Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  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 frien
d, 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 y
ourself, 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.

  CHAPTER IV.

  AN ADVENTURE. — ANOTHER LETTER FROM MISS MORRISON PRODUCTIVE OF A POWERFUL EFFECT UPON HER BROTHER. — HE FORSAKES HIS CLIENT AND HIS FRIEND. — AGNES IS LEFT ALONE, AND EMPLOYS SOME OF HER LEISURE IN WRITING A LETTER TO MISS COMPTON.

  The following day was an eventful one. For the first time since they had been in London, Agnes, on seeing her aunt preparing to go out, asked permission to go with her, and “You may go if you will,” was the answer; but before her bonnet was tied on, Mrs. Barnaby changed her mind, saying, “Put down your bonnet, Agnes ... upon second thoughts I don’t choose to take you.... Look at all these things of mine lying about here!... I have told you that it is likely enough we may set off by a night coach, and I have got, as you know, to go out with Mr. Morrison; so I should be much obliged if you would please to tell me how all my packing is to get done?”