No symptom, however, of any feelings which called for compassion seemed to exist amidst the party they once more came upon. Mrs. Allen O’Donagough was lying at full length upon a sofa, squeezed in at the foot of which perched Miss Louisa Perkins. In full view of the well-pleased maternal eye, upon another sofa, sat the yellow gentleman, and Patty extremely close beside him, her arm lovingly thrown round his neck; while the fair Matilda, with eyes full of very melancholy tenderness, and her tall figure sustaining itself against the mantel-piece, stood watching them.
General Hubert was about to utter something like a friendly farewell, but Mrs. Allen O’Donagough gave him no time for it. —
“You arc making us an early wedding visit, I must say, gentlemen — but it is all very right and proper between near relations. Give me leave to introduce to you my married daughter, Madame Espartero Christinino Salvator Mundi Tornorino.” These names she read from a paper ingeniously attached by a couple of pins to a cushion of the sofa that was exactly within reach of her eye. “You see, general, I have had the good fortune to marry my daughter before you have married yours — and to a man of extremely high rank too. Permit me to present to you — I beg pardon, permit me to present you to Don Espartero Christinino Salvator Mundi Tornorino, my son-in-law. Neither you nor Frederic Stephenson have any title, you know, and therefore it is, of course, proper that you should be presented to him, and not he to you. I am sure I heartily hope that my great niece Elizabeth may do as well.
“But, by-the-by, general, I think it is but fair to give you a hint about that young scamp, Henry Seymour. It’s no thanks to him if my daughter is married to a man of title and quality — it would have been all the same if his false-heartedness had driven her to marry a mere nobody, which, with my high spirit and exalted feelings, would certainly have broke my heart. But it is not only his abominable falsehood in love-making that I think it right to mention — I wish also to let you know that there is a secret which he has taken the greatest of all possible care should never come to any of your ears. You none of you guess, I believe, that the young scapegrace was off to Australia when his penitent fool of a guardian thought he had shut himself up somewhere, all in the dumps, because of their quarrel? When we were good friends, together, he told us all about it, and if he had behaved as he ought to have done, I would never have said a word to anybody on the subject — but he has provoked me, I won’t deny it.”
“How did you find out he had been to Australia, Mrs. O’Donagough?” demanded the general. “Did you get acquainted with him there?”
“No, not I, general — but I know it just as well as if I had, for we all came to England in the same ship.”
“And it was then that you became acquainted with him?”
“Yes, to be sure it was.”
“Now, then, madam,” said the well-contented General Hubert, “we will wish you good morning,” and with a slight bow to the whole party, the two gentlemen turned to leave the room.
“I say!” cried Madame Espartero Christinino Salvator Mundi Tornorino, calling after them, “don’t you forget to tell my cousin Elizabeth what a famous lark I have had. She must be sure to come and pay me a wedding visit.”
* * * * *
On returning to Berkeley-square, General Hubert found his wife and daughter very anxiously gazing upon the outside of a large packet which had been just left at the door by the servant of Sir Henry Seymour. Rightly guessing that it contained a confession of the exploit of which he had just learnt the particulars from Mrs. O’Donagough, he fearlessly opened it in their presence. It contained more than one sheet of closely-written paper, and detailed at length, and with very amiable penitence, the history of his escapade, the rebellious feelings which had led to it, the very unpleasant acquaintance that it had entailed upon him, and lastly, with all the eloquence of deep feeling, it explained how his ardent love for the general’s lovely daughter had rendered galling the idea of appearing more wild and ill-conducted in the eyes of her family than he had yet done, and induced him to endure the martyrdom of propitiating the good will of Mr. O’Donagough in order to secure his secrecy.
“Then Sir Henry, it seems, has not taken more pleasure in the acquaintance than ourselves, General Hubert,” said Agnes, with a very happy smile.
“Thank heaven that I know it!” he replied, joyously. “And now, my sweet Elizabeth,” he added, fondly embracing his blushing daughter, “I can tell you with a safe conscience that I know not another to whom I could resign the charge of making you happy, with so firm a conviction that the precious trust would be executed faithfully.”
Who needs be told that the young Elizabeth’s bridal was a gay one? When it was known as a certainty that the Allen O’Donagough family, together with their illustrious son-in-law, were actually departed for the United States, Mrs. Hubert ventured to write a full, true, and particular account of all their recent adventures to her aunt, Mrs. Elizabeth Compton; announcing at the same time that her company was earnestly entreated at the approaching wedding, and assuring her that she should meet there no nieces but such as she had too long honoured with her love, for them to feel any doubts as to her pleasure at a reunion.
The delight of the still active old lady on receiving this letter was great indeed. She could not have died happy, and she knew it, so long as “the Barnaby” was an inhabitant of the same land as the Huberts. A dread of mischief and disgrace arising from the incongruous connection perpetually haunted her, and in so serious a shape as very materially to disturb her tranquillity. But she now felt that the danger was over for ever, and immediately wrote an acceptance of the joyous, invitation, in a tone of heartfelt happiness that caused tears of pleasure to dim for a moment the beautiful eyes of the bride elect.
Of all the guests assembled at those splendid nuptials, there was not one, perhaps, who excite so universal a degree of interest as herself — all sought to do the venerable and animated old lady honour, and no one could receive their honours more gaily, or more gracefully, giving throughout the whole day but one slight indication that she still could be a little mischievous, if she chose it, and that was by whispering in the general’s ear, when Emily was assisting in distributing the wedding-cake after breakfast, “Do you mean to send any wedding-cake across the Atlantic, dear general?”
THE WARD OF THORPE-COMBE
First published by Richard Bentley in 1842, The Ward of Thorpe-Combe is a three volume novel that, once again, proved to be a success for the author. In the early 1840’s, after the death of her husband, and the loss of two children, Frances Trollope moved to Florence where she would mostly reside for the last twenty years of her life. She was extraordinarily prolific, producing more than thirty novels, plus a handful of travel works in her lifetime.
The Ward of Thorpe-Combe begins with the wealthy Mr. Thorpe gathering his relatives together to determine who deserves to inherit his considerable fortune and estate. The protagonist of the book is the poor Sophia Martin, who desperately wishes to be the one chosen to receive her uncle’s wealth. Mr. Thorpe believes his son to be dead and desires to bestow his estate upon the most virtuous and least materialist of his relatives.
Sophia proves to be incredibly astute at presenting herself in a manner she believes will most appeal to her uncle’s values. She has a comprehensive understanding about the type of behaviour that is deemed appropriate and desirable, and is keen to perform the role of one who has no interest in personal comfort or indulgence. In The Vulgar Question of Money: Heiress, Materialism, and the Novel of Manners from Jane Austen to Henry James, Elsie B. Michie argues that in The Widow Barnaby consumerism and asceticism are embodied by two individuals, while in The Ward of Thorpe-Combe, they are combined in the ‘single figure’ of Sophia (p79). Michie posits that Sophia’s behaviour demonstrates that the ‘newly developed appetites’ of society ‘for possession and consumption that were made possible by wealth were intended to be indulged in private rather than public’ (p83). When the heroine does become wealthy, she
is careful to not to be extravagant in public, and only satisfy her material desires when she is alone. Michie maintains that this ‘privatization of appetite allowed consumers to resolve the tension between saving and spending that...was key to anxieties about the commercial expansions of the period’ (p83).
A contemporary engraving of the author
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER XIX.
CHAPTER XX.
CHAPTER XXI.
CHAPTER XXII.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CHAPTER XXIV.
CHAPTER XXV.
CHAPTER XXVI.
CHAPTER XXVII.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
CHAPTER XXIX.
CHAPTER XXX.
CHAPTER XXXI.
CHAPTER ΧΧΧII.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
CHAPTER XXXV.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
CHAPTER I.
It was on the 28th of November 1835, at a quarter past six P.M., that Mr. Thorpe of Thorpe-Combe, Herefordshire, being seated with a large wood fire, having the loppings of about three trees piled upon it, on one side of him, and a little round table bearing a single coffee-cup and two wax lights on the other, rang the bell beside his fire-place with very considerable violence. He waited for three quarters of a minute, with his eyes fixed upon the parlour door, before he rang again; but not perceiving during the whole of that time any indication whatever that his summons was likely to be attended to, he raised his hand a second time and pulled the rope with even more energy than before. This last peal produced an instantaneous effect; for long ere its sound had ceased in the servant’s hall his housekeeper stood before him.
“You will get punished for it some day, Mrs. Barnes, you may depend upon it you will,” said the old gentleman. “I am as sure as that you stand there before me, that you will have to call a coroner’s inquest to sit upon my body. It is always sure to happen where people, old and sick people like me, can get no one to come near them when they ring.”
“I think, sir, that you must get some younger and activer body to answer your bell,” replied Mrs. Barnes demurely, “for I know I don’t move so brisk as I used to do — But if you’d be pleased to have a valet, sir, like other gentlemen, it would be easy to find one as could run along the passages quicker than I can.”
“You just say that to plague me, because you know I hate valets, Mrs. Barnes — But I must bear it, I must bear it all, I know that; so no more about it, if you please, but listen to what I have got to say to you. You know I hate talking, so don’t make me speak twice, but mind every word. I am going to invite a very large party here to pass the Christmas holidays. Do you hear what I say?”
The housekeeper looked in the old gentleman’s face with great anxiety. “I am afraid, indeed, that you don’t feel well!” she said; “let me send for Mr. Patterson to feel your pulse, sir, shall I?”
“You are a fool, Barnes, and I am another for keeping you as my prime minister so long after I became convinced that you were little better than an idiot. But I cannot change just now, and therefore I beg, if you please, that you will listen with all the wits you have got to the orders I am going to give, and that too without fancying I am delirious.”
“I beg your pardon, sir, indeed,” replied the housekeeper with a courtesy; “but I certainly did fancy.... a large party, sir? Perhaps I did not quite understand you rightly. I dare say I made some mistake.”
“Then take care, Mrs. Barnes, to understand me better now. Sit down, old friend; I am not delirious, Barnes, and yet I must have my house full of company this Christmas. Sit down when I bid you, and let us consult about it.”
“But what shall we do for servants, sir? We have not got a soul but the gardener, and the bailiff, and the boy that cleans the knives and shoes, in the way of men-servants. What will the company do without servants, sir?”
“I know all that as well as you do, Barnes; but there is always plenty of time where there is plenty of money. I will have a dozen fellows all dressed up in green and yellow liveries before Christmas-day.... if I have a fancy for so many. Don’t trouble yourself about that, good woman; I’ll get servants.”
“Why I don’t doubt you might, sir, if as you say you have a fancy for it. It is true enough that money can do any thing,... if you choose to spend it.”
“And this time, Mrs. Barnes, I do choose to spend it,” replied her master. “I shall not think a thousand pounds at all too much for the party I wish to entertain.”
The woman stared at him.
“Barnes!” said the old gentleman, placing his elbows on the arms of his ample chair, and looking earnestly in her face, “Barnes!... though it is very possible I may not die in my chair between ringing the bell and your opening the door to answer it, I do not think I shall live long. You know what the letter contained, which I received last week; but you do not know, old friend, how heavily its contents weigh upon my heart.”
“Well, sir, in that case a little company, perhaps, may do you good,” replied the old woman; “and if so I shall think no trouble too much in order to get all things suitable for them.”
Mr. Thorpe smiled, and shook his head.
“That is not it, Barnes — But there is no need to say any more about motives and reasons just now. It is possible that I may live some years yet, but I am doubtful about it, and I wish to see all my relations before I die.”
“And very right you should, sir, I am sure; and if you will be pleased to give me your instructions I will do my very best to obey them,” replied the good woman with sudden energy.
“Thank ye, Barnes, thank ye. The first thing will be to have all the rooms opened, aired, warmed, and set in order. Hire a dozen charwomen if you will, but let it be done by to-morrow night; and the next morning I’ll get Sir Charles Temple here to give me his arm, and we will walk through them together, up stairs and down stairs, and then say what is to be done next. How many women servants shall you want?”
“What is the number of the company to be?” inquired the old Woman anxiously.
“I cannot say exactly, Barnes, because I don’t know how many lads and lasses may have sprung up since I beard of them last, — something between a dozen and twenty, I should think.”
“A dozen or twenty?.... Oh goodness gracious!” exclaimed Mrs. Barnes, clasping her hands. “A dozen or twenty! What in the earthly world shall I do with them?”
“Why you foolish woman, cannot you remember the time when there was not a room in the house, up to the very garrets, that was not filled with guests?” replied her master. “Can’t you remember that?”
“Well enough, sir, I can remember it; but think of the servants as was then! Oh, dear, sir! it was not the same place then.”
“And think of the servants that are to be now, old woman, and teaze me no more.... Look about you, and hire what you want. I shall set Sir Charles to work for me about the men. I’ll have.... that’s all I have got to say, and I’m tired to death with talking. So go, will you, there’s a good woman, and let me enjoy a little peace and quiet, if you can.”
The housekeeper retreated, but lingered ere she closed the door.... “About Sir Charles, sir,” said she, making a step backward into the room: “Didn’t you say he was to be sent for?”
“Yes to be sure he is, foolish body!”
“And when, sir?”
“What does that signify, Barnes? How you do love to talk!... I told you I should want him to-morrow morning as soon as I had
finished my breakfast, and d’ye think I mean to fetch him myself? Do go away! My jaws ache with talking.”
Mrs. Barnes now made a hasty courtesy and departed, having received one specific order that she was equally able and willing to obey; namely, to send a summons to Temple, on the morrow, requesting the presence of its master forthwith.
A clear, bright, sunny frost came happily on the following morning to brace the nerves of the household under the great and unwonted exertions to which the foregoing dialogue gave rise; and Mr. Thorpe, had he looked much about him as he passed from his sleeping apartment to his breakfast-room, might have marvelled to behold the vast results already produced by his powerful word. But he was not much given to such sort of investigations, and was quietly seated apart from the din he had caused, with one of his darling French Chronicles on a desk between his legs, and his still unfinished breakfast beside him, when the crunching of the hoar frost upon the gravel in front of the windows, by a step at once firm and light, caused him to look up, that he might behold, as he expected, the figure which he best loved to see, in the act of approaching his house door.
Nor was he disappointed. A young man, rather above the middle height, with a white shooting jacket, considerably the worse for wear, rough brown gaiters that reached to the knee, clouted shoon, and a fowling-piece on his arm, passed before the windows, nodding to the well-known arm-chair as he went by. In the next moment Sir Charles Temple was in the room.
“Your will, most absolute?” said the young man, standing erect before his venerable friend.
“My will?” repeated Mr. Thorpe smiling; “Yes, Charles, that is exactly the business in hand.”
“I know it is,” replied Sir Charles, “and you must pronounce it as quickly as you can, for I have two young farmers waiting for me on the top of the hill, with the dogs.... and you shall have larks and rabbit soup for a month if you will let me go.”
“Oh dear! oh dear! Then why did you come at all? I want to have a long consultation with you, Charles, and not to sputter out half a dozen words while your curs stand yelping for you on the hill-side. Get along with you, do! I would rather not see you at all than in such a fuss.”
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 277