Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  “So, Sir Edward and his rich ward have settled accounts I hear, and are the best friends in the world again. They say that Sir Edward’s management has been admirable, and that there never was known so profitable a minority. It is a strange match that he is going to make. I beg your pardon, however, my dear young lady, I totally forgot the near relationship.”

  “What match, my lord?” said Elizabeth, striving to speak tranquilly, “and of what relationship does your lordship speak?”

  “Mrs. O’Donagough is your mother’s aunt, my dear, is she not?”

  “She is, my lord,” replied the poor girl, with lips as white as ashes, and a voice so hoarse as to be hardly intelligible.

  Lord Mucklebury perceived that she was suffering from some painful emotion, and a moment’s thought convinced him that he had made a most unfortunate hit, and that this collateral descendant of his proud old friend, Lady Elizabeth Norris, was wounded beyond bearing by being reminded of her vulgar connections. Amused by this strong trait of hereditary feeling, yet much too really polite to he capable of exciting it further, his lordship rejoined in a tone of flourishing compliment.

  “Distant as the connection is, Miss Hubert, there is some share of the same remarkable beauty that I now see before me. Sir Henry Seymour would never have become attached to Miss O’Donagough, if the young lady’s eyes had not sparkled with something of kindred brightness to your own.”

  Another group of morning visitors entered at this moment, and among them Elizabeth fancied she saw some one to whom she wished immediately to pay her compliments. It appeared, however, that upon drawing near the door, she discovered that she was mistaken, for standing aside while the party passed in, she waited only till the doorway was clear, then slipped through it, and was not again visible that morning.

  Mrs. Hubert had remarked her daughter’s exit; she remarked also that she did not return, and wishing to inquire if it were any ailment which occasioned this sudden retreat, she entered the dressing-room of Elizabeth before she proceeded to make her dinner toilet in her own.

  “Is anything the matter with you, my love?” she said, approaching the easy-chair into which the young lady had thrown herself; “why did you leave the drawing-room so suddenly? You look as if you had been crying, Elizabeth.”

  “No, mamma. There is nothing at all the matter with me, only I have been surprised, very much surprised; but the mystery is quite explained. I have found out, mamma, the reason why Caroline was so anxious to be introduced to the O’Donagoughs, and why she seemed so extremely interested about them.”

  “Have you, Elizabeth?” replied her mother, drawing a chair, and sitting down beside her. “Do, pray, communicate the discovery to me, for I confess the whole thing has piqued my curiosity exceedingly.”

  “Sir Henry Seymour is going to be married to my cousin Martha.” —

  “Sir Henry Seymour going to be married to your cousin Martha? That is a very foolish jest, my dear, whoever invented it,” replied her mother, with rather a disdainful smile.

  “Lord Mucklebury did not speak of it as any jest, mamma, but as a fact perfectly well known. I am surprised as much as you can be,” continued Elizabeth, “but I see no reason for doubting its truth; on the contrary, have we not the greatest reason for believing that it is true? How else can we account, mamma, for the strange scene of this morning?”

  “I should account for it in any way, Elizabeth, rather than this,” and there was a glow of painful feeling on Mrs. Hubert’s cheek as she said these words, which caused Elizabeth to move still nearer to her, and to say as she took her hand and tenderly pressed it, “My dearest mother, is there any other possible way in which we can account for it?”

  Mrs. Hubert did not immediately reply; there were many thoughts working together in her head, which kept her silent. The young man of whom they spoke was a favourite with her, though the vexation and anxiety which he had caused to his guardian were well known to her in every particular, for Lady Stephenson and herself were truly sisters. But notwithstanding all this, notwithstanding the lamentations she had been accustomed to hear concerning his aversion to a college life, and his very blamable frolic of secreting himself for nearly a year from the knowledge of his attached though somewhat pertinacious guardian, notwithstanding all this, Mrs. Hubert both liked and esteemed the youth. His tender devotion to his young orphan sister; his repentance for the wrong-headed obstinacy of his concealment expressed with such manly frankness; his joyous, yet gentle spirit, and the bright intelligence which sparkled through every lively sally, had won from her approval that she was aware was rapidly approaching to affection, and the more rapidly because her husband shared it. Neither of them, perhaps, were insensible to the evident admiration with which Elizabeth had inspired him, and, though as yet the subject had never been named between them, neither of them felt indifferent about it, or unaware that it was hardly possible any man could propose for her that they should be more cordially inclined to approve. All this was too fully in Mrs. Hubert’s head to make it at all easy for her to reply to her daughter’s question. Elizabeth watched her mother’s countenance during this interval, and, at length, she repeated, “Is it possible, mamma, to account for it otherwise?”

  Thus forced to speak, she said, “Forgive me, Elizabeth, but I must have better authority than yours before I believe it. Lord Mucklebury is a professed jester — he probably meant to mystify you — or it is possible that amidst his flights and flourishes you have misunderstood him. So I shall not set down Sir Henry Seymour as the fiancé of Miss O’Donagough, till I have learnt it from some other quarter than the facetious Lord Mucklebury.”

  So saying, Mrs. Hubert rose, and, having received a very fervent kiss from her silent daughter, left her room, and immediately repaired to that of Miss Seymour.

  The poor girl had thrown herself upon the bed, and, as it seemed, had actually cried herself to sleep. She started up as Mrs. Hubert approached the bed, and uttering something about being quite ashamed of her laziness, stood up, to hear what her kind friend was come to say to her.

  “My dear Caroline,” said Mrs. Hubert, “will you let me ask you how your brother first became acquainted with the O’Donagough family?”

  An expression of the most painful kind took possession of the young girl’s features, and after the struggle of a moment, her tears began to flow.

  “I cannot bear to distress you, my dear child,” said Mrs. Hubert, “nor can I comprehend how my question can do it. You are, of course, aware that Mrs. O’Donagough is a relation of mine, but both her husband and herself are persons so little likely to fall in your brother’s way, that I feel curious to know the origin of their acquaintance.”

  Instead of replying, Miss Seymour only permitted her tears to flow afresh, and hid her face in her pocket-handkerchief.

  “My dear Caroline! This emotion is most extraordinary! If the idea of this acquaintance is so painful to you, why did you appear so eager, my dear, to be included in it?”

  “For my brother’s sake, Mrs. Hubert, for his sake only; surely you must guess—”

  “That I should never seek the acquaintance for my own,” were the words which would have followed, had not the young lady, recollecting that Mrs. O’Donagough was the aunt of her kind hostess, suddenly stopped herself, amidst blushes and renewed agitation.

  Mrs. Hubert waited for a moment to see if she would go on, but finding she did not, she dropped the hand she had taken, and saying, with a sigh which she could not repress, “Yes, my poor Caroline, I do guess,” left the room.

  CHAPTER XXX.

  As Mrs. O’Donagough descended the stairs from Mrs. Hubert’s drawing-room, she suddenly recollected the existence of her beloved brother Mr. Willoughby; and, with a little inward laugh of delight at remembering how very much she was now above caring for the kindness and patronage of any little old man in the world, she stopped short in her passage through the hall, though it was ringing with the sound of “Mrs. O’Donagough’s carriage,” an
d demanded of the porter the address of this, till now, very precious connection.

  On being informed that Mr. Willoughby-resided in Park-lane, she determined to “take him,” as she told Patty, and the Misses Perkins, in her way to Hyde Park, where she intended to regale the world of fashion for half an hour by the sight of herself and her bright-eyed daughter. Could the gentle Mr. Willoughby have had the slightest glimpse of fore-knowledge as to who was making her rattling, dashing way towards him, it is probable that, despite all his conjugal respect for the memory of his first lady, he would have retired to his bed-room, and declared himself, very truly perhaps, too ill to see any one. For the impression left by his adventures at Brighton was terrible, and of the kind not likely to evaporate by the process of meditation. But though in all the ordinary affairs of life it may be very truly said, that —

  Old experience doth attain To something like propheric strain, yet in this case it would have led him altogether wrong. A change had come over Mrs. O’Donagough, which insured his safety more effectually than any bolts and bars could have done, for had her feelings still retained the same ardent warmth towards him, such impediments would hardly have rendered him safe. But now the tempest of her love was effectually stilled, and all that remained of the violent emotions which had so strongly moved her, was a dignified yet condescending politeness, which, her dress also being taken into consideration, was sure to keep him from any further personal violence.

  Fortunately the mild old gentleman was not alone, when his drawing-room door was gently opened by his well-taught servant, and the names of Mrs and Miss. O’Donagough pronounced. His daughter, Mrs. Stephenson, was seated beside his arm-chair, and as he involuntarily exclaimed, “Oh dear! oh dear!” she cheered him by replying, “Never mind, papa! I’ll stay with you; I want to see her again immensely. I am told she is come into a great fortune, and that she is ten thousand times a greater curiosity than ever.”

  These words were hardly whispered, before the subject of them swam into the room radiant with rouge, and glossy as the richest satin could make her. Had she found Mr. Willoughby alone, it is very likely she might have been able to speak plain, and that a few moderate affectionate inquiries would have sufficed to satisfy her feelings, and to display as much of her changed circumstances as the occasion required; but the sight of Mrs. Stephenson inspired her with very different thoughts and purposes. She remembered how the noble spirit on which she prided herself had been shaken by the crowd in green and gold; and more bitterly still did she remember how often the application of the little lady’s eye-glass had stood in the stead of every other salutation, when she had met her amidst the crowded promenades of Brighton. How her heart at that moment throbbed with thankfulness as she remembered that the lace on her mantlet cost a guinea a yard!

  But her throat swelled, externally and internally too; a third chin supervened, and the clearness of her articulation was considerably affected. Patty followed, looking, past all contradiction, exceedingly handsome, but as much like a gentlewoman as a ringleted head in a hairdresser’s shop window.

  “How do, dear sir?” said Mrs. O’Donagough, lispingly, and holding out a single finger as she approached the idolised brother-in-law of former days. “I know you are but a poor creature as to health, and therefore I have waived all ceremony, and come to inquire for you without taking any notice of your not having waited upon me. Never mind about getting up; perhaps you have got the gout. There, there, sit down, and keep yourself quiet; you look dreadfully thin, to be sure, but yet I may pay you a compliment upon your complexion: if you ain’t flushed, you’ve got a capital colour. But perhaps you may be heated, sir? Dear me! what a monstrous small room you have got! When you are well enough to come and see me, sir, in Curzon-street, you will quite enjoy the size of my rooms.”

  Inexpressibly relieved, Mr. Willoughby replied with great kindness of manner that he was very glad she had met with a house she liked, and hoped Mr. O’Donagough and the young lady were quite well.

  “You do not remember me, Mrs. O’Donagough?” said Mrs. Stephenson, laughing; “we have never met since we left Brighton, and the gaieties of London have put all your former acquaintances out of your head. I hope I see you very well?”

  “Yeas — perfectly well, I thank you. I adore London, and never really enjoyed my health till we settled here,” replied Mrs. O’Donagough.

  “It does, in truth, seem to have agreed with you extremely.

  You look charmingly plump and well, and so does your daughter too; she is so wonderfully grown and improved, that I should not have known her without hearing her named. Have you seen your cousin Compton, lately, Miss Patty?”

  “No, ma’am,” said Miss Patty, very sulkily.

  “Indeed? That is too bad of him!” rejoined the mischievous lady, “for he is in the Guards now, and constantly in town.”

  “Is he?” said Mrs. O’Donagough, in a tone of rather languid indifference; “I wonder I have never heard Seymour mention him. But Henry knows,” she added, with a slight laugh, “that I never patronise mere boys.”

  “Who is Henry? Are you speaking of Sir Henry Seymour?” said Mrs. Stephenson, half amused and half puzzled.

  “Yeas — Sir Henry Seymour; your brother Sir Edward’s ward, you know. He is a great friend of ours,” she added, after a pause, and with her eyes very fully directed to Patty.

  “Impossible!” had very nearly escaped Mrs. Stephenson’s lips in return; for she understood the look, and the accent too, exactly as it was intended she should do, and having ideas of her own on the subject of Sir Henry Seymour, which rendered the information they conveyed extremely fax from agreeable, she had some difficulty not to pronounce a flat contradiction. But having thought better of it before the word was spoken, she only said, “Have you known him long?”

  “Oh! yes,” was the reply; but these two little words were spoken in a very skilful manner, and said much.

  Had Mrs. Stephenson been rather less warm-hearted and warm-headed, she might have given Sir Henry Seymour the advantage of a little more consideration of probabilities than she did upon hearing this “Oh! yes.” But she looked at the great brilliant staring beauty opposite to her, and remembering the pale unobtrusive loveliness of Elizabeth, permitted herself to tingle to the fingers’ ends with indignation, while she received the impression that the man whom she had fixed upon in her heart for her nephew, was adoring the meretricious goddess instead of the genuine angel.

  If not reasonable enough to acquit him, however, she soon recovered sufficient discretion to conceal what she felt, and consoled herself with the belief that she should still be in time to give such a caution to her sister Agnes, as might check the present intimate intercourse between the young people, before it had gone far enough to compromise the happiness of her dearly beloved, and greatly admired niece.

  Notwithstanding Mrs. Stephenson’s quickly awakened caution, the well-contented Mrs. O’Donagough saw that she had made an impression; and skilfully passed on to other themes, not having any wish or intention of fixing the imputation which she had suggested at all more deeply than might suffice to plague the faithless Sir Henry a little, and add a feather to her daughter’s coronet of conquests, without committing herself by any positive assertions.

  “I suppose you don’t plague yourself about going to court now, Mr. Willoughby? it’s a dreadful bore, isn’t it? But that’s one of the troubles which having a daughter to bring out occasions!” said Mrs. O’Donagough, with a sigh; then turning abruptly to Mrs. Stephenson, she added, “When is Elizabeth Hubert to be presented?”

  It is probable that this question, preceded as it was by the hint of Mrs. O’Donagough’s own intentions, might not have received a very direct answer, had it not been that the fair lady to whom it was addressed was entirely lost in reverie, and quite unconscious of everything that had been said since Mrs. O’Donagough’s insidious “Oh! yes,” had entered her ears. Without any hesitation, therefore, she replied, with a slight start from the
suddenness of the address, “At the next drawing-room.”

  “Well, Patty, we must not indulge to-day in a long gossip with your good uncle; we must be off, dear, or positively we shall not get through what we have to do; Lady Susan always keeps me such an age! Adieu! brother Willoughby! Come and see us, there’s a good man — it will do you a vast deal of good, depend upon it. Changing the air is always good for an invalid; and most certainly you can hardly have a greater change than from this little bit of a room to our suite of drawing-rooms in Curzon-street. Good morning, Mrs. Stephenson; of course I shall be vastly happy to see you, if you choose to call. Ceremony between such very near connections is quite ridiculous. Good morning.”

  Mrs. Stephenson was lost in astonishment, Mr. Willoughby in delight, at the prodigious change which unknown circumstances had wrought in the style and manners of Mrs. O’Donagough.

  “What in the world does all this mean, papa?” exclaimed the still pretty Nora, as soon as the door was closed upon her. “She has ceased to hug you, does not appear to retain the slightest awe of me, and both herself and her Brobdignag beauty are dressed à peindre, that is to say, their dresses are perfect. But unfortunately for such folks, there is no Madame anything who has taken out a patent for disclosing the secret of putting them on. Thank heaven! that is a power still exclusively reserved a nous autres, and not all the Reform Bills in the world can take it from us.”

  “Dearest Nora! that is all very true, I believe,” said her father, rousing himself from the agitation occasioned by the sudden apparition of Mrs. O’Donagough, and profusely steeping his handkerchief in eau de Cologne; “but what are the peculiarities of dress, compared to those of manner? I do as sure you, my dear, that I have the very greatest desire to be kind and cordial to all with whom I became connected by my first marriage. I have very particular reasons for wishing it.