Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

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  It was late in a lovely evening about the middle of June, and the whole of the Heathcote portion of the Combe family were assembled to enjoy the last sweet hour of twilight upon the noble esplanade before the house, when they were startled by the very unusual sound of carriage wheels approaching through the thick shrubberies that led from the lodges on the London road.

  “Who in the world can this be?” said the Major, making a step or two towards the point from which the road was most visible. But before his question could, be either idly repeated, or idly answered, a hack post-chaise, with one pair of horses, two insides, and considerable luggage, appeared in sight. As there was neither mark nor likelihood about it, to say whom it might contain, the Major gazed in as perfect ignorance as he had listened to it; but the eye of Florence had caught another eye, whose glance had caused her blood to ebb and flow so irregularly, as to oblige her to reseat herself upon a bench from which she had risen, and Mrs. Heathcote at the same moment fixing her eyes upon the rear of the vehicle, exclaimed “Good heaven!.... that is Algernon’s box!”

  The door of the post-chaise was opened in less time than it takes to tell of it, and Sir Charles Temple sprang out, followed by his young friend. Great was the clamour of surprise (for of Sophia’s letter the Heathcotes of course knew nothing), but greater still, perhaps, was the throb of joy which this unexpected sight occasioned. Algernon, taller by two inches, and stouter by half-a-dozen, than when he stood before them last, embraced father, mother, sister, and brothers in succession; and such was the confusion of the moment that Sir Charles Temple actually embraced most of them, too, by which extraordinary freedom Florence was so far roused from the feeling of faintness which had come upon her that she was able to rise up, and, by help of the offender’s arm to reach the dear east parlour, which she happened to know was the spot where he had first conceived the project of taking care of her for life.

  When Sir Charles Temple had sufficiently recovered his senses to hear and understand the Major’s reiterated question of, “What has brought you home so suddenly?” he felt some difficulty in replying to it. From its being asked, it was plain that their amiable ward had not communicated the purport of the letter she had written, and which had produced this prompt measure, from the fear it naturally suggested that Florence found not such a home in her cousin’s house as the young baronet approved. But to explain all this in a moment was impossible; the question, therefore, was only answered by another, “Where is Miss Martin Thorpe?”

  Had Sir Charles never before conceived the idea from the querulous letter he had received that his ward’s house had not been a happy home to her relatives, the sort of start which this question produced would have suggested it. —

  “I suppose she is in her own sitting-room.” said Mrs. Heathcote.

  “Her own sitting-room,” repeated Algernon. “Do you not all sit together.... The two ladies shook their heads and smiled. “What a comfort!” cried the handsome Algernon, his saucy eyes exchanging an expressive glance with his stepmother.

  “But we must let her know you are here, Sir Charles,” said the Major, “or she will really have reason to be displeased with us.” And a message was immediately sent up to the lady of the mansion, announcing the arrival of the travellers.

  “Algernon!.... I should scarcely have known you,” said his father, looking at him with such an expression of pride and happiness in his eyes, that the laughing blue ones of the baronet sparkled with satisfaction.

  “You think, then, that I have taken care of him, Major?” said he.

  “Care, my dear fellow?.... I don’t know what you have done to him. Poppsy, do you feel quite certain that this tall stout fellow is really the boy that you have been cuddling up, like a sick lamb, for the last three years?”

  “Why, if it were not for his eyes and his teeth, and his hair and his smile, Major, I really do not think I should know him. I wonder if Miss Martin Thorpe will be brought to believe there is any hope of life in him now?”

  “Why, as good uncle Thorpe is dead and buried, and the estate settled upon herself and her little heirs for ever, I think she may,” said Algernon. “But it would really be very hard upon me,” he added, “if I were not to live to a good old age; for most certainly I have had just double the usual proportion of fatherly and motherly care. Those who have seen, may say whether I have not had two mothers; and if this gentleman here did not look so ridiculously young, I could declare that I might often have mistaken him for a second father.”

  “Say brother, Algernon,” said Frederic, looking from one of the handsome young faces to the other. “He looks just as if he might be your brother.” —

  “Does he, Frederic?” said Sir Charles, laughing and throwing a bright eye-beam upon Florence, which caused her to turn her head aside, her mother-in-law to colour, her father to smile, and Algernon to stare.

  Just at this moment, when to say truth they none of them wished for any interruption at all, the door opened, and Miss Martin Thorpe appeared.

  A little flurry and agitation were visible on her countenance, and her dark skin had rather more of the carnation in it than usual, but when, having shaken hands with Sir Charles Temple, she turned her eyes upon Algernon, she actually turned pale. Though she had talked of the certainty of his speedy death to Mr. Thorpe with rather more confidence than she actually felt in the near approach of that desirable event, she really and truly had ever thought him a very fragile and delicate sort of a boy, who was, at any rate, quite as likely to die as to live, spite of all the ridiculous fuss that Mrs. Heathcote made about him; and when she looked at him now, with every symptom of health and strength in face and limb, her intense displeasure at the sight made her feel positively qualmish, and she would have been very glad if it had occurred to any one to open the one window of the pretty east parlour, and give her a little air.

  This was not done, however, and after a few minutes, she contrived to recover herself without it; but she felt altogether exceedingly ill at ease, and by no means knowing what it would be best for her to say or do, in order to make this too prompt attention to her complaints on the part of Sir Charles, pass off with as little éclat as possible. After a few sufficiently awkward little speeches about his journey, and so forth, she rallied her courage sufficiently to say, “Shall we leave my cousin Algernon to talk of his adventures to his family, Sir Charles, while I have the pleasure of speaking a few words to you before tea is served in the drawing-room?”

  However much Sir Charles Temple might have preferred remaining where he was, it was of course impossible that he could say so, and he therefore civilly replied that he should be happy to follow whithersoever she would lead.

  He was, however, a little startled when he found that this leading was to take him up stairs, and on reaching the gay-looking and really handsome room to which she introduced him, he looked as much astonished as if she had transported him to Pekin.

  “Where in the world did this room come from?” said he.... “You must-have the wand of an enchanter, Miss Martin Thorpe, to have created this magnificent apartment from among the sleeping-rooms of my old friend’s mansion.”

  “I am glad you approve it, Sir Charles Temple,” she replied, modestly. “It was absolutely necessary for me, as I am sure you must be aware, that when I determined upon residing here in the manner I now do, I should have some room that I could call my own.”

  Sir Charles had said nothing about his approval of the room, which, in fact, struck him as being vastly finer than there was any occasion for; but on this point he made no observation; and as to her having a room that she could call her own, he felt by no means disposed to dispute it. But not wishing that this tête à tête with his ward should keep him longer from the party below than was absolutely necessary, he said.... “I fear, Miss Martin Thorpe, that the unfortunate disagreements which you mention in the letter I have had the greet pain to receive from you are the cause of your thus finding it necessary to
separate yourself from your guardian and his family. If you cannot remain happily together, I feel perfectly assured that neither Major Heathcote, nor the ladies of his family, would wish the arrangement to continue; and it is because I feel, that under the circumstances, your remaining together must be equally disagreeable to you all, that I have thus hastened my return.”

  “I had no idea that my letter would have brought you home so suddenly, Sir Charles,” replied Sophia, in some confusion, “or I should certainly have written it more cautiously. I am extremely sorry to have occasioned you any inconvenience, and had hoped that everything might have been arranged by letters.”

  “Such violent changes as you propose, Miss Martin Thorpe, are not easily arranged, so as to have the appearance of propriety, even when all the parties are present to assist in it.... and still less could this be hoped for, when they are not,” said he.

  “I am sure, Sir Charles Temple, if you disapprove the separation I spoke of, it will be my wish to give it up,” replied Sophia, very cleverly taking all the merit of the most gentle obedience, while joyfully catching at the least appearance of opposition, which might save her from exposing herself to blame from Mr. Jenkins.

  “I would by no means wish either party to continue with the other, unless both found themselves happy in the union,” replied Sir Charles, gravely.

  “I think we begin to understand each other better now,” said Sophia in the gentlest possible accents, “and I have no doubt but that we shall go on very well for the future. Therefore, Sir Charles, I shall be greatly obliged by your not in any way alluding to the letter unfortunately sent you, in presence of the Heathcotes. They as yet know nothing of it.”

  “I have every wish to oblige you, Miss Martin Thorpe,” replied the baronet, perfectly persuaded that if the poor fretful-tempered girl had taken offence unreasonably, she was now heartily sorry for it, “but your cousin Algernon has seen your letter.” The scowl produced on the young lady’s brow by these words went far towards correcting her inexperienced guardian’s erroneous estimate of her present state of mind, and he secretly determined that Florence should not remain her inmate, if there was any chance of her sharing such looks as that. But for the present he agreed to sink the subject entirely, unless Major Heathcote, from the information which he had probably already received through Algernon, should name it to him.

  “And in that case,” said Sophia, meekly, “I will beg leave to speak to him on the subject myself.”

  “Now then we may return to the party below,” said Sir Charles, rising. —

  “Certainly,” replied the heiress with a gentle smile, and they descended the stairs together.

  Nothing could exceed the amiable sweetness of manner with which Miss Martin Thorpe conducted herself towards the whole party. To converse at all with Algernon was indeed beyond her power, but she contrived to avoid this very skilfully; and to the rest her kindness was quite sufficient to have made them weary of conjecture as to the cause of it, had they not all been far too happy, and too occupied to think about it.

  Had it not been for the pre-occupation occasioned by many anxious thoughts of Mr. Jenkins, and of his declared intentions to “give substantial proof of his affectionate remembrance of those who were gone,” Sophia might have observed enough in the course of that evening to have convinced her, perhaps, that some of her projects were not very likely to answer; and that the Temple and Thorpe-Combe estates were likely to remain divided for ever, if their union depended upon that of Sir Charles Temple with herself. But much too profoundly occupied by graver matters to find time for any such secondary speculations, the whole attention which she could give to anything at the present moment, was bestowed in displaying civility to Mrs. Heathcote; and so dreadfully irksome was this, that she was thankful in no common degree, when at length the often-consulted timepiece on the chimneypiece told her that she might bid them goodnight, and send them all to bed, without any outrageous impropriety.

  Sir Charles Temple, however, was most cordially invited by her to stay the night, but he preferred the chance of doing the honours of his now precious banqueting-room to the party he expected there, even to remaining an inmate for a few hours longer with his charming ward.

  The great anxiety of Sophia on the following morning was to prevent any interview between Sir Charles Temple and Mr. Jenkins from taking place, before she had herself seen the latter. The first news which her accomplished waiting-woman Mrs. Roberts had communicated on entering her room to wake her, was, that Mr. Jenkins was come back to Broughton Castle; and Sophia well remembered that nearly the last words he had said to her, contained a promise of paying her a visit as soon as he returned. It was therefore very important that she should secure an early interview, in order to explain to him, before he saw any of the family, that she had had a conversation with her younger guardian, which had decided her even to receive Algernon, and to treat him with a degree of kindness more consonant to her own gentle nature than to his deserts, rather than lose the protection of Major and Mrs. Heathcote during her minority. She thought ‘ that this statement, with her manner of communicating it, might produce a strong effect in her favour, on the mind of her already partial friend, and would have given one of her recently acquired pearls, rather than not enjoy an opportunity of making it, before Algernon was introduced to him.

  Fortune favoured her wishes, beyond what she had dared to hope; for when the family breakfast was over, at which she had herself on this occasion condescended to assist, instead of seeing Sir Charles Temple walk in, as she had fully expected, the whole of the Heathcote family prepared to walk out.

  As she had never, since they first entered the house, proposed to join them in any single out-of-door excursion, it was in no way necessary, notwithstanding her change of politics, to do so now; and she therefore permitted them to follow their own plans, civilly hoping that they might not over-fatigue themselves from the heat of the weather. —

  She thought herself exceedingly fortunate when she saw them all set off, but ten times more so when, within half an hour afterwards, Mr. Jenkins entered her boudoir.

  “Oh! my dear, dear sir! how truly delighted I am to see you!” she exclaimed, actually springing forward to meet him. “How are you?.... Do you feel fatigued by your journey? Have you been returned long? How very, very, kind it is in you, to come and see me! How uncommonly well you look!” To all which the sallow personage she addressed, only replied, “Thank you;”.... and then sat down, without appearing in any particular hurry to say anything more.

  “I have news to tell you, my dear sir,” resumed Sophia, “which I think will give pleasure to your kind heart, because it is likely, I hope, to be advantageous to me. My guardian, Sir Charles Temple, is returned home, and my cousin Algernon with him; and I trust, dearest Mr. Jenkins, that we shall go on....”

  “Sir Charles Temple returned?.... and Algernon with him?”... cried Mr. Jenkins with sudden animation; and starting from his chair without appearing particularly interested about the goings on she was preparing to dilate upon. “Where are they?”

  “Sir Charles is at his own house, I believe,” replied Sophia, and my cousin Algernon is gone out to take a walk with his father and the rest of the family; so that, I am sorry to say, I cannot send for him that he may be introduced to you this moment. But if you will give me the great honour and pleasure of your company at dinner to-day, you shall see both your old acquaintance Sir Charles Temple, and my cousin.”

  “No no, that won’t do... that won’t do at all. I don’t want to see Sir Charles Temple just now. And yet I am very glad he is come too.... very glad.” Then rising from his chair, Mr. Jenkins began his usual restless sort of promenade round and round the room, with his hands behind him, his eyes on the ground, and apparently meditating deeply on some subject, which, as it seemed, he intended to keep to himself.

  Sophia felt a good deal at a loss what to say next. She was exceedingly afraid of not seeming sufficiently delighted to see him, if she
said nothing, and perhaps still more afraid of vexing and disturbing him, if she said too much, while he continued in this silent fit; but her embarrassment was speedily ended, by his slopping short before her in one of his turns, and then, drawing a chair so close as to make his knees touch hers, addressing her as follows: —

  “Sophy Martin.... Miss Sophy Martin Thorpe.... I have taken a whim into my head, in which you must humour me. Will you? Will you do whatever I ask of you, whether you like it yourself or not?”

  “Most assuredly I will!” replied Sophia with delighted eagerness; “and be only too happy that there is anything in the world by which I can prove my wish to please you.”

  “That is very kindly answered,” said Mr. Jenkins, “and I am much obliged to you for it. And now I will explain myself. You remember, I dare say, all that I told you about my old friendship for Mr and Mrs. Thorpe, who used to live here in my youth, when I was so much at Broughton Castle?”

  “Remember it! Oh my dear sir! Do you think it would be possible for anybody to forget what is so very interesting?”

  “No, I did not think you had forgotten it. And perhaps, Sophy Martin, you remember too, that I told you my chief purpose in coming here was to make acquaintance with those they left behind them. Now you, my dear, are only one of these, and Miss Florence is another, and Algernon will be a third; all that’s very well, and just what I wanted. But I find by inquiries I have been making that there are ever so many more cousins who all came to see the dear old man before he died, and I have taken it into my head that I should like them all to come and see me before I go away again. Will you write by this day’s post, Sophy, and tell these Wilkyns and Spencer people... all those who were here to visit him, that a middle-aged bachelor-friend of the family, is desirous of making acquaintance with them. You must let me see your letters, when you have written them, and if they are not just what I like, my dear, I will write myself.... Will you sit down and do this directly?.... now, while I am sitting with you?”