Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  The first object which greeted the eyes of Mrs. Hubert as she opened them, in consequence of her ears being invaded by a gentle sound near her pillow, was her daughter Elizabeth in her robe de chambre, with her beautiful hair all collected in one nymph-like roll at the back of her small but finely-proportioned head, and her fair face glowing with an expression of happiness too vivid to suffer drowsy sleep to exist before it.

  “Will you forgive me, mamma? You have been waked by a kiss. It is I who opened your shutters and drew your curtains.”

  “Is it late, dearest?” said Mrs. Hubert, rousing herself with the alertness of an alarmed conscience, fearful of having kept a hungry party waiting for breakfast. “Make the tea, Elizabeth. Do not mind me — I shall be down very soon.”

  “But I don’t want you to be down very soon, mamma,” replied Elizabeth, laughing and blushing beautifully at the same time. “I want to speak to you first. Let me be your lady’s maid to-day, may I?” —

  “Willingly, dear love!” said her mother, accepting an offered kiss, and, shrewdly suspecting the subject of the offered conference, she wrapped a dressing-gown round her, slipped her feet into her quilted satin slippers, and seating herself on the sofa at the bottom of the bed, said, “Now, darling, sit down close beside me, and tell me all you have got to say.”

  “Not unless you will dress yourself, mamma.” And going to the proper receptacles of stockings and shoes, she found all that was needful and held them with pretty obsequiousness to her mother’s hand.

  Mrs. Hubert looked up into the face of her daughter as she took them; but the fair conscious girl turned away from the speaking glance, with that true feminine shyness which Would be wooed, and not unsought be won, even to speak the words she had come expressly to utter.

  There would have been something pretty to watch in the struggle between this shyness, and the wish to disclose the secret that was bursting from her lips, but on such an occasion a mother’s heart has no leisure for such speculations, and sympathising with Elizabeth, though she could not quite be said to pity her, she threw her arm round her, and pressing her to her bosom, exclaimed —

  “Seymour loves you, Elizabeth! and last night he told you so. Is it not this you would disclose to me?”

  The only answer for a minute or two was a fond clinging return of the embrace, and a shower of happy tears shed on the maternal bosom.

  “You guessed it, then?” she said at length. “Ah, mamma! how cruelly we wronged him!”

  “I thank heaven for it, Elizabeth,” replied her mother, “and he may well forgive a wrong which had its origin in such feelings as ours towards him.”

  “Oh yes, mamma! he is quite aware of that. I do not believe he is at all inclined to complain of that or of anything else. Papa will be so kind as to see him this afternoon, will he not?”

  “And why not this morning, Elizabeth?”

  “I don’t know, mamma. Henry said the afternoon.”

  “I suppose he must have some business, then, for of course he must be very anxious to see your father.”

  He is very anxious, my dear mother, and very anxious to see you too,” replied Elizabeth, in a pleading tone. “Indeed, indeed, you must never suspect him again of feeling anything that he ought not to feel.”

  From this point the conversation proceeded with about equal pleasure to both parties, and it was not till a multitude of pleasant things had been said and listened to, that Mrs. Hubert stopped the course of them by exclaiming, “I am very glad, Elizabeth, that this explanation took place between you last night! I should have felt more perfectly ashamed of our suspicions, I think, than I do now, if the first removal of them from your mind had been produced by an event of which you are still both ignorant, instead of by the much more agreeable mode of his confessing his affection for you.”

  “What event, mamma?” demanded Elizabeth.

  “Our unfortunate cousin Patty eloped last night from her father’s house,” replied Mrs. Hubert.

  “Oh, mother! Have I not reason to be glad that I had courage enough to go to the party last night? You know not — oh! you can never know how I dreaded it! But I thought it was right — I thought it was less weak, less indelicate than remaining at home to weep over departed hopes, which I then thought I must have had no right to form. Had I yielded to this weakness, mother, might it not have been said, that he only proposed to me because he had lost her?”

  “I don’t know, my dear,” replied her mother, laughing; “it is strange how much darkness may be dispelled by one little gleam of light. It now seems to me to have been so perfectly absurd in us all to imagine for a moment that Henry Seymour could be in love with Patty O’Donagough, that the idea no longer appears admissible. But what I might have thought without this gleam of light, I know not.”

  “I wish, mamma,” said Elizabeth, “that you would tell papa what has happened before I see him at breakfast. You are all but dressed now: may I send Claridge to tell him that you wish to see him in your dressing-room?”

  “And why not tell him yourself, dearest?”

  “Because I do not like to see him again till he knows all.”

  “Well, then, send Claridge to him.”

  * * * * *

  It was with feelings of happiness as pure and unmixed as those of her young daughter, that Mrs. Hubert communicated to her husband the disclosure which had been made to her; but to her very great disappointment, he shook his head ominously as he listened to her.

  “My dearest Hubert! Are you not pleased by this hews?” said she, looking anxiously in his face. “I trust in heaven that you know nothing against this young man, for that our Elizabeth’s happiness depends upon him is most certain.”

  “Agnes!” he replied, “I doubt if I have feelings of much stronger partiality towards my own sons, than I have felt towards Sir Henry Seymour. I have liked and loved the boy from childhood upwards; and though from a feeling of respect for Sir Edward I never uttered the opinion, I blamed much less than I sympathised with the feelings of the ardent young man when he rebelled against the authority which insisted upon his submitting to a routine of education for which he was not fitted. Therefore I freely allow that all the ill-behaviour of which we heard so much before he re-appeared from his self-banishment, has left no painful impression on my mind whatever. No, Agnes, it is what has happened since that has displeased me. As to the idea that Henry Seymour intended to marry our red-cheeked young cousin, I never entertained it for a moment, but that he has paid her a very unwarrantable degree of attention I do believe; and this, whether it proceeded from fun or fondness, is equally at variance with the character I should desire to find in the husband of Elizabeth.”

  “I should agree with you perfectly, Hubert, did I believe it. But what better authority have we for this unwarrantable degree of attention, than for Lord Mucklebury’s history of the intended marriage? If you reject the one, I cannot understand how you can receive the other.”

  “Because in the one case I have no proof, nor ever had any, beyond vague report, while in the other I have the evidence of Sir Edward.”

  “On what occasion, Hubert?”

  “The occasion to which I particularly allude occurred but yesterday. You know he was detained at St. James’s till long after you left it, and in coming away he saw Sir Henry Seymour and Miss O’Donagough arm in arm and tête-à-tête at the bottom of the staircase, as no lady and gentleman could possibly be seen without drawing upon themselves a degree of observation that Sir Henry Seymour ought to have been desirous to avoid.”

  “Believe me, Montagu, I can explain all that to you;” and Mrs. Hubert described with the most graphic truth Sir Henry’s enforced surrender of herself and daughter in consequence of the manœuvring of Mrs. O’Donagough. “I confess,” she added, “that at the time I was very angry with him, because it seemed to me that no man could feel himself obliged to yield such very civil acquiescence to any arrangement that did not accord with his inclination. But surely the declaration of l
ast night is sufficient to convince us that it was no partiality of any kind for Miss O’Donagough which induced him to yield to my unfortunate aunt’s attack upon him.”

  “After all that has passed between us on the subject, my dearest Agnes, you will not think me too completely a convert to the opinions of Aunt Betsy, if I confess to you that what I most object to in the business is Sir Henry Seymour’s having any acquaintance at all with the O’Donagoughs, or Allens, or whatever their real names may be. The case was far different with us, dear love, when Mrs. Compton blamed us so severely for our civilities to them at Brighton. In our case the alternative was a rude and almost cruel avoidance of a very near relation; but no such apology can be offered in the case of Seymour. In the highest paroxysm of her displeasure, Aunt Betsy never suspected either of us of seeking their society from preference. We, however, can by no possibility assign any other cause for the familiar intercourse which has unquestionably existed between them and Sir Henry. I have never encountered this wretch O’Donagough Allen anywhere without his alluding to Seymour’s having recently dined with him. - More than once I have questioned the young man, with as great an air of indifference as I could assume, to ascertain whether the statement were true or not; and though he certainly stammered, and coloured, and looked very heartily ashamed (which in my judgment by no means made the matter better), he never denied that it was true. I do not like this, Agnes. It shows a species of coarseness, or at best of indifference in the selection of acquaintance, which your Elizabeth, dearest, is as little likely to relish as her sweet mother.”

  Mrs. Hubert sighed deeply. There was too much apparent truth in these painful observations for her to attempt to reason them away, yet ‘she felt that if they were to be the means of separating Sir Henry and Elizabeth, they would bring a degree of certain misery greatly disproportioned to their importance. As usual, her husband seemed to read her thoughts, for he added immediately, “Do not, however, fancy, my dear love, that I have any desire to separate these young hearts. It would be making poor Henry pay a heavier penalty for his folly than it deserves, but I think you will agree with me in advocating a longer period of probation and delay than would have been necessary had there been no such symptoms of levity. The adventures of last night, of all which he is probably still ignorant, will assist pretty effectually in opening his eyes to the character of his strangely chosen friends. Let not our dear girl have her feelings wounded by a single word of all this.”

  The breakfast, at winch the young Emily and her good governess were present, passed off as such agitating meetings should always be permitted to do. A look, a smile, a silent kiss, said all that it was necessary to say, and when it was ended Elizabeth, retired to her own room, astonished at her own composure, and capable of enjoying without any drawback whatever, the dear delight of meditating for the first time with the privileged freedom of sanctioned love upon the unspeakable happiness that awaited her.

  When General Hubert and his wife were again left alone, Elizabeth and Sir Henry were for a moment forgotten, while they discussed together the terrible discoveries of the previous night. The testimony of Mrs. Stephenson and Miss Peters was too clear to leave the slightest doubt respecting the character of the man with whom “the widow Barnaby” had connected herself, nor had they either of them any doubt that he was in truth the identical Major Allen who had

  — caused them both so great annoy, nineteen long years ago at Clifton. It wanted no warning voice from aunt Betsy to awaken the general to the necessity of separating himself and his family now and for ever, from all intercourse with so infamous a personage. But he half frightened the gentle Agnes, by telling her that he was expecting Frederic Stephenson to call upon him for the express purpose of paying a visit in Curzon-street.

  “We mean to tell him,” said the general, “that we recommend his immediately taking measures to leave the country, in order to avoid the dangers of a legal process which would be very likely to terminate in his being obliged to do so in a much less agreeable way.”

  “Would it not be better, Hubert, to leave him to his own devices?” said his wife.

  “No, Agnes; not in this country at least. He cannot be permitted to remain here after the double discovery of last night. Frederic is extremely anxious that he should be off immediately, for as long as he remains in the country, he will be living in dread of his wife’s being called into a court of justice, to give evidence of the fraud of which she was a witness. Miss Peters too will live under the same terror, and indeed, Agnes, I think it desirable, for all our sakes, that he should leave England, as early and as quietly as possible.”

  “You cannot doubt my being of the same opinion, Montagu,” replied Mrs. Hubert. “I only dreaded for you the extremely disagreeable operation of telling him so.”

  “Fear not for that, Agnes. The visit will be a very short one, depend upon it. Besides the real motive, we have the ostensible one, you know, of inquiring if they have received any news of Miss O’Donagough.”

  Mr. Stephenson was punctual to his appointment, and the two gentlemen set out together for Curzon-street. To the question, “Is Mr. O’Donagough at home?” the answer given was, “No, sir,” short and decided.

  “Is Mrs. O’Donagough at home?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” was the hesitating reply.

  “Be so good as to tell her that a gentleman wishes to see her on very particular business.”

  “Please to walk in, sir,” said the small and incautious page, opening the dining-room door for them, and then galloping up the stairs.

  “We had better follow him, Frederic, or the affair will be endless,” suggested the general.

  “I agree with you,” answered his companion; and before the little page had half delivered his message, General Hubert and Mr. Stephenson were in the room.

  The business which had brought them there was more likely to arrive at a speedy conclusion than they had hoped for, when they entered it, for greatly to their surprise they found assembled in the second drawing-room, a group consisting of Mr and Mrs. Allen O’Donagough, their daughter, the yellow gentleman with black mustache and whiskers, and the two faithful Perkinses besides.

  “I will not apologise for disturbing you, Major Allen,” said General Hubert, advancing, “though I did not expect to find you here when I entered. The business which brings us here is yours, and not our own, and cannot, as I think you will allow, be considered as an intrusion. But it may perhaps be more agreeable to you to converse with us in another room?”

  Major Allen measured his two visitors with his eye, and then threw a glance towards the Don; but whatever his first thoughts might have been, his second, which are proverbially the best, induced him to rise from his chair and with a very dignified demeanour to marshal General Hubert and Mr. Stephenson into the next room, the eventful scene of the last night’s misadventures. Nay, he even moved his hand in token that they might be seated; but this hospitable notification did not appear to be noticed, for neither gentleman accepted it.

  “My business with you, sir,” said the general, “need not detain us long. A very disagreeable accident made a lady, for whom both this gentleman and myself are nearly interested, the witness to a most nefarious transaction in which you were the principal agent. It has also come to our knowledge that you are the same person who many years since at Clifton was implicated under the appellation of Major Allen in a transaction which, if I mistake not, caused you to be sent out of the country. Perhaps, sir, as a citizen, I should be doing my duty better by mentioning these facts to a police magistrate; but I wish, from motives purely selfish, I confess, that you should now leave England by your own act, instead of that of the legislature. But this, if done at all, must be done promptly. A very short time will probably render it too late. Are you ready, sir, to give me an assurance that you will depart immediately? If not, or if hereafter I should find such assurance falsified, I shall feel myself obliged, however reluctantly, to obtain the same object by a process that
will not depend upon yourself.”

  Major Allen was, as usual, exceedingly well dressed, and his wig, greatly relaxed in its wavy outline since he made his first re-appearance at Brighton, was a perfect model for the head of a middle aged man of fashion. Though his visitors stood, he had seated himself in a deep arm-chair, and assumed the attitude rather of one who was passing judgment, than receiving it. During the greater part of General Hubert’s address to him, his countenance might have been studied in vain for any expression indicative of what was passing within, but at its conclusion a mocking smile took possession of his features, and looking at each gentleman steadily in the face for a minute or two, he said —

  “I am really too happy in finding that my nearest connections and myself agree so entirely respecting the little experiment in steam navigation for which I am preparing. Pray, sir (to General Hubert), remember me very affectionately to my charming niece Agnes, and believe me to be your very obedient humble servant, John William Patrick Allen O’Donagough.” A strong emphasis was laid upon the last word, for the purpose, probably, of making his auditors understand that he was aware of and appreciated the privilege by which every man has a right to designate himself by any appellation he may choose to select.

  Having uttered this speech, he permitted himself the audacious gratification of another steady stare at them both; and then, rising with an air of great hauteur and deliberation, stalked through his favourite side door, and closed it after him.

  Convinced that the business upon which they came was satisfactorily executed, the two gentlemen were too well pleased by knowing that it was over to feel any inclination to quarrel with the manner of their reception. After a moment’s consultation, they agreed that it would be better to visit the unfortunate Mrs. Allen O’Donagough, for whom they felt much compassion, a civil “good morning,” and therefore prepared to make their retreat by passing through the room by which they had entered.