Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  This observation from young Stephen Cornington might have been advantageously listened to by a great many old gentlemen, as a proof of the great importance of dressing themselves with care and good taste. It never would have entered Stephen Cornington’s head to call old Mr. Mathews handsome, had not the peculiar care bestowed upon his toilet suggested it; for this not only set off his well-preserved good looks to the best possible advantage, but showed in the most agreeable manner that he was not yet old enough to be indifferent upon the subject. The grandfather certainly looked at the grandson with a degree of satisfaction that seemed to increase at every glance; and the conviction that it would quite break his heart if he were obliged to part with him took very strong possession of his mind.

  The operations of Mr. Mathews’ mind were not in general very rapid, but they were more than usually so at present, for it took him wonderfully little time to conceive, arrange, and even act upon the notion that the only way of securing the continuance of Stephen at Weldon Grange, would be the making Mrs. Mathews as fond of him as he was prepared to be himself.

  The first result of this unwonted vivacity of mind was his opening the glass door which gave access to the garden from the hall, and the passing his arm under that of his admired descendant, giving him to understand that he was to accompany him through it, notwithstanding the obvious fact that breakfast was ready, which was made manifest by the passing of a servant carrying a coffee-pot upon a waiter into the room opposite.

  “I must say five words to you, my dear Stephen, before we go into the breakfast-room,” said he, walking rapidly in a direction contrary to that which would have placed them in sight of the said breakfast-room windows.

  “We won’t keep them waiting half a moment, Stephen. But it is very necessary, very necessary indeed, that I should make you understand, at once, how very important it is that you should make yourself agreeable to Mrs. Mathews.”

  “If you tell me that it is your wish, my dear Sir, that will be quite enough to make me earnestly try to do so,” replied the handsome youth earnestly “Why, the case is this, Stephen: I have married quite lately, you know, a lady of very good fortune; indeed, I may fairly say an heiress, which, considering that I am no longer quite so young as I have been, shows that I am not altogether a stupid man, Stephen. But the lady, as you may perceive, is not very young any more than myself, and therefore you know it would be quite nonsense for me to think anything about having heirs, and that is one reason, I suppose, why I am so well pleased to see you, my dear boy, though, to be sure, you are not quite an heir in the regular way But your manner and appearance please me, Stephen. I can’t help fancying that you are very like what I once was myself.”

  “My dear mother — that is, my dear grandmother, who has in truth ever been a mother to me — my dear grandmother always said I was the image of you,” said the young man, fixing his eyes upon the face of Mr. Mathews with a mixture of tenderness and respect that was very touching.

  “Yes, I think so, I think so,” replied the old gentleman, pressing the arm which rested upon his. “And all this you know, Stephen, makes it very natural that I should not feel altogether displeased at the idea of having you with me. I am not a rich man, my dear Stephen. If I had been, I have no doubt that I should have done more for your grandmother than I have done. But the truth is I could not do it without injuring myself. I had just enough to enable me to live like a gentleman in a much smaller house than this, but no more. But things are improved in that respect, now, my dear boy. Mrs. Mathews was, as I have told you, an heiress, and, of course, I cannot but feel that I have been a fortunate man to win the affections of a lady so circumstanced, at a period of life much later, I believe, than it is usual for such things to happen. It is a great thing, Stephen, when one is past sixty — and I am past sixty — for a man to keep his own close carriage, with a thoroughly good, handsome pair of coach-horses, real, proper coach-horses, to draw it. It is a great thing — a very important thing — whether in town or country, it really is a very important thing — a great deal more so, Stephen, than any good looks could be in a lady turned fifty. I say all this, my dear boy, to make you understand that Mrs. Mathews is a person of great and real importance. If you are as quick-witted as you are bright-eyed, Stephen ( I certainly can’t help seeing that your eyes are very like mine), and if you are as quick-witted as I hope to find you, it will not be your fault if you do not stand well with Mrs. Mathews. And now, one word more, and we will go in to breakfast. You must keep it in your mind, Stephen, that I am not the only master of Weldon Grange as yet. Mr King, my wife’s father, is still the master of the property, and a clever old man he is, too, in matters of business, But, for all that, Mrs. Mathews can turn him round her finger; and if you can but contrive to make her wish that you should remain here, Weldon Grange may be your home to the end of your days, for anything I can see to the contrary. And now then we will go in to breakfast.”

  The only answer made by the young man was the seizing the hand of Mr. Mathews as he withdrew it from his arm, and affectionately pressing it to his lips.

  CHAPTER XV

  IT would have been difficult to trace in the radiant benignity of the beautiful smile with which the young Stephen Cornington greeted Mrs. Mathews, any feeling less genuine and fresh from the heart than that of pleasure at meeting again in the morning the hostess who had so kindly provided for his comfort during the night.

  And assuredly there was no symptom that Mrs. Mathews either saw or suspected any deeper motive in it, for she only waited till she had completed the sundry little special preparations for her father’s comfort, which had been her morning task for the last thirty-six years of her life, in order to receive his offered hand with the most perfect civility.

  And yet Mrs. Mathews was by no means the sort of person to approve the establishing a diurnal habit of hand-shaking with any individual as likely as she thought Mr. Mathews’ grandson seemed to be, of making a visit of some continuance in the house. One proof of which was, that when Mr. Mathews himself attempted to follow the affectionate example of the young man, and with newly-awakened tenderness laid one hand upon her shoulder while he extended the other to invite the approach of hers, she only turned round towards him, and said, looking assiduously among the breakfast preparations which covered the table, “Do you want anything, Mr. Mathews?”

  The aspect of the venerable master of the mansion was as hospitably kind in the morning as it had been at night; and as he looked in the handsome face of his stranger guest, he said, with very cordial good-humour, “Good morning, Sir, good morning. I hope you have rested well?”

  “You must not call him SIR! You must not, indeed, my dear Mr King!” said the greatly exhilarated Mr. Mathews, who seemed to imbibe fresh courage, as well as fresh tenderness, with every glance he took at the youthful Cornington. “If he is my grandson, Sir, he must, of course, be your great-grandson, you know, and, therefore, if you please, you must always call him Stephen.”

  And hereupon Mr. Mathews laughed vehemently, conscious that he had said something that was really very witty, and very judicious at the same time.

  He looked at his wife, and if he had met her eye the look would have melted, like butter exposed to the sun, into something suggestive of excessive softness. But Mrs. Mathews looked only at the coffee-cups, and that look had very much the same expression as the look of a person stone deaf might have had.

  Mrs. Mathews was no great talker at meals. At least, since her marriage she had permitted the talk to be chiefly between the two gentlemen, for they had always something to say to each other, either about the farm or the horses; so there was nothing particular in her being pretty nearly silent now, especially as their newly arrived visitor seemed to be endowed both with the will and the power of talking in the most animated manner, and to any extent.

  Mr. Mathews listened to him with the most evident delight; but yet he was greatly too much occupied by his own thoughts to know very well what the young man was ta
lking about. All he knew and clearly understood was that he was there, and that he was a perfect model of youthful, manly beauty, and that the only way to keep him there, would be by his exerting all his own influence — and he most conscientiously believed he had very much — to induce Mrs. Mathews to wish for this, for his sake, as ardently as he did himself. But at length the long meal was over, and then Mrs. Mathews was out of sight in a moment.

  There was nothing paltry or pitiful, and very little that was really churlish, in the character or temper of my heroine; but, nevertheless, when she had fairly fastened herself inside her den, she began to question herself as to the desirability of always, and for ever, having such a very chatty young gentleman as Master Stephen Cornington, as a resident member of the family.

  It did not appear to her that it was desirable. She was fully aware of the interesting fact that he was, beyond all comparison, the handsomest young man she had ever seen; she was aware, too, that his manners were amiable and obliging, and she was much too good a physiognomist to doubt that he was good humoured.

  But, in despite of all this, she did not relish the idea of his becoming one of the family; and Mrs. Mathews, after she had formed a decided opinion on any subject, was very little likely to act in contradiction to it. Neither was she at all in the habit of permitting the will of any person at Weldon Grange to interfere greatly with her own.

  Nevertheless, in direct opposition both to her judgment and her inclination, Stephen Cornington did become, and immediately too, a member of the Weldon Grange family It would be useless to bestow many words in relating the ways and means by which this was brought about, because a very few will suffice to explain it.

  Mr. Stephen Cornington became a member of the Weldon Grange family, because Mary King, just about twenty-two years before, fell in love with John Anderson.

  There was an odd sort of coincidence as to the time and manner in which this long-passed and little-suspected adventure produced this very important effect on the fortunes of Stephen Cornington.

  Mrs. Mathews, though surrounded by many tempting volumes, opened none of them that morning as she sat in “her secret bower,” after her retreat from the breakfast table; for she was holding council with herself, not as to the question of whether she should oppose the domiciliation of the young man, or not oppose it, for that point was already fully decided; but as to the manner in which the process of ejectment should be performed. The subject was not without difficulty, for she very sincerely wished to avoid offending any of the parties concerned; but the only really practical solution of them all must be found, as she speedily felt convinced, in her own firmness of purpose and stedfast resolution of having her own way.

  And to this point she had reached when the door was opened by the chastened Sally Spicer, who entered the den with a letter in her hand.

  The arrival of a letter was a rare occurrence at Weldon Grange, and no sooner had Mrs. Mathews caught sight of it than she held out her hand with considerable impatience to receive it. Old Sally quickened her step, and laid it on the table before her mistress, who gave her a nod which made her retreat at her best speed, and lose no time in closing the door behind her.

  Greatly as Mrs. Mathews had been disappointed at receiving no further tidings from Madras, and repeatedly as she had told herself of late that she never should, for that doubtless, John Anderson’s orphan girl had found some more promising way of disposing of herself, she no sooner caught sight of the letter than with a sort of impetuosity of spirit, which made a prominent feature in her character, she felt very nearly as certain as if she had already opened it that it was the identical letter she had been so long expecting.

  It was sealed with black, too; so before she opened it she knew for certain that John Anderson existed no longer, save in the person of his young daughter. But his farewell letter had too effectually prepared her for this, for any feeling, of being shocked or surprised, to interfere with the eager interest with which she read the following epistle:

  “In complying with my dear father’s last wishes, and in obeying his last orders, I cannot doubt that I am doing light; and it is this, dear madam, which must plead my excuse for applying for counsel and assistance to a stranger. But though his wishes and commands are, and ought to be, the laws by which I guide myself when thus addressing you, I cannot but feel that these wishes and commands were communicated to me by my dying father under the firm persuasion, on his part, that he was asking your friendship for one who, though an orphan, was by no means destitute. Not many hours before he breathed his last, he told me that the principal partner of the banking concern, to which he has belonged during all his commercial life, had just left him, and had told him that though the accounts of the partnership, which had been for some weeks under examination, were not yet finally settled, he had the satisfaction of assuring him that there would unquestionably be a balance of several thousand pounds in his favour; enough, in short, to set his mind perfectly at rest on the subject of my future independence.

  “And notwithstanding all that has followed, it is a comfort to me to know that his mind was perfectly at rest, and that he died as all must wish that those they love may die.

  “Mr. Moxley, the gentleman who had tranquillized his last hours by giving him this assurance, was himself, as he has repeatedly assured me since, very sincerely convinced of the truth of it. He is an excellent and most truly kind-hearted man, and had he the means he would, I am very sure, prevent my ever suffering from the unfortunate termination of the examination that was going on at the time of my dear father’s death.

  “I am too profoundly ignorant to be capable of forming any opinion as to the causes which led to the catastrophe which has made the firm bankrupt, and left me destitute; all I know is, that the insolvency has arisen from the connection of Mr. Moxley’s bank with some mercantile speculation in a distant part of the world, and it was this circumstance which caused the long delay in the final settlement of the accounts.

  “Thus then, dear madam, instead of your friendly notice being asked for by the well-portioned daughter of an old friend, you are now receiving a petition for your charitable assistance in finding some occupation that may furnish the means of existence to a young girl, who has very little to boast of, which may assist her to help herself, save an earnest wish to do what is right, and a most sincere willingness to exert whatever power she has of being useful.

  “My education has been as carefully attended to as circumstances would admit; but my dear father was so strongly persuaded that my breathing mountain air was absolutely necessary to ensure my health, that I have rarely had the advantage of such lessons as might be found in the city The governess, who kindly remained with me till the day of my departure, though impatiently waited for in the family where she has engaged herself, is a German, and a clever, as well as a very amiable woman, and by her I have been taught what, as I hope, may enable me to take the place of a governess myself to young children. Unfortunately I am too young to propose offering my assistance to any others; and it is to assist me in obtaining this that I now venture to petition for your kindness. Should you, however, think, dear madam, that it is presumption in one so young to hope to obtain the situation of governess, I should, without hesitation, yield to your opinion, and would in that case readily and gratefully avail myself of your interest to obtain the situation of nursery-maid in any family where there was an upper nurse, whose superintendence would prevent my want of experience from being hurtful.

  “Meanwhile I will not attempt to conceal from you that my situation is a very painful one. My kind friend, Mr. Moxley, though he unexpectedly finds himself in a situation that must of necessity check the liberal kindness of his temper, most generously forced upon me the loan of ten pounds beyond the expenses of my passage to England (which expenses, as well as those arising from my dear father’s last illness and funeral, were provided for by the sale of his household furniture), and nearly the whole of this ten pounds remains in my purse. By the adv
ice of the captain, who undertook the charge of me during the voyage, I have placed myself in a little lodging in John-street, London Docks, No. 5, and it is there that I shall await your answer, dear madam.

  “If it would be more easy to obtain for me the place of nursery-maid than that of governess, I think it would be better for me to begin with that first, for I fear nothing so greatly as the finding my money gone before I have secured the means of getting more. I will not add anything as to the anxiety with which I shall await for a reply to this letter, which I know it must be a very painful thing to receive. Neither will I attempt any apology for writing it, for I do not think my father would have so earnestly enjoined me to do so had he not known you well enough, dear madam, to be very sure that you would not be angry with me.

  “I remain truly and obediently yours,

  “JANET ANDERSON.”

  Deeply still was the attention with which Mrs. Mathews perused this letter. To look at her one might have almost thought she had ceased to breathe; not a movement of any kind was perceptible. One might have fancied that the process necessary to the possessing herself of the contents was some holy rite, which the slightest sound or movement would interrupt and render abortive.

  But during the moments that this strange stillness continued, the activity of her mind seemed to be in exact proportion to the repose of her body. Visions of the future opened before her with such vivid distinctness that all things actually present appeared to fade away, and become airy nothings in comparison. She was no longer childless. She was no longer a solitary thing, passing onward through life without object and without motive of sufficient importance to be so called for anything she did, or for anything she purposed to do. Her steady loving attention to her father was as spontaneous as the act of going to sleep; and as to her studies, they were not only, with all their magic charm for her, as lawful as eating, but as much a matter of course also.