Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  “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 God’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?”

  “At this moment she is; but she will be provided for at the death of her great-aunt, Mrs. Elizabeth Compton of Compton Basett; ... and to say the truth, Major Allen, as you so kindly interest yourself in what concerns me, I neither do nor ever shall consider myself bound to retain Agnes Willoughby in my family, under any circumstances that should render her being so inconvenient.”

  “I delight in receiving such an assurance ... dear, excellent Mrs. Barnaby!... What a heart!... what an understanding!... what beauty!... what unequalled sweetness! No wonder the late Mr. Barnaby delighted, as you say, to please you! ‘Lives there the man,’ as the immortal Byron says— ‘Lives there the man with soul so dead,’ as to be capable of doing otherwise?... But to return to the subject of this poor little girl ... she might be termed pretty, perhaps, in any society but yours.... Tell me, is this Mrs. Compton, of Compton Basett, wealthy?... Is she also a relation of yours?”

  “Yes, she is immensely wealthy.... It is a magnificent estate. She is a maiden sister of my father’s.”

  “Then Miss Willoughby will eventually be a great fortune.... How old is your aunt?”

  “My aunt is near sixty, I believe, ... but the provision intended for Agnes is only sufficient to maintain her like a gentlewoman. The bulk of the property is settled on me and my heirs.”

  “I fear you will think me an unseasonable visitor,” said the fully-satisfied Major, rising, “and I will go now, lest you should refuse to admit me again.”

  “Do not go yet,” ... said the gentle widow, playfully refusing the hand extended to take leave. “What in the world now have you got to do, that should prevent your bestowing a little more time on me?”

  “It would be difficult, Mrs. Barnaby,” said the Major with an eloquent look, “to find any occupation sufficiently attractive to take me from you, so long as I dared flatter myself that it was your wish I should remain.”

  “Well, then ... sit down again, Major Allen ... for do you know, I want you to tell me all about yourself.... Where have you served? — what dangers have you passed through? You have no idea how much interest I should take in listening to the history of your past life.”

  “My sweet friend!... Never should I have entered upon such a subject unbidden ... yet with such an auditor, how dear will the privilege become of talking of myself!... But you must check me, if I push your gentle patience too far. Tell me when you are weary of me ... or of my little narrative.”

  “I will, I will ... depend upon it, ... only do not stop till I do, Major.”

  “Adorable sweetness!... Thus, then, I am to be my own biographer, and to a listener whose opinion would, in my estimation, outweigh that of all the congregated world, if placed in judgment on my actions. It is probable, my charming friend, that my name as Ensign Allen may not be totally unknown to you.... It was while I still held that humble rank, that I was first fortunate enough to distinguish myself. In an affair of some importance in the Peninsula, I turned what might have been a very disastrous defeat into a most complete victory, and was immediately promoted to a company. Shortly after this I chanced to shew the same sort of spirit, which was, I believe, born with me, in a transaction nowise professional, but which, nevertheless, made me favourably mentioned, and certainly contributed to bring me into the rather general notice with which Europe at present honours me.... Yet it was merely an affair with a party of brigands, in which I put seven fellows hors de combat, and thereby enabled that celebrated grandee, the Duke d’Almafonte d’Aragona d’Astrada, to escape, together with his beautiful daughter, and all their jewels. The service might have been, I own, of considerable importance to them, but the gratitude it produced in the minds of both father and daughter, greatly exceeded what was called for ... he offered me ... so widely separated as we now are, there can be no indelicacy in my confiding the circumstance to you, my dear Mrs. Barnaby, but ... the fact is, he offered me his only daughter in marriage, with an immense fortune. But, alas! how capricious is the human will!... my hour, my dear friend, was not yet come.... I felt, beautiful as Isabella d’Almafonte was accounted by all the world, that I could not give her my heart, and I performed the painful duty of refusing her hand. Nothing, however, could be more noble than the subsequent conduct of the duke, ... at the first painful moment he only said ... ‘Captain Allen, we must submit’ ... of course he said it in Spanish, but it would look like affectation, in such a narrative as this, were I not to translate it ... ‘Capitano Alleno, bisogno submittajo nos,’ were his words.... I am sure I shall never forget them, for they touched me to the very heart.... I could not speak, my feelings choked me, and I left his palace in silence. Five years had elapsed, and I had perhaps too nearly forgotten the lovely but unfortunate Isabella d’Almafonte, when I received a packet from a notary of Madrid, informing me that her illustrious father was dead, and had gratefully bequeathed me a legacy, amounting in English money to thirty thousand pounds sterling. I was by that time already in possession of the estates of my ancestors, and such a sum might have appeared a very useless bagatelle, had not an accident rendered it at that time of really important convenience.”

  “Good heaven! how interesting!” exclaimed Mrs. Barnaby. “And what, dear Major, became of the unfortunate Isabella?”

  “She took the veil, Mrs. Barnaby, in the convent de Los Ceurores Dolentes, within a few months of her noble father’s death.... Before this event she had not the power of disposing of herself as she wished; ... but her excellent father never tortured her by the proposal of any other marriage....”

  “Admirable man!” cried Mrs. Barnaby, greatly touched. “Dear Major Allen!” she added, in a voice that seemed to deprecate opposition, “you must, indeed you must, do me an immense favour. When Mrs. Peters took me to Bristol in her coach the other day, I bought myself this album; it has got nothing in it as yet but my own name; now, if you do not wi
sh to break my heart, you must write the name of Isabella d’Almafonte in this first page ... it will be an autograph inexpressibly interesting!”

  The Major took the book and the pen that were offered by the two hands of Mrs. Barnaby, and said with a profound sigh, —

  “Break your heart!... I should never have broken the heart of any woman, if what she asked had been seconded by such eyes as those!”

  A silence of some moments followed, a part of which was employed by the Major in writing the name of Isabella d’Almafonte, and a part in gazing on the downcast lids of the admired eyes opposite to him; but this too trying interval ended at length by the lady’s recovering herself enough to say, “And that accident, Major Allen, that made the duke’s little legacy convenient to you?... what was it?... Do not have any reserve with one whom you have honoured by the name of friend!”

  “Reserve to you!... never!... While you continue to admit me to your presence, all reserve on my part must be impossible. The accident was this, my friend; and I am not sorry to name it, as it gives me an opportunity of alluding to a subject that I would rather you heard mentioned by me than by any other. After the battle of Waterloo — (concerning which, by the by, I should like to tell you an anecdote) — after the battle of Waterloo, I became, in common with nearly all the officers of the army, an idle man; and like too many others, I was tempted to seek a substitute for the excitement produced by the military ardour in which I had lived, by indulging in the pernicious agitations of the gaming-table. It is very likely, that if you speak of me in general society, you will be told that I have played high.... My dear Mrs. Barnaby, this is true. My large fortune gave me, as I foolishly imagined, a sort of right to play high if it amused me, and for a little while, I confess, it did amuse me; ... but I soon found that a gentleman was no match for those who made gambling a profession, and I lost largely, — so largely, indeed, that I must have saddled my acres with a mortgage, had not the legacy of the Duke d’Almafonte d’Aragona d’Estrada reached me just in time to prevent the necessity.”

  “I rejoice to hear it,” replied the widow kindly; “and you have never hazarded so largely since, dear Major, have you?”

  “Oh! never.... In fact, I never enter a room now where anything like high play is going on.... I cannot bear even to see it, and I believe I have in this way offended many who still permit themselves this hateful indulgence; offended them, indeed, to such a degree, that they perfectly hate me, and utter the most virulent abuse every time they hear my name mentioned; ... but for this I care little: I know I am right, Mrs. Barnaby, and that what loses their friendship and esteem, may be the means of gaining for me the regard of those, perhaps, on whom my whole happiness may depend during my future life.”

  The same dangerous sort of silence as before seemed creeping on them; but again the widow had the courage to break it, by recalling to the memory of her musing and greatly pre-occupied companion the anecdote respecting Waterloo which he had promised her.

  “Waterloo!” said he, rousing himself.... “Ay, dearest Mrs. Barnaby, I will tell you that, though there are many reasons which render me very averse to speak of it lightly. In the first place, by those who know me not, it might be thought to look like boasting; and, moreover, if I alluded to it in any society capable of the baseness of repeating what I said, it might bring upon me very active, and indeed fatal, proofs of the dislike — I may say hatred — already felt against me in a certain quarter.”

  “Gracious heaven, Major!... be careful then, I implore you, before whom you speak! There appear to be many strangers here, of whose characters it is impossible to know anything.... If you have enemies, they may be spies expressly sent to watch you.”

  “I sometimes think so, I assure you.... I catch such singular looks occasionally, as nothing else can account for; and the enemy I allude to is one who has power, as well as will, to punish by evil reports, if he cannot positively crush and ruin, those who interfere with his ambition.”

  “Is it possible? Thank heaven! at least you can have no doubt of me.... So, tell me, I beseech you to tell me, to whom is it that your alarming words refer?”

  The Major drew his chair close to Mrs. Barnaby, took one of her hands between both of his, and having gazed for a moment very earnestly in her face, whispered, —

  “The Duke of Wellington!”

  “Good God!...” exclaimed the widow, quite in an agony: “the Duke of Wellington! Is the Duke of Wellington your enemy, Major Allen?”

  “To the teeth, my fairest! to the teeth!” replied the Major, firmly setting the instruments he mentioned, and muttering through them with an appearance of concentrated rage, the outward demonstration of which was increased by the firmness of the grasp in which he continued to hold her hand.

  “But how can this be so?” faltered Mrs. Barnaby.... “So brave a man as you!... one, too, who had distinguished himself so early! How can he be so base?”

  “How can he be otherwise, my friend?” replied the Major with increasing agitation, “when” ... and here he lowered his voice still more, whispering almost in her very ear, “it is I — I, — Ferdinand Alexander Allen, who ought by right to be the Duke of Wellington, instead of him who now wears the title!”

  “You astonish me more than I am able to express!”

  “Of course I do.... Such, however, is the fact. The battle of Waterloo would have been lost, — was lost, positively lost, — till I, disdaining in such a moment to receive orders from one whom I perceived to be incompetent, rushed forward, almost knocking the Duke off his horse as I did so ... sent back the French army like a flock of sheep before an advancing lion ... seized with my own hand on the cocked hat of Napoleon ... drew it from his head, and actually flogged his horse with it till horse and rider together seemed well enough inclined to make the best of their way out of my reach.... God bless you, my dearest lady! the Duke of Wellington had no more to do in gaining the battle of Waterloo than you had.... I now leave you to judge what his feelings towards me are likely to be.”

  “Full of envy and hatred, beyond all doubt!” solemnly replied Mrs. Barnaby; “and I will not deny, Major Allen, that I think there is great danger in your situation. A person of such influence may do great injury, even to a man of your well-known noble character. But how extraordinary it is that no hint of this has ever transpired.”

  “I beg your pardon, my dear madam; this is very far from being the case. At your peaceful residence beneath the shades of Silverton Park, it is highly probable that you may have remained ignorant of the fact; but, in truth, the Duke’s reputation among the people of England has suffered greatly; though no one, indeed, has yet proposed that his sword should be taken from him. The well-known circumstance of stones having been thrown at his windows ... a fact which probably has never reached you ... is quite sufficient to prove that the people must be aware that what the English army did at Waterloo, was not done under his generalship.... No, no, England knows too well what she owed to that victory so to treat the general who achieved it; and had they not felt doubts as to who that general was, no stones would have been levelled at Apsley House. Many of the common soldiers — fine fellows! — have been bold enough to name me, and it is this that has so enraged the Duke, that there is nothing which he has not taught his emissaries to say against me.... I have been called swindler, black-leg, radical, horse-jockey, and I know not what beside; and I should not wonder, my charming friend, if sooner or later your friendship were put to the proof, by having to listen to similar calumnies against me; but now, you will be able to understand them aright, and know the source from whence they come.”

  “Well, I never did hear anything so abominable in my life!” said Mrs. Barnaby warmly.... “Not content with taking credit to himself for all that was gained by your extraordinary bravery, he has the baseness to attack your character!... It is too detestable!... and I only hope, that when I get among my own connexions in town, I shall not have the misfortune of meeting him often.... I am certain I should not
be able to resist saying something to shew what I thought. Oh! if he were really the brave man that he has been fancied to be, how he must have adored you for your undaunted courage!... And you really took Napoleon’s hat off his head?... How excessively brave!... I wish I could have seen it, Major!... I am sure I should have worshipped you.... I do so doat upon bravery!”

  “Sweet creature!... That devoted love of courage is one of the loveliest propensities of the female mind. Yes, I am brave — I do not scruple to say so; and the idea that this quality is dear to you, will strengthen it in me four-fold.... But, my dear, my lovely friend! I must bid you adieu. I expect the steward of my property in Yorkshire to-day, and I rather think he must be waiting for me now.... Soften, then, the pain of this parting, by telling me that I may come again!”

  “I should be sorry indeed to think this was our last meeting, Major Allen,” said the widow gently; “I am seldom out in the morning before the hour at which you called to-day.”

  “Farewell then!” said he, kissing her hand with an air of mixed tenderness and respect, “farewell!... and remember that all I have breathed into your friendly ear must be sacred; ... but I know it would be so without this injunction; Mrs. Barnaby’s majestic beauty conceals not the paltry spirit of a gossip!”

  “Indeed you are right!... indeed you are right!... To my feelings the communications of a friend are sweet, solemn pledges of regard, that it would be sacrilege to violate. Farewell, Major! — farewell!”

  CHAPTER V.

  A YOUNG LADY’S PLOT. — A CONSULTATION, AND THE HAPPY RESULT OF IT. — A TERRIBLE INTERRUPTION, AND A DANGEROUS EXPEDITION. — CONFIDENTIAL INTERCOURSE.

  Mary Peters left Agnes considerably earlier than she had intended, in order to communicate to her mother a project which had entered her head during the short time they spent together. Though the project, however, was formed during their interview, the idea upon which it was founded had repeatedly occurred to her before, short as the time had been that was given for its ripening. This idea was suggested to her by the evident admiration of Mr. Stephenson for her friend; on which she had meditated as they drove from the Mall to Rodney Place, as she brushed and papilloted her nut-brown curls before her glass, and as she strolled the next morning from her own home to that of Agnes; it might plainly have been expressed thus ... Frederick Stephenson is over head and ears in love with Agnes Willoughby.