Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  “Well, dear, and what does that little scratch of the pen signify, whether it’s true or not,” demanded her mother; “nobody will know anything about it, and it sounds better, doesn’t it?”

  “Well, there — let it stand, mamma. It is not worth disputing about, certainly. Married is married all the world over. And what you say about him is all right and correct. But where is he, darling beauty! I tell you what, Mrs. O’Donagough, it won’t do for you to be sending my husband about right and left — mind that, if you please. And now you see papa’s keeping him, whether he will or no. I won’t bear it any longer, that’s what I won’t, so good-by to you all.” And so saying, Madame Tornorino darted out of the room.

  “Oh heavens! How that charming creature’s affection touches me!” exclaimed Miss Matilda Perkins. “How animated, how beautiful is her conjugal tenderness! Ah, who can witness it, and not look with envy upon happiness so pure and so exalted,” she added, almost inaudibly.

  Patty meanwhile made her way rapidly by a sort of sliding movement of her hand, down the banisters, rather than by the use of her feet (a mode of descending the stairs to which she was greatly addicted when in good spirits), to the door of the room dignified by the appellation of “the library,” and throwing it open without ceremony, found herself, considerably to her surprise, in the presence of two persons who were, beyond all question, wrangling violently; and unhappily for her new-born felicity, poor little lady! these persons were her father and her husband.

  “How dare you look so savagely cross at my darling Tornorino, papa?” she exclaimed, with great indignation, and at the same time throwing her arms round her husband, who, as well as her father, was standing. “How dare you, I say? Don’t knit your brows at me, papa, for you know as well as I do, that I don’t care the hundredth part of a farthing for your frowns — and that I didn’t either before I was a married woman; so I leave you to guess how much I care for them now. But I won’t have my dear darling plagued, that I won’t — so mind what you are about, old gentleman.”

  “This is no time for playing the fool, Patty,” replied her father, in a voice which, despite all the courage of her native spirit, strengthened as it now was by her matronly position, made her quail. “Did I serve you right, hussy, I should push you out of doors this instant, with the beggarly fellow you have thought proper to choose for a husband.”

  “Why do you let him talk so, Don Tornorino?” exclaimed poor Patty, bursting into tears. “You know it’s all lies! Why do you let him go on so?”

  “Hold your tongue, girl, and hear me!” resumed her father, in a tone that neither the bride nor bridgroom could listen to unmoved. “I have been asking this fine whiskered hero of yours a few questions, and from his agreeable answers, it appears perfectly evident that the coat upon his back constitutes by far the most valuable part of his possessions. This being the case, my young madam, I will beg you to inform me how and where you intend to live?”

  “I don’t believe a word of it, I don’t,” Bobbed Patty, trembling both with rage and fear. “He is a Don, he told me so himself; I know he is a Don — arn’t you a Don, my dear, arn’t you?”

  “Never mind. You no talk, Miss Patty, say anything à propos de moi. Listen, dutiful, à votre bon papa,” replied her husband, disengaging himself from her arms, and placing himself behind a chair, in order, as it should seem, to keep out of her way.

  “Do you call me Miss Patty, you traitor of a man?” screamed the unfortunate wife. “If my papa is the dear good papa he used to be, he’ll teach you to call your own lawful wife by such a name as that — won’t you, dear pa? — won’t you make him treat me like a married woman?”

  If the high-minded Mr. O’Donagough did love anything in the world besides himself, it certainly was his daughter; and even at the present moment, though harassed by a pretty considerable variety of disagreeable thoughts, he could not see the showers of tears which fell from her bright eyes, without enough of pity and tenderness to moderate the angry feelings with which he had just addressed her, and to produce a tone of much greater gentleness as he said —

  “I am sorry for you, my poor Patty, with all my heart and soul. But it will do no good to mince the matter, you have married yourself to a fellow without a sixpence, and there are some fathers who would make little difficulty of easing themselves at once of all trouble concerning you, by turning you both into the street together. But I have not the heart to do it, Patty — though, God knows, at this time the fewer burdens I have the better. However, your mother’s income is settled upon her, and in case of the worst, may be worth keeping. And so, all things considered, I am determined to treat you better than you deserve, and take you along with me. I have explained myself pretty fully to your husband, and he has wit enough, whatever other qualities he may want, to understand how I shall expect he will behave himself. So no more sobbing and crying, Patty. We must one and all make the best of a very bad matter. Things might be worse — I don’t mean as to your marriage, for I don’t see exactly how that could be; but I might have been found considerably worse prepared for the accident that has happened to me.”

  “What do you mean, papa?” demanded the astonished Patty, her eyes opened greatly beyond their usual ample dimensions, her curls hastily pushed back, and her head extended forwards to the utmost extent of her handsome throat. “What, in heaven’s name, are you talking about? If my Tornorino is not really a Don, he is a monstrous liar, and that he knows as well as I. But I am ready to forget and forgive, because he is such a darling, and because it is as clear as light that he only said it for the sake of being the more sure of getting me; and if you’ll forgive and forget it too, papa, it will be very good-natured of you. But what in the world has that to do with my ‘going along with you.’ Going along where, I should like to know? I don’t mean to go along anywhere, and that’s flat. I mean to stay here, and show off my wedding-ring and my wedding-clothes, and my handsome husband, to my aunt Herbert, and my cousins, and that nasty brute of a beast, Jack that was, and everybody else that I ever saw or knew in all my life before. So please not to say any more about ‘going along;’ for all the along I shall be going, will just be driving along the streets in mamma’s beautiful carriage to buy wedding-clothes.”

  The spirit of Mr. John William Patrick Allen O’Donagough seldom failed him; and, to do him justice, it must be avowed that he rarely permitted any emotion to be visible on his countenance, which it was his wish to hide. But as he listened to this speech from the animated Patty, he looked a less great, a less philosophical man than usual. For a moment he turned away his head to avoid her gaze, and his complexion varied. But this lasted not long; a very short interval sufficed to restore him to his wonted happy hardihood; and then he composedly turned to his son-in-law, saying, with very perfect self-possession —

  “Get up stairs, Tornorino; I want to speak to my daughter alone.”

  The Don, who did not appear to show in any large degree the firmness of nerve possessed by his distinguished father-in-law, delayed not for the hundredth part of a second to obey him, but instantly slipped out of the room, despite the extended hand of his wife, which seemed stretched out as if to “clutch him,” and impede his departure.

  “Sit down, Patty,” said Mr. O’Donagough.

  The puzzled Patty obeyed, her eyes still steadily fixed upon her mysterious parent.

  “I am sorry to tell you, Patty, that your silly marriage is not the only, nor perhaps the worst, misfortune that has fallen upon us within the last twenty-four hours,” said he.

  “I wish you would not go on talking of my marriage in that way, papa,” said the bride, recovering her courage as her father’s manner towards her softened. “I’m the best judge, I suppose, whether my husband is the man I love; and I tell you, once for all, that he is. And if it turns out that he is not particularly rich because of his leaving most of his money behind in his own country, what can that signify, I should like to know, when, as mamma says, I am your only sole heiress;
and you, as rich as you are, with your fine house and carriage, and going to court, and the lord knows what besides?”

  Mr. O’Donagough knit his brows, but presently relaxed the frown, and sighed deeply.

  “That is just the point, my poor dear child, upon which I want to speak to you. I have a very singular history to disclose, Patty, which will explain, only too well, all that now appears mysterious to you,” said he.

  Having thus spoken, he paused for a moment, and fixed his eyes full upon her face with great solemnity; but just as he seemed about to resume his discourse, Patty stopped him by saying —

  “Pray, papa, will everybody go on calling me Patty, as you do? I can’t say I like it at all; it’s a monstrous disappointment to me; why shouldn’t I be called by my husband’s name, with Mrs before it, like other married women? I do think it is very hard.”

  “I will call you Mrs. Tornorino, my dear, if you wish it,” replied her father, with a smile which certainly, notwithstanding his constitutional strength of mind, gave him a good deal the air of ‘a very foolish, fond old man;’ “but you know, darling, that when parents’ have got a beautiful young married daughter, like you, they always continue to call them by their Christian name — that is, as long as they continue young and beautiful.”

  “Do they? Oh! I did not know that. Well, then, papa, you may go on so, if you please. But I hope nobody else will, for Tornorino is certainly the very prettiest name I ever heard in my life. Don’t you think it is, papa?”

  “My dear, dear Patty! I dare say I shall think any name that belongs to you pretty. But I have a great deal of business, Patty, that must be done directly, and I do beg you will listen to what I am going to say. Do now, there’s a good girl!”

  “Now I am sure you say that only to torment me, papa, and for no other reason in the whole world!” exclaimed Patty, with great vehemence. “You will never make me believe that let a married woman be as young as she will, she ought to be called GIRL! It is a downright insult; and if Tornorino has as much spirit as a rat, he won’t bear it, that he won’t!”

  Mr. O’Donagough’s fondness began to give way to anger, and it was decidedly more a ban than a blessing which burst from his lips, as he started out of his chair, and striding towards his daughter placed his hands upon her shoulder, shaking her with more energy than gentleness.

  “By the heaven above us, Patty, I am afraid you are a greater fool than I took you for! If you were six, instead of sixteen, you might listen to me when I tell you that I want to speak on matters of the greatest possible importance. But if you really are too silly to care for anything but your own nonsense, I shall leave you to your fate, and that may very likely lead to the turning you and your fine mustache into the street before you are many hours older.” These words were uttered with very considerable vehemence, and before Patty could sufficiently recover her wits to answer them, her angry father had passed through the door, and banged it together after him.

  CHAPTER III.

  NOTWITHSTANDING the dauntless style in which the spirited young bride had received her father’s rebuke upon the penniless nature of the connection she had formed, she was not altogether unconscious that it was deserved, or indifferent to the dangers which might arise to herself and her “darling,” were pa to get downright cross with her. It was therefore with no lingering movement that she scrambled across the room after him, threw open the door again, and sprung upon the back of his neck just as his foot reached the first stair, much after the fashion of a favourite young Newfoundland dog who has attained his full size, but not his full gravity and discretion. Most assuredly Mr. O’Donagough was in no playful mood, and perhaps his very first impulse upon receiving this powerful caress, was to have rejected it with equal vigour by a backward movement of the leg just raised in act to mount. But he felt that it was the hand of Patty that was at his throat, and his “one virtue” mastering him, he turned round with something between a smile and a frown, saying —

  “Don’t be a fool, Patty. What d’ye want?”

  “Want? my own dear pap? want you, to be sure. How could you run away from your own poor dear Patty 30? and she just married too! and all for nothing in the world but because she wanted to have a bit of fun with you! Come along back with me pa, and see if I don’t listen to all you have got to say, as grave as a judge. You see if I don’t.”

  O’Donagough, wholly overcome by this pretty naïveté, very lovingly threw his arm round her waist, and returned into the room they had left; but still his step and manner were so very solemn that Madame Tornorino began to be frightened outright, and when he had placed her in one chair, and himself in another, exactly opposite to her, she looked as sober and sedate as he could possibly have desired.

  “It will be necessary, my dear child,” he began, “in order to make you fully understand my present very embarrassing situation, that I should relate to you some circumstances of my early life, with which you are, and indeed your excellent mother also, as yet unacquainted. While still a very young man, my dear Patty and, to speak with the degree of frankness necessary to the full comprehension of my singular history, by no means ill-looking, in fact, I was exceedingly like yourself, Patty; at this period, my dear, I unfortunately happened to be quartered with my regiment at Windsor. The Regent, subsequently our beloved monarch, George the Fourth, was holding his splendid court there. The precise time of which I speak need not be mentioned. Indeed, for many painfully important reasons, it will be greatly best that I should avoid doing so. And I will, therefore, beg of you, my dear, to ask me no questions. All that is essential you should know I will freely communicate to you. And for the rest—”

  Here Mr. O’Donagough paused for a moment, and rested his forehead upon his extended hand, as if wishing to conceal some too powerful emotion with which his soul was struggling; but after one deep-drawn sigh, he proceeded —

  “Amidst the brightest ornaments of that splendid court, my dear child, was a young lady possessed of a degree of beauty, which, even at this distance of time, I cannot recall without a violence of emotion that shakes every nerve, and teaches me that there are feelings that neither time nor circumstance can obliterate. But, alas! my Patty, the dignity of her birth and station equalled the beauty of her person. The proudest nobles of the land vied with each other for her favour. All the world loved her, but she, alas! alas! loved me alone! This too lovely, this too beloved lady, was in the habit of walking frequently upon the terrace of the castle. Her high rank insured her admittance at all times, and I, from my military command, found it only too easy to invent ostensible reasons for being there also. That terrace, that noble Windsor-terrace, Patty, is known to millions, and remembered fondly by all who have seen it, as one of the most enchanting spots on earth. But alas! where is the aching, throbbing, palpitating memory which recollects like mine? Where is there another heart which bounds, yet sinks, which trembles, yet exults at the mere sound of its name, as mine does? My child, it was upon that terrace that the mutual love of that noble lady and your too happy, yet too wretched father was mutually confessed and mutually returned. She loved me, Patty! Loved me, did I say? She worshipped — she adored me! And I — can you blame me, my dear child, if —— —” here Mr. O’Donagough was very strongly agitated; notwithstanding his evident struggles to master his feelings, he found himself obliged to draw forth his pocket-handkerchief, and apply it to his eyes—” can you, I say, blame me, Patty, if I loved too?”

  “Good gracious, no, papa! Not the least bit in the world,” replied his daughter. “I am sure you would have been a most horrid monster of a man if you had not. But do go on, pa, and tell me what happened next? Did you run away with her, as my Don did with me?”

  “Patty, I dare not tell you more of this eventful history.”

  “Well I never!” exclaimed Patty, looking exceedingly disappointed; “no never in all my life heard anything like that. Just as if telling could signify now, when it must have been such ages and ages ago. Don’t be foolish,
papa, there’s a dear good man, but go on, and, for goodness’ sake, tell me all that happened between you and this grand lady. Well to be sure, it’s no great wonder that you hold your head so high as you do sometimes, I must say that for you, pap. But, pray, does mamma know all about it? Whether she does or not, however, don’t signify a straw, for I am positively dying to hear the rest, and hear it I must. So go on, papa, when I bid you.”

  “For the rest, my dear, there is but little more that can or ought to be said,” replied Mr. O’Donagough, with an air of discretion befitting the circumstances. “All that I can further relate concerns myself only. The vigilant eyes of those who surrounded the noble lady, who, by the way, it is necessary I should tell you was a countess in her own right, were not slow in discovering how matters stood, and the consequence to me may be easily guessed. Though well-born, and highly educated, and with a military reputation (for why should I deny it, Patty?) of the very highest class, I was still considered as immeasurably below the noble object of my love. Her proud and cruel friends would not for an instant endure the idea of a marriage between us, which would make her title descend to my offspring. I was ordered to go abroad immediately, and a multitude of injurious reports were industriously attached to my name, in the hope of estranging the heart of my beloved countess. I went, Patty, a broken-hearted wanderer; I quitted my native shores, and looked my last upon my noble love. But guess my agonies when I tell you, that almost the first news I received from England, brought me the account of her marriage with a nobleman of rank equal to her own! It is torture to remember it. But no more of this, Patty. I must not, I dare not dwell on all I have suffered. Years rolled on, and brought with them the healing balm that ever rests upon their wings. I saw your excellent mother. I saw, admired, wooed, and won her, Patty; and O! for her sake, as well as for other most important reasons, I would not wish this history to be greatly talked of. That you should converse respecting it with your mother, is of course perfectly natural. But do not dwell upon the passion I have described to you — it may pain her. By your own feelings for Don Tornorino, my dear love, you may guess what her’s are for me. The high nobility of my first passion will not suffice to heal the mortification arising from knowing that she never could have been more than second in my heart. You will now, in your present situation, easily understand all this, and will have too much tenderness for her, I am sure, to wound her feelings unnecessarily. You understand me?” —