Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  Having reached the chair now constantly reserved for her next her friend Mrs. Beauchamp, she placed herself in it with a sort of circular bow that seemed to say, “Pray do not disturb yourselves;” but not even to that favoured lady did she give more than half a smile, and half a nod, accompanied with a languid look and drooping eyelid that seemed to speak exhaustion and fatigue.

  “Oh my!” exclaimed her observant friend, “if you an’t regularly done up, Mrs. Allen Barnaby! God bless your dear heart! You have just been working too hard, that’s quite plain and clear, and that won’t do at all. We shall have you ill, by-and-by, if we don’t take care, and then what is to come of our delightful tour? Take my advice, and desire your husband, the major, to send you a glass of his wine. Though I am sure, for the matter of that, Colonel Beauchamp would be first-rate happy to offer you a taste of his, only, gentlemen boarders are generally supposed to know their own lady’s taste best. Haven’t you been writing an unaccountable quantity to-day, Mrs. Allen Barnaby? — Say.”

  Mrs. Allen Barnaby in reply to this question turned her benignant countenance upon her friend. There was a gentle and very charming smile upon it, but the eyes were considerably more than half-closed, and for a few seconds she suffered herself to be looked at in silence; then she said, shaking her head, and smiling if possible with still more benignity —

  “Oh no! You are quite mistaken, dear lady; I have not written a single line.”

  There was a look of blank disappointment on the countenance of Mrs. Beauchamp on hearing this, which recalled Mrs. Allen Barnaby to the necessity of not losing any birds already in her hand, while starting away to look after others which were still in the bush; she therefore so far recalled herself to the passing moment as to say —

  “You look surprised, my dear Mrs. Beauchamp, and so you well may! But your surprise would cease if you knew what a morning I had passed.”

  “Not sick, I hope?” returned her new friend, with very sincere anxiety. “I’m sure I wouldn’t have you take a spell of sickness just now for more than I’ll say.”

  “You are very kind! Oh no! Not sick, or sorry, I assure you; only engaged, too incessantly occupied by a multitude of letters, to do anything but read them.”

  “My! A mail from the old country, I expect?” replied Mrs. Beauchamp, with a sort of congratulatory smile.

  “No,” returned Mrs. Allen Barnaby composedly, “not so. All my letters were from ladies and gentlemen — mostly from gentlemen, indeed, who were here last night.”

  A visible augmentation of colour suffused the cheeks of Mrs. Beauchamp on hearing these words; an effect which was instantly and satisfactorily remarked by the authoress.

  “They will be at fisticuffs about me soon, if I don’t take care,” thought she, “but it will be better for me to carry on everything peaceably, and profit by them all in turn.” And with this feeling she smiled with more of peculiar and personal affection on Mrs. Beauchamp than she had done before, and said “I must ask your advice and assistance about all this. In a society so particularly select and elegant, I would not, for the world, offend anybody; but it is impossible to accept all these invitations, and you must help me to decide whom I must refuse.”

  “What’s that about invitations, mamma?” demanded Madame Tornorino, who, like the rest of the company, had remarked something queer in her mother’s looks, which now, with her inherited shrewdness, she thought might very likely be the result of more compliments and invitations. “I say, mamma,” she resumed, “I beg you will let me know all the invites in time, for I hate to be taken at a hop, and so does the Don too.”

  “Fear not, my love,” replied her mother, with a tranquillising nod, “I will always contrive to give you time enough for dressing. But upon my word, dear, I don’t think I can promise to keep a regular calendar of all invitations, it would occupy more time than I can spare. But you may go into my room if you like it, after dinner, and collect all the notes and letters which you will find lying about upon my table, and read them, if it will be any satisfaction to you.”

  “Ask if you may bring them all down into the drawing-room,” whispered Miss Matilda Perkins across Don Tornorino, by whose side it was the pleasure of his young wife that her friend should always sit (thinking it, probably, more cozy and comfortable to keep their party thus far together, than to let any other lady sit next him, particularly “that odious Annie Beauchamp,” whom she hated above all things, and towards whom she had more than once caught the beautiful eyes of her Don directed). “Oh, for goodness’ sake bring them down, my darling dearest Madame Tornorino!” reiterated her eager friend.

  “Very well,” was the reply. “Hold your tongue and say nothing about it. I shall bring them down if I like it, and ask no leave, you may depend upon it. I should have thought you might have guessed that without my telling you.”

  Mrs. Beauchamp, who, though for very different reasons, was quite as anxious about these invitations as Matilda herself, ventured to ask a few questions of her new friend respecting the names of the parties from whence they came; to all of which Mrs. Allen Barnaby replied with almost her former affectionate warmth of manner —

  “You shall see them all, my dear Mrs. Beauchamp. Don’t imagine for a moment that it is possible I could have any reserves with you! Oh no! we must talk them all over together.”

  “Thank you very much,” replied the comforted Mrs. Beauchamp. “I certainly should like to see who comes forward first and foremost. I told you how it would be, didn’t I, Mrs. Allen Barnaby? You won’t forget that, I expect? — Say.”

  “No, indeed! I shall never forget the exceedingly kind and friendly manner in which you have conducted yourself towards me throughout, my dear madam. I shall not easily meet with any one whose society I shall enjoy so thoroughly as I do yours.”

  There was some comfort in hearing this, but the words did not seem to mean exactly what the same words would have meant yesterday — at least, so thought, or rather so felt, Mrs. Beauchamp. But yet, to do her justice, she did by no means fully enter into or understand the nature of the change she remarked. She thought, indeed, that it was likely enough Mrs. Allen Barnaby might like to listen to other first-rate patriotic ladies, as well as to her, and might wish to compare testimonies together in order to get at the exact truth; but for all the calculations which were going on as to whom she could turn to greatest profit in other ways, nothing of the kind ever entered her head. Neither did she long suffer the trifling difference which she had fancied perceptible in the illustrious lady’s tone to dwell upon her mind.

  “I ought to be ashamed of myself,” thought she, the moment afterwards, “for having any such fancies. As if we ought not, one and all, to think of the one great object of having justice done to our country; and there is no danger upon that score as long as this dear writing lady keeps clear of those wicked and rebellious free states that don’t scruple to abuse our venerable institutions about slavery, just as bad, more shame for them, as our foreign enemies themselves can do.”

  So the next time Mrs. Allen Barnaby gave her an opportunity of speaking to her again, which was not immediately — for to say truth that lady had in a great degree lost the comfort she might have found from Mrs. Carmichael’s dinners in consequence of the immense importance she had hitherto attached to all that was said to her, and was now making amends to herself for it, by attending much more to the dinner, and much less to the conversation than heretofore. But as soon as she found an opportunity, Mrs. Beauchamp said —

  “Do you happen, Mrs. Allen Barnaby, ma’am, to recollect any of the names of the gentlemen who have been writing to you? I can’t say but what I should like to know who’s come forward.”

  Mrs. Allen Barnaby, who had just completed the demolition of a very savoury plate, and had been reflecting during the pleasant process on the various words and phrases which had reached her since her arrival at New Orleans, relative to the first-rateness of standing of her already well-secured friend, Mrs. Colonel Beaucham
p, promptly replied, and in accents of perfectly recovered cordiality —

  “My dearest friend! I have the very worst head in the world for names! Let me see — let me see — oh, yes, my dear Mrs. Beauchamp! there is one I remember perfectly; and the better, perhaps, because I received two notes so signed. Gregory is the name. Both General Gregory and Mrs. Gregory wrote most obligingly, and very strongly urged our immediately paying them a visit at their place in the country.”

  “Possible!” exclaimed Mrs. Colonel Beauchamp, and there stopped.

  “Possible?” repeated Mrs. Allen Barnaby. “What does that mean, my dear friend? Do you doubt its being possible?”

  “Oh my! no, Mrs. Allen Barnaby. No doubt of anything you say could enter my thoughts, you may be very sure. Only to me, who so well know the general and his uncommon quietness upon all matters, leaving everything to his wife, you know, and all that, it does seem something like a miracle, that he should sit down and write an invitation, specially as his lady was doing the very same.”

  “It certainly shows a most amiable and cordial feeling of hospitality,” replied Mrs. Allen Barnaby; “so much so, indeed, that I felt the moment I read their two letters, that it would be quite impossible to refuse the invitation.”

  “But I do hope and trust, my near lady,” returned the now really terrified Mrs. Beauchamp, “that nothing and nobody will be able to lead you aside from the plan we have so beautifully laid down together for the examination of all the most important parts of the Union. — Say?”

  “No, dearest Mrs. Colonel Beauchamp,” responded the authoress; “most truly may you affirm, both to yourself and others, that nothing will induce me to abandon a project to which my heart and my understanding are alike pledged, alike wedded, alike bound!”

  This was uttered with solemnity, the movement of the knife and fork being intermitted, and the raised eyes fixed devoutly on the ceding.

  “Thank God!” ejaculated Mrs. Colonel Beauchamp, fervently; “then I don’t care a hominy bean for earthly man, woman, or child. That tour can’t be done every day, from July to eternity; and it is I that shall be, as I must say I ought, my dear Mrs. Allen Barnaby, your companion and leader, to edify you as to where you should look first and foremost.”

  Mrs. Allen Barnaby assiduously fed herself upon duck and green corn, and smiled and nodded an affectionate assent.

  It is probable that the whole party at the hoarding-table had heard enough of what had passed there, to feel some curiosity as to what was to be “brought down,” and accordingly the cigarsmoking, which usually takes place at that hour in “the chambers” — the wives of American citizens being imperturbably amiable on this point — was postponed, and the whole party assembled in the saloon.

  Patty failed not to do as she had declared she would do if it so pleased her, and as it did please her, to scamper into her mamma’s room the moment the party had risen from table, and to scamper down again as fast as she could run, with both her hands full of letters, and a few, for fun, secured beneath her chin: she reached the saloon just as the last of the company entered it, and bouncing up to the longest table, bent over it, and discharged the three divisions of her load at the same moment.

  “There!” she exclaimed; “now then, let’s see what it’s all about.”

  “That dear creature’s vivacity will never be restrained, let the business in hand be ever so important!” observed her mother, moving with a very slow and deliberate pace towards the table.

  Mrs. Allen Barnaby was in truth in no great hurry to reach it; for not only the ardent eager-minded Miss Matilda Perkins was already bending over the still open despatches, and possessing herself of their contents with the most assiduous industry, but very many others of the party were doing exactly the same thing, without the slightest shadow of restraint or ceremony; and as the lady to whom they were addressed happened to prefer their being read by all the world, she had no wish to check the operation by her presence. But Mrs. Allen Barnaby showed her English ignorance in thus restraining her steps — nothing short of her withdrawing her letters altogether, or so folding them up that no portion of their contents could be seen, would have sufficed to check it.

  The lively Patty, however, either from consideration for those who could not find room to place themselves where they could read the various pages thus displayed, or else because she thought it a capital joke to show off to all the set at once how much they were in fashion, began reading them aloud with great distinctness, and certainly much to the satisfaction of all who listened to her.

  “Oh what a madcap!” cried Mrs. Allen Barnaby, dropping into a chair before she had reached even the outskirts of the throng that was pressing round her daughter. “Is not Madame Tornorino a saucy creature, Louisa?”

  Tins was addressed to the greatly-improved and almost gay Miss Perkins, who really seemed to be inspired with new life by the gentle kindness of Annie Beauchamp, the unceasing good-humour of Mr. Egerton, and more still — oh, infinitely more — by the very marked attentions which she saw her dear Matilda receiving from all the American gentlemen who approached her. To this appeal of Mrs. Allen Barnaby, she replied in an accent that really seemed almost fearless —

  “There does not seem to be much change in her, certainly, ma’am.”

  But what Miss Louisa Perkins said at that moment was of little consequence. The “Ohs!” the “Mys!” the “Possibles!” that she heard from the party round the table, as Patty proceeded in her lecture, were so exactly everything that Mrs. Allen Barnaby desired, that she attended to nothing else. She caught the eye of the major (who had seated himself at no great distance from her), just as Patty was pompously giving forth the profound admiration and respect of some general, colonel, or major, followed by the most pressing invitation to his “mansion,” for as many weeks or months as it would be convenient for the admirable authoress and her party to remain; and the look that was exchanged between them showed their feelings to be in the most perfect conjugal harmony.

  “I am delighted, madam,” said Mrs. Beauchamp, when Patty had concluded her self-imposed task, “I am first-rate delighted to find that so many of the very highest standing among our gentlemen and ladies appear to be availed of the obligations they are likely to owe you; and I can’t enough be thankful to myself for having lost no time in making that fact generally known to all.”

  “I am sure you are all excessively kind,” returned Mrs. Allen Barnaby, arranging her heavy gilt bracelets with rather an absent air. “I perfectly delight in the country, and its charming inhabitants!”

  “Wife!” whispered the major in her ear, as he passed by, to leave the room; “come up stairs — I want to speak to you.”

  And Mrs. Allen Barnaby really wanted to speak to him; so permitting him, with her usual tact, to disappear before she rose to follow him, she extended her hand to Mrs. Beauchamp, with the full recollection of all she had heard of that lady’s reputed wealth and station, and said, not quite in a whisper —

  “Oh my dear friend! though of course exceedingly gratified by all this, depend upon it, I can never feel for any other person, charming as they all are, what I feel for you! It is quite impossible I ever should!”

  What a fine thing is fame! And must not Mr. John Milton have been in some degree mistaken, when he declared it to be

  No plant that grows on mortal soil?

  Mrs. Allen Barnaby was unquestionably still in the flesh, and yet she had not only found this “plant” growing in the most delightful abundance in Louisiana, but discovered that it was easily convertible to all manner of domestic purposes, from a pot-herb to a garland for the brow. Nay, had she at that moment poured several handfuls of dollars in the lap of Mrs. Colonel Beauchamp, that lady could not have considered it more completely satisfactory payment for all she had done, and all that she meant to do for the honour, glory, profit, and convenience of Mrs. Allen Barnaby, than did those few swords from her in return. For Mrs. Allen Barnaby had not only acquired fame, but she knew it
; and had skill enough at once to bring it into current use, as a sort of bill of exchange, which, as long as her credit lasted, would pass very well in payment for most things in a country so exceedingly fond of celebrity and renown as the United States of America.

  On reaching her room, Mrs. Allen Barnaby found her husband already there, and waiting for her rather impatiently.

  “My dear,” he began, “I won’t waste any time complimenting you upon the capital manner in which you have set all these funny folks spinning, but I see it all, I promise you, and I admire your cleverness accordingly. What you and I must talk about, my dear, is not how all this has been brought about, but how we can best turn it to account.”