“This will do, major, capital, won’t it?” said Mrs. Allen Barnaby, in high good humour.
“Yes, my dear; if you will undertake to pay for it,” he replied.
“Don’t come with any of that sort of nonsense over me, Donny,” she replied, forgetting herself for a moment. “I am not going to begin the old Sydney way over again, I promise you. You’ll remember, my dear, that I am a little more up to your doings than I was then; and if I give you the assistance of my talents, and keep you up with my respectability and fashion, I shall expect to be comfortably lodged in return, I promise you.”
This was, however, all conjugally whispered in the ear of her husband, as they stood apart together for a moment, in a room that was decidedly the “biggest and the best,” and which both of them had tacitly selected as their own.
“We shall see, my dear, we shall see,” he replied, without displaying any marks of anger at her remonstrance; “but you know as well as I do that everything must depend upon the chance of finding people that will suit us.”
“Of course, dear, of course. But take my word for it, major, that you will do nothing to signify, either here or anywhere else, if you don’t carry it with a high hand at first, and make them understand that you are somebody.”
“You are not far wrong there, my dear; and now let’s go down again to our Fatima. By the way, this New Orleans beauty makes you look as slender as a girl, my dear Mrs. Allen Barnaby.”
Some thought of the same kind had already passed through the analytical head of Mrs. Allen Barnaby herself, and she felt so kindly disposed towards the person who could produce so agreeable an effect, that the negotiation which followed their return to the keeping-room, was speedily brought to a happy termination.
Poor Miss Louisa Perkins started a little at hearing that she was to pay ten dollars a week for herself and her sister; but permitted herself to be satisfied upon Mrs. Carmichael’s proposing to abate one, provided the ladies did not mind sleeping in rather a small room up stairs that looked towards the west.
All preliminaries being thus happily settled, the party gladly accepted their obliging hostess’s invitation to take possession of the keeping-room and its sofas, till such time as the arrival of their baggage should enable them to settle themselves in their own apartments, and get ready for dinner; the hour for which, she informed them, was five o’clock.
It was now nearly two, and some natural anxiety began to be expressed by the ladies, lest those ever precious objects of interest, their trunks, might not arrive in time.
And now it was that, for the first time, Patty’s Don gave evidence that it was possible he might be of some little use, for upon Major Allen Barnaby’s declaring that he neither could nor would go out again during the heat of the day, for all the trunks in the world, the young Spaniard declared that the sun was delightful to him, and having received the most distinct instructions from each particular lady, as to which particular box it was especially essential he should get released for her INSTANTLY, he set off upon his mission, and performed it so well, that by four o’clock the whole party were made supremely happy, by finding themselves in the full enjoyment of their unpacked treasures, and as well able to make themselves fine as if they had never left London.
CHAPTER VIII.
AT five o’clock precisely an immense dinner-bell sent its startling sound through every apartment of Mrs. Carmichael’s establishment, but lest the uninitiated strangers might not immediately be aware what the sound meant, a brace of negro-girls was sent by the attentive hostess, to tell them that “every body was done finished dressing, and gone down to dinner.”
This notice came in welcome time to everybody, except Miss Matilda; but she, poor dear young lady, had failed in no less than three different head-dresses, which she had attempted to arrange with a peculiarly novel effect; and having listened unmoved to her sister’s repeated entreaties to “make haste, and not to mind just this first day,” and so forth, she was at length obliged to tear herself from her looking-glass, at the bidding of Black Jessy, with half her lank ringlets tucked back, because they would not curl, after being so long trifled with in the fervid atmosphere of Mrs. Carmichael’s west room. She was, however, comforted with the consciousness that her dress “sat like wax,” and that her tight sleeves made her look uncommonly young. With such elasticity of step as this dear thought sufficed to give her, she preceded her quiet sister down stairs, being ushered into the dining-room by Jessy, just as about eighteen ladies and gentlemen, with Mrs. Carmichael at their head, had taken their places at table.
Some little bustle followed this tardy entrance; but this over, the business of the hour began — a business which in every party varies according to the individual character of those who compose it. Some, as usual, thought most of the nature of what was put upon the table to eat, and others of the nature of those who sat round the table to eat it. Eight out of the twelve of Mrs. Carmichael’s previous boarders, were gentlemen, a preponderance highly agreeable to most of the new-comers.
Don, or Monsieur Tornorino, as Mrs. Carmichael called him, cared not a straw about the matter, nor would Miss Louisa have paid more attention to it than he did, had it not been that she knew her “poor dear Matilda” would be pleased; a conviction which rendered her pleased too.
Mrs. Allen Barnaby always confessed, that on the whole, she greatly preferred the society of gentlemen to that of ladies. Patty, in this, appeared likely through life to follow her mamma’s example. The major had almost given up looking at ladies at all, even to discover whether they were young or old, handsome or ugly, so perfectly was he aware that little or no profit could be made of them. And as for our fair Matilda, her feelings on the occasion may surely be left to the sagacity of the reader to discover.
“Major Allen Barnaby, gentlemen,” said Mrs. Carmichael, with a sort of circular bow to the table, “and Monsieur Tornorino, his son-in-law.”
This, by all the laws of New Orleans elegance, was a proper and sufficient introduction of the whole party, and as such it was received; for as the dinner proceeded, the new guests, whether male or female, were occasionally addressed without reserve by the former ones. Of these former ones, two ladies and two gentlemen were newly-married couples, beginning their married lives by indulging in a “spell of boarding the domestic indolence which it permits, rendering it, in all parts of the union, a very favourite portion of human life, but more especially so in the south, where every exertion is considered as a positive evil. These two exceedingly happy couples were known respectively by the names of Mr and Mrs. Anastasius Grimes, and Mr and Mrs. Theodore Hucks. The two other ladies were a Mrs and Miss Beauchamp, and one of the other gentlemen, a Colonel Beauchamp, the husband of the former, and the father of the latter lady.
Mrs. Beauchamp, in any other country than the United States, might still have been considered as young, for she was still remarkably handsome, and wanted three years of forty. Her daughter, a young thing of scarcely seventeen, was as beautiful a girl as it was well possible for the eye to look upon; yet all lovely as she was, it was probable that she would in a year or two be more lovely still; for her graceful form was almost too slight and élancée for feminine perfection of outline. But her dark eye already sparkled with intelligence that looked as if the spirit were of greater maturity than the fair shrine it inhabited. She was seated between her father and mother, who seemed to vie with each other in noting everything she did, and everything she said.
Then there were two elderly gentlemen, who soon contrived to make it known to the strangers that they were members of congress; a younger man, by name Horatio Timmsthackle, who hinted at literary occupations; and another younger still, Mr. Washington Tomkins, who seemed the man of fashion, par excellence, of the party, for he was more gaily dressed, and gave himself incomparably more airs than any one else. Lastly, there was an Englishman, also a young man; but he gave himself no airs, and was in no way remarkably dressed; but being seated immediately opposite the beautif
ul Miss Beauchamp, appeared to find more amusement in watching her tricks, than in exhibiting any of his own.
And, in truth, this remarkable young lady afforded him sufficient observation in this way, for her lively mobility equalled her beauty. Whether she ate any dinner at all might have been doubtful at the conclusion of the repast, even to an accurate observer; for it was very difficult to note anything save the expression of her most beauteous face, which recorded a rapid succession of observations on every one present.
For the most part, however, these appeared not to be in the quizzing line, but to be made up of quick remark and a sort of meditative interpretation, which seemed again and again to be the consequence of it. Her dress was as much out of the common way as herself, being composed of the smooth shining linen-cloth of which children’s pinafores are made; but it was delicately fine, and more of an iron-gray, than of the usual yellowish tint. At the throat and wrists it was relieved by the plain white collar and cuffs which a boy might have worn; but the corsage, which was fastened in front by a row of little white sugar-loaf buttons, had, like Rebecca’s vest, at the tournament of Ashby-de-la-Zouche, its two or three last buttons unfastened; and where are the pearls, or the diamonds, or the rubies, or the emeralds, which would have struck the eye with such a sense of beauty as did the ivory neck thus displayed? The dress was confined round her slender, but not wasp like waste, by a neatly-fitted band of the same material of which it was made, and the whole effect was enough to have caused a fashionable dressmaker to hang herself, for it proclaimed, with an eloquence not to be mistaken, that her art was worthless. The dark brown silken hair of the beauty appeared to be all of the same length, and was gathered into one smoothly twisted mass, forming a close rich knot at the back of her beautiful little head. Madame Tornorino was seated at the same side of the table as this Annie Beauchamp, and the young Englishman, notwithstanding his étude suivie of the fair American features, threw a glance from time to time upon his young countrywoman; the contrast between them was remarkable, and probably did not escape him.
The conversation at an American dinner-table is never much, but the major contrived to find out that the gentleman next to him, a Colonel Wingrove, and one of the members of congress, was fond of a game of piquet, and that Mr. Washington Tomkins, the young man of fashion who sat opposite, was considered as very rich, played at billiards and écarté, was trying to get up a horserace, and was ready to bet upon anything and everything. So, on the whole, Major Allen Barnaby thought the party agreeable, or at any rate that the party composing it had the power of being so.
Considering the number of persons at table, the repast was over in an incredibly short space of time; and then all the gentlemen starting up, the ladies started up after them, the male part of the society strolling off to sundry coffee-houses, and the ladies returning to the “keeping-room,” where they amused themselves by drinking lemonade and making conversation.
The extreme heat of the weather might have induced them to scatter themselves as widely as possible apart, for which species of luxury the ample apartment was well suited, had it not been that the natural curiosity of the sex, as well as of the country, induced the American ladies to gather round Mrs. Allen Barnaby and her party, when, by degrees, all reserve disappeared, and the talk among them flowed as freely as if they had known each other for years. The massive Mrs. Carmichael, indeed, soon ceased to be of the society, for sleep overpowered her, and stretched at full length and breadth upon an enormous sofa, she presently ceased to betray any symptom of animated existence, except heavy snoring.
“You have come over in an unaccountable hot season, ladies,” said Mrs. Beauchamp, graciously addressing the whole group. “It will be wonderful luck if you all keep out of the fever, and you all fresh Europeans.”
“Is there any catching fever in the town, ma’am?” demanded Miss Louisa Perkins, in a voice of alarm.
“Oh my! what a funny question,” returned Mrs. Beauchamp, laughing. “Why in summer and autumn time, New Orleans has always got plenty of fever.”
“Dear me! Then I hope the major will not think of staying,” said Mrs. Allen Barnaby. “A young married woman like my daughter, Madame Tornorino, should always be extremely careful of her health.”
“Oh! I don’t mind the fever a farthing,” said Patty, gaily. “I’m so glad we’ve got here, for my husband is so delighted with it!”
“That certainly shows that he is a gentleman of taste,” replied Mrs. Beauchamp, “for New Orleans is, past doubt, one of the finest cities in the known world.”
“Oh, mother! I wish I could see some of the cities in the unknown world!” exclaimed her daughter.
“What, the European cities, I expect you mean, my dear? Well, more unlikely things have happened than that. An only daughter ma’am — perhaps yours is an only daughter too, and then you will quite understand me when I say, that the only daughter of a gentleman of good standing, very seldom sets her longing upon anything, without having a good chance of getting it.”
“Perfectly true, ma’am,” returned Mrs. Barnaby, with dignity and feeling. “Madame Tornorino is an only daughter, and I cannot deny that her father’s ample fortune has ever anticipated her every wish. So you have fixed your heart upon going to Europe, have you, young lady?”
“I?” said Annie. “Oh no! I have hardly seen anything in my own beautiful land yet.”
“I only thought so,” returned Mrs. Barnaby, “from what you said about wishing to see the cities of the unknown world, you know.”
“Do you call Europe an unknown world?” said Annie, innocently.
“Why, no my dear, certainly not. I did not mean that, of course. But what did you mean? Where was it you were wishing to go?”
“I very seldom mean anything, ma’am, when I speak,” replied Miss Beauchamp.
“I hope our daughters will become well acquainted,” said Mrs. Beauchamp, looking with a good deal of interest at the handsome silks and satins of the English mother and daughter. “Though your young lady is married, I can promise her that she will find our Annie as smart a person as ever she came across in her life. She is quite famed throughout the Union, already.”
“Smart?” again muttered the puzzled Patty, fixing her eyes on Annie’s brown-holland dress.
But notwithstanding the utter contempt which she felt for her claims to smartness, she was too sociably disposed to neglect this offered opportunity of improving her acquaintance with a native, and drawing a chair close to the sofa on which the young American was seated, she began what she intended should be a very intimate conversation.
“I day say you will be full of envy about my being married, won’t you? But that must not prevent our being capital good friends. I dare say you will be married soon. How old are you?”
“I think mamma can tell you better than I can,” replied Miss Beauchamp. “I have an exceedingly bad memory.”
“How very odd!” cried Patty, staring at her. “Not know how old you are? Why, if you was not so young and so pretty,” she added, lowering her voice, “that is, if you were like my dear friend there, Miss Matilda Perkins, I should understand it. She is always making mistakes about what age she is. But that is all very natural, isn’t it?”
And Patty looked at her poor friend Matilda, and laughed. But Annie neither looked, laughed, nor answered, but sat immovably still, looking as much like a fool as she could possibly contrive to do. Poor Matilda, meanwhile, who felt that her American campaign could not possibly begin till she had made some acquaintance with the natives, was receiving, with the most pleased and zealous attention, some little initiatory civilities from Mrs. Grimes and Mrs. Hucks.
“You are direct from London, I expect, ma’am?” said Mrs. Grimes.
“Yes, from London, direct, ma’am,” responded Miss Matilda, delighted with the opportunity thus afforded her of putting the stamp of fashion upon everything she did, and everything she wore.
“I wish to goodness you had come direct from Paris inste
ad!” said Mrs. Hucks. “I expect you know, ma’am, that the people of fashion in the Union, from Maine to Georgia, I may say, don’t lay any great stress upon the fashion of London. We calculate that we have long ago given the go-by to that old city. But Paris is something. We are all ready and willing to knock under there, in the article of taste and the fine arts, such as millinery, dressmaking, and the like. We count that England is worn out altogether in that respect, which is the reason, I expect, why folks call it the old country.”
This was a terrible blow to poor Matilda; nevertheless her spirits rallied again, as she recollected how very much nearer Paris was to London than New Orleans, and much more anxious to conciliate than to triumph, she gently replied, “That is just what we all say ourselves. We all consider everything in London as exceedingly old-fashioned, excepting just what is brought over to us fresh from Paris, which happens very often, you know, because of the two places being so near.”
Mrs. Allen Barnaby, who had overheard the latter part of this conversation, here volunteered her valuable assistance to Miss Matilda, and feeling quite as desirous of being considered as an arrival of fashionable importance as her friend could be, with a vastly bolder spirit whereby to defend her claim, she speedily took the business very effectively into her own hands.
“Nothing can be more correct, ma’am, than your observation respecting the London fashions,” said she. “I am sure one might think you were just come from Europe to hear you, for all you say is exactly as if a London lady was saying it. But of course you know, ma’am, how we manage about these matters? When I say ire, I mean to be understood as speaking of people of first-rate importance and fashion, who have been introduced at court, you know, and all that; for the common middling kind of gentry really know very little about the matter, and are as well contented when they put their vulgar stupid heads into a London-made bonnet, as if it had been brought express from Paris. But we, of the upper classes, cannot endure anything of the kind. Couriers arrive in London from Paris four times in every day, for no other purpose in the world than just to bring over bonnets and dresses. You cannot think what a pretty sight it is, just after one of these spring vans has arrived, to see the unpacking of the cases in the rooms of the fashionable milliners! I really do not know anything so elegant and so interesting! No ladies, however, who have not been presented at court, are ever permitted to be present on these occasions. It was absolutely necessary, you know, to make some arrangement and regulation of this kind, or the milliners’ rooms would have been filled with a perfect mob. But since this has been finally settled, nothing can be more elegant than the company one meets on these occasions.”
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 334