Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  “Oh! the hideous old stick!” thought Miss Patty; “but she is no bad contrast, though, to such a girl as me.”

  “Mercy on me! how shall I ever stand this!” thought the noble spinster. “I have the greatest mind in the world not to go now.”

  But, happily for the débutantes, her ladyship recollected that if she did not go, she should not only have to pay for her own dress, but be obliged to give up the high play in which her soul delighted, or at least to abandon one of the most commodious scenes for it that she had ever enjoyed. So she looked at her two companions and smiled, without uttering a single word of salutation, good, bad, or indifferent.

  “Good morning, dearest Lady Susan!” said Mrs. O’Donagough, perfectly sure that her ladyship’s silence proceeded from envy and mortification at the splendid appearance of herself and her daughter; “I hope we have not hurried you?”

  “I wish we had settled to go an hour earlier,” replied the old lady, perusing the figures of her companions from top to toe; “however, I flatter myself the crowd will be very great.”

  This was literally thinking aloud, and might have puzzled any one who had listened to it, but that Mrs. O’Donagough did not, having caught sight of some passing plumes almost as umbrageous as her own, and becoming from that moment too intent upon peeping into every carriage passed, or passing, to have any distinct consciousness of what was said in her own.

  The crowd at St. James’s was as great as her ladyship could possibly desire, and it was not without difficulty that the three ladies made their way up stairs, and into the presence-chamber. By the time they had achieved this, the senses of Mrs. O’Donagough were so completely bewildered, that she knew not what was said to her, which way to turn, or what to do. On reaching the top of the stairs, her first movement was to seize upon the arm of Lady Susan, but this did not answer, for the wily old lady felt that if she submitted to this, the crowd in which she was glorying would have availed her nothing, and, therefore, without the slightest ceremony she shook off the weighty arm which had seized her, and saying, “Take hold of your daughter’s arm, Mrs. O’Donagough, and walk on,” she managed to glide forward alone, and perform the duty she had undertaken with as little identification of herself with her protégées, as it was well possible to imagine.

  But if Lady Susan Deerwell had reason to rejoice in the crowd, Mrs. O’Donagough and her daughter had still more; for so completely had they, both lost all idea of what they ought to do, and where they ought to go, that but for the impulse from behind, and the occasional repetition of that useful warning, “Go on — go on,” it is probable that they would have performed some very extraordinary evolutions indeed.

  As it was, however, they reached the royal lady in safety, but so much before they expected it, that Mrs. O’Donagough started with such violence as nearly to extinguish the eyes of the unfortunate individual against whom she retreated. Having, however, recovered her equilibrium and her consciousness, she began to make the most violent desire to pause and look about her a little; and nothing short of the gentle violence applied to her huge elbow could have induced her to pass on.

  Finding that no choice was left her, she perforce followed the line that was moving off, and having, by a magnificent tossing round of her lofty head, ascertained that Patty followed, soon reached a point where she found herself at liberty to breathe, look about her, and make herself as conspicuous as possible. Now it was that she found the pleasure which she had promised herself not altogether imaginary. Till this delightful moment, she had been really hurried on in a manner which had made her almost forget her own magnificence, her daughter’s beauty, and the delight of exhibiting both in such a presence. But now she awakened again to a delicious consciousness of it all, and every inch of her seemed to become instinct with lofty thoughts, and dignified delight.

  “Where is Lady Susan, my dear?” she demanded of her staring daughter, in a tone considerably more sonorous than was usually heard from the spot where she stood; “I can see her nowhere! We must stay here, my love, and wait for her.”

  The blooming Patty, nothing loath, drew up by the side of her mamma, and the two ladies stood together in the most conspicuous place they could contrive to occupy, talking in whispers of all around them, and bringing into action such a variety of Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles, as speedily made them the object to which every eye within reach was directed.

  Not long after they had taken possession of this station, a group approached from the presence-chamber, which, for a moment at least, drew all eyes from Mrs. O’Donagough’s geranium velvet train, and flower-and-fringe-bedecked white satin petticoat, nay, even from Patty’s pink, and silver, her tassels, and her trumpery, her rouge, and her ringlets, to fix themselves on the very daintiest vision that ever seemed to come direct from Paradise to grace the circle of a mortal’s court.

  This was a young lady from whose beauteous eyes seventeen summers had scarce sufficed to banish the shy, bright, gazellelike glance of childhood. There was a look of innocent and delicate timidity in her sweet face that, had need been, would have called around her a body-guard of all the preux chevaliers within reach, and yet there was so much of easy grace in every movement of her tall slight person, that one dared not apply the epithet of shy to her (though one might to her eyes), lest it should do her the vile wrong of suggesting an idea of awkwardness. Her dress, train and all, was of white satin, the corsage being decorated only with pearls, and resembling in form to that most historique of fashions in which Vandyke delighted to paint his fair and noble ladies. A narrow bandeau of pearls sufficed to secure the feathers that gracefully drooped over her dark and luxuriant hair, which was parted without ringlets, and gathered into a rich Grecian knot behind.

  Had this beautiful girl been seen surrounded by none but graces and nymphs, she would have shone among them like a planet among the lesser stars, and might have challenged not only the court of St. James’s, but that of Windsor too, with all its beauties, dead as well as living, without any danger of meeting a rival; but there was something singularly striking in the contrast offered by her peculiarly refined appearance and that of poor Patty, who chanced at the moment of her appearance to he in possession of all eyes, excepting, indeed, those which were fixed by preference on her mamma. There was a smile on more faces than one, as she advanced, among those who love to mark whimsical contrarieties; but this smile changed to a look of unmixed astonishment when Mrs. O’Donagough was seen to stretch forth her enormous arm, and seize upon the hand of the delicate creature who was winning her way onward through the yielding crowd.

  Every one, of necessity, left the presence-chamber in single file; and it was only when thus seized upon that Elizabeth Hubert, for she it was who was thus unluckily encountered, turned round her head to look for her mother. Mrs. Hubert was close behind, and despite the equable composure of mind which she usually displayed, she now coloured deeply, and stepped forward to take the arm of her young daughter, with a sort of maternal instinct, not altogether unlike what a dainty doe might have felt, on seeing her pretty fawn run down by a huge elephant.

  “Well! my dear Agnes! if this isn’t luck!” exclaimed Mrs. O’Donagough, releasing the daughter while she made a step in advance to clutch the mother. “I am monstrous glad to see you, for we have absolutely lost Lady Susan. But I don’t mind it at all now that we have met you, for we can all go on together, and then the cousins can look at each other a little, you know; that’s what girls love. But what made you dress her so very plain, my dear? I suppose you think it suits her; everything depends upon style, certainly. Patty looks well, don’t she?”

  While this was uttered, the imprisoned Mrs. Hubert walked onwards without raising her eyes from the ground, and her friends must forgive her if, for once in her life, the quiet, unpretending self-possession of her character gave way before the nervous agitation produced by tills encounter. Yet in the midst of it she felt glad, rather than sorry, that General Hubert was not with them; and though reall
y frightened by the loud tone of her aunt’s terrible laugh, which she well knew must be bringing all eyes upon them, she struggled to sustain such an appearance of composure under the infliction, as should prevent her from herself becoming a part of the comedy they looked upon. But there was one who, notwithstanding all her efforts to look tranquil, saw that she was suffering, and thereupon, with more zeal than discretion perhaps, pressed forward to rescue her and her blushing daughter from their painful companionship.

  “Let Sir Henry inquire for the carriage, mamma!” said Elizabeth, on seeing him approach, and quite forgetting all she had been meditating upon for the last three weeks. Without speaking a word to either party, Sir Henry Seymour wedged himself rather unceremoniously between Mrs. Hubert and her daughter, silently offering an arm to each, which was as silently accepted. But Mrs. O’Donagough was not to be so dismissed. Keeping fast hold of Agnes, notwithstanding the difficulties offered by the presence of the crowd to an arrangement which placed four persons in a row, she put her other arm behind her, and pulling Patty, who was following closely at her heels, into a situation favourable to the manoeuvre, she contrived by a sudden jerk to withdraw Mrs. Hubert’s arm from that of Sir Henry, saying at the same time, “Give your other arm to Patty — there’s a good fellow; I’ll take care of my niece, if you’ll look to the girls, Sir Henry.”

  For a moment the young man forgot his secret, and all the fears connected with it. “Pray take my arm, Mrs. Hubert,” he said, without noticing the request of Mrs. O’Donagough, or appearing either to see or feel Patty, whose plumes were in his face — but this imprudence was bitterly repented when his indignant fellow-voyager pronounced the monosyllable “Jack?” in an accent which he perfectly understood, though nobody else did. The effect was magical; Mrs. Hubert’s arm was instantly resigned, and his elbow presented to Patty instead. “Will you take my arm, Miss O’Donagough!” he said, in a tone so quiet and subdued, that Elizabeth, who had no notion that the word Mrs. O’Donagough ejaculated had any reference to him, instantly fancied that tenderness towards Patty occasioned this softened tone, and that, although he might probably not have wished to distinguish his finacée by any public attention, he could not resist the temptation thus thrown in his way. This confirmation of Lord Mucklebury’s intelligence caused her to shudder from head to foot, a very natural consequence of which was, that she withdrew her arm from that of the tortured young man, and making a sudden movement forward, urged her way through the crowd alone.

  “I beg your pardon, Mrs. O’Donagough!” said Agnes, forcibly withdrawing her imprisoned arm; “but I must beg you to let me follow Elizabeth.”

  “Oh! by all means, my dear; of course, I shall see you to-night.”

  These last words, uttered very nearly in Mrs. O’Donagough’s loudest key, were at least satisfactorily heard by those around though, if heard, they were unheeded by her to whom they were addressed; for too well did Mrs. Hubert comprehend the feeling which had caused her daughter to drop the arm of Sir Henry; and too anxious was she to be with her, to leave any faculties at leisure wherewith to listen to her terrible aunt.

  As Agnes retreated, Mrs. O’Donagough passed behind Patty and Sir Henry, and, possessing herself sans cérémonie of the arm which poor Elizabeth had quitted, marched him forward in a position as completely contrasted to that which he had held a few minutes before as it is possible to imagine — Mrs. Hubert and Elizabeth being upon his arms in the first ease, and Mrs. O’Donagough and Patty in the second.

  Having thus by force of arms compelled the unfortunate Sir Henry Seymour to remain exposed, in this conspicuous condition, to the eyes of half his acquaintance for a longer space than any party ever lingered in the same purlieus before, Mrs. O’Donagough at length prepared to descend the stairs, and, having reached the door of exit, called aloud in her own strong voice for Mrs. O’Donagough’s carriage and servants, while from time to time she requested the still firmly-held Sir Henry to call for them also. But though these calls were ably seconded by the officials around, they were all in vain; no servants, no carriage could he found. For the first five or perhaps ten minutes, Mrs. O’Donagough was not displeased with the hustle and the fuss thus occasioned, because she was herself the cause of it; but, by degrees, as the fact became more and more evident that there really was no carriage at all in waiting for her, she ceased to swell from dignity, though nature appeared to be carrying on the same operation within her through the agency of rage. As equipage after equipage drew up for others, while she remained waiting in this desolate condition, the irritation of her feelings caused her repeatedly to run forth almost under the horses’ heels, in order to ascertain by ocular demonstration whether it were, indeed, possible that a lady possessing a carriage of her own, with horses, coachman, and footman to boot, could possibly be thus abandoned. These repeated sorties had, for the company present, servants included, the twofold advantage — of displaying in the broad light of day her own magnificent figure to the gaze of all, and of rendering Sir Henry’s tête-à-tête with her daughter almost as remarkable as she could have herself desired.

  The poor young man was certainly at his wits’ end, and perhaps a little further, for he really felt distracted by the manifold misfortunes which had that morning fallen upon him, and which were not a little aggravated by seeing Sir Edward Stephenson pass by during one of Mrs. O’Donagough’s little out-of-door excursions and stare at him and Patty, as they stood tête-à-tête and arm-in-arm together in a corner, with a degree of astonishment that seemed to deprive him of the power of speaking, for he passed on without addressing him.

  At length, however, after every carriage and every soul belonging to them had been driven away, the long-lost equipage made its appearance; and when Mrs. O’Donagough’s vociferous indignation permitted the voices of her servants to be heard, she learnt that they had been employed in the service of Lady Susan Deerwell, who had appeared at the door, summoned them to attend her, and then ordered them to take her home to Green-street.

  “Well! that is so like my poor dear Lady Susan!” cried Mrs. O’Donagough, still trembling with rage; “how I will scold her for it! Get in, Patty! Shall I set you down anywhere, Sir Henry?”

  “No, I thank you, ma’am,” replied the irritated young man, with what seemed to he his last possible effort at concealment of the feelings which had tortured him, and then, slightly touching his hat, he made way for the servant to close the carriage-door, and was out of sight in a moment.

  “Ain’t I glad she will have her dress to pay for!” exclaimed Mrs. O’Donagough to Patty as the carriage drove off.

  “And ain’t I glad we plagued that conceited Sir Jack as we did!” responded her lively daughter.

  CHAPTER XXXII.

  A LARGE dinner-party assembled at General Hubert’s after the drawing-room, chiefly consisting of family connections, most of whom had that morning paid their compliments at St. James’s, and all of whom were amongst the guests invited to Mrs. O’Donagough’s ball at night.

  There had been too much vexation endured by Mrs. Hubert and her daughter in the morning, for either of them willingly to have discussed the cause of it, and if their feelings only had been consulted, the names of Mrs and Miss O’Donagough would most assuredly never have been mentioned. But Sir Edward Stephenson, who knew nothing of all this, no sooner perceived that the ice-plates were all removed, the grapes duly circulated, and the door closed upon the last of the attendants, than he said, addressing himself to Mrs. Hubert, at whose right hand he was seated, “I have been excessively vexed to-day, my dear Agnes!”

  “Indeed? I am very sorry to hear it,” she replied; “may I ask the cause of your vexation, Sir Edward?”

  “Yes, you may, and I will tell it you frankly. That boy Seymour, whom, notwithstanding all our quarrels, I love as if he were my own son, is most decidedly acting either like a fool or a knave; I cannot tell you half the disappointment and vexation this causes me. I thought him such a noble-hearted fellow, and gave him credit f
or so intelligent and so refined a mind, that what I have seen to-day has surprised, as much as it has pained me.”

  “What is that you are saying, Edward, with so very grave a face?” said General Hubert; “I think I heard something about surprise and pain. Is the communication a secret between you and Agnes? I hope nothing has happened seriously to vex you?”

  “Yes, but there has, Hubert,” replied Sir Edward, in an accent that showed he was very much in earnest; “but the cause of my vexation is very far from being a secret now, and even if it were, there is no sort of probability that it should long continue so. There is not one of ns, I believe, who has not the honour of knowing Mrs and Miss O’Donagough, nor is there one who does not know something, more or less, of my late ward, Sir Henry Seymour; therefore, good friends, you are all fully competent to judge of the degree of pleasure with which I should see Sir Henry bestow himself and his noble fortune on the young lady I have just mentioned.” —

  “Nonsense, Sir Edward!” exclaimed the general, indignantly; “I too have heard this inconceivably silly report, but I really never expected that I should hear it repeated by you.”

  “Nor would you, Hubert, had I not this day seen what too strongly confirms it, to leave me the same comfortable conviction of its falsehood which I enjoyed this morning. It was Mucklebury who first told me that the infatuated boy had engaged himself to that tremendous-looking Miss O’Donagough, whose very beauty is revolting, and whom I should have thought completely formed to disgust Seymour, instead of captivating him; for which reason I ventured rather cavalierly to assure his lordship that he was mistaken, and even when he gravely repeated that he knew the fact from the very best authority, I still wholly disbelieved it. But you know what the adage says on the article of seeing. It is not on the testimony of Lord Mucklebury, or that of any lord or lady breathing, that I would have believed Henry Seymour capable, of such preposterous folly; but when I beheld him this morning marching through the crowd at St. James’s, with the inconceivable mother on one arm, and the indescribable daughter on the other, I knew not what to think. For must it not he some feeling greatly approaching madness, which could induce such a man as Sir Henry Seymour to make such an exhibition of himself?”