Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  Oh! that this too, too solid flesh would melt!

  she never for a moment was guilty of the folly of hoping that she might be able to make away with it. With this right-minded conviction fully impressed upon her, she gave herself to the study of her toilet, not with the vain hope of lessening her circumference, but with the rational intention of rendering it as little conspicuous as possible. “The general outline,” thought she, “must be indistinct. A sort of floating maze of drapery ought to envelop such a form as mine, in winch the eye cannot justly determine where the natural material ends, and that of the dress begins — a sort of vapoury, misty, decoration should fall around the shoulders, from among which the still handsome face should appear, like that charming portrait that I made Donny stop to look at the other day, where a beautiful head seemed peeping at us through a cloud.”

  Inspired by this idea, the skilful lady set to work, and while Patty and the page were taking their daily exercise round and round the pavement of Berkeley Square, she contrived to fabricate a dress, the capes, sleeves, flounces, and furbelows of winch seemed to wander, and fall, and undulate, and rise again, till, according to her ingenious intention, it would have been difficult for the most accurate eye to detect the points where the lady ended, and her dress began.

  It was thus that she received Lord Mucklebury; and had she not been already fully satisfied with the result of her own labours, and convinced that, however enormously large she might be, it was not at all likely that anybody would observe it, the sight of his lordship would at once have removed from her mind every feeling of alarm, lest HE, at least, should remark invidiously upon her increased bulk — for he had himself, like Father Philip, “prospered marvellously” since he had last presented his portly person before the admiring eyes of our heroine. It was, indeed, evident that he had taken leave of his own shoe-strings for ever, by reason of the intervening paunch, while his jocund cheeks spread widely, and unrestrainedly, over the cravat that formerly sustained them. But nevertheless, Mrs. O’Donagough thought him almost as charming as ever; and when, with both arms put forward to their utmost length, which just enabled the hands to reach beyond the “caponlined” rotundity of his goodly person, he seized cordially upon each of hers, and, bending himself forward, contrived, notwithstanding all impediments, to salute her cheek, she was unconscious of any alteration, but for the better.

  Let it not, however, be supposed for an instant that Mrs. O’Donagough’s feelings were such as Mr. O’Donagough could have disapproved; nothing could be more cruelly unjust than such a suspicion. It was the noble nature, as well as the noble birth, of the amiable peer, which warmed her heart towards him, and which made her feel, more strongly than ever, the immense advantage of such talents and manners as her own, which had enabled her to secure for years, as she subsequently observed to her husband and daughter, the affectionate attachment of a nobleman, whose early feelings for her were of a kind which rarely produced such an after-growth of admiration and esteem. —

  “I rejoice, my dear madam,” said the peer, “to see you looking so charmingly after your long absence — Pel corpo di Bacco! — I hope you have not forgotten your Italian? — Pel corpo di Bacco! you have not lost anything since we parted last. Nor have you gained too much, no, not an atom too much! You are charming, charming, ever! sempre hellissima!”

  “This is, indeed, a most gratifying favour, my dear lord!” replied the fascinated and fascinating lady; “I cannot thank you enough for it! Oh! my lord! after an expatriation of so many years, it is inexpressibly soothing to a heart like mine, to find that those whom my judgment taught me most to value, and my taste to admire, ere I left my native land, are ready to receive me with a friendly greeting on my return to it.”

  “The very same! The very same as ever!” exclaimed Lord Mucklebury, in great delight. “If I were to live a thousand years, my dear Mrs. Barnaby, while I remembered anything, I should remember you!”

  “Oh Lord Mucklebury! It would, indeed, he strange if feelings such as yours were not reciprocal! But, my kind friend, forgive me if I remind you that you must no longer call me Barnaby. Ah! my dear lord! the heart of a woman is destined from her birth to pant for an answering heart! To feelings like mine, the chill solitude of widowed loneliness was intolerable, and though it is denied to us to — to — forgive me! I know pot where my foolish memory would lead me! Suffice it to say, my lord, that soon after my last hurried interview with your lordship, which, as you will remember, I sought for the purpose of giving you the little commission you so generously executed afterwards — soon after that, I discovered, even before I could understand how the thing could be, that I was adored by a man endowed with a thousand fine qualities. After a while — after a little struggle with myself to forget former feelings, I yielded to his wishes, and my name is now O’Donagough.”

  “By sun and moon I swear,” exclaimed Lord Mucklebury, drawing forth’ a cambric handkerchief richly scented, and indulging the lower part of his face by its near neighbourhood, “by sun and moon I swear, that never, since I saw you last, have I met any human being that could equal you, most exquisite Mrs. O’Donagough! God forbid that your amiable husband should be jealous, madam! Ease my heart at once; is this likely to be the case?”

  “Oh no, my lord!” replied Mrs. O’Donagough, with expressive emphasis, and a smile that seemed to say, “He knows my unconquerable virtue too well,”

  “oh no! my lord, not the least jealous, and it will give me more satisfaction than I can easily express, if your lordship will allow me to have the honour of introducing him.”

  “Permit you? Adorable Mrs. O’Donagough, it will be like opening to me the gates of paradise. Upon the honour of a peer,” continued Lord Mucklebury, laying his hand as near his heart as the circumjacent solidities would permit, “upon the honour of a peer, I protest to you that an entrée to your mansion is at this moment what I most greatly covet, and I shall be only too happy if Mr. O’Donagough will permit me to make his acquaintance. Perhaps, too, Madonna delectissima! you will suffer me, for the sake of our long friendship, to present my son to you? I do pledge you my word that he deserves the honour, for he inherits enough of his father’s spirit to enjoy it.”

  “My dearest lord! your condescending kindness overpowers me! I, too, have a young creature, my only surviving child, a girl, my lord, whom I should feel a mother’s pride in showing to you; she has been thought extremely like me — I know not if it be so. On this point, my dear lord, you must judge for yourself.”

  “And so I will, charming Mrs. O’Donagough. But if I find it so, may the gods protect me! I know not what is to become of my heart. O’Donagough! O’Donagough!” repeated the happy-looking nobleman, with an air of great enjoyment, “may I die, madam, if I do not even admire your name. I used to think your former one the most euphonious in the world, because it softened so sweetly into Bamabbia; you know of old my passion for the dolce lingua. But methinks O’Donagough will undergo the same delicious process as well. May I not now call you la mia magnifica O’Donnaccia?”

  His lordship paused for a moment, half frightened at his own audacity, as he remembered that it was just possible his charming old Mend might know enough of the language of which she used to proclaim “her idolatry,” to comprehend the “delicious process” rather too well; but the charming smile with which she listened to him, soon removed his doubts, and he remained convinced that, by whatever name he might choose to call her, she was, and ever must be, the most invaluable addition to his acquaintance that he could ever hope to make.

  Their tête-à-tête, however, was soon brought to a conclusion by the rather boisterous entrance of Patty on her return from her visit to the Miss Perkinses.

  “Ah!” exclaimed Mrs. O’Donagough, “here is my child! my only surviving child, my dear lord! permit me to present her to your lordship.” And so saying, she rose up in all her greatness, moral and physical, or, in plainer English, in all the flutter of expansive drapery and excited spirits, and
throwing one of her arms round the person of her daughter, brought her close before the eyes of the admiring peer. Lord Mucklebury did not rise, for which his corpulency must be pleaded as an excuse, but he received the radiant young lady with a smile, and, after looking at her for a moment, drew her towards him by the hand that had been placed in his, and kissed her.

  The words Lord and Lordship had sufficed to enlighten Patty as to the identity of the great personage who thus honoured her. She knew it must be her mamma’s often-quoted dear Mend, Lord Mucklebury; and therefore, though under other circumstances it is possible that she might not have felt particularly grateful for the salute, she now took it in very good part, and even grinned a little as she withdrew herself with a courtesy from before the condescending nobleman.

  “An extremely fine young lady, indeed!” said his lordship, “and a most charming likeness of her mamma!”

  “You find her like me, my lord?” said Mrs. O’Donagough, in an accent of great tenderness. “Ah! my dear lord! no mother can ever hear that without pleasure!”

  “Upon my honour, madam,” replied his lordship, again spreading his hand upon his breast, “it is impossible in this instance to say whether mother or daughter ought to feel the most flattered by hearing of the resemblance. This young lady, all blooming as she is, may feel perfectly assured that her mother bloomed as brilliantly before her, and that charming mother herself, while looking on the prodigiously fine young creature to whom she has given birth, may smile with two-fold rapture, conscious that she is gazing at once upon herself and child.” This fine speech rather astonished Patty, and she opened her great eyes, and gave her mother a look that seemed to say so. But Mrs. O’Donagough, with her usual happy presence of mind, converted this somewhat impertinent stare into a compliment, by saying —

  “Ah, my Patty! How well I understand that look! you are quite right, dearest! My darling girl is peculiarly alive to the charm of graceful manners, my dear lord; and, sweet creature! she is too young to disguise what she feels.”

  “Sweet creature! sweet creatures both!” cried Lord Mucklebury, with great enthusiasm. “Well dearest?” said Mrs. O’Donagough, playfully untying her daughter’s bonnet, and arranging the multitudinous ringlets of her black hair, “And how did you leave our friends?”

  “Oh lor! — There’s a fine kettle of fish there, mamma,” replied the young lady. “Matilda is in such a way!”

  “Well, well, love; we’ll hear all that by-and-by. It is such an affectionate young heart, my lord! Where she attaches herself, the slightest circumstances appear to her of consequence.”

  “I hope, my dear madam,” replied his lordship, “that she will speedily both feel and inspire precisely the attachment which may be most agreeable to you, and herself too.”

  Patty replied to this with a toss which seemed to say that all that had happened already; but her mother shook her head, and waved her hand, as if she deprecated the awful thought.

  “Alas!” she exclaimed, “she is a child, my lord!” Then abruptly turning to the young lady, she said, “Go, my love, go and find your father; he is in the library, I believe. Tell him that the valued friend he has so often heard me mention — tell him — that Lord Mucklebury is here!”

  Patty left the room, and Mrs. O’Donagough lowering her voice, which lisped a little, as was usual with her, when in full glory, said, —

  “My dear lord, your suggestion, which goes to my very heart from the interest it evinces in the welfare of my child, your suggestion, my dear lord, induces me to communicate to your friendly ear a circumstance which must, for the present, be secret from the world. My sweet girl has already, child as she is, inspired and conceived the attachment of which your lordship speaks, and the connection is so desirable, that we do not think we should be -justifiable in interfering to prevent it, merely on account of her youth. My darling Patty is engaged to Sir Henry Seymour.”

  “Engaged to Sir Henry Seymour?” repeated Lord Mucklebury, interrogatively, and with a look of considerable surprise; “Do you mean Sir Henry Seymour, of Hartley Hall?”

  “Yes!” replied the undaunted Mrs. O’Donagough, “that is the name of one of his places; he is a ward of a near connection of mine, Sir Edward Stephenson.”

  “Certainly, Sir Henry Seymour is, or rather was, his ward: but I did not know, my dear Mrs. Burnaby — I beg your pardon, your present name often escapes me — I did not know that you were related to Sir Edward Stephenson.”

  “Not exactly related, my lord, but nearly connected; Lady Stephenson’s brother, General Hubert, is my nephew by marriage.”

  “General Hubert your nephew, my dear madam!” exclaimed the peer with inexpressible astonishment, “upon my honour I had no idea of it.”

  “It is even so, my lord,” replied the lady, a little piqued, perhaps, at the surprise so freely shown, but greatly pleased at the sort of coup de théâtre effect of the discovery.

  While this interesting communication was making in the drawing-room, Patty had made her way into the library, where she found her father and Foxcroft in very close consultation.

  “So you are here, are you?” said Patty, addressing the exlieutenant, and accompanying the question with a very scornful grimace, that did honour to the courageous firmness of her friendship for the unhappy Matilda. “You’ll find these quarters too hot for you, Mr. Captain, if I don’t much mistake,” she added; “for you may depend upon it I am not going to give up having my own particular friend, Matilda Perkins, here — and I should be happy to know what you would think of meeting her?”

  “I do assure you, my dear young lady, I should not feel the least objection in the world to meeting your amiable friend, and she must have altogether mistaken my motives, if she attributes anything to me which ought to occasion any coolness between us. Unhappily my income is insufficient to permit my marrying a lady without fortune, however charming she may be; but however much this may be a matter of regret on my side, it surely ought not to be a matter of resentment on hers.”

  “Fiddle-de-dee!” replied Patty, turning her back upon him, and addressing her father. “I say, pap,” said she, “there is my Lord Muckle something or other up stairs. It is mamma’s great friend, you know, that she is so often crowing about, and you must come up this very minute, whether you like it or not.”

  “Is that the message that your mother sent to me, Patty?” demanded Mr. O’Donagough.

  “My eye, no, papa! Mamma’s as soft and as sweet as the flowers in May, now that’ she has got this Lord Muckle with her, so come along.”

  “And so I will, Patty; but you must shake hands “with Foxcroft first.”

  “I had rather shake hands with a toad, than with a falsehearted lover,” said Patty.

  “Don’t stand there, talking stuff to me,” replied her father, with the aspect that always won belief as to his being in earnest. So Patty shook hands with Mr. Foxcroft, who then took his departure, but she relieved her feelings by performing sundry grimaces to her father’s back as she followed him up the stairs.

  Nothing could be better than the style in which Mr. O’Donagough permitted himself to be presented to the gay old nobleman, and the few minutes of conversation which followed between them, left exactly the impression on his lordship’s mind he intended; namely, that Mr. O’Donagough was certainly a very decent sort of person, though he had such a queer wife.

  CHAPTER XXVIII.

  WE must not linger to watch every circumstance by which Mr. O’Donagough was led, or rather, by which he led himself, into precisely the position which he desired to fill in the motley mosaic of London society. He kept his Parisian model well in view, and well, too, did he manage all the turnings and windings, the sketchings and shadings, necessary to the production of a perfect copy. During the two years that General Hubert’s family remained abroad, he and his lady between them had contrived to make a circle of acquaintance the most heterogeneous, perhaps, that ever met together in a London drawing-room, which, on the score of variety,
is saying a good deal for it.

  More, perhaps, for the purpose of maintaining his influence over Sir Henry Seymour, by showing how easy it was for him to betray the foolish secret which the young man so pertinaciously desired to keep, than for any particular wish for their society, Mr. O’Donagough had taken especial pains to make the acquaintance of Sir Edward and Lady Stephenson; an ambitious project in which be was greatly assisted by the gentle Lady Stephenson’s wish not to appear proud or repulsive to the near relations of her dear sister Agnes. The gay and wealthy Frederic too, and not a few more of an equally elevated station in society, were frequently not displeased at finding card-tables and high stakes in a private drawing-room, though he, and they too, might have felt considerable repugnance to having their names quoted as frequenters of gaming clubs.

  Lord Mucklebury, and his free-and-easy son also, not unfrequently amused themselves in the receiving rooms of Curzon-street, while Sir Henry Seymour, seeing the statements of O’Donagough respecting his family connection with the Huberts and Stephensons so fully proved, fell completely into the snare that was laid for him, and little as he liked his society, became the frequent guest of the man whose feelings of friendly good will were so extremely important to him. Happy, indeed, did he often think himself at being able, at the risk of losing his money, perhaps, but with the certainty of enjoying an excellent rubber, to escape from the affectionate friendship of Mrs. O’Donagough, and the still more oppressive coquetries of her daughter. A multitude of others, whose names are of no importance to the narrative, were also gradually added to the O’Donagough list of acquaintance, till, by degrees, their soirees became actually crowded, while the quiet master of the mansion kept his station with great constancy in the small third room, with his faithful Foxcroft ever hovering near him, but his partie de jeu varying as occasion required. The great game he was playing at this time, without referring to any particular stakes, whether at whist or piquet, was too important to permit any considerations of minor economy to interfere with it. His rooms were splendidly lighted; strong coffee, excellent liqueurs, and abundant ices, were freely distributed; and though Mrs. O’Donagough, in the ecstasy of finding herself so immensely important a personage, did sometimes exceed both in dress and demeanour the ordinary bounds of sober elegance, yet, on the whole, she was by no means an inefficient partner in the concern. She was indefatigable in her efforts to increase her circle of acquaintance, and what with her handsome house, showy carriage, magnificent dress, and universally recognised auntship to Mrs. General Hubert, these efforts were more successful than those who knew Mrs. O’Donagough best would have deemed possible. Her watchful husband, therefore, was, on the whole, exceedingly well contented, and still continued to think that “his Barnaby” was as well qualified to fill the splendid station in which her good fortune had placed her, as any lady he knew. Not that he was blind to the species of gratification enjoyed in her society by Lord Mucklebury, his son, and some others of the same stamp; but as he perceived that many of