Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  To most persons his request would have appeared a very simple one; the bell would have been instantly rung, the housekeeper summoned, and orders given that the gentleman’s affectionate reminiscences should be gratified as speedily as possible. But Miss Martin Thorpe felt exceedingly embarrassed by it. She did not like the request at all. In her estimation there was something very odd, indeed, not to say impertinent in it; and few things could at that moment have been less agreeable to her feelings than to grant it. She hesitated, looked at Miss Brandenberry, hemmed, drew out her pocket handkerchief, and hemmed again, and was beginning in a husky sort of whisper some speech which opened with, “Really, sir,”... when Lord Broughton, apparently thinking that the scene was becoming disagreeable, rose up again, hastily exclaiming, “Come, come, Jenkins; this is really too foolish. There can be no occasion to trouble Miss Martin Thorpe with any such nonsense. Look at the windows from the outside, my good friend, and let that satisfy your sentimental longings.”

  “Lord Broughton, you are right,” replied Mr. Jenkins, suddenly springing towards the door. “There can be no occasion to trouble Miss Martin Thorpe with any such nonsense, and I will look at the windows from the outside.”

  So saying he darted out of the room, his noble friend, after another civil parting bow, following; and in the next moment the sound of their horses’ feet were heard retreating, as it seemed, at full speed.

  “Gracious Heaven! my dearest friend!” exclaimed Miss Brandenberry, “What a man!... And how beyond all words I admire you for having so beautifully checked his impertinence.... I am perfectly convinced, my sweet young friend — I am indeed, perfectly convinced that he is mad; and if his lordship, the Earl of Broughton, had not been in the room as a sort of guard to us both, I should most certainly have taken the liberty of ringing the bell. Upon my word, I don’t suppose that there are three young ladies in Europe of your tender age, who would have evinced the same admirable presence of mind. It was quite beautiful to see!.... It was, indeed!.... What a state my poor dear brother Richard will be in when he hears of it!.... Mercy on me! To think of a real madman like that galloping over your beautiful house — and you, your dear precious self, remaining in it all the time!.... I should not wonder the least bit in the world if Richard, when I go home and tell him of it, were to arm himself with a brace of loaded pistols, and walk up and down before the door of the house all night. And upon my word I should not know how to say him nay.”

  “I hope there will be no occasion for that,” sedately replied Sophia. “You know I have men servants in abundance, Miss Brandenberry.”

  “Yes, so you have, to be sure. Only it was so very shocking..... What was it he said?.... that he would rather have his right hand cut off than not run into every room in your house?.... It is awful to think of it!.... Dear, dear, Miss Martin Thorpe! Do tell me how you find yourself? I am so afraid that you must have been shaken! Hadn’t you better take something? If it was only a glass of sherry wine, just to quiet your poor dear nerves? Do let me ring, will you? I am sure a little wine would be quite a comfort.” In reply to all this affectionate vehemence Sophia very quietly replied, “I do not like to take wine before my luncheon, Miss Brandenberry. I don’t believe it is at all wholesome, for nothing takes off one’s appetite so much”.... And perceiving, on looking at her watch a few minutes afterwards, that the important hour for this said luncheon was near at hand, she had recourse to her usual method of dismissing her friend, which she never failed to put in practice whenever it happened that an early after-breakfast visit was prolonged so as to approach this very sacred hour of the day. For our heroine was vastly more inclined by nature to exclaim at such a moment, like the “Little Grey Man,” in the legend,

  “Don’t disturb me at meals!....”

  than to invite her admiring friend to share the choice little banquet with her. She therefore, as usual upon all such occasions, said.... “I think it is getting late, my dear Miss Brandenberry, and you know I always make a point of going through a good deal of business with my housekeeper just at this time, every day.”

  The wonted signal had the wonted effect.... Miss Brandenberry pressed the heiress’s half extended hand with enthusiastic affection in both her own, and then departed, leaving Miss Martin Thorpe to a species of solitude which it gave her no pain to endure.

  A good deal of mystery did in truth envelope the daily luncheons of Sophia, but it may be explained in few words. Sophia loved money, and she loved nice eating too. Now, whenever these two affections are co-existent in one and the same person, and that person the mistress of a family, it necessarily follows that some difficulties and struggles between them must ensue. In Sophia’s case these difficulties were greatly increased by her having her guardian, his wife, and his three children to feed, and that, for the majority at least, at the same table where she was to feed herself. It is not saying too much to aver, that her rest was disturbed by the dilemma in which she thus found herself. More than once she lay upon a sleepless pillow, while the horns of it made themselves into palpable pictures, as if on purpose to torment her. On the one side stood firmly, swelling upon its broad base, a glorious money-bag, at whose narrow mouth a few diminutive coins rose in a pyramid, ready for use.... But beside it stood a coarse unseemly joint of salted meat, with rude accompaniments, such as the gourmet loves not. On the other side, a like ample bag lay prostrate, and from its yawning orifice welled forth a stream of glittering gold, while evident collapse reduced its roundness.... But in all directions near it might be seen the very daintiest dishes that appetite ever dreamed of. The struggle in the mind of the heiress between these two states of existence was for some days very cruelly harassing; but the pithy proverb.... Aimez, et vous serez, inventif” was proved true in this as in a million other instances, and our Sophia bethought herself of taking her luncheon alone, in the quiet room Where, as everybody knows, she “transacted all her business.” These lonely luncheons, once decided on, became a source of unspeakable comfort to her, in various ways. The savoury meat that her soul loved, was served to her in the greatest possible perfection, no chilling evaporations taking place while others were pressed to share it. The daily meditation as to what these meals should be, supplied the want of all those more thriftless thoughts, which are wont to fill the heads of idler maidens; and the secret consciousness that the general style of her house-keeping, considered en grand, was highly economical, prevented all remorse from the costliness of the very little morsels which exhaled their rich but tiny steams, within the small, well-heated, silver reservoirs, which had been selected from the closet of ambassadorial plate for her especial use. This digression, which has proved somewhat longer than was intended, will enable the reader to comprehend why it was that the bewitching hour of day with Sophia was two o’clock, and why, from that time till three, the sacred solitude of her boudoir was never invaded, save by the entrance of her favourite Mrs. Roberts, whose office it was to take in and bring out the various articles, necessary to the performance of these secret gastronomical mysteries.

  It was about one when Lord Broughton and his eccentric friend made their exit; and if took rather more than three quarters of an hour afterwards, before the affectionate nature of Miss Brandenberry had so far relieved itself in words, as to permit her receiving the civil congé of her hungry friend, and tearing herself away. The operations which followed were performed with a steady regularity, which, if it did not, in its fragrant detail, resemble clockwork, was at least in most perfect accordance with it, and might furnish a lesson to many an elegant household, by proving that when the will of its ruler is steadfast, no irregularity will occur.

  In a word, Miss Martin Thorpe sat down to an exquisite repast, served in silver, exactly as the great clock over the stables struck two.

  CHAPTER XXV.

  L’homme propose.... et Dieu dispose.

  It would be hardly possible to imagine human arrangements made in a manner more likely to ensure their object, than those adopted by Sophia
for the tranquil enjoyment of both her private breakfast and her private luncheon. The back stairs, whose embouchure was at two steps from her chamber door, insuring the coming and the going of the needful apparatus, unseen by any but official eyes.... the clear understanding so carefully established between herself and her guests, that her boudoir was sacred to herself alone.... the positive orders, so impossible to be misunderstood, and so unlikely to be disobeyed, which forebade the admission of any visitor, calling within the prescribed intervals; — all this seemed to promise a security which justified the completest confidence on the part of the individual so protected.... but,

  L’homme propose, et Dieu dispose.

  It was on the morning we have been describing, exactly at the moment when appetite, excited by all that had been most carefully prepared to provoke it, led the hand of Sophia to clutch her knife and fork with more than usual eagerness, in order to make the delicacies just uncovered to her eyes more intimately her own than they were already, that the door of her sitting room was abruptly and even vehemently opened, and the “crimson-tipped” figure of Mr. Jenkins stood before her.

  Certainly there exists no ordinary form of words capable of doing justice to the feeling of indignation which at that moment swelled her heart and shot from her eyes; and it is but an idle effort, that, of straining and torturing language, in order to make it express more than by its nature it has strength to do. It is wiser to leave the task to that power which is restrained by no grammar, and limited by no vocabulary. Suffice it then to say that nothing could exceed the auger of Miss Martin Thorpe.

  The circumstances which led to this unexampled scene, were as follow — On reaching the steps before which Lord Broughton’s groom held the horses, Mr. Jenkins, who was still an extremely active little man, seized the bridle of the one which had brought him to Thorpe-Combe, and springing into the saddle, galloped off without even turning his head to see if his Lordship followed him. In this way he reached the lodge gates alone, but pausing there, that this obstacle might be opened for him, be was overtaken by his noble friend.

  “Are you not a foolish fellow, Mr. Timothy Jenkins?” said the Earl, laughing immoderately. “As I hope to live, I believe you are running away, because you dare not look me in the face. Come, Timothy, confess!.... Own like a man, that for once in your life you are heartily ashamed of yourself.”

  “And so lie past the hope of pardon?” returned his wild-looking companion “If I do, may I never see the glorious sun at home again! No!.... Earl of Broughton!.... The time has been, when I have thought you keen, sharpwitted, quick at device, and bold in act as thought.... But now!.... Poor Arthur!.... You have lost ground lamentably! Not only by the heels of my genet, Sir Earl, have I run away from you, but swifter far by the rapid flight of my superior wit..,. and not wit only, Arthur, but my will.

  Know you not, old friend, that wilful will, rough-riding, hardmouthed wilful will, has carried me on its back for forty years and more.... And think you now, that I mean to stand bobbing, cap in hand, before a little ugly pug-nosed girl, asking her leave to do what do I will, whether she gives permission or not?”

  “Of course you will, you needless boaster; and therein lies the jest,” replied Lord Broughton, still laughing. “Why, beloved Timothy, should you deem it necessary to poke that celestial looking chef of yours into a wasp’s nest, when you may get at whatever portion of the fabric you may have a fancy for, without any danger of being stung?”

  “I like to be stung, Lord Broughton,” replied Mr. Jenkins. “It makes me laugh better than tickling. Besides, to tell you the truth, and without in the slightest degree intending to affront you, I doubt if your earlship’s philosophy mounts to the same pitch as mine. I am a great philosopher, Thelwell.... Broughton.... what the devil’s your noble name?.... a greater philosopher than you fancy me to be. And so you shall confess, before I have done With you. But this is wasting time.... and I have business to do. Adieu! my Lord I will not keep your dinner waiting, if I can help it.” — And with these words the eccentric Mr. Jenkins scampered off, in the attitude and at the pace of an Arab, pursuing a foe at full speed.

  The three miles which separated Broughton Castle from Thorpe-Combe, were passed over twice by Mr. Timothy Jenkins, in considerably less time than ordinary mortals required for performing the same distance once; and having secured his panting steed somewhere and somehow, out of sight of the house, he made his way, Heaven knows how, but unseen and unheard by any one, up to the door of the unsuspecting young lady, whose first reception of him was so violent a start, that her raised fork actually dropped from her hand. The look she gave him would have been terrific to any man less blindly indifferent to all things, save his own crochets, than was Mr. Timothy Jenkins. It may almost be doubted whether he saw it; but at any rate he took no more notice of it, than he would have done had a cat opened wide her green eyes before him.

  “My dear!”.... he began.

  “Sir!!!” ejaculated in a tone indicative of more wrathful indignation than the monosyllable was ever made to express before, seemed to check him for a moment, but it was for a moment only. “Don’t look in such a passion, my dear,” he resumed, “it is not pretty.... And you have no reason to be angry with me, as I will prove to you in one minute. You must know, my dear girl, that I am very rich.... monstrously rich! I am, upon my word and honour, though I do not carry colours to prove it just at the present moment, I confess. But, however, I suspect you are too sensible a girl to doubt your own eyes. I saw last night that you were rather partial to trinkets and jewels, and that sort of thing, because I perceived by the first glance of my eye that you had got one and all of the old things on and about you.... and if they were rubbed up a little, some of them might look decent enough, perhaps, in a quiet way. But they are no more to be compared with.... However that’s nothing to the purpose, just now; but this is”.... And here Mr. Timothy Jenkins drew forth from his deep coat pocket a small casket of the finest ivory, inlaid with tiny flowers of transparent tortoiseshell. He touched a spring, and the lid flew open. “Now then, look here, my dear,” he said, raising from its rose-coloured satin bed an enormous string of the most magnificent oriental pearls. “This is what I call a pretty toy, and it is worth just about.... let me see, just about at least one quarter of all the diamonds you had got stuck about your poor dear little head, last night.... What do you think of it? It is very pretty, and not nearly so heavy for you to carry.”

  “I think, sir,” said Sophia, her voice, her eyes, her mouth, her chin, all undergoing the most sudden and surprising metamorphosis, “I think, sir, that if those are real pearls, they are the most beautiful that ever were seen in the world.”

  “Pretty nearly, pretty nearly. But pray, Miss.... Martin Thorpe.... do you happen to have any doubts about their being genuine? be you suspect that they are made of wax and glass, my dear?” said Mr. Jenkins, laying them across the hands of Sophia, which seemed instinctively to advance in order to receive them.

  “Wax and glass?.... Oh no, sir!.... I never saw anything so beautiful in all my life. And what a clasp! How that stone blazes in the middle of the diamonds!....

  “Yes, it does.... It is a pretty sapphire for the size. I am glad you like it. And now, Sophy Martin.... Thorpe, I will make a bargain with you. I will give you that string of pearls, clasp, casket, and all, if you will only be kind and good to me, and let me go about the old house that I have not seen for so many years, without being cross and angry as you were this morning. What say you? Will you agree to it?”

  The dull little eyes of Sophia actually shot forth a sort of dim lurid ray as they were raised to those of her strange but most munificent visitor.

  “Agree, sir!.... I am sure I do not know what to say to express my gratitude. Every room in the house of course, and everything in them, may be seen by you at any time and at all times. Mrs. Barnes, my house-keeper, is a very civil obliging person, and she shall have orders to attend you wherever you please.”

  “Mr
s. Barnes.... Mrs. Barnes your housekeeper? Yes, my dear.... that will do exactly. I should like nothing better. Here they are then. They are pretty tolerable pearls, I promise you. And they are your own, Miss Sophy. I give them to you out and out. Now then, lock them up in one of your dear old cabinets. They are rather too valuable to lie about.”

  Flattered, bewildered, but delighted, perhaps more than she had ever been at any single moment of her whole life, Sophia hastened to obey him. He followed her to the cabinet she selected, and when she had opened it held her back, with one hand, but gently enough not to frighten her, while with the other he himself opened the door of a centre receptacle, which was well calculated to hold the casket conveniently. But ere she deposited the treasure he said to her, “Have you observed the spring, Sophy?... Do you know how to open it?”

  “How kind of you to think of it?” she exclaimed. “Indeed I do not, and I shall be greatly obliged if you will show me.”

  “Look here, then.... you see it is very easy.” And the happy heiress practised the manœuvre before his eyes, that she might be quite perfect in it.

  “Yes, that is the way. You will hardly miss it now. But I am more sharp than most people about springs... I can always open them, and, more than that, I can generally pretty well guess where they are. Stay now; just let me put my finger there, will you?” Sophia stood aside, Mr. Jenkins touched a panel which seemed to be merely ornamental, and flying back it discovered a recess in which lay a morocco case which looked as if it contained a very small miniature. Mr. Jenkins snatched at it with a movement so sudden as to make her start. But a gentleman possessing the power of giving away such a string of pearls as she had just received, was not likely to inspire fear, and immediately recovering herself, she composedly watched him open the little case, which did indeed contain the “miniature presentment” of a little boy of six or seven years old. He changed colour as he looked at it, becoming again as pale as she had seen him look once before that day. But how different were her feelings as she watched him now!.... Instead of the sour frown which then clothed her features, and hung heavily upon her brow, as much of kindness as it was possible for her countenance to express shone in her looks, and her voice and manner once again assumed the obsequious gentleness that her poor old uncle Thorpe had thought so interesting.