“You are quite right, my dear — quite right, in a general way. But there were one or two very unfortunate circumstances attending this affair. In the first place, we had no surgeon on the ground. This of itself you know, though purely accidental on my part, lays one open to the most abominable constructions. Then my adversary’s second ran away. Stupid fellow! as if any harm could have come to him! In short, I was advised by my lawyer himself, as well as by all my military friends, not to run the risk of a trial. This, sweetest, is my history. And now you will be at no loss to understand why I should never wish you to send a letter to your friends in England, signed with the guiltless, but unfortunate, name of Allen.”
There was the struggle of a moment in the heart of Mrs. Allen, as to whether she should have the pleasure of telling the master of her destiny, that she was a vast deal too clever to believe a single word of all he had said, or suffer him to lie his way, unchecked, out of the very disagreeable predicament in which she was pretty confident he was placed. But luckily, she remembered the weakness of a divided bundle of fagots, and at the same instant, determined at once to swallow whatever her spouse, in his wisdom, thought it convenient to administer; and moreover, to the very best of her power, to make all others swallow it likewise.
“You may depend upon it, my dear, I shall sign the letter I am going to write to my dear Agnes, with whatever name you bid me,” was the gentle and generous answer of Mrs. Allen, as soon as she had made up her mind to keep her cleverness to herself; and perhaps she gave this promise the more readily, from remembering, as she spoke the name of Agnes, how very little honour, either in her eyes or in those of General Hubert, that of Allen was likely to confer on the young cousin she was about to announce to them, even if unaccompanied by any of the adventures, which she thought it possible might have become connected with it, since they last had the pleasure of hearing it pronounced by her.
“No man was ever blessed with a more charming wife than I am!” cried the Major with sudden gaiety, and probably well pleased at having got through the business of explanation so happily. Then, after a moment’s consideration, he added, “Why, my dear, should you not continue your late name of O’Donagough? Upon my honour, I have no prejudice whatever against it, if you have not; and the doing so might, perhaps, be less embarrassing for you than taking any other.”
This proposition evidently took the lady by surprise; and the manner in which she now looked up in the Major’s face, was without any premeditation at all.
“Perhaps you have some objection to this, my dear? Perhaps the name of Allen is dearer to you than all others?” said the Major.
“Oh! I don’t know, I’m sure, anything about that. It would be foolish, you know, my dear, to take fancies when we are talking about business,” replied his high-minded wife: “I only look so, because I don’t quite understand what it is you would be at. Am I to tell my niece, and my nephew the General, and my brother-in-law, Mr. Willoughby, and all the rest of them, that you are a relative of my late husband, Mr. O’Donagough?”
“By no means, my love. That must inevitably create confusion. What I propose, is merely that you should state yourself still to be the wife of the respected Mr. O’Donagough himself.”
“But, good gracious, Major, how could I do that when we go back, after every one of them has seen Mr. O’Donagough, and has been regularly introduced to him in person? And besides,” she added, somewhat in a lower key, “they have most of them seen you into the bargain.”
“True, dearest, true — all quite true; nevertheless, I do not anticipate the slightest inconvenience from this. I have had the honour to see some of your amiable relations, certainly; and I question not, but they have also seen me. They may likewise have seen your late estimable husband. All this I grant you; but it will make no difference whatever, my love. Do not be uneasy about that. It will give us no trouble worth naming, I assure you.”
“I must confess that now you do puzzle me,” replied Mrs. Major Allen, with great naïveté, “and I don’t know the least bit in the world what you mean.”
Major Allen smiled with great complacency upon his charming wife, as he answered, “My lovely Barnaby, you are, without flattery, one of the sharpest-witted and most intelligent women I ever met with; and it is only on points, where nothing but experience and a more extended knowledge of the world has assisted me, that I can assume any sort of superiority to you; and even here, you have only to open your own charming eyes a little, in order, if not exactly to overtake me, at least to lessen the distance between us. This business of identity, dear love, is a mere bugbear. A man of any tolerable degree of talent snaps his fingers at it. The late O’Donagough was tall, was he not?”
“Yes,” replied Mrs. Major Allen, succinctly.
“And so am I, my love. This, believe me, is the only point of difference between man and man, which is really of importance — and even that may be greatly modified. Of course, dearest, I do not speak of cases of daily intimate intercourse. This, I know, does create difficulty — and yet—” Here the Major smiled, and seemed to have some amusing anecdote at the tip of his tongue; but he checked the wish to utter it, and only said, with very matter-of-fact gravity, “Neither Mr. O’Donagough nor I were ever very intimate with these great folks, whose favour you now wish to propitiate; therefore, on that score, there can be no fear of mischief — and now I want your opinion. Speak out, dear! Have you any personal objection to this plan, independent, I mean, of any fancied embarrassment in putting it into execution?”
“No, I think not,” replied Mrs. Major Allen, with considerable promptitude and sincerity of tone; for, during the Major’s last speech, she had run over in her mind all the reasons which existed against her particularly wishing to introduce the father of her intended peeress, as the Major Allen of Clifton; and had come very decidedly to the conclusion that she had much rather call him by any other name under heaven.
The Major at once saw that whatever objections might in the first instance have occurred to his proposal, were already removed, and in the fulness of his contentment he gave his lady a kiss, and once more called her his “charming Barnaby.”
The mind of this “charming Barnaby” was never idle, and even in the short interval which had passed since the moment when she first fully conceived his project, such a varied multitude of reasons had crowded one over the other into her active brain in favour of it, that she was by this time quite as well pleased by the notion as himself.
Many minor details, however, remained to be settled before they could act upon it; but these were all discussed with the most laughing good-humour, and such a multitude of droll, lively things were said on both sides, that it may be doubted if they had ever enjoyed each other’s conversation more, since the first happy hour of confidence at Clifton, when the Major related the history of his former life.
The great question seemed to be whether Major Allen’s transmutation into Mr. O’Donagough should precede his departure from the colony, or follow it. In all letters to England, it was of course to be immediate, and it was easy, enough to desire that all answers should be directed under cover to Mr or Mrs. Somebody. But how were they to explain to their South-Welsh friends this singular metamorphosis, if they decided upon its taking place immediately? And what were they to say to their little daughter about it if they put off this alteration of her name and family till she was old enough to ask questions about it? Besides, who could answer for it, as her mother very judiciously observed, that the little angel might not tell tales on the other side of the water, without intending to do any more harm than a playful lambkin when it says “ba?”
“Hush!” said Major Allen, holding up his forefinger, as a signal that he desired silence. His wife obeyed, and they both were silent for at least five minutes. He then altered his position in his chair, setting an elbow firmly on each arm of it, and fixing his eyes steadfastly on his fair lady’s face, delivered himself of the valuable result of these five minutes’ cogitation, in a t
one as decided, and free from all the weak vacillations of doubt, as if he had been listening to the voice of an oracle during the interval.
“My dear love,” said he, “the thing lies in a nutshell: you will find upon looking through a box of papers left by the late Mr. O’Donagough, a testamentary paper, by which he bequeaths to you a small landed property in the south of Ireland — I say the south of Ireland, dearest, because if the acquisition produces no visible alteration in our manner of living, nobody will be surprised at it — a small landed property in the south of Ireland — but bequeathed upon the condition that any husband whom you shall marry, as well as all children whom you may have, shall take and bear the name and arms of O’Donagough. The said estate to be forfeited if the said conditions be not complied with, within one year after the bequest is claimed. If you will leave me for a few minutes, my dear, I think I shall be able to find this document.”
These last words were accompanied by a smile which brought the Major’s left mustache very nearly to the off corner of his left eye; a conjunction of features that denoted a most happy and facetious frame of mind.
Mrs. Major Allen replied by a laughing and intelligent nod; but said, “You must let me finish this beautiful bit of hot buttered toast first, my dear — I have almost burnt my eyes out to do it. I remember the time, Major, and not so very long ago either, when it was no less a person than Mrs. General Hubert, this identical grand lady that we read of at court, who knelt down before my fire to do this job for me. Mercy on me! — To be sure, who ever would have thought of poor Sophy’s girl coming to be the wife of a general, and presented at court? And what, if you please, is to prevent our girl from doing as well? I’ll answer for it she will be ten times handsomer than that pale-faced Agnes ever was — all she had in the world for her was her youth and her eyes. I ask anybody to look at our Martha’s eyes, and say if they don’t beat those of Agnes out and out; and as to the article of youth — which, by-the-by, I do think is very necessary to the making a really great match — as to that, you know my dear, it will be our own fault if we do not let her begin early enough.”
“Most assuredly,” was the satisfactory reply; upon which the lady stood up, swallowed her last mouthful in that attitude, and with another sprightly nod, prepared to leave the room.
“Stay one moment, dearest!” said the Major; “do you happen, my love, to have any of the late Mr. O’Donagough’s handwriting by you?”
“Oh, yes; lots of it. He was a great writer, you know.”
“Do you think you have got his signature, dear?”
“Most likely, love. I will go and rummage his old writing-desk.” So saying, Mrs. Major Allen left the room, and in a very few minutes returned to it with a handful of MSS.
“Here are all sorts here,” said she, “and a bushel more if you want them, up stairs, with plenty of signatures amongst them. Here’s a sermon, look! and here’s a calculation of odds about some horse race. He was such a queer man, poor O’Donagough! — I shall always think he was half mad.”
“Very likely, love. There, lay them down. That will do perfectly well; now you may go and write your letter if you will, while I look through these papers in search of the document, you know.”
And now, leaving Major Allen at one writing-table, we must follow his lady to another.
The last letter Mrs. Major Allen had addressed to her niece Agnes was from the Fleet Prison: she remembered this and smiled.
“Mercy on me!” she exclaimed in muttered soliloquy. “What a deal has happened to us both since then! Little hussy! — she was then in the very best of her bloom, and she made the most of it; I suspect she was quite right in not coming to me. Ten to one she would have lost the proud colonel if she had; and it is just because I see she is up to a thing or two, that I will take the trouble of writing to her now. Little fox! she was deep as deep; and I don’t think her Aunt Barnaby was such a very great fool either. Now then, Miss Agnes, let us see if I can’t come round you. If it answers, if I can contrive to make her grandeeship useful to my girl, I know who will be the cleverest yet. Now for it then.”
“My dearest Agnes!”
“I am not quite sure about that, calling her by her name at first setting off.
“‘Agnes, Agnes, thou art mine!’
as the song says. But that will only put her in mind of fifty things that it would be just as well she should forget. I’ll begin again.”
“My dearest Niece!
“I will not believe that the three short years which have passed since we parted, can have sufficed to make you forget the nearest blood relation that you have in the world: for unless a grandmother is nearer to us than a mother, which I am sure no one in the world can think, a real aunt, your own dear mother’s own sister, must be nearer to you as a relation than all the aunt Betsies in the world, let her be ever so rich, Agnes.”
Having proceeded thus far, Mrs. Major Allen put her pen into the ink-bottle, and there let it remain while she read and re-read this exordium. “Yes, that will do,” thought she, “that is just the right way to bring in her Christian name familiarly.” She then resumed her pen and went on.
“It would give me more pleasure in my distant home than anything else in the world, if you, my dear sister’s own child, would just give me a line now and then, to tell me how you are going on, and above all things whether you are as happy as I wish you to be. Short as the interview was, it was a great pleasure to me to have got a sight of your dear father. Oh! Agnes, how the sound of his voice did put me in mind of times — gay, happy times, my dear child — before you were born! Pray give my kindest sisterly love to him, and tell him that he would do me the very greatest favour in the world if he would only write a few lines to me. I am sure that if he will but turn a thought back to his pretty, pretty Sophy, when she used to sing to him so sweetly, he will not have the heart to refuse me. “I am sure, my dear niece, that you will be glad to hear that I am very happy and fortunate in my last marriage; and, moreover, that at length you have a little cousin born. A beautiful little girl she is, I must say, though to be sure a mother’s judgment is apt to be partial. But I really do think if you were to see your little cousin, Agnes, you could not help being very fond of her, she is so very clever and intelligent, besides being so particularly beautiful that everybody who sees her takes notice of it. I have called her Martha after myself, and my dear mother, who was your grandmother, you know, my dear Agnes. God knows if circumstances will ever enable myself and my truly excellent husband to return to our native land; I fear, indeed, that the chance is a very remote one; but it would be a happy moment for me if I could show you and your dear father my child! Can’t you fancy, Agnes, what a pleasure it would be for me? But it is no good to think about it, at least for a great many years yet — so many, indeed, that she would no longer be a little child. You, too, my dear Agnes, may, perhaps, be a mother also. If so, you will the better understand my feelings about my darling little girl! I inclose you a lock of its dear little hair, by which you will see that it is as dark as mine, and that already it curls naturally like yours. Though we are so many miles asunder, I hope you will think of me and your little cousin sometimes; I am sure she will be brought up to think often of you. My excellent husband, who is decidedly a person of the first consideration in the colony, sends his affectionate compliments, and his blessing to you and yours. And with every good wish, my beloved Agnes, for yourself and all who are dear to you,
“I remain, ever and for ever,
“Your most affectionate aunt,
“MARTHA O’DONAGOUGH.”
She was in the act of folding this letter, when her husband entered the room. He, too, had been far from idle, and held in his hand the proof of it.
“I have found the document, my love,” said he, with his smiling mustache. “Here it is — I shall immediately go and show it to everybody I know in the town, and shall tell them that though I am by no means sanguine as to our ever deriving any benefit from the little out-of-t
he-way hit of property bequeathed by it, I am, nevertheless, determined that our darling child shall lose nothing by any folly or indifference of mine. I shall let them all know — the authorities and all — that henceforth, for the sake of the chance it may give my dear little one, I shall never call or sign myself by any other name than that of O’Donagough. This is a capital notion of mine, depend upon it, in many ways.”
“I really think it is,” said his wife, examining the papers he had laid before her. “But good gracious, Major, how very like you have made it look to poor O’Donagough’s writing! I do declare I could no more tell them apart than I could fly! How very clever you must be with your pen!”
The Major put his hand before his mouth, caressed his mustache, but said nothing.
“And now read my letter to Mrs. General Hubert, will you, Major, and tell me what you think of it.”
“You must leave off calling me Major, my darling, — remember that,” said the gentleman.
“That will he difficult at first, my dear,” replied the lady; “but I dare say I shall he perfect enough at it before the time comes for our going to England. But do pray read my letter.”
Without further delay he did so, and most cordially expressed his approbation.
“The devil is in it, my Barnaby,” said he, giving her a very hearty kiss, “if we cannot between us contrive to sail before the wind. Why, here is a touch that is worthy of old Talleyrand himself; this blessing, I mean, that I send them down here in the corner.”
“Of course, I did not forget, my dear, that you were the Reverend Mr. O’Donagough, when I introduced you to my family at parting. It won’t do to forget that, you know.”
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 227