication with the brother of her friend, "Magnus Morrison, Esq. attorney-at-law, Red Lion Square." Such was the address the letter entrusted to her bore; and at breakfast the following morning she sat gazing at it for some minutes before she could decide whether it would be better to convey it herself, or prepare the lawyer to receive her by letting it precede her for a few hours. She finally decided to send it before her;—the wisdom of which determination will be evident upon the perusal of the letter, such an introduction being well calculated to ensure all the zealous attention she desired.

Miss Morrison's letter ran thus:—

"My dear Brother,

"I never fail, as you well know, to catch all the fish for your net that comes in my way ... crowyee sellaw too jure ... and I now send you a client whom I have little doubt you will find answer in every way. She is a most charming woman, and my most particular friend.... I don't know a more charming person anywhere, not even in my dear Paris, ... so rich, so free in all her expenses, so remarkably obliging, and so very handsome for all those who admire tall, large beauties. But you are too good a lawyer to listen to all this when business is in hand, and so I must come o fay. And now, Magnus, be sure to attend to every word. Mrs. Barnaby—this charming friend of mine—has for the last month been receiving the most marked and the most tender attentions from Lord Mucklebury. He is a viscount, my dear Magnus, and—observe—as rich as a Jew. This nobleman has given her, poor dear lady! every reason in the world to believe that his dearest wish, hope, and intention was to marry her; and she, good, tender-hearted creature! perfectly adored him, devoting every hour of the day to the finding out where he was to be seen, and the going there to see him. She had no secrets whatever from me the whole time, and I knew everything that was going on from the first moment he ever kissed her hand to the most tender interviews that ever passed between them. And how do you think it has all ended?... Oh! Magnus, it is impossible to deny that the male sex—lords and all—are most dreadfully deceitful and false-hearted. All this devoted love, going on, as I tell you, for a whole month, has just ended in nothing. My lord set off in his travelling carriage, with four horses and an out-rider, as we subsequently ascertained, without even taking any leave of the lady at all, or explaining himself the least bit either one way or the other. You may easily guess her feelings.... Her first idea, poor thing, was to follow him to the world's end—for there is no doubt in the world that her attachment was of the most sincere kind; but luckily she confided this romantic thought to me, and it struck me directly, Magnus, that the best thing in the world for her to do would be to put the whole affair into your hands. She has got quantities of his letters ... they are very little letters, to be sure, folded up sometimes not much bigger than a shilling; but still letters are letters, you know; and I can't but think that, with your cleverness, something might be made of an action for damages. Of course, it is natural to suppose that I am a little partial to this sort of measure, because I can't well have forgotten yet that the best part of my snug little fortune came to me in the same way, thanks to the good management of our dear good father, Magnus.... The dear lady listened to reason in a minute, and consented to put herself in your hands, for which reason she is going to set off for London to-morrow morning. She will bring all Lord Mucklebury's letters with her, and it will be for you to judge what use can be made of them;—only it is but right to mention, that there is no doubt in the world but that Mrs. Barnaby is quite rich enough to pay handsomely, whether she gains the cause or loses it.

"I am, my dear Magnus,

"Your affectionate sister,

"Sarah Morrison."

Mrs. Barnaby enclosed this letter in an envelope, in which she wrote,—

"Mrs. Barnaby presents her compliments to Mr. Magnus Morrison, and will be happy to see him on the business to which the enclosed letter refers at any hour he will name."

"No. 5, Half-moon Street, Piccadilly."

Having consigned her packet to the post, the widow declared to her anxious companion that she did not mean to waste her time as long as she remained in London; but should walk to every part of the town, and should expect her to do the same.

"Will there not be danger of losing ourselves, aunt?" said Agnes. "London, you know, is so much bigger than any place you ever saw."

"And what's the good of that piece of wisdom, Miss Solomon? Perhaps you don't know that I have a tongue in my head, and that the Londoners speak English?... Come, and put on your bonnet, if you please, and I'll promise not to leave you in any of the gutters, but bring you safe home again to No. 5, Half-moon Street, Piccadilly. There, you see, I shall know what place to ask for. Won't that do for you?"

Agnes felt that all remonstrance would be in vain, and submitted; though the idea of being dragged through the streets of London by her aunt Barnaby, dressed in the identical green satin gown and pink feathers which had first attracted Lord Mucklebury's attention, was by no means an agreeable prospect.

The expedition, however, fatiguing and disagreeable as it proved, was achieved without any very disastrous results. Mrs. Barnaby, indeed, was twice very nearly knocked down by a cab, while staring too eagerly about her when crossing the streets; and friendly as was the old black crape veil of poor Agnes, it could not wholly save her from some tolerably obvious efforts to find out whether the face it sheltered was worthy the graceful symmetry of the person who wore it; ... but they nevertheless reached their Half-moon Street without any positive injury to life or limb.

At eight o'clock in the evening, while Mrs. Barnaby and her weary companion were taking tea, the drawing-room door opened, and Mr. Magnus Morrison was announced, and most cordially welcomed by the widow, who not only saw in him the lawyer from whom she hoped to learn how to replenish her waning finances, but also the brother of her dear Miss Morrison, and the only acquaintance she could hope at this trying moment to find or make in London.

But now, as heretofore, the presence of Agnes was inconvenient, which she took care to signify by saying to the lawyer, "I am greatly indebted to you, Mr. Morrison, for your early attention to my note; and I shall be very glad to talk with you on the business that brings me to London ... but not quite yet ... we really must be quite by ourselves, for it will be necessary that I should have your whole attention. Will you, in the mean time, permit me to offer you tea?"

Before Mr. Morrison could reply Agnes was on her feet, and asking her aunt in a whisper if she would give her leave to go to bed. "Yes, if you like it, my darling!..." replied Mrs. Barnaby, whose tenderness for her niece was always awakened by the presence of strangers. "I am sure you look tired to death.... But bring down first, my dear, my writing-desk; and remember, my love, to take care that I have warm water when I come up; ... and don't forget, Agnes, to put my bonnet and shawl, and all that, nicely away ... and see that I have paper for curling my hair ready on the dressing-table; ... and don't go to bed till you have put out my lilac silk for to-morrow; and just put a stitch in the blonde of my bonnet-cap, for I pulled it almost off."

All this was said by the widow in a coaxing sort of half whisper, with an arm round her victim's waist, and a smile of the most fascinating kindness on her own lips.

The desk was brought, and the consulting parties left alone; while Agnes, as she performed the different tasks imposed on her, and which her great fatigue rendered heavy, could not for an instant banish from her mind the question that had incessantly haunted her from the hour she left the drawing-room of Lady Elizabeth.... "Will she go abroad?... Shall I be obliged to return to Cheltenham without her?... Shall I be obliged to go to the house where he is living?"

Mr. Magnus Morrison was by no means an ill-looking man, and though a bachelor of thirty-five, had as little of quizzical peculiarity about him as a careful attorney of that age, unpolished by a wife, can be expected to have. Mrs. Barnaby, though a little his senior, was still, as we know, a lady à prétention, and never permitted any gentleman to approach her without making an experiment upon him with her fine eyes. Their success in the present instance was neither so violent as in the case of Major Allen, nor so instantaneous as in that of the false-hearted peer; nevertheless enough was achieved to throw an agreeable sort of extraneous interest into the business before them, and the widow disdained not as it proceeded to decorate her narrative and herself with such graces as none but a Mrs. Barnaby can display.

Having given her own version, and with such flourishes as her nature loved, of Lord Mucklebury's violent passion for her, she asked her attentive and somewhat captivated auditor what species of testimony was required to prove a promise of marriage in such a manner as to secure large damages, "for without being quite certain of obtaining such, you must be aware, my dear sir, that a woman of my station, connexions, and fortune, could not think of appearing in court."

"Assuredly not," replied Mr. Magnus Morrison fervently. "Such a measure is never to be resorted to unless the evidence is of a nature that no cross-examination can set aside. My sister tells me, madam, that you have letters...."

"Yes, Mr. Morrison, I have many ... though I am sorry to say that many more have been destroyed. (This was a figure of poetry, and of a kind that the widow often adopted to give strength to the narrative portion of her conversation.)

"That is greatly to be regretted, Mrs. Barnaby ... though we must hope that among those which remain sufficient proof of this very atrocious case will be found to answer the purposes of justice. Was there any principle of selection in the manner in which some were preserved and others destroyed?"

"I can hardly say," replied the lady, "that it was done on any principle, unless the feeling can be so called which leads a woman of delicacy to blush and shrink from preserving the effusions of a passion so vehement as that expressed in some of the letters of Lord Mucklebury."

"They were, then, the most ardent declarations of his attachment that you destroyed, Mrs. Barnaby?"

"Most certainly," said the widow, throwing her eyes upon the carpet.

"It is unfortunate, very unfortunate," observed the lawyer, "though it shews a delicacy of mind that it is impossible not to admire. Will you give me leave, madam, to peruse such of the letters as you have preserved?"

"Undoubtedly," replied Mrs. Barnaby, unlocking her writing-desk, "and though I know not how to regret the existence of such feelings, Mr. Morrison, I will not deny that, for the sake of honour and justice, I am sorry now that what I have to shew you is so much the least explicit part of the correspondence."

She then drew forth the packet which contained (be it spoken in confidence) every syllable ever addressed to her by the laughter-loving Viscount; and greatly as Mr. Magnus Morrison began to feel interested in the case, and much as he would have liked to bring so charming a client into court, he very soon perceived that there was nothing in these highly-scented, but diminutive feuilles volantes, at all likely to produce any effect on a jury approaching to that elicited by the evidence of the learned and celebrated Sergeant Buzfuz on an occasion somewhat similar. He continued to read them all, however, and they were numerous, with the most earnest attention and unwearied industry, permitting little or no emotion of any kind to appear on his countenance as he proceeded, and determined to utter no word approaching to an opinion till he had carefully perused them all. Important as Mrs. Barnaby flattered herself these little letters might eventually prove, and interesting as her lawyer found every word of them, the whole collection might perhaps be considered as somewhat wearisome, full of repetition, and even trifling, by the general reader, for which reason a few only shall be selected as specimens, taken at hazard, and without any attention either to their dates or the particular events which led to them.

No. 1.

"Prima Donna del Mundo![1]

"Walk you to-day?... At three be it ... at which hour my station will be the library.

"M."

[1] Lord Mucklebury had been assured, on the authority of Mrs. Barnaby herself, that her favourite language was the Italian.

No. 2.

"Bellissima!

"Should I appear to-day (you may guess where) with a friend on my arm, let it not change the sweet demeanour of my charming widow. He is an excellent fellow, but one whom I always treat as if he were not in existence;—for in truth, being almost as dreadfully in love as myself, he neither sees nor hears.

"M."

No. 3.

"Bella Donna!

"It is three days since I have received a line from the fairest lady in Cheltenham! Write me a whole page, I beseech you, ... and let it be such a one as shall console me under the necessity of dining and passing the whole evening with half a dozen he-fellows, when the champagne will but ill atone for the sparkling eyes whose light I shall lose by being among them. But if I have one of your exquisite billets in my waistcoat-pocket, I shall bear the loss better.

"M."

No. 4.

"Vedova maravigliosa!

"Should I find the Barnaby disengaged in her saloon, were my audacious feet to bear me across its threshold this evening?

"M."

Such, and such like, were the manuscripts submitted by Mrs. Barnaby to the inspection of her lawyer. When he had carefully and deliberately gone through the whole collection, he tied them all up again with a bit of rose-coloured ribbon, as he had found them, and pushing them back to her across the table, said with something like a sigh,—

"It is greatly to be lamented, madam, that some of these little notes had not been consigned to the flames instead of the letters you have described to me, ... for my judgment decidedly is, that although every one of these documents tends to prove the admiration of their author for the lady to whom they are addressed, there is not one of them which can be said to contain a positive promise of marriage, or even, I fear, any implied intention of making a proposal ... so that I am afraid we should not get a verdict against my Lord Mucklebury on the strength of any evidence contained therein; nevertheless, if you have witnesses to prove that such proposal and such promise have been actually made to you by his lordship, I think these letters might help us to make out a very pretty case, and one which, if it did not eventually bring you a large sum of money, would at least be exceedingly vexatious to his lordship—a circumstance which might in some degree tend to soothe the naturally outraged feelings of so charming a lady, so villanously treated."

Mr. Morrison said this with his eyes fixed steadily on the widow's face, intending to ascertain what chance there might be of her wishing to spend a few hundred pounds for the pleasure of plaguing her perfidious deluder; but he could make out nothing from this scrutiny. Nevertheless, the mind of Mrs. Barnaby was busily at work; so many schemes, however, were battling together in her brain, that the not being able to discover which preponderated, shewed no want of skill in the lawyer.

First, she had a very strong inclination for a personal interview with Lord Mucklebury, in order to see how a little passionate grief might affect him. Secondly, she greatly desired to profit by the present occasion for seeing some of those London sights which country ladies and gentlemen so love to talk about. Thirdly, she very ardently wished to avoid the necessity of paying the debts which his lordship's base delusions had induced her to contract at Cheltenham. Fourthly, and lastly, the project of a journey to Rome was beginning to take a very decided shape in her fancy; but amidst all this there remained not the smallest wish or intention of trying to revenge her wrongs by the assistance of the law.... She was beginning to be too well aware of the melting nature of money in the funds, to wish that the villanous Viscount should lead her to expend another shilling upon him.

After the silence of a few minutes, Mrs. Barnaby raised her eyes from the ground, and fixing them with a soft, gentle, resigned smile upon Mr. Morrison, said,—

"I thank you gratefully, Mr. Morrison, for your frank opinion, given too in so gentleman-like a manner as to make me feel that I am indeed rather in the hands of a friend than a lawyer; ... and in return I will use the same frankness with you. I have loved Lord Mucklebury most sincerely!... loved him with all the pure disinterested ardour of my character; but the same warm heart, Mr. Morrison, which thus surrenders itself without suspicion or restraint, is precisely of the nature most prompt to reject and forget a being proved to be unworthy of it.... Therefore I may now truly say, that this poor bosom (pressing her two hands upon it) suffers more from the void within it, than from tender regret; and I am greatly inclined, since I cannot benefit by your able services as a lawyer, to urge my friendship with your dear sister as a claim upon your kindness as a gentleman. Will you assist to cure the painful void I speak of by giving me your help in my endeavours to see all that is best worth looking at in London?... I am sure it would do me good; not to mention that it might give pleasure to the dear child whom you saw with me when you entered. She is quite my idol, and I should delight in procuring her an amusement which I know she would so particularly enjoy."

Mr. Morrison, who was a shrewd, quick-sighted man, thought there was considerable food for speculation in this speech, and, had leisure served him, he might have reasoned upon it in a spirit not much unlike that of Benedict.... "Will you assist to cure the painful void?... which is as much as to say..." and so on.... He waited not, however, to give this all the attention it merited, but remembering clearly his sister's statement respecting the widow's fortune, replied with most obliging readiness,—

"There is nothing, my dear madam, that I would not joyfully do to prove my wish of serving a lady so highly esteemed by my sister; and one also, permit me to add, so deserving the admiration of all the world," replied the gallant attorney.

"Well, then, my dear sir," rejoined the widow, in accents of renewed cheerfulness, "I throw myself entirely upon you, and shall be quite ready to begin to-morrow to go here, there, and everywhere, exactly as you command."

A scheme for St. Paul's and the Tower in the morning, and one of the theatres at night, was then sketched out; and the gentleman departed, by no means certain that this adventure might not terminate by being one of the most important of his life.

CHAPTER III.

A BOLD MEASURE.—A TOUR DE FORCE ON THE PART OF MRS. BARNABY, AND OF SAVOIR FAIRE ON THAT OF LORD MUCKLEBURY.—SIGHT-SEEING.—THE WIDOW RESOLVES UPON ANOTHER JOURNEY.

Mr. Morrison, who really had a little business, though not very much, had named two o'clock as the earliest hour at which he should be able to come to Half-moon Street for the purpose of escorting the ladies in a hackney-coach to the city; and it was during the hours that intervened between her breakfast and this time, that the active-minded Mrs. Barnaby determined upon making a private visit to Mivart's Hotel, in the hope of seeing Lord Mucklebury.

She had quite made up her mind to the worst, as may be seen from the projects already maturing themselves in her brain, as the consequence; nevertheless she thought it was just possible that his lordship might be unable to resist the expression of sorrow in eyes he had so vehemently admired; and, at any rate, there was something so ... so touching in the idea of this final interview, that she could not refuse herself the satisfaction of making the experiment.

Telling Agnes that she had a little shopping to do before their sight-seeing began, and that she would not take her, for fear she should be as stupidly fatigued as on the night before, she mounted to her bed-room, adorned herself in the most becoming costume she could devise, and with somewhat less rouge than usual, that the traitor might see how sorrow worked, set forth on her expedition.

Having reached Piccadilly, she called a coach, and in a few minutes was safely deposited before Mivart's door.

"Is Lord Mucklebury here?..." she inquired in a voice of authority of the first official she encountered.

"Yes, ma'am," was the answer. "His lordship is at breakfast."

"I must see him, if you please, directly!"

"Is it by appointment, ma'am?" questioned the discreet waiter, looking at her keenly.... "His lordship is just going to set off, and is too busy, I believe, to see anybody."

"He is not too busy to see me—I must see him directly!"

"Is it an appointment?" repeated the man, in an accent not the most respectful.

"Yes, it is," ... replied the unblushing widow.

"Better call his own man, Joe," said another napkined functionary, attracted by the appearance of the lady.

"You had better take this sovereign," said Mrs. Barnaby in a whisper.

Apparently the man thought this advice the best; for taking the coin with such practised dexterity as hardly to make the action perceptible, he gave the lady a look with his knowing eye that said, "Follow me!..." and slid away among passages and stairs till he had marshalled her to the door of Lord Mucklebury's apartments. Being probably somewhat doubtful whether the office he had performed would be as gratefully requited by the gentleman as by the lady, he waited not to open the door, but saying, "There's his room," disappeared, leaving Mrs. Barnaby to announce her ill-used self.

She was a little frightened, but still resolute; and, after pausing for one moment to recover breath, threw open the door and entered.

The waiter's account was strictly true, for his lordship was at breakfast, and his lordship was packing. En robe de chambre, with a cup of coffee in one hand, and a bunch of keys in the other, he was standing beside his valet, who knelt before a carriage-seat he was endeavouring to close. Lord Mucklebury was facing the door, and raised his eyes as it opened. The sight that greeted them was assuredly unexpected, but the nerve with which he bore it did honour to his practised philosophy.

"Mrs. Barnaby!" he exclaimed, with a smile, in which his valet seemed to take a share, for the fellow turned his head away to conceal its effect upon him.... "Mrs. Barnaby!... How very kind this is.... But I grieve such obliging benevolence should be shewn at a moment when I have so little leisure to express my gratitude.... My dear lady, I am this instant starting for the continent."

"I know it, sir.... I know it but too well!" replied the widow, considerably embarrassed by his easy tone.... "Permit me, however, to speak to you for one moment before you set out."

"Assuredly!... Place yourself on this sofa, Mrs. Barnaby.... How deeply I regret that moments so delightful.... Confound you, Rawlins, you'll break those hinges to pieces if you force them so.... My dear lady!... I am shocked to death; ... but, upon my soul, I have not a moment to spare!"

"I wish to speak to you, my lord, without the presence of your servant."

"My dearest Mrs. Barnaby, you need not mind Rawlins any more than the coffee-pot!... You have no idea what a capital fellow he is!... true as steel ... silent as the grave.... That's it, Rawlins!... I'll set my foot upon it while you turn the key ... here! it is this crooked one."

"Lord Mucklebury!... you must be aware," ... began the widow.

"Aware!... Good Heaven, yes!... To be sure, I am! But what can I do, my dearest Mrs. Barnaby?... I must catch the packet, you see.... How is dear, good Miss Morrison?... Now for the dressing-case, Rawlins!... don't forget the soap—I've done with it!... For goodness' sake, don't tell my excellent friend, Miss Morrison, how very untidy you have found everything about me.... She is so very neat, you know!... I'm sure she'd.... Mind the stoppers, Rawlins—put a bit of cotton upon each of them!"

"Is it thus, Lord Mucklebury, that you receive one who...."

"I know what you would say, my charming friend!" interrupted his lordship, handing her a plate of buttered toast, ... "that I am the greatest bear in existence!... No! you will not eat with me?... But you must excuse me, dear friend, for I have a long drive before me." And, so saying, Lord Mucklebury seated himself at the table, replenished his coffee-cup, broke the shell of an egg, and seriously set about eating an excellent breakfast.

The widow was at a loss what to do or say next. Had he been rude or angry, or even silent and sullen, or in any other mood in the world but one of such very easy good humour, she could have managed better. But a painful sort of conviction began to creep over her that Lord Mucklebury's present conduct, as well as all that had passed before, was merely the result of high-breeding and fashionable manners, and that lords and ladies always did so to one another. If this were so, rather than betray such rustic ignorance as to appear surprised at it, she would have consented to live without a lover for weeks and weeks to come; ... and the terrible idea followed, that by having ignorantly hoped for too much she might have lost a most delightful opportunity of forming an intimate friendship with a peer of the realm, that might have been creditable and useful to her, either abroad or at home.

Fortunately Lord Mucklebury was really hungry, and he ate so heartily for a minute or two, that the puzzled lady had time to settle her purpose, and take the new tone that her ambition suggested to her, which she did with a readiness that his lordship really admired.

"Well!... I see how it is, my lord," said she; "I come here to ask you to do a commission for me at Rome, where the papers told me you were going; but you are too busy and too hungry to spare a moment to an old acquaintance."

"No! upon my soul!..." said Lord Mucklebury, throwing some of his former homage into his eyes as he bowed to her. "There is no commission in the world you could give me, from New York to Jerusalem, that I would not execute with the fidelity of a western or an eastern slave. What are your commands, bewitching Mrs. Barnaby?"

"Merely, my lord, that you would buy a set of shells for me—as nearly like Lady Stephenson's as possible; and I dare say," she added, very cleverly drawing out her purse, to avoid any misconception respecting the object,—"I dare say your lordship, who has travelled so much, may be able to tell me pretty nearly what the price will be.... About ten pounds, I think."

And ten golden sovereigns were immediately thrown from the purse upon the table.

Lord Mucklebury, perfectly delighted by this brilliant proof of the versatility of her powers, gaily took her purse from her hand, and replacing the money in it, said—

"It is not so that I execute the commissions of my fair friends, Mrs. Barnaby.... I will note your orders in my pocket-book, thus.... 'A set of the handsomest shells in Rome for the charming Mrs. Barnaby. See!... I can hardly overlook it; and when I have the pleasure of presenting them, we will settle about the price."

He replaced her purse in her hand, which he kissed with his best air of Cheltenham gallantry; upon which she wisely rose, and saying, with every appearance of being perfectly satisfied with her reception, "Adieu, my lord! forgive my intrusion, and let me hope to have the pleasure of seeing you when you return," she took her departure, perfectly convinced that her new-born conjecture was right, and that lords had privileges not accorded to other men.

This persuasion, however, as well as the interview which gave rise to it, she determined to keep to her own breast; not sorry, perhaps, that some of her friends might go to their graves with the persuasion that, though deserted by him, she once had a nobleman for her lover, and vastly well satisfied with herself for having found out her plebeian blunder in time to prevent the loss of so very valuable a friend as she still thought Lord Mucklebury might be.

She returned in good time to rest and refresh herself with a draught of her favourite beverage (porter) before Mr. Morrison arrived.

If she had thought this gentleman worthy of some little agaceries before her definitive interview with her noble friend, she certainly did not think him less so afterwards, and the morning and the evening passed away with great appearance of enjoyment to both the gentleman and lady. Mrs. Barnaby began to think, as upon former occasions of the same kind, that it would be vastly more agreeable if Agnes were not of the party.

The same idea had occurred to the suffering girl herself more than once in the course of the day. Whether her own wish was father to the thought, or that her aunt had purposely permitted her feelings to be seen, it matters not to inquire; but when, on the following morning, Agnes complained of head-ache, and expressed a timid wish to be left at home, Mrs. Barnaby, without hesitation, replied,—

"I think you are right, Agnes.... You have no strength for that sort of thing ... so it is very lucky you brought your books, and you may unpack them, if you will, and set to work."

This release was hailed with thankfulness.... Lady Stephenson and Miss Peters were both written to during the leisure it afforded, and though she could give no very satisfactory intelligence to either, there was a pleasure in writing to them that no other occupation could give her.

After this time several days elapsed, during which Mrs. Barnaby was scarcely at home at all, except for the purpose of eating her dinner, which meal Mr. Morrison regularly partook with them.

More than a week passed in this manner; Mrs. Barnaby becoming every day more convinced that, although every sensible woman ought to marry a lord, if she can get one, yet, nevertheless, that an active, intelligent, obliging friend, full of admiration, and obedient to command, was an excellent substitute for everything else during an interregnum between the more violent attachments by which the career of all distinguished women must necessarily be marked. And Mr. Morrison, as he on his side remarked how freely the lady hired her flies and her hackney chariots,—how little she thought of the price of tickets for plays, operas, and that realization of all her dreams of elegant festivity, Vauxhall,—how liberally wine and even brandy flowed at the savoury little dinners in her drawing-room,—as he remarked on all this, he could not but reason with himself on the greatly superior felicity of being the husband of such a lady, and living without any trouble at all upon her fortune, to the remaining a bachelor in Red Lion Square, under the necessity of working whenever work could be had in order to pay his rent, settle his tailor's bill, and find wherewithal to furnish commons for himself and his one domestic.

It is certain, however, that up to this time no serious idea of marrying Mr. Magnus Morrison had entered the widow's head; on the contrary, she was fully determined that, as soon as she had seen London "well," she would see Paris too, and was not without a vague notion that there might be something very elegant and desirable in becoming the wife of a French grandee. But these ruminations interfered not at all with the amiable amenity of her demeanour to her assiduous attendant.... Agnes was as little in their way as it was possible she could be ... the weather was remarkably fine ... and, on the whole, it may be doubted if any lady of thirty-seven ever made her first debut in the metropolis of the united kingdoms with more perfect satisfaction to herself.

Mrs. Barnaby reached London on a Thursday evening; the first Sunday shewed her the Foundling, all the little children, and a popular preacher, which together constituted one of Mr. Morrison's favourite lions. The Sunday following, being the last, according to her own secret determination, that she would pass in England, she was left during the early part of the day to her own devices, Mr. Morrison having a deed to draw, which could no longer be safely postponed; and she therefore obligingly asked Agnes if she should not like to go to church with her. Agnes willingly assented, and they went to the morning service at St. James's. In returning thence our gaily-dressed widow, full of animation, and the hope of finding Mr. Morrison ready to take luncheon with her previous to their projected walk in Kensington Gardens, remarked, as she gracefully paced along the crowded pavement, that one individual among the many who eyed her appeared to follow her movements with particular attention. Mrs. Barnaby was never stared at without feeling delighted by the compliment she thought it implied, and simpered and frolicked with her parasol in her best manner, till at length, having no one else to whom she could point out the flattering circumstance, she said to Agnes, as they turned down Half-moon Street ... into which the admiring individual turned too.... "Do look at that man, Agnes.... He has never ceased to follow and stare at me since we left the church.... There, now, he is going to pass us again.... Is he not an impudent fellow?"

"Perhaps he knows you, aunt," said Agnes, raising her eyes as the man passed them.... "I think I have seen him at Cheltenham."

This suggestion heightened Mrs. Barnaby's colour so considerably that it was perceptible through all her rouge.

"You have seen him at Cheltenham?... Where, pray?"

"I do not well remember; in a shop, I think."

Mrs. Barnaby asked no more questions, but knocked rather hastily at the door of her lodgings; but though the person had crossed the street, and in doing so passed close to her, he made no attempt to speak to her, but passed on his way, not, however, before he had so refreshed her memory respecting her Cheltenham debts as to make her suddenly decide upon leaving London on the morrow.

She found Mr. Magnus Morrison waiting for her, as well-looking and as devoted as ever; so she did all but quite forget her recent alarm, its only effect being, when Agnes, as usual, declined her invitation to go out with them, to say in a whisper to her in the window recess farthest removed from her waiting gentleman, "I think I shall leave London to-morrow night, so you may employ yourself in getting everything ready for packing, Agnes...." She then turned gaily to her escort, and they set off together.

During the whole of this tedious week Agnes had used every means within her very limited power to ascertain what her aunt's plans were for the future; and this not only to satisfy her own natural curiosity on the subject, but also that she might have sufficient information to justify her writing another letter to Lady Stephenson. But all her inquiries had been so vaguely answered, that she was quite as ignorant of what her next movement might be as when she arrived, and was living in a very torturing sort of suspense, between hope that fate by some means or other would oblige her to return to Cheltenham, and fear lest the mystery that veiled the future might only be elucidated when too late for her to obey the command which, in case of the worst, was to send her there.

So weary was she both of her present position and of the doubt which concealed the termination of it, that she joyfully set herself to obey the parting injunction of her aunt; and having rapidly gone through this task, began her second letter to her Cheltenham friends, stating exactly all she knew, and all she did not know, and at length leaving her letter unfinished, that her postscript, as she said, might contain, according to the imputed custom of all ladies, the essential part of her letter.

The fine bonnets and smart waistcoats of Kensington Gardens, together with a bag-ful of queen-cakes, with which she had provided herself for her own refreshment and that of her companion during a promised hour of repose in one of the alcoves, so pleasantly beguiled the hours, that it was near seven before they returned to dinner; when the widow confessed herself too tired for anything more that day; and at an hour much earlier than usual Mr. Morrison took his departure, well informed, as it seemed, of the lady's intentions for the morrow, for Agnes heard him say,—

"Well, then, Mrs. Barnaby ... one more delightful excursion to-morrow—the Surrey Gardens will delight you!... and at two o'clock I will be here.... Sorry am I to think for the last time ... at least for the present." A cordial hand-shaking followed, and the door closed after him.

"I have done what you bid me, aunt," said Agnes; "all your things are got ready for you to place them as you like, and one of the boxes half filled, just as you did before.... Shall I write the directions, aunt?"

"We can do that to-morrow.... I am tired to death. Ring the bell.... No—run down yourself, for the girl looks as cross as two sticks ... run down, Agnes, and tell her to get my porter directly; and I think you must bring it to me in bed, for I can't keep my eyes open."

"Will you tell me, aunt, where we are going?" said Agnes timidly, as she took up one of the candles to light her steps down two flights of stairs.

"Don't plague me now, Agnes," was the reply; "I have told you that I am tired to death, and nobody but you would think of teazing one with such a question now. You know well enough, though you have not had the grace to thank me for it, that I never take you anywhere that it is not most delightful to go to.... What other country-girl in the world is there at your age that has had the advantages you have.... Exeter.... Clifton.... Cheltenham.... London; and if you don't provoke me too much, and make me turn you out of house and home, I'll take you now ... but it's no matter where—you'll know soon enough to be grateful, if there's such a thing as gratitude in your heart.... But I am a fool to expect it, and see you standing there when I've begged, as if my life depended upon it, that you would please to order me a little beer."

Agnes said no more; but went to bed that night with her fears most reasonably strengthened that she should not learn Mrs. Barnaby's destination till it was too late to avoid sharing it, let it be in what direction it might.

CHAPTER IV.

AN ADVENTURE.—ANOTHER LETTER FROM MISS MORRISON PRODUCTIVE OF A POWERFUL EFFECT UPON HER BROTHER.—HE FORSAKES HIS CLIENT AND HIS FRIEND.—AGNES IS LEFT ALONE, AND EMPLOYS SOME OF HER LEISURE IN WRITING A LETTER TO MISS COMPTON.

The following day was an eventful one. For the first time since they had been in London, Agnes, on seeing her aunt preparing to go out, asked permission to go with her, and "You may go if you will," was the answer; but before her bonnet was tied on, Mrs. Barnaby changed her mind, saying, "Put down your bonnet, Agnes ... upon second thoughts I don't choose to take you.... Look at all these things of mine lying about here!... I have told you that it is likely enough we may set off by a night coach, and I have got, as you know, to go out with Mr. Morrison; so I should be much obliged if you would please to tell me how all my packing is to get done?"

"If you would let me go with you now, aunt, I shall have plenty of time to do all that remains while you are out with Mr. Morrison," replied Agnes.

"Agnes, you are, without exception, the most impertinent and the most plaguing girl that ever a widowed aunt half ruined herself to provide for.... But I won't be bullied in this way either.... Stay at home, if you please, and do what I bid you, or before this time to-morrow you may be crying in the streets of London for a breakfast.... I should like to know who there is besides me in the wide world who would undertake the charge of you?... Do you happen to know any such people, miss?... If you do, be off to them if you please—the sooner the better; ... but if not, stay at home for once without grumbling, and do what you're bid."

There was just sufficient truth mixed with the injustice of these harsh words to go to the heart of poor Agnes. Her aunt Compton, in reply to a letter of Mrs. Barnaby, written in a spirit of wanton impertinence, and in which she made a formal demand of one hundred pounds a-year for the expenses of Agnes, answered in great wrath, that she and Agnes both had better take care not to change their residence so often as to lose a parish settlement, for they might live to find that a much better dependence than anything they would obtain from her. This pettish epistle, received the day before they left Silverton, was carefully treasured by Mrs. Barnaby, and often referred to when she was anxious to impress on her niece a sense of her forlorn condition and helpless dependence. So all hope from that quarter seemed to be for ever shut out.... And could she forget that even at the moment when the dangers of her situation had so forcibly struck Lady Elizabeth Norris, as to make her approve what she had before declared to be worse than any home,—that even at that moment she had explicitly declared that neither herself nor her niece could take charge of her?

These were mournful thoughts; and it was no great proof of Agnes's wisdom, perhaps, that, instead of immediately proceeding to the performance of her prescribed task, she sat down expressly to ruminate upon them. But the meditation was not permitted to be long; for hardly had she rested her elbow upon the table, and her cheek upon her hand, in the manner which ladies under such circumstances always do, than she was startled by a violent knocking and simultaneous ringing at the street-door, followed, as soon as it was opened, by a mixture of two or three loud and angry voices, amidst which she clearly distinguished that of her aunt; and the moment after she burst into the room, accompanied by the gentleman who had appeared to admire her so greatly in the street the day before, together with two other much less well-looking personages, who stuck close upon the heels of Mrs. Barnaby, with more appearance of authority than respect.

"You shall live to repent this treatment of a lady," cried Mrs. Barnaby, addressing the hero of her yesterday's adventure, who was no other than the keeper of the livery-stable from whom she had hired the carriage and horses which had dignified her existence for the last month. "You shall be taught to know what is due from a trumpery country tradesman like you, to a person of my fortune and station. What put it into your head, you vile fellow, instead of waiting my return to Cheltenham, to follow me to London in this abominable manner, and to arrest me in the public streets?"

"It is no difficult matter to tell you that, Mrs. Barnaby, if that's your name," replied the man; "and you'll find that I am not the only vile fellow holding himself ready to pay you the same compliment; though I, knowing the old saying 'first come, first served,' took some trouble to be the first."

"And do you really pretend to fancy, you pitiful creature," cried Mrs. Barnaby, in a voice in which terror and rage were struggling,—"do you really pretend to believe that I am not able to pay your twopenny-halfpenny bill a thousand times over?"

"Can't say indeed, ma'am," replied the man; "I shall not stand upon sending you to prison if you will discharge the account as here we stand, paying fees and expenses of course, as is fitting... Here are the items, neither many nor high.—

And all our expenses and fees added won't make it above 77l. or 78l. altogether; so, ma'am, if you are the great lady you say, you won't find no great difficulty in giving me a write-off for the sum, and my good friends here shall stay while I run and get it cashed, after which I will be ready to make you my bow, and say good morning."

The anger of Mrs. Barnaby was not the less excited because what Mr. Simmons, the livery-stable keeper, said was true; and she seized with considerable quickness the feature of the case which appeared the most against him.

"Your vulgar mode of proceeding at Cheltenham, Mr. Simmons, is, I am happy to say, quite peculiar to yourselves; for though, for my age, I have lived a good deal in the world, I certainly never saw anything like it. Here have I, like a woman of fortune as I am, paid nobly, since I have been in your trumpery town, for every single thing for which it is customary to pay ready money; and when a job like yours, which never since the creation of the world was paid except from quarter to quarter, has run up for one month, down comes the stable-man post haste after me with a writ and arrest. I wonder you are not ashamed of yourself."

"I dare say I should, ma'am, you talking so fine as you do, if I hadn't nothing to put forward in return. I don't believe, Mrs. Barnaby, but what you, or any other rich-seeming lady like you,... I don't believe but what any such might have come to Cheltenham, and have run up debts to the tune of a thousand pounds, and not one of us taken fright at it, provided the lady had stayed quiet and steady in the town, where one had one's eyes upon her, and was able to see what she was about. But just do now look at the difference. 'The season's pretty fullish,' says one, 'and trade's brisk!...' 'That's true,' says another, 'only some's going off, and that's never a good sign, specially if they go without paying....' 'And who's after that shabby trick?' says another:... 'Neither more nor less than the gay widow Barnaby!' is the answer.... 'The devil she is!' says one; 'she owes me twenty pounds....'—'I hope you are out there neighbour,' says another, 'for she owes me thirty.... 'And me ten'—'and me fifty'—'and me nineteen'—'and me forty,' and so on for more than I'll number. And what, pray, is the wisest among them likely to do in such a case? Why, just what your humble servant has done, neither more nor less."

"And what right have you, audacious man! to suppose that I have any intention of not returning, and paying all I owe, as I have ever and always done before?"

"Nothing particular, except your just saying, ma'am, that you should be back in two days, and nevertheless not making yourself be heard of in ten, and your rooms kept, and your poor maid kept in 'em all the time too."

"This man talks like one who knows not what a lady is," said Mrs. Barnaby, her eyes flashing, and her face crimson; "but I must beg to ask of you, sir," turning to one of the Bow-street officials, "whether I am not to have time allowed for sending to my lawyer, and giving him instructions to settle with this fellow here?"

"Why, by rights, ma'am, you should go to a sponging-house without loss of time, that we might get the committal made out, and all regular; but if you be so inclined as to make it worth while to my companion and me, I don't think we shall object to keeping guard over you here instead, while you send off for any friends you choose to let into the secret."

"The friends I shall send to are my men of business, fellow!" replied Mrs. Barnaby, with the strongest expression of disdain that she could throw into her countenance. "You don't, I hope, presume to imagine that I would send for any one of rank to affront them with the presence of such as you?"

"Fair words butter no parsnips, is a good saying and a true one;... but I'll add to it, that saucy ones unlock no bolts; and if you expect to get out of this scrape by talking big, it's likely you may find yourself mistaken."

"A bill must be a good deal longer than this is, man, before the paying it will be much of a scrape to me," said the widow, affecting to laugh. "What a fool you are, Agnes," she continued, turning to the corner of the room into which the terrified girl had crept, "what a prodigious fool, to be sure, you must be, to sit there looking as white as a sheet, because an insolent tradesman chooses to bring in a bill of a month's standing, with a posse of thief-takers to back it.... Get up, pray, and bring my desk here... I wish to write to my attorney."

In obedience to this command, Agnes rose from her chair, and attempted to cross the room to fetch the desk, which was at the other extremity of it; but not all her efforts to arouse her strength sufficed to overcome the sick faintness which oppressed her. "Do, for God's sake, move a little faster, child," said Mrs. Barnaby; but Agnes failed in her habitual and meek obedience, not by falling into a chair, but by sitting down in one, conscious that her fainting at such a moment must greatly increase her aunt's embarrassment.

"I'll get the desk, miss," said one of the terrible men, in a voice so nearly expressive of pity, that tears started to her own eyes in pity of herself, as she thought how wretched must be the state of one who could inspire such a feeling in such a being; but she thanked him, and he placed the lady's desk before her—that pretty little rosewood desk that had been and indeed still was the receptacle of my Lord Mucklebury's flattering if not binding effusions; and as the thought crossed the brain of Mrs. Barnaby that she had hoped to make her fortune by these same idle papers, she felt for the very first time in her life, that perhaps, after all, she had not managed her affairs quite so cleverly as she might have done. It was a disagreeable idea; but even as she conceived it her spirit rose to counteract any salutary effect such a notion might produce; and with a toss of the head that indicated defiance to her own common sense, she opened her desk with a jerk, and began editing an epistle to Mr. Magnus Morrison.

But this epistle, though it reached the lawyer in a reasonably short time after it was written, was not the first he received that day, ... for the Cheltenham post had brought him the following:

"Dear Brother,

"Don't blame me if the gay widow I introduced to you the week before last, should prove to be a flam, as my dear father used to call it.... I am sorry to say there are great suspicions of it going about here. She left us telling everybody that she should be back in two days; and it is now more than ten since she started, and no soul has heard a word about her since. This looks odd, and bad enough, you will think; but it is not the worst part of the story, I'm sorry to say, paw de too, as you shall hear. When she first came to Cheltenham she took very good rooms ... a separate drawing-room, which always looks well ... and dress, and all that, quite corresponding, but no servants nor carriage, nor anything of the high-flying kind.... Now observe, Magnus, what follows, and then I think that you will come to a right notion of what sort of person you have got to deal with. No sooner did Mrs. Barnaby get acquainted with Lord Mucklebury then she set off living at the rate of some thousands a-year; and the worst is, as far as I am concerned, that she coaxed me to go round bespeaking and ordering everything for her. I know you will tell me, Magnus, that my father's daughter ought to have known better, and so I ought; but, upon my word, she took me in so completely that I never felt a single moment's doubt about the truth of all she said.... And I believe, too, that the superior sort of elegant look of that beautiful Miss Willoughby went for something with me. Having told you all this, it won't be necessary, I fancy, to say much more in respect to putting you on your guard.... Of course, you will take care to do nothing in the way of standing bail, or anything of that sort ... paw see bate, you will say. All Cheltenham is talking about it; and I was told at breakfast this morning that Simmons, who furnished the carriage, horses, and servants, is gone to London to look after her; and that Wright the mercer, and several others, talk of doing the same. Too sell aw man we; but it can't be helped.... So many people, too, come to me for information, just as if I knew any more about her than anybody else at the boarding table.... That queer Lady Elizabeth Norris sent for me yesterday, begging I would call upon her; and when I got there I found it was for nothing in the world but to ask me questions about this Mrs. Barnaby. And there was that noble-looking Colonel Hubert, who sat and listened to every word I uttered just as if he had been as curious an old woman as his aunt: maize eel foe dear, Magnus, that men are sometimes quite as curious as women.... However, they neither of them got much worth hearing out of me; and yet I almost thought at one time that the high and mighty Colonel was writing down what I said, for he had got his gold pencil-case in his hand; and though it was on the page of a book that he seemed to be scribbling, I saw plain enough by his eye that he was listening to me. You know, brother, I am pretty sharp, and I have got a few presents out of this fly-away lady, let what will come of it. But I could not help thinking, Magnus,—and if it was in a printed book it would be called a fine observation,—I could not help thinking how such a vulgar feeling as curiosity spoils the elegance of the manners. Lady Elizabeth, who has often told me that I speak the most exquisite French she ever heard, and who always before yesterday seemed delighted to have the opportunity of conversing with me in this very genteel language, never said one word in it all the time I stayed; and once when, as usual, I spoke a few words, she looked as cross as a bear, and said, 'Be so good as to speak English just now, Miss Morrison.' Very impertinent, I thought, may set eh gal. Don't think the worse of me for this unfortunate blunder.... Let me hear how you are going on, and believe me

"Your affectionate sister,

"Sarah Morrison."

Mr. Magnus Morrison had by no means recovered the blow given him by this most unpleasing news, when a note from Mrs. Barnaby to the following effect was put into his hands.

"My dear Sir,

"A most ridiculous, but also disagreeable circumstance, has happened to me this morning. A paltry little tradesman of Cheltenham, to whom I owe a few pounds, has taken fright because I did not return to my apartments there at the moment he expected me ... the cause of which delay you must be aware has been the great pleasure I have received from seeing London so agreeably.... However, he has had the incredible insolence to follow me with a writ, and I must beg you to come to me with as little delay as possible, as your bail, I understand, will prevent my submitting to the indignity of being lodged in a prison during the interval necessary for my broker (who acts as my banker) to take the proper measures for supplying me with the trifling sum I want. In the hope of immediately seeing you,

"I remain, dear Sir,

"Most truly yours,

"Martha Barnaby."

Mr. Magnus Morrison was not "so quick," as it is called, as his sister Sarah, and in the present emergency felt totally unable to fabricate an epistle, or even to invent a plausible excuse for an absence, which he nevertheless finally determined should be eternal. He was ill-inspired when he took this resolution, for had he attended the lady's summons, he might, with little trouble, have made a more profitable client of her yet than often fell to his lot. But he was terror-struck at the word BAIL; and forgetting all the beef-steaks, cheesecakes, porter, and black wine that he had swallowed at the widow's cost, he very cavalierly sent word by the sheriff's officer, who had brought her note, that he was very sorry, but that it was totally out of his power to come.

On receiving this message, delivered, too, with the commentary of a broad grin, even Mrs. Barnaby turned a little pale; but she speedily recovered herself on recollecting how very easy and rapid an operation the selling out stock was; so, once more raising her dauntless eye, she said, with an assumption of dignity but little mitigated by this rebuff,... "I presume you will let me wait in my own apartments till I can send to my broker?"

"Why, 'tis possible, ma'am, you see, that it may be totally out of his power too, like this t'other gentleman ... and we can't be kept waiting all day.... You'll have a trifle to pay already for the obligingness we have shewn, and so you must be pleased to get ready without more ado."

"You don't mean to take me to prison, fellow, for this trumpery debt!"

"'Tis where ladies always do go when they keep carriages without paying for them, unless indeed they have got husbands as can go for them; and as that don't seem to be your case, ma'am, we must really trouble you to make haste."

"Gracious Heaven!... It is incredible!..." cried the widow, now really in an agony. "Why, fellow, I tell you I have thousands in the funds that I can sell out at an hour's warning!"

"So much the better, ma'am—so much the better for us all, as, in that case, we shall be sure to get our own at last; and if the thing can be settled so easily, it is quite beneath such a clever lady as you to make a fuss about lodging at the king's charge for a night or so.... Pray, miss, can you help the gentlewoman to put up a night-cap, and such like little comforts, ... not forgetting a small provision of ready money, if I might advise, for that's what makes the difference between a bad lodging and a good one where we are going.... Dick ... run out and call a coach, will you?"

All further remonstrance proved useless; and Mrs. Barnaby, alternately scolding and entreating, was forced at last to submit to the degradation of being watched by a bailiff's officer as she went to her chamber to prepare herself for this terrible change of residence. The most bitter moment of all, perhaps, was that in which she was told that she must go alone, for that they had no orders to permit the attendance of any one. It was only then that she felt, in some degree, the value of the gentle observant kindness which had marked every word and look of Agnes from the moment when—her first feeling of faintness over—she assiduously drew near her, put needle-work into her hands, set herself to the same employment, and, with equal ingenuity and sweet temper, contrived to make the long interval during which they had to endure the presence of two of the men, while the third was dispatched to Mr. Morrison, infinitely more tolerable than could have been hoped for. But on this point the officials were as peremptory as in the commands they reiterated that she should get ready, promising, however, that application should be made for leave to let the young lady be with her, if she liked it.

"You may save yourselves the trouble, brutes as you are," cried Mrs. Barnaby, as, with something very like a sob, she returned the kiss of Agnes. "I'll defy you to keep me in your vile clutches beyond this time to-morrow.... Take care that this letter is put into the post directly, Agnes; but I will give it to the maid myself.... It will reach my broker by four or five o'clock, I should think; and I'll answer for his not neglecting the business; but it may, however, be near dinner-time before I get back—so don't be frightened, my dear, if it is; and here is the key of the money-drawer, you know, if you want to pay anything."

"Better divide the money drawer with the young lady, at any rate," said one of the men, laughing.

"That you may pick my pockets, perhaps?" replied the vexed prisoner.

"Have you enough money with you, aunt?" whispered Agnes in her ear.

"Plenty, my dear; and more than I'll spend upon them, depend upon it," she replied aloud.... This drew on a fresh and not very gentle declaration that they must be gone directly; and the unlucky Mrs. Barnaby, preceded by one and followed by two attendants, descended the stairs, and mounted the hackney-coach.

It was then that Agnes for the first time began to understand and feel the nature of her own situation. Alone, utterly alone in lodgings in the midst of London, totally ignorant of the real state of her aunt's affairs, and, unhappily, so accustomed to hear her utter the most decided falsehoods upon all subjects, that nothing she had said on this gave her any confidence in the certainty either of her speedy return, or of her being immediately able to settle all claims upon her. What, then, was it her duty to do? During the first few moments of meditation on her desolate condition, she thought that the danger of being taken abroad could not have been greater than that which had now fallen upon her, and consequently that Lady Elizabeth would be ready to extend to her the temporary shelter she had told her to claim, in case of what then appeared the worst necessity. But a very little calmer reflection made her shrink from this; and the fact that Colonel Hubert was now with her, which, under other circumstances, would have made such an abode, if enjoyed only for a day or two, the dearest boon that Providence could grant her, now caused her to decide, with a swelling heart, that she would not accept it.

The nature and degree of the disgrace which her aunt had now brought upon her was so much worse than all that either her vanity or her coquetry had hitherto achieved, that she felt herself incalculably more beneath him than ever, and felt during these dreadful moments that she would rather have begged her bread back to Empton, than have met the doubtful welcome of his eye upon seeing her under such circumstances.

This thought of Empton recalled the idea of the person whose liberal kindness had for years bestowed on her this only home that she had ever loved. Was it possible, that if made acquainted with her present deplorable situation, she could refuse to extend some sort of protection to one whose claim upon her she had formerly acknowledged so freely, and who had never forfeited it by any act of her own?... "I will write to her!" said Agnes, suddenly rousing herself, as it occurred to her that she was now called upon to act for herself. "God knows," thought she, "what my unfortunate and most unwise aunt Barnaby may have written or said to provoke her; but now, at least, without either rebellion or deceit, I may myself address her."

This idea generated a hope that seemed to give her new life, and with a rapid pen she wrote as follows:

"I can hardly dare to expect that a letter from one whom you have declared you never would see again should be very favourably received; and yet, my dear aunt Betsy (permit me once more to call you so), how can I believe that the same person who took such generous pity on my miserable ignorance six years ago would, without any fault on my part, permit me to fail in my hope of turning the education she bestowed into a means of honourable existence, and that solely from the want of her protection? Alas! aunt Compton, I am most miserably in want of protection now. My aunt Barnaby, of whose pecuniary affairs I, in truth, know nothing, was this morning arrested and taken away to prison for debt. Her style of expense has been very greatly increased during the last few weeks, and I have reason to believe that she entertained a hope of being married to a nobleman, with whom she made acquaintance at Cheltenham, but who left it, about a fortnight ago, without taking any leave of her. I am not much in her confidence; but she has so repeatedly mentioned before me her determination to be revenged on this Lord Mucklebury, as well as her certainty of recovering damages from him, that I have no doubt her coming to London was with a view to bringing an action for breach of promise of marriage. What confirms this is, that the only person we have seen is a lawyer; and the same spirit of conjecture, which has made me guess what I have told you, leads me to suspect also, that this lawyer has persuaded her to give the project up; for not only do I hear no more of it, but she has seemed for the last week to be devoted wholly to seeing the sights of London in company with this lawyer. I have not accompanied them, not being very well, nor very happy in a mode of life so much less tranquil than what I have been used to at Empton.

"I tell you all these particulars, aunt Compton, that you may know exactly what my situation is. I am, at this moment, alone in a London lodging; my aunt Barnaby in prison; and with no little danger, as far as I am able to judge, that when she has settled this claim for her carriage and horses, many others may come upon her.

"My petition to you, therefore, is, that you would have the great, great goodness to permit my travelling back into Devonshire to put myself under your protection; not idly to become a burden to you, but that I might be so happy as to feel myself in a place of respectability and safety till such time as my kind friend, Mrs. Wilmot, may hear of some situation as governess, or teacher at a school, such as she might think me fit for. I have very diligently kept up my reading and writing in French and Italian, with the hope of one day teaching both. They tell me, too, that I have a good voice for singing, as my poor mother had ... perhaps I might be able to teach that.

"I shall remain here (unless removed by my aunt Barnaby, of which I would give you notice) till such time as the Silverton post can bring me an answer. Have pity upon me, dear aunt Betsy!... Indeed I want it as much now as when you found I could not read a line of English in your pretty bower at Compton Basett.

"How often I have thought of your flowers and your bees, aunt Betsy, and wished I could be there to wait upon them and upon you!

"Your dutiful and grateful niece,

"Agnes Willoughby."

"5, Half-Moon Street, Piccadilly, London."

Having finished this letter, Agnes completed one she had before been writing to Lady Stephenson, and then took her solitary way to a letter-box, of which she had learned the situation, at no great distance. She heard her important dispatch to Compton Basett drop into the box, with a conviction that her fate wholly depended on the manner in which it was received; and having walked back as slowly as possible, that she might benefit by the mild western breeze that blew upon her feverish cheek, she remounted the dark stairs to the solitary drawing-room, totally incapable of enjoying that solitude, though it had so often appeared to her the one thing needful for happiness.

Happy was it for her that she had turned her thoughts to her aunt Compton; for, uncertain as was the result of her application, there was enough of hope attached to it to save her from that feeling of utter desolation that must at this moment have been her portion without it. The more she thought of receiving aid from the pity of Colonel Hubert's family, the less could she feel comfort from the idea. When it had been offered as a protection against the notice which they had imagined her likely to excite, it was soothing to all her feelings; but, required or accorded as mere ordinary charity, it was intolerable. A melancholy attempt at dining occupied a few minutes, and then hour after hour passed over her, slowly and sadly, till the light faded. But she had not energy for employment; not one of all her best-loved volumes could have fixed her attention for a moment. She called for no candles, but lying on the sofa, her aching head pillowed by her arm, she suffered herself to dwell on all the circumstances of her situation, which weighed most heavily upon her heart; and assuredly the one which brought the greatest pang with it was the recollection of having won the affection of Colonel Hubert's family, just at the moment when disgrace so terrible had fallen on her own, as to make her rather dread than wish to see him again.

CHAPTER V.

AGNES RECEIVES AN UNEXPECTED VISITER, AND AN IMPORTANT COMMUNICATION.—SHE ALSO RECEIVES A LETTER FROM CHELTENHAM, AND FROM HER AUNT BARNABY.

Agnes was roused from this state of melancholy musing by a double knock at the door.

"Is it possible," she said, starting up, "that she spoke truly, and that she is already released?"

The street-door was opened, but the voice of Mrs. Barnaby did not make its way up the stairs before her—a circumstance so inevitable upon her approach,—that, after listening for it in vain for a moment, the desolate girl resumed her attitude, and endeavoured to recover the train of thought that had been broken. But she was not destined to do so, at least for the present, for the maid threw open the drawing-room door, and announced "A gentleman."

Agnes, as we have said, was sitting in darkness, and the girl very judiciously placed her slender tallow-candle in its tin receptacle on the table, saying, as she set a chair for "the gentleman," "I will bring candles in a minute, miss," and then departed.

Agnes raised her eyes as the visiter approached, and had the light been feebler still she would have found no difficulty in discovering that it was Colonel Hubert who stood before her. He bowed to the angle of the most profound respect, and though he ventured to extend his hand in friendly greeting, he took hers with the air of a courtier permitted to offer homage to a sovereign princess.

Agnes stood up, she received his offered hand, and raised her eyes to his face, but uttered no word either of surprise or joy. Her face was colourless, and traces of very recent tears were plainly visible; she trembled from head to foot, and Colonel Hubert, frightened, as a brave man always is when he sees a woman really sinking under her sex's weakness, replaced her on the sofa almost as incapable of speaking as herself.

"Do not appear distressed at seeing me, dearest Miss Willoughby," said he, "or I shall be obliged to repent having ventured to wait on you. I should not have presumed to do this, had not your friends, your truly attached friends, my aunt and sister, authorized my doing so."

"Oh! what kindness!" exclaimed poor Agnes, bursting into a flood of most salutary tears. "Do not think me ungrateful, Colonel Hubert, if I could not say ... if I did not speak to you.... Do you, indeed, come to me from Lady Elizabeth?"

"Here are my credentials," he replied, smiling, and presenting a letter to her. "We learned that your foolish aunt ... forgive me, Miss Willoughby; but the step I have taken can only be excused by explaining it with the most frank sincerity ... we learned that Mrs. Barnaby, having quitted Cheltenham suddenly, (the ostensible reason for doing which was bad enough), had left a variety of debts unpaid; and that her creditors, alarmed at her not returning, were taking active measures to secure her person.... Is this true?... Is your aunt arrested?"

"She is," replied Agnes faintly.

"Good God!... You are here, then, entirely alone?"

"I am quite alone," was the answer, though it was almost lost in the sob that accompanied it.

"Oh! dearest Agnes!" cried Colonel Hubert, in a burst of uncontrolable emotion, "I cannot see you thus, and longer retain the secret that has been hidden in my heart almost from the first hour I saw you!... I love you, Agnes, beyond all else on earth!... Consent to be my wife, and danger and desertion shall never come near you more!"

What a moment was this to hear such an avowal!... Human life can scarcely offer extremes more strongly marked of weal and woe than those presented by the actual position of Agnes, and that proposed to her by the man she idolized. But let De la Rochefoucault say what he will, there are natures capable of feeling something nobler than the love of self; ... and after one moment of happy triumphant swelling of the heart that left no breath to speak, she heaved a long deep sigh that seemed to bring her back from her momentary glimpse of an earthly paradise to things as they are, and said slowly, but with great distinctness, "No! never will I be your wife!... never, by my consent, shall Colonel Hubert ally himself to disgrace!"

Had this been said to a younger man, it is probable that he would not have found in it anything calculated to give a mortal wound to his hopes and wishes; but it fell with appalling coldness on the heart of the brave soldier, who had long kept Cupid at defiance by the shield of Mars, and who had just made the first proposal of marriage that had ever passed his lips. It was her age and his own that rose before him as she uttered her melancholy "No, never!..." and Agnes became almost the first object to whom he had ever, even for a moment, been unjust. He gave her no credit ... no, not the least, for the noble struggle that was breaking her heart, and meant most sincerely what he said, when he replied,—

"Forgive me, Miss Willoughby.... Had I been a younger man, the offer of my hand, my heart, my life, would not have appeared to you, as it doubtless must do now,—the result of sober, staid benevolence, desirous of preserving youthful innocence from unmerited sorrow.... Such must my love seem.... So let it seem; ... but it shall never cost one hour's pain to you."... He was silent for a moment, and had to struggle, brave man as he was, against feelings whose strength, perhaps, only shewed his weakness.... "But even so," he added, making a strong effort to speak steadily, "even so; let me not be here in vain: listen to me as a friend and father."

Poor Agnes!... this was a hard trial. To save him, worshipped as he was, from a marriage that must be considered as degrading, she could have sacrificed herself with the triumphant courage of a proud martyr; but to leave him with the idea that she was too young to love him!... to let that glowing, generous heart sink back upon itself, because it found no answering warmth in her!... in her! who would have died only to purchase the light of owning that she never did, and never could, love any man but him!... It was too terrible, and the words "Hubert! beloved Hubert!" were on her lips; but they came no farther, for she had not strength to speak them. Another effort might have been more successful, and they, or something like them, might have found way, had not the gentleman recovered his voice first, and resumed the conversation in a tone so chillingly reserved, that the timid, broken-spirited girl, had no strength left "to prick the sides of her intent," and lay her innocent heart open before him.

"In the name of Lady Elizabeth Norris let me entreat you, Miss Willoughby, not to remain in a situation so every way objectionable," he said. "My aunt and sister both are full of painful anxiety on your account, and the letter I have brought contains their earnest entreaties that you should immediately take up your residence with my aunt. Do not refuse this from any fear of embarrassment ... of persecution from me.... I shall probably go abroad.... I shall probably join my friend Frederick at Paris. He did you great justice, Miss Willoughby; ... and, but for me, perhaps.... Forgive me!... I will no longer intrude on you!—forgive me!—tell me you forgive me, for all the pain I have caused you, and for more injury, perhaps, than you will ever know! I never knew how weak—I fear I should say how unworthy—my character might become, till I knew you; ... and to complete the hateful retrospect," he added, with bitterness, and rising to go, "to complete the picture of myself that I have henceforth to contemplate, I was coxcomb enough to fancy.... But I am acting in a way that I should scorn a youth for who numbered half my years.... Answer my aunt's letter, Miss Willoughby ... answer it as if her contemptible nephew did not exist ... he shall exist no longer where he can mar your fortune or disturb your peace!"

Agnes looked at him as if her heart would break at hearing words so harsh and angry, when, losing at once all sense of his own suffering, Colonel Hubert reseated himself, and, in the gentlest accent of friendship, alluded to the propriety of her immediately leaving London, and to the anxiety of her friends at Cheltenham to receive her.

"They are very, very good to me," said Agnes meekly; "and I shall be most thankful, Colonel Hubert, to avail myself of such precious kindness, if the old aunt, to whom I have written, in Devonshire, should refuse to save me from the necessity of being a burden on their benevolence."

"But shall you wait for this decision here, Miss Willoughby?"

"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 shrunk 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.