“When you want me, you will find me,” replied Juno with a touch of her wonted mysticism.
“And that’s true again, I have no doubt; I don’t forget this morning; — so good-b’ye.”
Juno gave a silent nod in return, and then waved her bamboo, as in days of yore, in sign of dismissal. The signal was immediately obeyed, and they parted; Whitlaw pursuing his way to the abode of Mr. Pennyfeather, and Juno retreating to the obscure quarter where she made her home.
CHAPTER XVI.
WHITLAW’S eagerness to find himself again at the billiard-table was very greatly increased by the manner in which he fancied that Juno had alluded to the success that would attend him there. Nevertheless, he determined for many reasons — among which perhaps his secret belief that Juno knew all his actions was not the least powerful — to deliver his three remaining letters while her instructions respecting them were still fresh in his memory.
As nothing of importance to the narrative occurred at either of the houses he visited — as he committed no more blunders, and made acquaintance with no more dispensers of orange blossoms, we shall pass over all that related to them in silence.
He contrived to get all this business done by an early hour in the evening, and then, repaired to the neighbourhood of the French Theatre, once again to propitiate the goddess he adored. Though it is not necessary to follow him there, in order again to witness his skilful display of all the talents most valued and best rewarded in that region, it may nevertheless be observed in passing that he was again eminently successful, as this will serve to explain his disobedience to the last injunctions received from Juno.
It was while enjoying that delicious wakefulness which sometimes results from having too many pleasant thoughts at work within one for the approach of sleep to be either wished for or permitted, that our hero conceived the magnificent idea that he might perhaps himself become the purchaser of the Nixton property. A few more such nights and the thing might be done, even if he had a Yankee instead of an Englishman to deal with. Even suppose that luck might not continue to run quite so much in his favour, he was pretty sure that on such security his father might easily be induced to help him “pretty considerable:” in short, before his sleeping had succeeded in chasing his waking dreams, he had fully decided upon calling on Mr. John Croft on the morrow.
His first sensations on waking were delightful. The present, actual, and certain state of his pocket-book, together with the probable and future state of his fortune, opened upon his mind as brightly as the sun shot through his mosquito curtains; and he sprang from his bed with the alacrity of a refreshed wrestler prepared for new struggles and new triumphs.
Nothing could exceed the delicacy of the breakfast with which he opened the history of the day. Having locked up his precious pocket-book in his trunk, and locked up his trunk in a closet, and locked up the closet in his bed-room, despite the probable anathemas of the slave whose task it was to “fix his chamber,” he sallied forth, leaving the substantial comforts of the boarding-house breakfast behind him, and with conscious extravagance, but well-merited indulgence, entered the Paris-like saloon of the most celebrated restaurant in New Orleans.
The carte was put into his hands; and as an English version of its contents was considerately appended, Mr. Whitlaw soon saw the marble table before him assume an aspect which made him in the inmost recesses of his soul do honour to the game of billiards.
Immediately before him lay a snow-white napkin, enveloping a small loaf almost as white; a baby chicken, hardly exceeding the age at which Elia would have chosen his pig, lay fried and cradled amidst delicately green corn. To the right, two Maintenon cutlets of the same infantine dimensions contrasted their transparent paper clothing with the wreath of grilled oysters which surrounded them. To the left, exhaling an odour which none but an eater can understand, reeked one of those matchless wild-fowl, which to taste, or even to dream of with some touch of truth, one must cross the Atlantic. And then, here and there, in most admired disorder, but an within reach of the commanding hand, stood a cooler crammed with ice, from which peeped up a tall thin neck, encircled with a necklace inscribed “chablis,” — while another, of like fashion, announced itself as champagne. At one corner, slices of pine-apple were laid temptingly on ice; at the answering one appeared figs of most rare quality, but, as if to keep them warm instead of cold, each one closely enveloped in three or four of its own thick rich leaves; and in and out among them all were sundry minor dainties too numerous to mention.
For one long but too fleeting hour did Whitlaw sit before this little table ere the glass beside him rang to the touch of his knife; and then the fragrant bowl of coffee entered, flanked by the little glass of cogniac. At length the joy was ended, and the bill was paid — almost without a sigh; and Jonathan Jefferson stepped forth in his strength, with the ardent hope of achieving that by barter and address which should for ever furnish forth such banquets.
He had now no letter to deliver, nor any other introduction to offer than what his own wit could suggest. But his breakfast had in some sort inspired him, and he rang Mr. Croft’s bell with a strength and courage made up of the remembrance of his swelling pocket-book and iced wine.
The Englishman was sitting with his daughter in a pleasant parlour which opened upon a garden filled with oleander and orange trees. The young lady was practising the harp; and excepting the face of Lotte Steinmark, which he had not yet quite forgotten, Whitlaw thought he had never seen anything so beautiful as the countenance that was raised upon him as he entered the door.
Notwithstanding the proverbial shyness of Englishmen, they seldom show it in receiving a guest at home; and our hero soon found himself conversing with great fluency on the business that brought him there.
“I expect that there’s no mistake, Mr. Croft, in the fact that you’re going to dispose of your interest in the Nixton estate?”
“No mistake at all, sir,” replied Mr. Croft: “I came from England on purpose to look after the sale myself.”
“You could not have taken a more prudent step, sir. Depend upon it, there’s no trusting to agents — you’re sure to be cheated.”
“Indeed, sir! — that’s giving no good character to your men of business.
But it was no fear of that kind that brought me out; I chose to come myself for several reasons: first, I wanted to see your fine country; and next, I was told it would be likely to be serviceable to my daughter, who has not been quite well of late; and lastly, I had nothing else to do, having quite given up business of all kinds.”
“Why, sir, with a tolerable good estate in possession, a man didn’t ought to think over much of business. But maybe you have a large family to provide for?”
“I can hardly say that, sir: this young lady is my only child.”
Whitlaw looked again at Miss Croft, and this time decided that she was even handsomer than Lotte.
“Well, Mr. Croft, I shall be happy, sir, if I can be the means of saving you any trouble; and if you have to deal with me, you will at least be in the hands of an honest man. I have been thinking, sir, that I might like to become the purchaser myself of that bit as you’ve got to sell.”
“It can hardly be called a bit, sir,” replied Mr. Croft very quietly, “because the estate is as whole and complete as any property can be. But it is of little consequence what you call it, provided you are disposed to give the value. — May I take the liberty of asking your name, sir?”
“My name is Whitlaw; — Jonathan Jefferson Whitlaw. Though but a young man, I have some money at my disposal; and if we can deal, I shall be well content to place it on landed security. Have you at all made up your mind as to what you would take for it, Mr. Croft?”
“The question is a very plain one, Mr. Whitlaw, and I see no reason why it should not receive a plain answer. I am told, sir, that the property at Nixton, including the uncleared as well as the cleared, ought to fetch fifty thousand dollars.”
This was at least one fourt
h more than Whitlaw had calculated, and he felt rather at a loss how to proceed with a negotiation which he knew was greatly beyond his power to complete, even if assisted by every dollar his father could bring forward. But while one scheme seemed melting away, another was gradually and very pleasantly getting possession of his fancy. Why might he not get Nixton without paying for it at all? Why might he not marry Mr. Croft’s ONLY daughter, and ONLY child? If she would but think him as handsome as Mrs. Bobbin did, the thing would be settled at once; for it was impossible to suppose that any Christian man would contradict the will of his only daughter, and she in delicate health too. These thoughts took but a moment in passing through his brain, and the next sufficed to suggest to him that his best chance of pleasing both father and daughter, without setting them together by the ears, about him, was to impress them both with a sufficient idea of his wealth and consequence. With this object he again addressed Mr. Croft on the subject of the sale, though in truth he had no more idea of achieving it than his good aunt Cli might have had of becoming the purchaser from the profits of her bacon and her dairy.
“Well, Mr. Croft,” said he very civilly, “I am not prepared to say, sir, that you are putting too high a value on the property; but the fact is, that it is considerable more than I looked to hear, and I’m half afraid it may pass my means. You see, sir, the fact is, that my father, Mr. Jonathan Whitlaw, of Mount Etna—”
“Mount Etna!” softly exclaimed the beautiful Selina.
These were the first words she had spoken, and they immediately riveted the attention of the admiring Whitlaw. “Did you speak, miss?” said he very respectfully.
“I beg your pardon, sir, for having broken in upon your conversation by my foolish exclamation, — it really was involuntary. But it seemed so strange to hear any person spoken of as being of MOUNT ETNA.”
“Such names are by no means out of the common way in this country; Selina,” said her father rather reproachfully. “Pray, Mr. Whitlaw, go on.”
“Well, sir, as I was saying, my father is a gentleman in possession of a pretty considerable handsome estate, called Mount Etna, which seems to amuse this charming young lady so much. Now, sir, when a gentleman has got a landed estate, it stands to reason that he is not likely to have at the same time such a deal of the ready as would be called for to make good this purchase. Nevertheless, I expect that between us we could come pretty nigh upon it, — and maybe you wouldn’t altogether dislike to have a portion of the purchase-money left on mortgage?”
“I am sorry to say, sir,” replied Mr. Croft, “that I could not agree to that. My object is to close my accounts with this country altogether. I have no reason whatever to complain of my tenant at Nixton; but I have nevertheless found it very inconvenient to hold property at such a distance.”
“I expect that’s possible. And this charming young lady, what does she think of our fine country, Mr. Croft?”
“She likes the warm climate exceedingly; but the country appears rather flat to those who are accustomed to the scenery of England.”
It is probable that Mr. Croft thought this as much of civility, time, and conversation, as it was necessary to bestow on a stranger who had made a proposal which he did not mean to accept; for he not only ceased to speak, but began looking over and arranging various bills, receipts, and other papers which lay on the table before him. Young Whitlaw, however, if he understood the hint, felt no inclination to profit by it; but turning from the father to the daughter, he set very seriously to work upon an undertaking every way important to him, — namely, the winning grace and favour in the eyes of the beautiful Miss Croft.
“’Tis an unaccountable fine climate, miss, this of ours, that’s a fact; and the country isn’t that bad neither, I promise you, if you do but get upon the steam-boats and go far enough. Do you approbate the theatre, Miss Croft? I should be first-rate happy if I might be your beau, now and then, to show you the sights.”
Miss Croft was not a young lady of fashion, nor did she affect any fastidious refinement beyond her station, which was that of a very respectable merchant’s only child, educated at one of the best schools in Liverpool, of which city her father was a native as well as herself, and beyond which neither her knowledge nor her wishes had carried her. She was not yet seventeen, and her time had hitherto been chiefly occupied by the study of those ornamental accomplishments to which her large fortune gave her a right to aspire. Her reading, beyond her mere class-books, was almost wholly confined to poetry, for which she had a fondness that approached almost to passion. But, like all very strong feelings, it was nourished in silence; and no one living had the least idea that the pale and gentle Selina secretly worshipped a species of glowing idol that made all earthly things seem tame beside it.
Such being the peculiar tone of the young lady’s mind, it is not very extraordinary that Jonathan Jefferson Whitlaw failed to produce the effect he desired. Indeed, there was something in his accent, manner, and appearance, though he was unquestionably a handsome man, which was very peculiarly disagreeable to her; and at this proposition of becoming “her beau,” and showing her “the sights,” she felt something extremely like a shudder creep over her, and looking appealingly at her father, she too had recourse to some papers lying on the music-desk that stood before her, and answered not a word.
It is possible that the lovely blush which dyed her cheeks as she turned her eyes from the young man to her desk, might have beguiled a less vain person than Whitlaw into thinking that her silence was not unaccompanied by emotion. Nor indeed was it, though of a kind as far removed as possible from any he wished to inspire; but to him it seemed a most “gracious silence,” and with a smile which, if she had seen it, would have been if possible more distasteful than his words, he turned from her after a long unbridled gaze, and said to her father as he rose to go, “I expect, Mr. Croft, that I shall have to see you, sir, on business quite of a private nature before I leave the city.”
“Sir!” responded Mr. Croft in a tone of the most unaffected surprise.
“I calculate, sir, that we must contrive to do business together somehow before we part, and I don’t count upon your finding my proposals altogether unworthy attention. I’ve great expectations, Mr. Croft, from more quarters than one, but I’ll say no more for the present. Good day to you, sir. Miss Selina Croft, ma’am, I have the honour of wishing you a very good day.”
The daughter bowed, the father rang the bell, and Mr. Whitlaw departed.
CHAPTER XVII.
WE will not follow our presumptuous hero through the various blunders and vanities which in the course of a few days induced him to ask the hand of Miss Croft in marriage; it will be sufficient to transcribe the letter by which the offer was made, in order to show the grounds on which he founded his hopes of success. The epistle ran thus:
“TO MR. CROFT,
“MERCHANT OF LIVERPOOL.
“MR. CROFT, “Sir, — I guess that by this, your dreadful beautiful daughter as well as yourself must be come to a pretty considerable good notion of what I am after. The estate at Nixton is all very well, and I wouldn’t have any objection to buy it; and as to the price, I find there’d be no manner of difficulty about finding the needful. Mount Etna is a profitable bit too. But after all, Mr. Croft, what is either estate in consequence compared to the real business in hand between us? I expect I must explain myself, because ’tis in rule so to do; though I don’t doubt in the least that the beautiful eyes as have made such work with my heart have been clear-sighted enough to spy out what they have done. The short and the long of it is then, that I’m in love with your daughter, Mr. Croft, and that I hereby make a proposal to marry her. One good reason why this match is likely enough to be agreeable to all parties is, that we are both of us only children; which makes the business, as you will allow, a deal more plain-sailing. For, who could Mr. Whitlaw of Mount Etna be after leaving all his property to? — and he has not that little to make it a flea-bite. And who could you, Mr. Croft, devise yours t
o — which I don’t question is pretty considerable also — except to us two? So that’s plain enough. As to the article of residence, I’m a right-down good American, that’s a fact: nevertheless, I would be no ways particular as to accompanying my wife to England for a spell; and some of our young family might be left to cheer your old age, Mr. Croft, if you wished it, sir. In short, I take it upon myself to assure you that in all things we shall be ready and willing to do what’s most agreeable to you.
“As to money down, I guess that the best way will be not to meddle or make with the Nixton estate at all, but just let that come straight at once to my wife, which I shall consider like one and the same as ready cash; and I understand that you couldn’t be well off doing that, seeing that it comes by the young lady’s mother, and ought therefore, as matter of course and justice, to go to her child. There is but one other point, I expect, that need be mentioned at present; but that’s one on which I don’t think I should be over easy to change, and therefore it ought by rights to be done settled at first starting. Whenever my wife and I goes over to the old country, I never will suffer nor permit any of my niggers to go across with us, for I know from good authority what comes of it: they gets free as soon as they touches that queer old place, and devil a bit should I ever get ’em back again to Louisiana. Not doubting that all I propose will be counted reasonable and handsome, “I remain, honoured sir,
“Your friend and son (as would be)
“JONATHAN JEFFERSON WHITLAW.
“P.S. As I don’t see any reason for wishing for delay, I shall be ready to perform my part of the happy ceremony at the shortest notice.
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 32