Volume I Part 19 (2/2)
It was by this time so late that the cake scheme was given up, and the drawing-room being restored to order, the two ladies sat down to tea. It was then that Mrs. Barnaby's genius displayed itself in sketching plan's for the future: she had learned from Mrs. Peters and the simple-minded Elizabeth, during their drive to and from Bristol, all particulars respecting the Clifton b.a.l.l.s, and moreover that the Peters family seldom failed to attend them.
”This will be quite enough to set us going respectably: people that come in their own carriage, must have influence. I trust that those stupid humdrums, the Wilmots, gave you some dancing lessons, Agnes?”
”Yes, aunt.”
”You are always so short in your answers, you never tell me anything. Do you think you could get through a quadrille without blundering?”
”Yes, I hope so, aunt.”
”Remember, if you can't, I shall be most dreadfully angry, for it would destroy all my plans entirely.--I mean, Agnes, that you shall dance as much as possible;--nothing extends one's acquaintance among young men so much. I am not quite sure myself about dancing. I don't think I shall do it here, on account of dear Margaret ... perhaps she might think it too soon. I shall probably take to cards; that's not a bad way of making acquaintance either; but in all things remember that you play into my hands, and whenever you have a new partner remember that you always say to him, 'You must give me leave to introduce you to my aunt'.... Do you hear me, Agnes?”
”Yes, aunt,” replied the poor girl with an involuntary sigh.
”What a poor, stupid creature you are, to be sure!” returned Mrs.
Barnaby in a tone of much displeasure. ”What in the world can you sigh for now, just at the very moment that I am talking to you of b.a.l.l.s and dancing? I wish to Heaven you were a little more like what I was at your age, Agnes! Be so good as to tell me what you are sighing for?”
”I don't know, aunt; I believe I am tired.”
”Tired?... and of what, I should like to know? Come, come, let us have no fine lady airs, if you please; and don't look as if you were going to cry, whatever you do. There is nothing on earth I dislike so much as gloom. I am of a very cheerful, happy temper myself, and it's perfect misery to me to see anybody look melancholy.... I declare, Agnes, I am as hungry as a hound!... I don't like to ring for Jerningham again, she looked so horridly cross; and I wish, my dear, you would just toast this round of bread for me. Mrs. Peters was quite right about the fire ... it is such a comfort! and coals are so cheap here.... Let me stir it up a little ... there, now its as bright as a furnace; you can just kneel down in the middle here upon the rug.”
Agnes obeyed, and after some minutes' a.s.siduous application to the labour imposed, she presented the toasted bread, her own fair face scarcely less changed in tint by the operation.
”Gracious me, child! what a fright you have made of yourself!... you should have held the other hand up before your face.... You are but a clumsy person, I am afraid, at most things, as well as at satin-st.i.tch.
Will you have some more tea, my dear?...” draining, as was her habit, the last drop into her own cup before she asked the question, and then extending her hand to that genial source of hospitality, the tepid urn.
”No more, thank you, aunt.... I will go now, if you please, and take all my things out of your way ... and I shall make my closet so comfortable!...”
”I dare say you will. But stay a moment, Agnes: if you find you have more room than you want, do put my two best bonnet-boxes somewhere or other among your things, so that I can get at them ... so that Jerningham can get at them, I mean, easily.”
”I will, if I can, aunt, but I am afraid there will hardly be room for my chair. However, you shall come and see, if you please, yourself, and then you will be the best judge; but I will go first, and get everything in order.”
”Very well, then, Agnes, you may tell Jerningham to separate everything like mourning from my things, and give it all to you. And you must contrive, my dear, to cut and make up everything to fit yourself, for I really can be at no expense about it. It is perfectly incredible how money goes in this part of the country, so different from our dear Silverton!... However, I will not grumble about it, for I consider it quite my duty to bring you out into the world, and I knew well enough before I set out, that it could not be done for nothing. But it is a sort of self-devotion I shall never complain of, if you do but turn out well.”
Agnes was standing while this affectionate speech was spoken, and having quietly waited for its conclusion, again uttered her gentle ”thank you, aunt,” and retired to arrange the longed-for paradise of her little closet.
Darkness overtook her before she had fully completed her task; but, perhaps, she wilfully lingered over it, for it kept her alone, and permitted her bright and innocent spirit to indulge itself by recalling all the delight she had felt in looking down upon the bold and beautiful scenery of the Avon, and she blessed Heaven for the fund of happiness she was now conscious existed within her, since the power of looking out upon Nature seemed sufficient to produce a joy great enough to make her forget aunt Barnaby, and everything else that gave her pain. A part, too, of her hours of light, was spent in opening more than one of her dear little volumes to seek for some remembered description of scenery which she thought would be more intelligible to her now than heretofore; and as Spencer happened to fall into her hands, it was no great wonder if his flowery meads and forests drear, tempted her onwards till she almost lost herself among them.
At length, however, she had done all that she thought she could do towards giving a closet the appearance of a room; and having stowed her tiny looking-gla.s.s out of the way, and placed pens, ink, and a book or two, on the rickety little table in its stead, she looked round in the dusky twilight with infinite satisfaction, and thought, that were she quite sure of taking a long country walk about three times a week with the Peterses, she should be very, very happy, let everything else go on as it might.
Having come to this satisfactory conclusion, (for a walk three times a week was an indulgence she might reasonably hope for,) she cast one fond look round upon her dark but dear solitude, and then went to rejoin her aunt in the drawing-room, and announce its state of perfection to her.
She found her seated at the open window.
”What have you been about, Agnes, all this time?” she said. ”It is lucky that my cheerful, happy temper, does not make solitude as dreadful to me as it is to most people, or I should be badly off, living with you. You are but a stupid, moping sort of a body, my dear, I must say, or you would have guessed that there was more to see at the front of the house than at the back of it. I declare I never saw such a delightful window as this in my life. You would never believe what a mall there has been here from the moment I took my place till just now, that it's got almost dark; ... and even now, Agnes, if you will come here,” ... she added in a whisper, ... ”but don't speak ... you may see one couple left, and lovers they are, I'll be bound for them.... Here, stand here by me.”
”No, thank you, aunt,” said Agnes, retreating; ”I don't want to see them, and I think it is more comfortable by the fire.”
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