Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

“I do not feel quite competent to answer that question,” replied her husband. “He certainly did not tell me he was not, yet somehow or other I doubt it. I think, from his appearance, that it is most probable he went out as a missionary — not of the Church of England, — and if so, it is as likely as not, that on returning he left his frock behind him. He said something about young men’s first ardent impressions and opinions being liable to change, and then muttered something about himself as being an example of this. But I felt no inclination for the autobiography which I fancied was coming upon me, and as he did not seem inclined to take wine, I put a stop to it by joining you.”

  “Very skilfully managed,” said Agnes; “and to say truth, I have sufficient faith in your generalship, mon général, to prevent my having much fear about your individual annoyance. But of all our difficulties the greatest is behind! Alas! Montague, who is it must break to Aunt Betsy, on her arrival, the astounding fact that her niece, Martha, is in Europe — in England — in Sussex — in Brighton — perhaps in this very house! Who is it, General Hubert, that will tell her this?”

  “Dearest Agnes! It can only be yourself,” replied her husband, maliciously.

  “Hubert! have you the heart?”

  “Why, no, I rather think I have not,” he replied. “But do you not think the wisest way will be for us to go through the scene together? If you insist upon my making the announcement tête-à-tête, you will have it all to go through again afterwards.”

  “True! — most true! Let us be together, Montague!”

  “And pray, my love,” resumed the general, laughing, “do you think it will be necessary to surround yourself with the same sort of chevaux de frise when the event is made known to your father?”

  “Oh! no, not at all! — I am quite sure that everything which recalls the memory of my poor mother, has a charm for him. And then, observe, he has never seen my aunt Barnaby as you did, Montague, in the terrible days of her Clifton brilliance. Still less, if possible, does he know anything of her various offences against aunt Betsy; so that to this moment he is perfectly free from any feeling of dislike towards her of any kind. He must be aware, I suppose, that we have quizzed her letters a little — but that’s nothing. And do you not think, dearest Montague, that it will be but right and proper to leave him as much as possible in the same favourable state of mind towards her? Poor thing! I fear she is not more likely to make friends now, than formerly, and her plea of being my own mother’s sister does often come upon me with a painful conviction of its strength!”

  “Let it not be painful, dear Agnes!” replied her husband, kindly; “you may be obliging and useful to her in many ways, which need not interfere with our own comfort. Depend upon it the worst part of the re-union is over. What Elizabeth says of the young lady, will infallibly prove true of the whole party. They are not at all more likely to like us than we are to like them, and I shrewdly suspect they are all three yawning, at this moment with as much genuine weariness as ourselves. So let us go to rest, dearest, without permitting our Australian cousins to haunt us even in our dreams.

  CHAPTER XIV.

  DURING the fortnight which followed, General and Mrs. Hubert, with their eldest daughter, were absent from Brighton on a visit, at a friend’s house, about twenty miles distant. Mrs. O’Donagough considered this as a most unfortunate contretems, and bewailed her ill-luck accordingly; but to say the truth, neither her husband nor her daughter shared her sorrow.

  Mr. Allen O’Donagough was perfectly satisfied for the present by having convinced himself that no floating vision of Major Allen existed in any cell of memory, either with the general or his lady, which could be called to fight and fife again by looking at him.

  It was not then, and it was not there, however, that he hoped to profit by the acquaintance, and he was quite as well pleased to be left just at first in the free and unobserved enjoyment of his restoration to the pastimes of “auld lang syne,” without having before his eyes the fear of not being sufficiently aristocratical in the estimation of General Hubert.

  As to Miss Patty, the intensity of her happiness was much too great to leave room for anything like regret. Sallying forth at least six times in every day, sometimes in one smart set of ribbons, and sometimes in another, sure each time of meeting “lots of men,” as she remarked to her mamma, “who did nothing but stare at her as long as she was in sight,” how could she fail to await with patience the coming on of the adventures which she was determined to have some day or other with those “two darlings” who had bowed to Elizabeth? She did wait with patience, or rather she could hardly be said to wait at all, for every hour of every day had its allotted joy, till at last she ceased to care about “those two young fellows” at all.

  No sooner was breakfast over every sunshiny morning, than either father or mother were told that they must come with her to the pier; and either father or mother obeyed, nothing loth, sharing with parental pride in her delight, as every eye followed her in her laughing, bounding, ringlet-shaking, ribbon-fluttering course.

  “That’s Dacre, mamma! Ain’t he beautiful? He’s major in the — . The maid says he is going to he married, but I’ll be hanged if I believe a word of it. He didn’t ought to look that way at me, mamma, if he’s going to be married, did he?” — may be quoted as one among a thousand speeches which proved the amiable tone of confidential familiarity which existed at this time between Mrs. O’Donagough and her daughter, and it would be doing the fond mother injustice, were it not added, that all such outpourings of her young daughter’s heart were welcomed with a sort of joyous sympathy, which fostered and strengthened every feeling they displayed.

  Nor was Mr. Allen O’Donagough a whit less indulgent to his blooming heiress. Not, indeed, that she so frequently made him the confident of her military speculations as her mother; on the contrary, his presence generally acted in some degree as a check on her communications in this fine: nevertheless, there were not wanting a multitude of occasions on which his affection, and her influence, were displayed. She made him subscribe to both the principal libraries, because, as she said, “it was so abominably provoking to know that anybody that one particularly wanted to see was lounging at either, and not to be able to go in, and sit down for a little while, if one liked it.” She repeatedly coaxed him to take places at the theatre for herself and her mamma, though he protested that the lamps made his head ache so much, that he could not stay with them; but this want of gallantry was fully atoned for, by his making acquaintance at the billiard-table with one lieutenant and two ensigns, whom he brought home to play whist, and eat lobster salad, twice in the course of the week; thereby putting the keystone to his daughter’s triumphant felicity, by giving her the chance, every time she went out, that three officers in full uniform might turn round on meeting her and her mamma, and clank their swords upon the pavement beside them, for as many blessed moments as they could spare.

  In short, Patty felt convinced that it was impossible to have a better father, and had the point been still unsettled, his conduct in a little scene which took place after they had been in Brighton about a week, would have put the matter quite out of doubt.

  “Papa,” said the lively girl one morning, as they amused themselves by standing together to watch the bathers, “Papa, you must let me bathe!”

  “Bathe, Patty?” exclaimed Mr. O’Donagough in reply; “what on earth should you bathe for? Why you are the very picture of health, child, and a very pretty picture too, I must say. Better let well alone, Patty. The sea may tan your nice skin for what I know.”

  “Not it, papa!” cried Patty, snapping her fingers gaily in his face. “My skin will bear more than that before it is spoiled, I’ll answer for it; and bathe I must, papa. Upon my word and honour I must! Now do just look at those heads bobbing up and down, and peeping round to look at each other. Isn’t that capital fun now? Indeed, indeed, papa, you must let me bathe; and if you don’t, I won’t mind a single word you say about wearing shabby things out of sight,
or anything else, for a month to come. You had better mind what I say at once, Pappy,” added the young lady, mimicking her mamma’s constant phrase when lecturing herself, and only substituting Pappy for Patty, at the end of it.

  This last sally was more than the father could withstand; the mimicry was excellent, and his enjoyment of it so great, that he swayed himself backwards and forwards upon the sea-rail, over which he hung till his daughter seized the flaps of his coat to pull him back, lest he should fall over it.

  “You little devil, you!” burst from him as soon as he could recover his voice. “I should like to see the man that could say you nay. And so you must bathe, must you? And hob your handsome head up and down among the rest of ’em? And so you shall, saucy one, if you like it. Only it must not be above once a week, Miss Patty, remember that, for it comes deuced dear, I promise you.”

  In short, in one way or another, the first week, and the second week wore pleasantly away, notwithstanding the absence of their great relations, and considerably before the expiration of the fortnight, Mrs. O’Donagough herself confessed, that much as she doted upon her darling Agnes, Brighton was a very delightful place, even though she was not there to enjoy it with her.

  The daily increasing intimacy between Mr. O’Donagough and the sporting portion of the officers quartered in and near the town, had unquestionably much to do with this general family feeling that Brighton was the most agreeable place in the world; but about three days after the departure of the Huberts, another circumstance occurred which greatly enhanced their enjoyment of it.

  In the same house with the O’Donagough family, occupying the front parlour as their sitting-room, lodged two young ladies, sisters, of an uncertain age, but of the most certain decorum and respectability. The windows of their parlour, commanding as they did the approach to the house-door, and a full unbroken view of the steps leading to it, enabled these young ladies to form a very just and accurate estimate of the number and quality of the guests who visited “the family in the drawing-room.”

  “Tell me who are your friends, and I will tell you what you are,” was a proverb, the recondite wisdom of which was familiar to the minds of both the sisters, and it would have been difficult to find an occasion on which it would have been more profitably applicable. A few days of diligent observation, followed by a clear-headed logical deduction of conclusions from premises, enabled the two Miss Perkinses to decide, beyond the possibility of a doubt, that the O’Donagoughs were persons of high consideration, and the most unquestionable respectability. In the first place, the approach of General Hubert’s stylish servant had been noted, commented upon, and duly estimated; and when the visit of the general himself and his lady followed, whose names and persons were as well known to the whole motley mass of Brighton elegance as those of royalty itself, the vicinity of such neighbours became matter of very serious importance indeed. Then quickly followed the information, on the unquestionable authority of the maid of the house, that they had all actually dined at General Hubert’s, and were, moreover, very nearly related to him. After this intelligence reached them, the excellent good sense of the Miss Perkinses decided that a feeling of what they owed to themselves rendered it absolutely necessary that they should in some way or other find means of becoming personally acquainted with the occupiers of the drawing-room apartment.

  This matter was still in discussion between the two sisters, though more as to the feasibility of the object they had in view, than from any doubt as to the propriety of the measure, when it was observed by both the ladies, each from the window which she especially called her own, that several military gentlemen, of different ages, but all, as Miss Matilda observed, looking perfectly like men of fashion, were coming and going, both morning and evening, in a manner that gave every reason to believe they were on terms of great intimacy with the family they came to visit.

  No one in any degree acquainted with the moral and social map of the ordinary existence of single ladies, “living on their means,” and passing a season at Brighton, can doubt for a moment that this discovery very sharply pricked the sides of the Miss Perkinses’ intent of becoming acquainted with Mrs. O’Donagough. In fact, it produced a sort of irritating intensity of purpose, especially in the mind of the youngest sister, which could hardly fail, sooner or later, of achieving its object.

  “That is the third I have watched in and out to-day!” said Miss Matilda, in a voice that faltered from agitation, as Cornet Dartmore, of the — dragoons, passed out upon the pavement.

  “The third, is it? I have seen two,” returned the less observant elder sister; and then, after a moment of reflection, she added, “Of course, Matilda, the O’Donagoughs must see a great deal of the military at General Hubert’s, and in that way I dare say they will get acquainted with them all.”

  “Of course they do, Louisa. You don’t suppose I was so stupid as to express any surprise at it — quite the contrary; for I am sure I should think it the most unnatural thing in the world if they did not. What I was thinking of, and what I very often do think of, Louisa, was that all the vulgar, commonplace nonsense people talk, about the disagreeableness of being an old maid, does not signify one single farthing. I, for one, despise it from the bottom of my heart. But what I know does signify, and in reality makes all the difference between being happy and miserable, is having the cleverness, good luck, or whatever it is, not to be left out of everything that is going on; and just to know gentlemen enough to speak to now and then, or to take a turn with one, like other people, if it was only for two or three minutes at a time.”

  “That is perfectly true, my dear,” replied Miss Perkins, “and it is just like your good sense and right way of thinking to say it; and it certainly is very hard, when people are as reasonable as you are, that they should not have what they wish.”

  “I do think it is,” said Matilda, with a gentle sigh; “and I give you my word and honour that, if I know my own heart, I should he perfectly contented and perfectly happy, if we could but get into a gay set of acquaintance. But that I do wish for, and I won’t deny it.”

  “To he sure it would he a great blessing in everyway!” replied the elder sister, with much feeling. “What a difference it would make every day of our lives! and of course, Matilda, you think about it still more than I do, and it is very natural you should, my dear. You are five years younger than I am, and that makes a great difference, particularly just at your age.”

  “Five years and three months,” rejoined the younger. “My birthday is in September, almost the end, and yours in July, at the very beginning.”

  “Very true, my dear, so it is indeed. And besides, you happen to he so very remarkably young-looking, Matilda, that you look like a mere girl beside me. I am sure anybody in the world might take you for a dozen years younger than I am, at the very least, instead of five, or five and a quarter.”

  “I don’t know about that, my dear Louisa,” replied the younger sister, modestly. “I suppose I do look rather young, because everybody says so; and besides you don’t make the most of yourself, and I am sure I wish you did; you would look as young again if you would but take a little pains about it. That is one great reason of the difference, for I won’t deny that I do take a great deal of pains, and so I think one ought. In my opinion one owes it to oneself, and it is quite a duty not to neglect it.”

  After this there was a pause of some minutes, during which both sisters assiduously continued the needlework on which they were employed; but in fact their silence proceeded more from the crowding of their ideas than from any lack of them.

  “What do you think would he the best way, Louisa?” pronounced in an accent half playful, half shy, by Moss Matilda, were the next words uttered.

  “The best way to do what, my dear?” responded Miss Louisa, with a look of perfect and most genuine innocence; for in truth the mind of the elder sister had been occupied in meditation on the general question of oldmaidism, and not on that particular branch of it which concerned the
officers who-visited the family in the drawing-room.

  “Don’t you remember what we were talking about, sister?” said the younger, colouring a little, and somewhat in an accent of reproach.

  “Yes, to be sure I do, my dear; about the foolishness of caring so overmuch about being married.”

  “No, no, I don’t mean that, Louisa! we were talking of something quite different. I want you to say, sister, what you think would be the best and most lady-like way of making acquaintance with Mrs. O’Donagough. I am more and more convinced, the longer I think of it, that it ought to be done somehow or other. It is really too stupid sitting here like two fools, and speaking to nobody.”

  “Dear me! Think what a head I have got! If you will believe me, I didn’t the least bit remember that we had been talking about that,” replied the more resigned and tranquil-minded elder sister.

  “Then I wish you would remember it, Louisa! It is excessively hard upon me to have everything left for me to manage. Do tell me, will you, at once, what you think would be the most advantageous way of beginning the acquaintance?”

  “Upon my word, Matilda, that is no easy thing to say. People so highly connected, you must remember, are never so easy of access as those that are less distinguished; and though I don’t mean to say that people in our situation of life, living as we do independently on our own fortunes, are not company for anybody, yet this family cannot be treated in the same way one might go to work with common ordinary ladies and gentlemen, like the Larkins last year at Hastings, you remember, or those dear, good-natured Thompsons at Worthing. But, to be sure, Matilda, it would be a very great thing for us both, and particularly for you, my dear. The place so full and all!”

  “It would be just everything, Louisa! and one way or another it must be managed. That fine tall girl of theirs looks the very picture of good nature, and Hannah says she isn’t the least bit proud in any way; chattering away with her about the officers, and everything else, in the kindest manner possible,” replied Miss Matilda, eagerly. “I would give the world to know her!”