Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  “What on earth, O’Donagough, have you been doing to yourself?” cried his wife, as soon as she recovered the power of speaking. “You look fifty times more like a methodist parson than anything else. Your coat, and all that, is very new, and very nice, certainly; but I can’t say I approve the change at all. What with your shaving, and all the rest, you have altogether lost the look of a man of fashion, which I used to admire so much in you.”

  Mr. O’Donagough looked steadily in his wife’s face, for half a moment, and then said very gravely, “I am not so young as I have been, my dear, any more than yourself; and I am inclined to think now, that a respectable appearance is more to be desired than a dashing one.”

  The steady look was not removed for another half-moment after he had finished speaking, and when it was, his wife had not only ceased to laugh, but said in accents quite as demure as his own, “I am sure I am quite of the same opinion, Mr. O’Donagough. When one is going to mix with families of distinction, there is nothing so important as an air of dignity and — and — of superior style and character, and all that sort of thing. You look very nice indeed, Mr. O’Donagough, and I promise you I, for one, shall he exceedingly angry with Patty, if ever she gives a look, or says a word, or giggles and titters, or gives any sign whatever, of your appearing different from what you used to do.”

  “You may depend upon it, my dear, Patty knows a great deal better than to do anything half so vulgar and silly. She certainly knows very little about most things as yet; but she is not such a fool either as to laugh at her own father, or try to make other people laugh at him on account of his dress or anything else. If I am laughed at, she will be quite sure that no very great notice will he taken of her.”

  “You need not he afraid of me,” said Patty, turning again to the window. “Papa knows how to take care of himself, and what will go down best with the grandee cousins you talk so much about, there’s no doubt about that; and so he don’t take it into his head that I ought to look like an old quiz too, I shall say nothing to nobody about him.”

  “That’s a first-rate girl, Mrs. O’D.; and if fair play is given her, I’ll lay my life on it, she will make her fortune,” said the well-satisfied father.

  “It is not the first time that has been said of her, my dear,” replied his wife, with a nod of the head that meant a great deal. “It is not a little that will content me for her, I promise you. But get along, Donny, don’t waste any more time talking — I shall he dying to see you hack again, and know something about what’s to become of us next.”

  Mr. O’Donagough obeyed her, but said nothing; and his wife being rather tired of standing, drew a chair to the window, and seating herself beside the still unwearied Patty, beguiled the time by teaching her how to know colonels, majors, captains, and lieutenants, by their uniforms.

  Mr. O’Donagough meanwhile, with a hat of rather larger dimensions than was at that time usual, and a stout elderly-looking walking-stick, sallied forth to perambulate the streets of Brighton, for the first time for rather more than fifteen years. Bad he, however, been a greater stranger there still, he might have taken less pains in preparing for this expedition. But the time had been when few places knew him better; and before he could conscientiously feel himself justified in indulging the wife of his bosom by once more taking up his quartern there, he deemed it necessary to ascertain how lasting might be the impression he had left on the minds of the permanent inhabitants. Here, too, as in the familiar purlieus of Leicester-square, there were haunts over the nature and destination of which, time seemed to have no power. Where billiard-balls rolled in days of yore, he found them rolling still; the same sights, and the same sounds, greeted him in the self-same places; and so little changed was the aspect of these minor features, that till he looked more widely round him, and perceived that unless brick and mortar had obeyed the commands of some enchanted lamp, years must indeed have passed since last he stood there, he could almost have fancied that he had pocketed his last Brighton winnings but yesterday.

  Though very for, in general, from being the plaything of his own imagination, Mr. Allen O’Donagough stood hesitating for a moment, whether or not he should enter a certain doorway, leading to what he remembered to have been the most approved rendezvous for gentlemen of his own class, when Brighton was one of his many homes. It was not because he feared the keen eye of a marker — when much less carefully equipped for such an encounter, he had stood this test triumphantly (despite even his “pretty hazard”). But fifteen years before, there dwelt in that dusky mansion, a pair of the very brightest eyes that had ever looked upon him. The light young figure too, and the gay ready smile of her to whom they belonged, were as fresh in his memory as if he had left these also but yesterday. He had made this reckless, thoughtless thing believe he loved her; and in return, she had given but too certain proof that she loved him. The house before which he stood had been her father’s. Did she dwell there still? And would she know him?

  These were the questions which caused the middle-aged, respectable-looking, Mr. Allen O’Donagough to pause and hesitate before a door, which he ought to have entered quickly, or have passed with scorn. He felt that he might be exposing himself needlessly to a great risk, but yet the trial might be worth making, for, if successful, he conceived it impossible he could ever be tormented by such doubts and feats again.

  This consideration at length nerved him to the enterprise, and he went in. There was the same scent of ill-extinguished lamps as he advanced, and as it seemed, the identical much-worn oil-cloth under his feet; there was, too, within a glass inclosure at the foot of the staircase, a gaily dressed female. It was there, exactly there, that his bright-eyed Susan used to sit; it was there he had seen her for the first time; and there, little as she guessed it at the moment, and little, perhaps, as he himself intended it should be so, he had looked upon her the last. He now stared at the stout, gaudily-decked woman before him, and though feeling something, perhaps, a little akin to disappointment, it was a relief to know that there was not any danger to be run from deep impressions on poor Susan’s memory.

  “They are playing up stairs as usual, I suppose?” said he, stopping before the open window-frame, at which sat the capacious barmaid.

  The woman started, and looked up, but as soon as her eyes encountered the respectable figure of Mr. O’Donagough, she looked down again upon the page on which she was writing, and quietly replied, “Yes, sir.”

  That glance, however, which had sufficed to deceive her, had undeceived him. They were Susan’s eyes, and none other, that had looked upon him; and though girlish delicacy of every kind was sadly merged, and lost in most coarse womanhood, he felt perfectly sure of the identity.

  “Is the room crowded, ma’am?” he resumed, willing again to see those beautiful eyes, so altered, yet the same.

  Again the woman started, and before she answered drew aside a curtain that obscured the light of the window behind her, when the last light of the setting sun fell full upon his face. But this, instead of producing danger, most effectually saved him from it; the Susan of former days again looked steadily at him for a moment, and then slightly smiling, probably at the suspicion to which his voice had given birth, she replied, “Upon my word, sir, I don’t know.”

  As if affronted by the abruptness of the reply, he turned suddenly away, and walked out.

  “She does not know me,” he murmured as he went; “and if she does not, no one will.” there was, perhaps, one little grain of mortification, mixed in the full bushel of satisfaction produced by this experiment; but if so, our adventurer was too wise a man to sift for it. With an alert and active step he repaired to the more fashionable part of the gay town, and within a little more than one hour of the time he had left them, Mr. O’Donagough returned to his family with the agreeable intelligence that he had seen some very handsome apartments on the Marine Parade, and that they might take possession of them immediately, if they approved of them.

  CHAPTER XI.


  A DOMESTIC-LOOKING party, consisting of a very lovely young woman and two children, with another lady, who might, perhaps, be their governess, were seated upon one of the rare masses of stone, which, in default of better, are at Brighton called rocks; when the occupation of each was suspended by the approach of a gentleman, who had just descended a flight of steps, leading down the cliff. The lovely lady ceased to converse with the more homely one, who sat beside her; the youngest child suffered a whole frock-load of marine-treasures to fall again amidst the shingles, whence she had culled them, while site darted forward to greet the intruder; and the elder one, who was too tall to be called a little girl, and too slight and juvenile in appearance to be classed as a great one, shut up the book she was reading, and joyously exclaimed, “Papa!”

  “How very cool and comfortable you all look here!” said General Hubert — for he it was who drew near; “and how extremely skilful you have been in finding out the only ‘coigne of vantage’ that could produce sufficient shade to shelter you!”

  “And it produces sufficient to shade you too, Montague,” said his wife, making room for him between herself and her companion. “I am so glad you are come before the East-Indiaman is out of sight! Did you ever see a more stately creature? How beautifully one-half of her canvas catches the sunshine, while the remainder is as dark as night from that little black canopy of a cloud that so mysteriously hovers over her! This is certainly the most beautiful day for lights and shades that we have had yet.”

  “Oh, my poor Agnes!” said the general, heaving a deep sigh, but with so comic an expression of countenance as only to make his wife smile.

  “What means that tender sigh, my dear?” said she, looking at him with an evident expectation of hearing something that would amuse her. But General Hubert shook his head, and replied in a voice at least half serious, —

  “I am very much afraid, dearest, that I bring news which will vex you.”

  “What do you mean, Hubert?” cried Agnes, a little impatiently; “it cannot be anything the matter about the boys, or you would not look so half-disposed to jest as you do.”

  “Probably not, Agnes. No, dearest, I have heard nothing about the boys. But—”

  And here he stopped, turning his eyes at the same time upon the two little girls, and then with a smile upon their governess. This lady returning the smile, rose instantly, and, stretching out a hand to either pupil, said, “This is lazy work, young ladies; remember, we have had no walk yet.”

  The children, or at any rate, the elder one, looked a little inclined to linger and hear what papa was going to say; but the habit of obedience seemed too strong to be broken, and after one short questioning look that received no encouragement, she accepted the offered hand and the trio set off together, leaving Mrs. Hubert waiting for the disclosure which her husband was evidently come on purpose to make, with a curiosity that seemed to increase in exact proportion to its delay.

  “I do not like sending that, dear, excellent Miss Wilmot off so cavalierly,” said the general, watching the retreating party; “nevertheless, I am much obliged to her for understanding my look so readily; for I should scarcely like to trust to your philosophy, Agnes, the reception of the news I bring while Elizabeth was here.”

  “But nobody is here now, my dear general!” she replied; “and I implore you to tell me instantly what tills terrible news is.”

  The general put his hand into his waistcoat-pocket and drew forth from it two visiting-cards, and a three-cornered note. Agnes stretched forth her hand — received them — and read aloud —

  “MRS. A. O’DONAGOUGH.

  “Miss O’DONAGOUGH.

  East Cliff.”

  and again on the other card —

  “MR. A. O’DONAGOUGH.

  East Cliff.”

  “Montague! Are you jesting with me?” were the first words uttered by Agnes after reading these most unexpected names.

  “No, truly am I not, Agnes,” he replied. “I took these cards and the note you hold in your hand, which was left with them, from the hall-table as I entered the house ten minutes ago; and, guessing whereabouts I should find you, set off again instantly to impart the news they convey. But do not look so really and truly frightened, Agnes! Aunt Barnaby is Aunt Barnaby no longer.”

  Agnes shook her head: “Ah! Hubert, you know better than that!

  A rose by any other name — my dear, dear husband! How will you he able to bear it?”

  “You shall see, Agnes; things are most delightfully changed with me, dear love, since the days you seem to remember so distinctly when the Barnaby, I will not deny it, had power very considerably to shake my nerves. But pray read your note: I am a little curious, I own, to see how she introduces herself.”

  Mrs. Hubert opened the note, and read aloud as follows:—” You will easily believe, my beloved Agnes, that amidst all the delightful feelings produced by returning to my native country, the hope of once more pressing you to my heart predominates. Gracious Heaven, what a moment it will be for me when I present to you my darling child, and when I receive yours in my arms! When may this be, my dearest niece? Of course, neither Mr. O’Donagough, or myself, or our sweet girl, have any engagements that would interfere for a moment with our ardent wish of seeing you and yours. I shall wait with the greatest impatience till I hear from you, and trust that you will fix no very distant hour, my beloved Agnes, for our meeting. Mr. O’Donagough charges me to present his respectful compliments to General Hubert; and Martha, whose young eyes beam with affection whenever your names are mentioned, murmurs gently in my ear, ‘Send my kind love, mamma, to all my dear young cousins.’ For some few lingering hours, then, adieu, my dear sister’s own daughter! and believe me ever your devotedly attached aunt, “MARTHA COMPTON O’DONAGOUGH.”

  Having finished this epistle, Mrs. Hubert put it into the hands of her husband, as if it were impossible that he could have fully received all its terrible meaning from her delivery of it. As she did this, the expression of her fair face was so deplorably tragical, and so humbly deprecative, that the general, though somewhat chagrined himself at this unexpected announcement, could not retain his gravity, but laughed aloud.

  “And you make a jest of it, Montague!” she exclaimed; “is that laugh genuine? or is it only feigned, to prevent my perceiving how deeply annoyed you are?”

  “Not feigned, upon my word and honour, Agnes. Nor do I believe that Aunt Betsy herself, though generally grave enough upon the subject of Mrs. Barnaby, could refrain from joining me were she here, to see your piteous countenance. How can you be so foolish, my dear wife? How can the elder lady, or her young daughter, or her very reverend husband, possess any real power over our happiness now? Send her word, dear, that you will call upon her at two o’clock to-morrow; I will not let you go to-day, for you look fit for nothing but a gallop over the downs. Come along, Agnes, I’ll have the horses out directly.”

  The gloom which had rested on her beautiful countenance, was chased by a smile as bright and sudden in its influence, as the sunbeams whose effects she had just been studying.

  “Oh, my dear husband, how I do love you!” said she, gaily taking his arm, and moving towards the stairs in the cliff with a step that seemed in unison with the recovered lightness of her heart. “I hope you do not think my dismay at receiving this unexpected news arises from my own personal distaste to Aunt Barnaby’s society? I do assure you, that were it not for the dread I feel lest you should be annoyed by her, somewhat in the same style as I have witnessed formerly, I should not feel the slightest displeasure at it. Perhaps, even, I might be almost able to persuade myself that I should like to see her. Her little girl I really do wish very much to see. She must be within a few months of the same age as Elizabeth, and notwithstanding all my greatness, Hubert, as your honoured wife, I have no inclination to forget how nearly they are related.”

  “No more have I, sweet Agnes; and it was precisely for that reason, I gave the look to Miss Wilmot, which made her lead away the c
hildren. I suspected that you would betray a little more wonder, and a little less joy, on first receiving the intelligence, than might be easily forgotten. This would have been unfair. I should not particularly wish Elizabeth to make Mrs. A. O’Donagough her model; but I see no reason why a little girl of her own age, who must have been brought up simply at least, and without any great pretension, in the remote shades of New South Wales, should not obtain such a share of her love and good graces, as her near relationship gives her a right to expect. So torment yourself no more, Agnes, about my miseries on the subject. I could feel well inclined to laugh at the vehemence of my own feelings, in days of yore, on the subject of this poor lady, and do not, I assure you, anticipate the least danger of a relapse.”

  “I often think, Montague,” she replied, “that you have some mystical mode of reading my heart. It so perpetually happens, that you do and say exactly the things I most wish, even when circumstances would lead me to expect something different. But shall I confess that I now feel perfectly ashamed of myself from the excess of vexation this three-cornered epistle caused me? solely, I believe, from its expressions of familiar affection. I was foolish enough to think, Hubert, that you would not like your daughter to be claimed as a relative by this obscure young cousin.”