Volume Ii Part 6 (1/2)
CHAPTER IV.
A TETE-A-TETE IN A DRAWING-ROOM.--AUTOBIOGRAPHY.--A REMARKABLE DISCOVERY CONCERNING THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.
The voices which alarmed Miss Peters were those of Mrs. Barnaby and Major Allen. The acquaintance between them had gone quite far enough on the preceding evening to justify the gentleman's _aimable empress.e.m.e.nt_ to inquire for the lady's health; besides, he was somewhat curious to know if the pretty, skittish young creature he had encountered in his morning's ride, had recounted the adventure to her aunt. It was his private opinion that she had not; and if so, he should know what to think of the sudden appearance and protecting demeanour of her tall friend. It was thus he reasoned as he walked towards Sion Row as soon as he had finished his breakfast; and yet, though he had lost so little time, he did not arrive till at least three minutes after the widow had begun to expect him.
”I need not ask my charming Mrs. Barnaby how she rested after her ball ... eyes do not sparkle thus, unless they have been blessed with sleep;” ... and the lady's hand was taken, bowed upon, and the tips of her fingers kissed, before she had quite recovered the soft embarra.s.sment his entrance had occasioned.
”You are very kind to call upon me, Major Allen.... Do sit down.... I live as yet comparatively in great retirement; for during Mr. Barnaby's lifetime we saw an immense deal of company,--that old-fas.h.i.+oned sort of country visiting, you know, that never leaves one's house empty.... I could not stand it when I was left alone ... and that was the reason I left my beautiful place.”
”Siverton or Silverton Park, was it not?... I think I have heard of it.”
”Yes, Silverton.... And do you know, Major, that the remembrance of all that racket and gaiety was so oppressive to my nerves during the first months of my widowhood, that I threw off everything that reminded me of it ... sold my carriages and horses, let my place, turned off all my servants; and positively, when I set off for this place in order to see my sister Peters and her family, I knew not if I should ever have strength or spirits to enter into general society again.”
”Thank G.o.d, dearest madam, that you have made the effort!... Though the hardened and war-worn nature of man cannot melt with all the softness of yours, there is yet within us a chord that may be made to vibrate in sympathy when words of true feeling reach it! How well I understood your feelings ... and how difficult it is not to envy, even in death, the being who has left such a remembrance behind!... But we must not dwell on this.... Tell me, dear Mrs. Barnaby, tell,--as to a friend who understands and appreciates you,--do you regret the having left your elegant retirement?... or do you feel, as I trust you do, that Providence has not gifted you so singularly for nothing?... do you feel that your fellow-creatures have a claim upon you, and that it ought not to be in secret and in solitude that the hours of such a being should be spent? Tell me, do you feel this?”
”Alas! Major Allen, there is so much weakness in the heart of a woman, that she is hardly sure for many days together how she ought to feel....
We are all impulse, all soul, all sentiment, ... and our destiny must ever depend upon the friends we meet in our pa.s.sage through this th.o.r.n.y world!”
”Beautiful idea!... Where is the poet that has more sweetly painted the female heart?... And what a study it offers when such a heart is thrown open to one! Good G.o.d! to see a creature so formed for enjoyment,--so beaming with innocent cheerfulness,--so rich in the power of conferring happiness wherever she deigns to smile, ... to see such a being turn weeping and alone from her hospitable halls, and from all the pomp and splendour that others cling to ... what a spectacle! Have you no lingering regret, dearest lady, for having left your charming mansion?”
”Perhaps there are moments ... or rather, I should say, perhaps there have been moments, when something of the kind has crossed me. But if I had not disposed of my place, I should never have seen Clifton.... My spirits wanted the change, and I feel already better in this delightful air. But I confess I do regret having sold my beautiful greys, ... I shall never meet any I like so well again.”
”A set, were they?”
”Oh yes.”
”Four greys ... and all well matched?”
”Perfectly.... Poor Mr. Barnaby took so much pains about it.... It was his delight to please me.... I ought not to have sold them.”
”It was a pity,” ... said the kind Major with a sigh.
”Don't talk about it, Major Allen!...” and here one of the widow's most curiously embroidered pocket-handkerchiefs, delightfully scented with musk, was lightly and carefully applied to her eyes.
”Nay,” said the Major, venturing gently to withdraw it, ”you must not yield to this dangerous softness.... I cannot bear to have those eyes concealed!... it produces the chilling sensation of an eclipse at noon-day.... I shall run away from you if you will not look at me.”
”No, do not,” ... said the widow, making an effort to smile, which was rewarded by a look of grat.i.tude, and a seemingly involuntary kiss bestowed upon the hand that had withdrawn the envious handkerchief.
”And that pretty little girl, your niece, Mrs. Barnaby,” ... said the Major, as if considerately changing the conversation; ”how is she this morning?”
”Oh! quite well, poor child, and in my dressing-room, going over her Italian and French lessons before she does them with me.”
”Good Heaven!... Is it possible that you devote yourself thus?... Take care, charming Mrs. Barnaby ... take care that you do not permit your affectionate nature to form an attachment to that young person which may destroy all your future prospects in life!... At your age, and with your exquisite beauty, you ought to be looking forward to the renewal of the tender tie that has already made your happiness;... And who is there ... pardon me if I speak boldly ... who is there who would venture to give his whole heart, his soul, his entire existence to one who has no heart to give in return? Think you, Mrs. Barnaby, that it can be in the power of any niece in the world to atone to a woman of your exquisite sensibility for the loss of that ardent affection which can only exist between a husband and wife?... Tell me, do you believe this?”
”It is a question,” replied the widow, casting her eyes upon the ground, ”that I have never asked myself.”
”Then neglect it no longer.... For G.o.d's sake--for the sake of your future happiness, which must be so inexpressibly dear to all who know you ... all who appreciate you justly ... for the sake of the young girl herself, do not involve yourself by undertaking the duties of a mother towards one who from her age could never have stood to you in the relation of a child.”
”Alas! no,” ... said Mrs. Barnaby; ”I lost my only babe a few weeks before its father.... Had it lived, it would this spring have been three years old!... You say true ... the age of Agnes must ever prevent my feeling for her as a child of my own.... My poor sister was indeed so much older than myself, that I always rather looked upon her as an aunt, or as a mother, than as my sister.”
”Of course you must have done so; and, interesting and inexpressibly touching as it is to witness your beautiful tenderness towards her child, it is impossible not to feel that this tenderness carried too far will inevitably destroy the future happiness of your life. Forgive, I implore you, a frankness that can only proceed from my deep interest in your welfare.... Is this young person entirely dependent upon you?”