Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  Mr. Thorpe looked at Algernon for an explanation, or at any rate for an introduction to the trio, and the appeal was answered by his saying, “This is uncle Spencer, Mr. Thorpe, and the young gentlemen are his sons.”

  “Permit us, my dearest Cornelius,” said Mr. Spencer, gracefully advancing with an extended hand, “to be among the first to welcome your long-wished-for return to your native land!”

  Mr. Thorpe bowed, and rather slightly touched the extended hand of his visitor.

  “Were you aware of my return, sir, when you arrived?” said he.

  “A letter from Sophy Martin summoned us,” replied the equivocating official, whose appearance at this critical moment was occasioned solely by the letter from Miss Wilkyns which has been already quoted.

  “But to that letter you vouchsafed no answer, Mr. Spencer,” replied the restored heir.

  “My dearest sir, it was impossible.... In fact”.... and here the invaluable assistant in the affairs of the royal treasury stopped short.

  “It matters not, sir,” returned Mr. Thorpe, “I am vastly well-pleased to see you now. My wish is, as speedily as possible, to bring to a conclusion the affairs which have obliged me to return to this country, and I shall feel better satisfied from having made acquaintance with you and your sons, before I leave it again.” Then turning to Algernon he laid his hand upon his shoulder, and whispered as he led him to the other end of the room, “I beg your pardon, my dear boy... For the future, say what you will, I shall believe you implicitly; so henceforth my faith is at your mercy.”

  Algernon looked at him with surprise, having no knowledge whatever of the excursion from which he was just returned, and having moreover totally forgotten the little faith with which his interpretation of Sophia’s elopement had been received.

  “I have paid the bridal visit, Algernon,” resumed Mr. Thorpe. “Do you understand me now?”

  “And how did the bridegroom look on seeing you?” cried Algernon in reply.

  “I suspect that he is a wise and prudent man, in general, notwithstanding the blunder he has just made; and having great respect for all such, I fully intend to give him as much consolation, under his misfortune, as I conveniently can, without injustice to others.”

  Algernon nodded, and with a smile so radiant with good humour, as very clearly showed, he heard this pitying sentence with satisfaction. The two friends then walked down the room again, arm in arm, and joining the Spencer group, Mr. Thorpe proposed adjourning to the drawing-room, where Mrs. Heathcote, who, as he expressed it, had kindly undertaken to do the honours of his house for him, would be happy to receive them.

  How heartily did Mr. Spencer mutter damnation upon the folly, which had brought him and his thus tardily into the presence of so gracious a cousin!

  * * * * *

  To draw out minutely the finale which followed these events, would be but tediously to repeat what the imagination of the intelligent reader has already suggested to him.

  Of course, Lady Temple objected to the frightfully imprudent marriage proposed by her son; and of course, upon being informed that Florence had been endowed with fifty thousand pounds by her munificent cousin, she thought better of it, and even confessed that it was a match which was calculated beyond all things to give her pleasure on account of her very affectionate recollection of the whole Thorpe family.

  Of course, Algernon had the house and all its belongings, together with the estate of Thorpe-Combe, settled on him and his heirs for ever; and of course the happy boy contrived to prevail on his father and well-beloved step-mother to make it their home for many a happy year, without insisting as a condition that any of his young brothers and sisters should be banished from it.

  Of course, Mr. Thorpe kept his word, and did rather more than he ought to have done for Sophia and her kidnapped husband; giving them wherewithal to live at the antiquated Grange with better dinners and suppers, than the dark-browed bride had the slightest right to hope for. But Mr. Thorpe did not deem it necessary or righteous to leave in her possession the jewels she had so unceremoniously conveyed away; observing to her, as he reclaimed them, that they would be fitter for the future wife of her cousin Algernon than for her, because Thorpe-Combe was a larger estate than Broad Grange; adding that he hoped the Brandenberry family would consider the string of pearls he had given her as proper an heirloom for the Grange as he thought the old Thorpe diamonds for the Combe.... And of course the young Mrs. Brandenberry did not agree with him in this opinion at all; but as soon as her three hundred a-year was secured to her, past accidents, declared that on this particular account she desired never to have any farther intercourse with the Heathcote family whatever; at the same time making it clearly understood that Sir Charles and Lady Temple were included in the threatened estrangement.

  Of course, the Wilkyns and the Spencer races went back very nearly as they came, except that they carried with them very civil assurances of Mr. Thorpe’s regrets that he had not any more Thorpe-Combes to give away.

  Of course, the wanderer himself received as much pleasure as undying regret for the past would permit, in witnessing the happiness he had made. And when fifteen years later in life he once again returned to see how his works of atonement had prospered, and found Temple flourishing in the easy affluence of its owner, and its woods redolent with the gay carols of the happy race which he had assisted to plant there; when he saw Algernon blessed with a wife deserving him, and the prosperous younger branched of the Heathcote race, — some by his own Asiatic influence, and the rest by the help of their wealthy friends and their own sound Heathcote principles, all thriving, prosperous, and respected, with the grey-haired Major and his joyous wife in the midst of them, — he returned again to end his days in the distant land of his choice, with a conscience soothed into believing that he might hope to be forgiven.

  THE BARNABYS IN AMERICA

  OR, THE ADVENTURES OF THE WIDOW WEDDED

  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 XXXII.

  CHAPTER XXXIII.

  CHAPTER XXXIV.

  CHAPTER XXXV.

  CHAPTER XXXVI.

  CHAPTER XXXVII.

  CHAPTER XXXVIII

  CHAPTER XXXIX.

  CHAPTER XL.

  CHAPTER XLI.

  CHAPTER XLII.

  CHAPTER XLIII.

  CHAPTER XLIV.

  CHAPTER I.

  INTRODUCTORY.

  THE affections of the human heart are various; all equally genuine when nature is untampered with, but infinitely modified as to their intensity. The love of a parent for its offspring has been acknowledged on all hands to be one of the strongest and least uncertain of these affections, partaking so largely of instinct, as fairly to class it among the immutable laws of nature, and though certainly shared by the beasts which perish, yet felt to be venerable from the divinity of the origin whence the common well-spring rises. There is a modification, however, of this parental love, which is wholly free from, and undegraded by, any community either with the beasts of the field, the fishes of the sea, the reptiles which crawl upon the earth, or the birds which fly towards the heave
ns — there is a parental love, so purely spiritual, so wholly intellectual, as to place it in sublimity far above any other affection of the human heart.

  “What may this be?” demand the uninitiated. Unhappy ones! Like a childless wife, and a husband without an heir, ye are unconscious of the fondest yearning that ever swelled a human breast! But is there an author who does not at once secretly acknowledge his sympathy in the feeling thus described! Oh no! not one.

  Yet, elevated as is the nature of this intellectual love, there be many who are shy to confess it. Many; strange to say, who affect a total indifference, nay, almost oblivion, concerning those offsprings of the brain, for whom by every law, human and divine, they ought to feel the tenderest partiality. “Let no such men be trusted;” it is doing them injustice to believe that they can be sincere.

  Far otherwise is it with the progenitor of the widow Barnaby.

  I scruple not to confess that with all her faults, and she has some, I love her dearly: I owe her many mirthful moments, and the deeper pleasure still of believing that she has brought mirthful moments to others also. Honestly avowing this to be the case, can any one wonder, can any one blame me, for feeling an affectionate longing at my heart to follow her upon the expedition upon which I sent her when last we parted? An expedition, too, that was to lead her to a land which all the world knows I cherish in my memory with peculiar delight? I will not believe it, but trusting to the long-established and good-humoured toleration of those who descend to listen to my gossipings, I will forthwith proceed to tell them all that has happened to this dear excellent lady since General Hubert and Mr. Stephenson left her in her grand drawing-room in Curzon-street, surrounded by her family and friends.

  CHAPTER II.

  “I HAVE enjoyed that, Patty, and I won’t deny it,” cried the ci-devant widow Barnaby, as the above-named gentlemen quitted her drawing-room. “Heaven knows I am not a spiteful person, and I can forgive and forget as soon as anybody, but it was absolutely beyond nature not to enjoy letting those two puffed-up-top-sawyer fellows see that you had contrived to get married, my dear, while the whey-faced Miss Elizabeth was still a poor, pale, thin ghost of a spinster, as I may say — for so she is, dearest, compared to you.”

  “Oh, lor! don’t talk of her, mamma! The very thought of her makes me sick — if it don’t I’ll be hanged,” replied Madame Espartero Christinino Tornorino, giving a little shudder, and creeping still closer to her loving husband, till her handsome face was half hid in his bosom. “Oh, my goodness! For how much, I wonder, would I change places with her?”

  “Not for a trifle, I have a notion, my dear,” said her mother, laughing heartily; “but I’d give just sixpence to see how my conceited niece Agnes looks, when she hears you are married. I’d make an even bet that she won’t believe it. What will you lay me that she does not take it for a joke of that gay chap, Frederic Stephenson?”

  “No, no, she would if she could, I don’t doubt that, mamma, in the least,” replied the bride; “but it is not so easy to do as to wish. I suppose she will have some wedding-cake sent her, won’t she?”

  “I’ll take care of that, my dear,” said Miss Louisa Perkins, nodding her head with a look of great intelligence. “Your dear mamma, has given me a little hint about that business already, and of course your own noble relations will come first.”

  “Oh, yes! my darling creature!” exclaimed Miss Matilda with a stifled sigh, “we will all take care of that, depend upon it; and do — oh, do — my dearest, dearest Patty! let me have the tying up your name-cards together! It will be such a delight. If dear Mrs O’Donagough will just give me a shilling or two for it, I’ll go out and buy the silver twist for them this very moment. Oh!” with another sigh, “it will be such a sweet office!”

  “By-the-by, that is well thought of, Matilda,” observed the fond and provident mother. “Mercy on me, Patty, now one comes to think of it, what a whirl you have put us all in, with this frolic of yours — silver twist is the least of it, Matilda! There must be favours, just as if we had been all regularly at church together, you know. I am not going to let the wedding of my only daughter with a first-rate Spanish nobleman pass over as if we were just common ordinary people, who had never been to court, or distinguished in any way.”

  “Of course you won’t!” exclaimed both the Miss Perkinses in a breath, and Miss Matilda, confident in intimacy, added, “I am sure you would be a fool if you did.”

  “And then there is the sending it to the papers you know, mamma,” said Madame E. C. Tornorino, with energy; “I do beg that may not be forgotten.”

  “Mercy on me,” cried her mother, “to think that I should keep sitting here with such an awful deal of business to do! It is all very natural that you two should like to keep together, there, billing and cooing like a pair of wood-pigeons, but it will never do for us. My dear Don Tornorino, will you just step down into your father-in-law’s library, and look for a pen and ink, and a sheet of paper, and then I will give you leave to whisper to Patty till dinner-time, if you like it.”

  The tall bridegroom rose from his place to obey her, and using a little gentle violence to disengage his coat-collar from the fond of his affectionate bride, very respectfully pronounced the “Yes, ma’am,” and left the room.

  “Isn’t he beautiful, mamma?” demanded the young wife, as soon as he had disappeared. “He is ten thousand million times handsomer than Jack ever was or ever will be, isn’t he?”

  “He is a very fine man, Patty, there is no doubt of it,” replied Mrs. O’Donagough. “I always admired that style of man — the whiskers and hair, and all that, you know. I have always thought that it gave particularly the air of a gentleman — I might, indeed, say of a nobleman.”

  “Exactly that!” cried Miss Matilda Perkins. “Mrs. O’Donagough always expresses herself so happily. He is a fine man — a stylish man, Patty. That is exactly what he is — and many and many’s the girl that will look upon you with envy, my dear, take my word for that.”

  “Well, I can’t help it, if they do, Matilda,” replied the well-pleased Madame Tornorino. “But I wish you would not send him away, mamma! Why could not Matilda, or your own particular friend, Louisa, have gone for the pen and ink? I do think it is very hard to send one’s husband away the very first day after one is married to him.”

  “But who could guess, Patty, that he would be staying so unaccountably long?” returned her mother.

  “Lor bless my soul, I could have made the paper by this time, and I shall have altogether forgot what came into my head about what was to be sent to the newspaper — haven’t you got a scrap of paper either of you, and a pencil?”

  The ready hand of the faithful Louisa was in her pocket in an instant, and from its varied stores she drew forth the “Lady’s Polite Remembrancer” for the year, which contained a little pencil, very neatly cut for writing.

  “Will this do, dear Mrs. O’Donagough?” said she, presenting it.

  “Do? Lor no! I shall break it in half a minute. But, however, that don ‘t much signify, I may just write down a word or two, to keep what I was thinking of in my head, it was so exactly the right sort of thing. Give me some paper, Louisa?”

  “Paper? Oh, dear me, where can I find any, I wonder? Do, my dear darling Miss Patty, tell me where I can find a bit of paper for good mamma?”

  On being thus addressed, the newly-married lady suddenly sprung from the sofa on which she had been seated, and rushing across the room with a movement more resembling the spring of a powerful young panther than anything else, seized the gentle Louisa by the shoulders, and shook her heartily.

  “I’ll teach you to call me Miss Patty, you nasty old maid, you! How dare you do any such thing? Don’t you know that if I am Miss Patty still, I am just no better than I ought to be, and a pretty thing that is for you to say of your own best friend’s only daughter. Arn’t you ashamed of yourself — arn’t you then?”

  “I am, indeed, my dearest Mrs. Torni — oh, dear me! How shall I
speak what I don’t no more understand than if it was just so much Greek? You must please, indeed you must, just to write down for me your name, exactly as you wish to have it spoken, and you shall see that I will never do the same thing again — no, never as long as I live.”

  “Well, then, don’t bother any more about it now, but just get mamma some paper.”

  By dint of hunting in various drawers, a sheet of paper was at length found, upon which Mrs. O’Donagough, notwithstanding the fragility of her pencil, contrived to scrawl the following paragraph:

  “By special license — Martha, the only daughter and sole heiress of John William O’Donagough, Esq., to Don Espartero Christinino Tornorino. We are happy to learn from the most unquestionable authority that, though a foreigner, this distinguished nobleman is in every respect worthy of the enviable preference which has been given him by the most admired beauty of the present season. The sensation produced by the appearance of this young lady at the last drawing-room, will probably cause her immediate marriage to be a source of disappointment to many.”

  Having, after a good many revisals, completed her composition, Mrs. O’Donagough read it aloud, with all the dignity it deserved, and then said —

  “What do you think of that, ladies?”

  “Why it is first-rate beautiful, mamma,” replied Patty, rubbing her hands; “only, you know, it is a downright lie as ever was told, for me and my darling were married by banns, we took care about that. As to all the rest, it is true enough for all I know to the contrary.”