Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  Everything being of course out of joint throughout the mansion on this important day, Mr. O’Donagough and the four ladies sat down to dinner in the library at five o’clock, and from that hour till eight enjoyed themselves in all the luxury of the most unceremonious deshabille, eating, drinking, and planning improvements for all the great and little glories of the coming night.

  But when the clock struck eight Patty started up, exclaiming, “Now, then, Matilda, let us be off. There are four of us to dress, and only one maid to do it all. Just let’s have a look at the ball-room as we go by. As to the supper, there’s no getting a peep at that, without having mamma too, for the door has been locked up ever since nine o’clock this morning; but I got in once, though, before they could turn the key, and saw sights, I can tell you. Such a trifle, Matilda! and no less than four tipsy cakes!”

  While taking their look at the ball-room, and admiring all the arrangements for fighting and decoration, which, like everything else performed by Mr. O’Donagough at this period of his existence, was done upon a scale of great expense, Patty seized her friend Matilda by the waist, and began dragging her round the room in a waltz.

  “Don’t you long for it to begin?” said she, stopping at length to recover breath.

  “Yes, I should, Patty,” replied Matilda, in a plaintive voice; “notwithstanding all I have suffered, I really do think I should enjoy it, if—”

  “If what?” demanded Patty, whirling herself round and round before a glass.

  “Why — if I was as sure of having partners as you are. Girls at home are always sure to get the pick of the market!”

  “As I am,” replied Patty, with an expressive wink. “I can’t say anything about that, my dear; I rather think I am tolerably sure of a partner to waltz with to-night. However, I’ll promise one thing, and that is, that you shall be served with second best.”

  “Darling girl!” exclaimed Miss Matilda, with sudden animation. “Anybody that suffered themselves to be out of spirits and unhappy with you would never deserve to have a friend. I don’t believe that there ever was such a dear, kind creature as you are! You may depend upon one thing, Patty, that I will stand by you through thick and thin, let what will come. You haven’t said a word yet, have you?”

  “No, not I — the best time of course must be when they have hundreds of eyes upon them, for they can’t fly out, then, you know, let them wish it ever so much. Trust me, Matilda, I’m the girl for a plot, and you see if I don’t carry it through. But not a word; up stairs for your life — come along! it’s full time to begin beautifying.”

  Interesting as were the scenes which followed, and amusingly diversified as they were by the runnings in and runnings out of those engaged in them, from Mrs. O’Donagough’s room to Patty’s, and from Patty’s room to Mrs. O’Donagough’s, they must not he narrated at length. The two Miss Perkinses were in greater raptures than ever at the uncommon becomingness of everything Mrs. O’Donagough and Patty put on, and were rewarded for their good taste by having the loan of sundry ornamental baubles bestowed upon them. Everything is comparative; and the magnificent Mrs. O’Donagough and her daughter, in all their courtly trappings, scarcely entered the ball-room more completely satisfied with their own appearance, than did Miss Louisa in a yellow silk dress, set off by a prodigiously massive set of garnets belonging to Mrs. O’Donagough, while her head was admirably arranged with a few flowers, a few curls, and one little red plume, all from the stores of the same liberal lady. The gentle and now revived Matilda wore her white dress, adorned at every possible corner with blue bows and whiteheads, which had once decorated the charms of her generous Patty.

  At length they were all complete! Each passed in review before each, and each declared that each was perfect.

  “Now, then, let us all go down stairs!” said Mrs. O’Donagough. The ball-room was by this time lighted up, and blazed away in all the mingled glory of lamps and wax-lights.

  “Well, then, I never did see anything so beautiful!” exclaimed the two Miss Perkinses at once.

  They found Mr. O’Donagough and his friend Foxcroft employed in giving with their own hands the last finish to the attractions of the third drawing-room, which though last and least of the suite of rooms, was by no means either as to their importance in the consideration of their present owner.

  Some people may suppose that such social meetings as the present between Mr. Foxcroft and Miss Matilda Perkins must have been awkward, and that even the tranquil-minded Miss Louisa might have felt in some degree embarrassed by his presence. But such persons know not Mr. Foxcroft. There was a quiet, hard, dry audacity about him, which served his purpose as well as the purest self-approving innocence; and so admirably did he sustain the demeanour of a slight, but very respectful acquaintance to both the ladies, that for very shame they could not testify emotion before the eyes of one so incapable of sharing it. There was, therefore, no drawback whatever to the exhilarating brightness of the scene, nor to the throb of satisfaction with which the first thundering knock at the door was welcomed by all. Another followed, and another, and another, so closely that even the practised looker-on, Louisa, could hardly have ventured to specify which of the many guests came first.

  It was not long before the business of the third drawing-room commenced; not, indeed, that most important part of it for the bringing on of which the whole costly entertainment was arranged, but such little skirmishing affairs as sometimes mark the coming on of a battle on which hangs much.

  The plan of Mr. O’Donagough, boldly conceived, and carried into execution with as strict adherence to his Parisian model as the manners of the country would permit, had answered perfectly. The name of Stephenson had certainly helped him in some quarters, and that of Hubert in others; but it is probable that he would have done all he wanted without either. A few tolerable good dinners, with tolerably good wine à discrétion, and the power of playing high, playing low, or not playing at all, which followed them, had made it easier than some genuine gentlefolks may deem probable for Mr. Allen O’Donagough to make up both his dinner table, and his card table, very greatly to his satisfaction. But such a mode of life as he was now pursuing was not entered into upon any idle speculation of enjoying a gay existence while it lasted, and just winning enough to keep himself clear of ruin when it should be over. From the first hour of its conception, up to the very important epoch at which he had now arrived, one object had been ever steadily before him, namely, the making prey of some rich, unwary novice, whose ruin should establish him in idleness and luxury for ever. On first becoming acquainted with Sir Henry Seymour in his real character, he for a short time really believed Patty’s positive assurances that the young gentleman was her lover, and intended to be her husband; which violent improbability could only have been received as truth by such a man as O’Donagough, from his overweening admiration of his daughter’s beauty. But the being present at a very few interviews between them sufficed to open his eyes to the real state of the case, and he quickly atoned to himself for the gross and stupid blunder of which he had been guilty, by dooming the young whist-loving baronet to the expiation of all his falsehood in love, by the surrender of all his fortune at play. Mr. O’Donagough, however, had yet another blunder to acknowledge in his estimate of Sir Henry Seymour’s character. His losing au occasional rubber at whist, when playing at five guinea points, was no surer proof of his being a probable victim to the maddening orgies of the gaming table, than his having kissed Miss Patty was of his intention to convert her into Lady Seymour. And this blunder, too, Mr. O’Donagough found out, without any very long delay; but he found out two other things also; first, that the highly-connected young baronet made an excellent decoy duck to his evening parties, it being quite enough to mention, ça et là, that he was one of the whist party, to guarantee the perfect respectability of the rather high play sometimes found there. The other discovery taught him, that whatever advantages the company of Sir Henry Seymour brought were, and ever would be, at his comm
and, so long as the ill-advised young man continued to tremble at the idea of Sir Edward Stephenson’s becoming acquainted with the fact of his mad-cap voyage to Sydney.

  With this he had manoeuvred very skilfully — never pushing his troublesome friendship so far as to make the young man desperate; in which state he might have been tempted to do the wisest thing possible, and have opened the whole of his hotheaded, but essentially harmless proceeding to Sir Edward. But to this he had never yet been driven; and having been made perfectly aware by the admirable tactics of Mr. O’Donagough, that he was not expected to be in love with Patty, he scrupled not to remain on very civil visiting terms with the whole family, which, with its chief, assumed something like a tone of intimacy from the secret which existed between them.

  But, though foiled in his hopes of becoming master of the broad lands of Sir Henry Seymour, Mr, O’Donagough had not stood the heavy charges of two London seasons in vain. He had made money, a great deal of money, considerably more than he had expended, and that, too, quietly and snugly, without any eclat or disagreeable gossip whatever. But the time for which he had all along quietly waited was now come; and the night of the day on which his wife and daughter had been presented at court, the night on which his house was to be sanctified by the presence of many persons, not only of high condition, but of high character, was chosen by him as that on which his great tour de force was to he made.

  Among many young men with whom he had made acquaintance at the various clubs to which he had contrived to get admitted, was one on whose fair low forehead nature had written gullible in characters not to he mistaken. No sooner did Mr. O’Donagough look in the face of this personage than he sought and obtained an introduction to him. His next care was to ascertain who and what he was; and having learnt upon satisfactory authority that the youth had just thrown off the odious control of a brace of guardians, and that he was in undisputed and uncontrolled possession of a fine estate, than he cultivated his acquaintance with an assiduity that left the young gentleman very little chance of escaping his friendship.

  This doomed person, whose name was Ronaldson, no longer a canny Scotsman, however, whatever his forefathers might have been, was one of those unfortunate, but often amiable, individuals, who are born without the capability of uttering the monosyllable No. He was not very wise, certainly, but there are hundreds of weaker intellect than Mr. Ronaldson, who go through life without making any very remarkable blunder, merely because they have the power of pronouncing it, and are capable upon occasion of exclaiming, Such “a word in due season, how good is it!”

  But poor Robert Ronaldson had no such power, and when he was asked to dinner, he dined; and when he was asked to play cards, he did play cards; and when he was asked to bet, he did bet, — high bets, low bets, or middling bets, precisely according to the invitation given, and regulated by no other law whatever.

  The three or four thousand pounds which Mr. O’Donagough had already won from this unfortunate young man, had but whetted his appetite; and there was such an ungrumbling sans-souciance in the manner in which he drew his cheques, that the operation of ruining him completely, seemed peculiarly fitted for, and suitable to, such a remarkably good-natured man as Mr. O’Donagough was generally declared to be; so that, in a word, the complete fleecing of Mr. Robert Ronaldson was decided upon between Mr. O’Donagough, and his chief clerk of the works, Mr. Foxcroft; and the evening of Mrs. O’Donagough’s grand ball, fixed on as the time for performing it.

  Mr. Ronaldson was not quite the first, but very far from being the last, of the invited guests who arrived. Dancing, though it had not yet reached the height of waltzing, was begun, and a somewhat stiff and sober quadrille was being walked through, by way of prologue to the evening’s amusement.

  O’Donagough had not yet played himself, though for nearly an hour past a steady party had been at work in the third room of whom Foxcroft was one. When Mr. Ronaldson arrived, therefore, he found the master of the mansion lounging about, and criticising the ladies with an air of the most perfect nonchalance and bon ton.

  “Ah! Ronaldson! how are you? are you a dancer?” adding, however, before the young man had time to answer, “not you, I’ll answer for it. You understand life better than that, Ronaldson; nothing but the Johnny Raws are seduced into so very laborious a process for the mere gratification of looking at pretty faces, and pretty feet.”

  “Why, to say the truth, I do not very often dance. It is not half so amusing as a game at cards.”

  “I don’t think it is,” replied O’Donagough, in a tone of great indifference; “however, I can’t let you play cards now, because there really is a monstrous number of fine girls here, and we must give them a look. Come with me to that corner, Ronaldson, we shall find it a very snug look-out.”

  The facile young man followed him to the place he indicated, and began looking at the ladies as he was told to do. Having got him there, however, Mr. O’Donagough made no great exertions to amuse him, merely saying from time to time, “Mercy on me! what a crowd we shall have! It will be perfectly stifling,” which words, accompanied by many expressive yawns, and a frequent shifting of the weight from one leg to the other, speedily produced the intended effect on his companion, who began to yawn likewise, and to declare in a tone not the least in the world expressive of pleasure, that there was a very great crowd indeed.

  “And not a chair to be hoped for!” exclaimed O’Donagough. “For mercy’s sake, my dear fellow, don’t let us stay here, stuck up for show, like deals in a timber-yard. Upon my soul I cannot stand it — nor stand any longer. Let us see if we cannot do better in one of the other rooms.”

  To the second drawing-room they repaired accordingly, and a very narrow cane bench being fortunately disengaged, they seated themselves upon it, having before them a pleasant peep now and then across the crowd, of the snug comforts of the card-room, where the chairs and sofas were of the most luxurious form possible.

  “Is there any reason why we should not go into the card-room now, O’Donagough?” demanded Mr. Ronaldson, after having enjoyed the luxury of the cane bench for about ten minutes.

  “Not if you wish it, certainly. Heaven knows I should prefer it myself, for it is the only place that looks comfortable; but as this is the first dance you have ever been at here, I thought I must do the honours. But you are something like me, I believe, and have no great taste for such Tomfooleries.” And so saying, his attentive host now led the way to the soft sofas, easy chairs, and quiet rubber of the third room.

  Ronaldson threw himself into a delightful bergère at the corner of the whist-table, and for some time seemed to amuse himself exceedingly well by watching the progress of the game, but at length he was again seen to yawn, upon which Mr. O’Donagough, who had been in the room a little, and out of the room a little, and in short, doing everything that looked the least like being anxious to play, said as he again drew near to him, “Don’t you think, Donaldson, we might contrive to make up another table? As you don’t dance, you will find it monstrous stupid if you don’t play.”

  “I should like it of all things,” replied Ronaldson, “if you think you can be spared from the ball-room.”

  “Oh, faith! I’ve done my duty there. But I don’t see a sold likely to play a real good rubber, such as you and I enjoy. Let us have a game at piquet, Ronaldson?”

  “I shall like that better than whist,” replied the young man, “for I am a better match for you there.”

  “You have found that out, have you?” said O’Donagough, laughing. “You are quite right, certainly, but never mind. If I lose at piquet with you, I’ll win at whist with somebody else. It all comes wonderfully even at the end of the year.”

  Within five minutes after he had pronounced these words, Mr. Allen O’Donagough found himself placed at the very identical little table, in the precise chair, in the precise corner of the room, with exactly the degree of light, and no more, and exactly the same companion, and no other, that he had planned and predetermi
ned, at least three months before.

  The progress of the game varied but little from what pretty generally happens upon such occasions. From the time they began playing, till the majority of the company began moving down stairs to supper, Mr. Ronaldson won every game, with the exception of two, which he was permitted to lose, that the stimulant of variety might not be altogether wanting. When the word supper, however, caught the ears of the young man, who, notwithstanding his exhilarating good fortune, was by that time very seriously hungry, he hinted a wish to follow in the train that was still pouring through the doors; but Mr. O’Donagough, who seemed vexed and irritated by his continued losses, said, “No! upon my soul, Ronaldson! That is not fair, you have won pretty well every game, and now you are for carrying off the spoil without giving me even a chance of revenge.”

  This accusation startled, and somewhat nettled the young man, who, with all his defects, was not in the least degree disposed to take an unfair advantage of any one.

  “Upon my honour, O’Donagough, I had no such idea,” he replied, very gravely. “I will play after supper as long as you like, and for what you like, but in simple truth, I am very hungry.”

  “Foxcroft! your table is up, is it not?” cried O’Donagough, to his faithful and observant friend.

  “Yes! they are all off to the supper table,” replied the accomplished minister.

  “Then do you be off to the supper-table too, my good fellow, and see that Richardson brings us up a tray worth having, with a flask or two of champagne; it’s your deal, Ronaldson. There is nothing I abominate like standing about in a supper-room, pushed right and left by a hundred hungry and thirsty women, who never dream that any one can want anything but themselves. You will do fifty times better here, Ronaldson, you may depend on it.”