This point being satisfactorily adjusted, the truly conjugal couple retired to rest; and when the major sallied forth the next morning, he had the satisfaction of finding his black cortege all ready to depart, and only waiting to receive the very latest account respecting the health of the “missis.”
This was given in such a manner, as while it sustained hope, left no room for surprise at the too prompt recovery of the assassinated authoress — and then the carriages and their guard of honour retreated, leaving the major and his charming helpmate at liberty to rejoice at their ease at the perfect success of a stratagem which had enabled them to escape from an embarrassment that might have proved not a little perplexing.
“Now for it,” exclaimed Mrs. Allen Barnaby, as she watched from her bedroom window the last of the three vehicles disappearing behind the trees, “now, my dear, let us look after Patty, and settle all together what we had better do next.”
“We will settle, my dear,” replied her polite husband, “as soon as you please; but as to our doing it all together, I see no need of that. Neither the Don nor his lady, as I take it, will make any objection to follow, let us move which way we will.”
“I am decidedly for Philadelphia,” said the lady.
“And I, with grief I confess it, am decidedly against it,” responded the gentleman; “but I will give you an excellent reason for it. There is no high play at Philadelphia.”
“And that is precisely the excellent reason for which you ought to go there,” rejoined Mrs. Allen Barnaby. “Why was it, if you please, that we made such a forced march from our snug quarters at the Beauchamps’? And why did I consent to lie for the best part of two days like a sick dog in a basket? Wasn’t it wholly and solely for the purpose of your removing yourself, my good Mr. Major, from the place where a certain Mr. Themistocles Joseph John Hapford (you see I have not forgotten the precious name to which I am to owe my darling dollars) was likely to find you? And where, I should like to know, would he be so little apt to look for you as in a city where there is no high play going on?”
“I hope I shall never be such a fool, wife, as to fix downright upon anything without first taking your judgment upon it,” said the major, with energy. “You most decidedly are what our admirable friends have called first-rate. Philadelphia, then, let it be. I’ll go and mystify Patty a little; but I think I shall only say I was tired, and got you for fun to play sick, because I wanted to be off. There is no need to frighten her, you know, and make her fancy that every bush she sees is a constable running after me.”
“But stop one minute,” returned his wife. “Just tell me before you go, whether you mean to take what the ladies here call ‘a spell of boarding,’ or whether you shall prefer going into private lodgings?”
“As you will, my dear,” replied the major, who certainly became more and more convinced every day of his life that his wife was one of the cleverest women in the world. “I really had much rather that you should settle that point yourself.”
“Then we will board, major,” she replied, with her usual decision of purpose. “As we are absolutely without letters or introductions of any kind, it is necessary now, as it was at first, that we should get where setting ourselves off a little will turn to account.”
The major kissed his hand to her and walked off, saying, as he went —
“Bravissimo! You are the best trump, my dear, that ever fell to my share. And now I’ll go and do what is needful with our Patty, and then give orders that notice shall be given us when the first steamer for Philadelphia arrives.”
Nothing could be more prosperous than the little voyage which, partly by river, and partly by sea, brought my heroine and her amiable family to Philadelphia. They had made themselves sufficiently agreeable on board the steamboat to have obtained a good deal of useful local information in return for the answers they had thought proper to give in the national cross-examination to which, as a matter of course, they had been subjected during the voyage. The name, and all other particulars relative to the most fashionable boarding-house in the city, made part of this, and they immediately made use of it, by ordering their baggage to be conveyed at once to No. — , Chesnut-street, following themselves on foot.
On inquiring for the Mrs. Simcoe, whom they had been instructed to ask for, as the head of the establishment, they were ushered through an exquisitely neat hall to a large handsome parlour at the back of the house. At the moment they entered, it was unoccupied, save by the glossy furniture which shone with all the brightness that horse-hair and mahogany can show, when not a single particle of dust is permitted to tarnish its brilliance.
“It’s a clean place, at any rate,” observed the major.
“But the sofa is not half so soft and comfortable as those at New Orleans, or at the Beauchamps’ either,” exclaimed Patty, very nearly getting a fall, by sliding off the firmly-stuffed, and treacherously-sloping imitation of a couch, upon which she had thrown herself at full length with her usual vivacity.
“I can’t say I overmuch like the style of it,” said Mrs. Allen Barnaby; “the things all look as if they were set out more for show than use.”
The Don said nothing, but he took the liberty of looking about him, and his pale yellow nose assumed an attitude between his black mustaches which expressed sufficiently well a feeling of distaste and discomfort.
But ere another word could be uttered by any of them, the door was opened, and a lady appeared at it, whose aspect must have had something in it calculated to inspire respect, for Patty actually put her legs off the sofa and sat upright. The person who inspired this unusual sensation in the breast of the lively bride, was a quaker lady, of about forty years of age, with a countenance as beautiful as very small features of exquisite regularity, and a complexion as delicate in its pink and white as the blossom of the eglantine could make it. Her dress was perfect in its kind, being composed of fawn-coloured silk and snowy lawn of the best quality, and arranged with such exceeding neatness, that one might have fancied a quaker fairy had been her tire-woman, so guiltless of the contamination of human fingers did she look. She bent her pretty little head four times successively, while her light blue eyes, which shone with a sort of gentle moonlight gleam from beneath the smooth bands of her flaxen hair, were directed in turn to each of the party.
“We have been recommended to this house for boarding,” said Mrs. Allen Barnaby, in a tone a little less peremptory than was usual with her.
“May I ask who it was that sent thee?” demanded the gentle quaker.
“Upon my word, ma’am, I don’t know the name of the gentleman,” replied my heroine, a little offended, perhaps, at the doubt, or the caution, which the question seemed to indicate. “But perhaps you may know the name of Colonel Beauchamp? We have been staying with him and his lady for a long visit, and if you know anything about them, that must be quite recommendation enough, I suppose.”
“No doubt of it, friend, if I chanced to know them, but I do not; and thee canst understand that this makes all the difference,” replied Mrs. Simcoe, in a voice, the bland tones of which seemed greatly less suited to express doubt than welcome.
“Well, ma’am, there are people enough to take dollars when they’re offered, without our wasting our time to find out whether you know our friends or not. I think we had better go somewhere else, major,” said Mrs. Allen Barnaby, looking exceedingly indignant.
“What must we do with the baggage, Mrs. Simcoe?” said a white help, opening the door, and presenting a face and figure as unlike those of her mistress as possible. “What rooms are the porters to carry it into?”
This appeal caused Mrs. Simcoe to look forth into the hall, and it may be that the sight of the abundant packages assembled there, suggested the idea that the lady’s boast of being well furnished with dollars had something better to support it than any acquaintance, however intimate, with all the colonels in the Union; and having gently said to her handmaiden, “Thee bide a bit,” she returned into the parlour, and
addressing, like all other Americans when doing business, the principal gentleman of the party, instead of the principal lady, she said —
“Thee art welcome to remain here for a spell, if such be thy wish, friend. My terms are eight dollars a week for each person, provided they occupy the best rooms; six if they take the second best; and five if they content themselves with the third.”
The bargain was soon made, and the party established under the very respectable roof of Mrs. Simcoe, at the rate of six dollars a week for each of them.
Having seen the various trunks and boxes disposed of in her own room, and in that of her daughter, Mrs. Allen Barnaby seated herself in a commodious arm-chair, and began to meditate upon their new position, and the mode in which her genius might be now best employed for the benefit of herself and family. The major had walked out into the town, to find which were the most frequented coffee-houses, and to pick up whatever intelligence he might be able to meet floating about; the Don was gone with him, and Patty had proclaimed her intention of lying down on the bed till dinner-time; so that the speculations of my heroine were not likely to be interrupted in any way.
She soon found, however, that she wanted a carte du pays, and that there could be little profit in devising schemes, while the circumstances and peculiarities of those to be acted upon remained unknown to her. Mrs. Allen Barnaby was probably not the first person who, when wishing for a precise knowledge of men and things, has had recourse to servants for assistance. Having puzzled herself for a minute or two as to the best means of finding out what sort of people they were got amongst, she suddenly started up and rang the bell. It was not answered by the white “help” whom she had already seen, but by an exceedingly well-dressed negress, having the steady aspect of an old and respectable servant.
“Dear me!” exclaimed Mrs. Allen Barnaby, “I thought there were no blacks here.”
“As servants, ma’am, there are more blacks than whites,” replied the woman.
“Do step in for a moment and shut the door,” said the lady, in an accent of familiar kindness. “Tell me what is your name, will you?”
“My name is Ariadne, ma’am,” said the negress, demurely.
“Bless me! what a fine name! But I wish, Ariadne, you would just tell me something about the company you have got in the house, and about yourselves too. I am quite glad to find blacks again here, for then I suppose there will be no occasion to change — I mean to say that the people think much the same here as elsewhere about it. How many slaves has Mrs. Simcoe got?”
“Slaves, ma’am?” said Ariadne, while a considerable portion of anger flashed from her eyes. “The Philadelphia folks know better than that, thank God! We have got no slaves here.”
“Dear me, how very odd, I thought all black people were slaves?” said the puzzled traveller.
“You will know better than that, ma’am, when you have been a little longer in a free state,” replied the woman, frowning. “I am as free as Mrs. Simcoe herself ma’am, and so are all the rest of us,” added the offended negress, moving towards the door.
“Don’t go away in a huff like that — I’m sure I didn’t mean to offend you, my good woman,” said Mrs. Allen Barnaby, coaxingly.
“You must remember, Ariadne, that I am just come from Carolina, and that I never heard there of any blacks that were not slaves. So don’t let’s quarrel about that, but just tell me a little about the - ladies and gentlemen that are boarding here. Have they none of them got any slaves or plantations?”
“No, ma’am,” said the woman, sternly; “they’d scorn such wickedness, one and all of them.”
“Well! to be sure, that is queer, after all I have heard — and in the very same identical country too! If that isn’t enough to puzzle a traveller, I wonder what is?” returned Mrs. Allen Barnaby, adding in a mutter, “When at Rome we must do as the Romans do, I suppose, and so I must pitch my voice for singing another tune.”
She then proceeded with a good deal of her usual cleverness to examine and cross-examine the woman, till she had made out, pretty tolerably to her satisfaction, what style and order of people composed the party at the boarding-table, at which they were about to take their places; and having learned all she could on the subject, she dismissed the negress, first presenting her with a “levy” in token of her gratitude. She then sought her daughter’s apartment, which was at no great distance from her own.
Patty was lying on the bed fast asleep; but as time pressed, Mrs. Allen Barnaby could not yield to her maternal tenderness, by permitting her to sleep on, but felt absolutely compelled to arouse her to the necessary duty of dressing for dinner. Patty grumbled and scolded, and, indeed, scrupled not to tell her attentive mamma that she was a great brute for waking her; but no such trifle as this could move the steadfast spirit of her high-minded parent.
“Don’t lay there abusing me, there’s a darling, but wake up this very minute, and dress yourself,” was her reply. “And mind, Patty,” she added, “that you dress yourself very carefully and very decently, if you please. Don’t put on that fine showy low dress that you wore the other day, with the blue and pink bows, because I happen to know perfectly well that it won’t do here. I shouldn’t wonder, I can tell you, if we should be turned out of the house in no time.”
“Stuff and nonsense!” replied the lately married lady; “I shall wear exactly what I like best, I promise you, ma’am, so you had better not bother me with any more such vagaries. I shall certainly desire Tornorino to bid you hold your tongue, if you do.”
“Tornorino may chance to have the worst of it, my darling,” returned her mother with the utmost good-humour; “so good-by, dearest, and wear your dark-green gown, and a high collar, there’s a love.”
With these words Mrs. Allen Barnaby retreated, leaving her daughter not only very angry, but very much puzzled. Her Don had already been throwing out hints respecting the probability that her respectable papa might get into a scrape or two, if he did not mind what he was about, and had also declared that he should not be at all surprised if it ended by their being obliged to shift for themselves, and that he would not mind setting about it to-morrow, if they could only screw a few hundred dollars out of the old folks. To all of which Madame Tornorino had paid very little attention, supposing it the result of some trifling dispute or other that no ways concerned either her own comfort or her own interest. But now that she heard her mother talk of their “being turned out of the house in no time,” she fancied these different warnings alluded to one and the same thing, but what that might be she was totally at a loss to conjecture.
Upon the return of her husband she told him of her mother’s queer ways, and insisted in a manner, somewhat peremptory, that he should tell her the short and the long of it at once, for that she was determined she would know what they all meant.
The Don shrugged his shoulders, and did not seem disposed to reply with the readiness that was evidently expected from him. He had, in fact, been very strictly charged by his father-in-law to say nothing to Patty upon the accident which had occurred at Big-Gang Bank, and he had tolerably well obeyed the injunction; but the Don hated difficulties of all kinds, and he was beginning to doubt whether it were worth his while to run the risk of being taken up as a suspected character every time the major played, with no better payment than being boarded and lodged.
It was now, however, very nearly the hour at which Mrs. Simcoe had informed them she punctually dined, and this was too sacred a ceremony, in the opinion of Don Tornorino, for it to be broken into by any discussion whatever; he accordingly gave his fair bride to understand that whatever information it was in his power to communicate, must be postponed to a future opportunity, and she had therefore, bon gré, mal gré, to descend to the diningroom very completely mystified as to what her respected parents were about. The major, who also felt that he had barely time enough to make his toilet, postponed all questionings of his wife for the moment, merely finding time to tell her that he had negotiated Mr. Hapford�
��s bill without any difficulty, and the family accordingly sat down to table together, with considerably less unity of purpose than was usual with them.
The large, and neatly served dinner-table of Mrs. Simcoe was surrounded, exclusive of our travellers and her gentle self, by six American gentlemen and their six wives. They were all of them, at least, according to the opinion of Mrs. Allen Barnaby and her daughter, dressed more or less in the Quaker costume; the ladies being all habited with more attention to delicacy and neatness than either to fashion or splendour, and the gentlemen having little or no mixture of the chain and pin species of decoration, which usually distinguishes their countrymen.
The dress of Mrs. Allen Barnaby herself was also a model of propriety. The slight and floating drapery usually worn upon her ample shoulders was exchanged for a close fitting, white satin cape, trimmed with swan’s down, which, though it caused her to endure sensations not very far removed from suffocation, made her feel herself, as she told the major afterwards, quite of a piece with all the rest of them, and much more likely to make her way among this straitlaced part of the population, than if she had made herself “fit to be seen,” in the ordinary manner. This “making herself fit to be seen,” by the way, was a phrase which, both in her daughter’s vocabulary and her own, appeared to signify the exposing as much of their persons to view as could be conveniently managed by any possible arrangement of the sleeves and corsage; from which it may be inferred that they interpreted Jit to be seen, into ready to be seen, a gloss accepted, as it should seem, by many of their fair countrywomen, especially when preparing themselves for the dinner-table.
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 361