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.

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.

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.