Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  “No! my lady, no!” cried the woman with a rapidity of utterance, and an inflexion of voice which showed plainly enough her consciousness that this “No” was the most comforting word she could utter, “No! my lady, no! ’tis Sir Charles!”

  Yet still the idea of an accident was in her head, and it was not till she had looked fixedly in the face of her old servant for a moment, that the idea of the horrible truth suggested itself.

  And then if the countenance of the servant was eloquent, that of the mistress was not less so.

  “Yes, my lady!” was Morris’s reply to that look, and she put a bottle of salts into her mistress’s hand as she uttered it.

  If it be a sin to feel relieved when a lesser horror takes place of a greater, Lady Otterborne was guilty of that sin; and when, the moment afterwards, her terrified son rushed into the room, and threw his arms round her while he knelt silently at her feet, she was for the moment conscious of no feeling but that of gratitude to Heaven for the unspeakable blessing of seeing him there.

  All the incidents which immediately followed this frightful event were exactly what it might be expected they would be. The whole neighbourhood were thrown into a state of great excitement, chiefly, of course, by the terrible death of Sir Charles, but partly, also, by the very unexpected termination of the beautiful Emily’s adventures.

  “I should about as soon have thought,” said Mr. Cuthbridge, when talking the matter over with Mrs. Mathews, “I should about as soon have thought of the young lady’s eloping with a wood pigeon, as with the sleek, and softly cooing William Price.”

  But to Mrs. Mathews this unexpected selection on the part of the heiress was the occasion of very great satisfaction. First, as it put an end at once and for ever to all her fears lest, after all, her dearly beloved Herbert Otterborne should be her mate; and, secondly, as it served to convince her, and, after a little discussion, her friend the priest likewise, that all her suspicions respecting the falsehood of Stephen Cornington’s confession, were well founded.

  But the excitement of the neighbourhood on both those subjects faded away by degrees, as all neighbourly excitements do fade, and then, as the loving invitation of the happy bride to her parents that they should follow her to that most beautiful of all places, PARIS, was joyfully and immediately accepted, the interior of the Manor-house was the only scene very perceptibly changed by what had happened.

  But there the change was great indeed.

  It was, perhaps, rather fortunate both for mother and son that there were so many important matters of business to be discussed, and settled between them, for it seemed to explain the reason for their having so little time and leisure to discuss all the horrible circumstances which had attended the event which had wrought this change.

  It was utterly impossible that they should not both feel that they were relieved from all that had made life painful; but, unbounded as was the love and confidence between them, neither of them could have found the bad courage to confess that they knew to what their very unwonted feeling of happiness was to be attributed.

  The task of looking over his father’s papers of course devolved on Herbert, and the performing this, explained only too clearly the immediate causes which had led to the desperate act.

  The sharp dunning of his London friends was fully enough, in conjunction with Emily Steyton’s elopement, to explain it, and it was for this reason that Herbert, and very wisely too, thought it better to remove all wearying and idle conjecture from the mind of his mother, by making her at once comprehend the nature of the claims which he had found too urgent, and too burdensome to endure.

  And most thankful certainly did they both feel that the tremendous sacrifice which poor Herbert had consented to make in the hope of saving her from suffering, had been so happily escaped; for it was clearly evident that it would not have insured its object had it been made.

  In short, the mother and son, in the deep retirement which decorum, as well as their own feelings dictated, could not be insensible to the many new sources of enjoyment which were opening before them; nor was it the least of these that they could now converse together truly, and perfectly without restraint; for we may talk of sorrows and sufferings that have been, with friends most tenderly beloved, without being checked by any fear of increasing suffering; whereas many a loving heart withholds its confidence, from the fear that by confessing unhappiness it may cause it, All this was keenly felt and fully appreciated on both sides; and although they neither of them said it, they both felt that they had never been so thoroughly happy in each other’s society before.

  Yet with all this there were some things in their situation which most people would have considered as heavy drawbacks to felicity, and most assuredly they were so.

  A strict examination into the real condition of the estate showed plainly enough that for years past the only objects of Sir Charles had been to get ready money from every available source within his reach, and to leave everything that he owed as long unpaid as possible.

  Fortunately, a considerable portion of the property, especially that immediately round the house, was still entailed; but all that it was possible to sell he had sold, and all that he could mortgage, he had mortgaged.

  Of Lady Otterborne’s noble legacy not a single shilling remained, and scarcely a trace could be found of any portion of it having been employed to liquidate the heavy claims upon the property which had existed when it came to her.

  On the other hand, his betting-books, which were the only accounts kept with regularity, showed plainly enough where by far the greater part of the money had gone. It had indeed furnished funds for the three last years of Herbert’s education; and, but for this, not a trace would have been left either to the mother or son that such a legacy had ever been left, or had ever been paid.

  The most painful part of this examination consisted of the discovery made by it of the many still unpaid bills of long standing due to very nearly every tradesman with whom they had been in the habit of dealing, both in town and country; and as Sir Charles had been constantly in the habit of bribing his tenants to pay their rents a little before they were due, by allowing them exorbitant interest for the accommodation, his son had the vexation of finding that a considerable part of the only fund he had to look to for even the partial payment of the tradesmen’s bills, which he considered himself bound in honour to pay, had been already forestalled.

  Had the intercourse between the mother and son been less perfectly confidential, Herbert would have endeavoured to have kept Lady Otterborne in ignorance of this painful discovery; but they had set to work so completely together, in order to make themselves acquainted with the real condition of their affairs, that such concealment was no longer possible. And a real blessing was it to both that it was not so; for kindly intended as such concealment would have been, its ultimate effect could only have been injurious.

  Well as Herbert thought he knew his mother, he speedily discovered that he had never done her justice. The utter impossibility of her doing any good by interfering with her unprincipled husband’s affairs during his lifetime, had long ago made her abandon the attempt, so that not even her son had any idea that she possessed the sort of steady courage which she now evinced in the painful task on which they were engaged. And most injurious to both would it have been had any species of concealment existed on cither side. It soon became evident that if they ever hoped to pay the many heavy claims upon them which both were equally desirous should be paid, although no legal obligation rested upon them for the debts contracted by Sir Charles, it must be done by at once completely breaking up their present establishment. Horses, dogs, carriages, hothouses, gardens, and even the noble herd of deer in the park, must all be parted with.

  If this were done, and done at once, it was tolerably evident that in a little more than seven years the debts might be all paid, and an important portion of the property upon which there was a mortgage (though of rather doubtful legal authority) redeemed.

&
nbsp; When their calculations had brought them to this conclusion, each looked in the face of the other to discover whether the result was better or worse than had been anticipated; and this look was well understood by both.

  “I am thankful that it is no worse!” exclaimed Lady Otterborne, joyfully.

  “But how will you bear all these privations, my dear, dear mother?” replied her son, looking anxiously in her pale and delicate face.

  “If you can bear a life of steady economy and self-denial for years, my dear young son,” she replied, “it will be strange indeed if something of the same sort should be too difficult for me. Remember, my Herbert, that much that must ‘be felt as privation at your age, is rather a release from fatigue at mine. I shall have no carriage, and therefore I shall pay no more visits; and I have long been growing so lazy that this will be a positive relief to me. But you, Herbert? We positively must keep one horse, only one little scrubby pony for my dear long-descended baronet to ride upon. Our man-of-all-work, who must milk our cow, you know, and work in the garden, may look after such a nag as that. And I know you can saddle it, and bridle it yourself, my dear boy.”

  This was said so gaily, so much more gaily than any words which he had heard pronounced by his mother’s sweet voice for years, that Herbert at once and for ever felt that it was not now that she was entering upon a life of privation.

  He from that moment anticipated recovered health and recovered spirits for her; and from that moment the up-hill tedious work of economy became to him less a task than a pastime.

  Of his father’s debts of honour he knew little, and eared less; but with a stedfast will, and a courage not likely to fail, he determined by degrees to regale the precious companion who seemed restored to him by the sight of a receipt for every one of the long bills which had been so painfully collected round them.

  Did his mother understand the happy look with which he had listened to her as she proposed, as a great indulgence, that he should keep one little pony, on the express condition that he should saddle and bridle it himself?

  Perhaps, in part, she did. But it was impossible that she could fully comprehend in how bright a light he saw the long perspective of years, during which he was doomed to play the part of steward, bailiff, gamekeeper, and gardener on his own dilapidated estate; and that of groom of the chambers, butler, footman, groom, and general helper of all work in his own noble mansion.

  It was not that he intended to make a picturesque comedy of it; on the contrary, he very fully understood the grave reality of the task they had set themselves to perform; and though he might scarcely have had sufficient elasticity of spirit to set about it with so cheerful a spirit had his mother looked at him with the same melancholy glance that he had been used to see when his marriage with the beautiful heiress had been the theme, he would in no case have been likely to blunder as to the necessity of being very solemnly in earnest in the work they had determined to undertake.

  CHAPTER XLVIII.

  THE first visit made by Herbert Otterborne after the death of his father was to Mrs. Mathews. It would probably have been so even if his mother had expressed no wish on the subject; for there was not a single individual among his neighbours, whether male or female, young or old, in whose unchangeable friendship the young man felt so firm a confidence as in hers.

  Though it is a very certain fact that he never in his life felt himself less inclined to bewail his destiny, yet it is equally a certain fact that few young men have ever appeared to be much more unfortunate than he did at this period of his existence.

  A very wealthy and very beautiful girl, to whom he was on the very eve of being united, had eloped with another man.

  His father had stamped a bad renown upon his honourable name, by first squandering an ample fortune, till he had made himself utterly insolvent, and then withdrawing himself from all responsibilities by blowing his brains out; whilst ho himself, poor youth, found himself in possession of an old title and an honourable name, a splendid mansion, and large rent-roll, yet actually without the means of affording such a home to his mother, in point of attendance and general accommodation, as the apothecary of the parish could well afford to his.

  All this was very sad, as well as very true; and it was therefore very natural, that the first effort made by Herbert towards appearing again before the eyes of his neighbours, should be made in the direction where he felt most certain of meeting with the sort of sympathy that his heart required.

  Moreover, his mother was anxious to see Mrs. Mathews again. She fancied that she had not manifested all the gratitude which she ought to have done for the friendly, though mysterious, visit which she had received from her; and, moreover, Lady Otterborne was longing to see her little Janet again. To the Grange, therefore, was the first visit of Sir Herbert paid; and with the same absence of all ceremony as heretofore, he made his way to the den, without even ringing the bell at the house door, for the weather was fine, and the door stood open, and poor Herbert at that moment felt that he had rather meet Mrs. Mathews unannounced than even his old friend Sally Had he not been certain beforehand of meeting exactly the sort of sympathy he wished for, he would have felt that he had done so by the first look of his old friend’s eye, and the first accents of her voice. Both the one and the other were simple and true, and for that reason there was no danger of their losing their way before they reached his heart.

  “How is your mother, my dear Herbert?” were the first words she said, after the short but cordial expression of her gratitude for his coming to her.

  “Shall I tell her exactly how she is?” was a question which Herbert instantly asked himself; and though, like the immortal question in the “Critic,” it was a question he had never asked before, he gave himself a very prompt and decided answer in the affirmative.

  And great was the wisdom of this decision; and he instantly felt the wisdom of it, as he marked the interest and the admiration which every word he spoke seemed to inspire.

  “I am proud of myself, my dear Herbert,” said Mrs. Mathews; “I had no right to fancy I knew Lady Otterborne as well as I thought I did know her; but every word you speak convinces me that I made no mistake. Noble, noble Lady Otterborne! Herbert! You have a beautiful career before you! Shall you be very much startled, my good friend, if you were to see her grow young again? How beautiful she was a very few years ago! And I shall be disappointed if I do not see her pretty nearly as handsome as ever.”

  This was certainly very plain speaking, and yet there was so much deep truth of feeling in it, that it was utterly impossible it could be offensive. It was not a subject that could be discussed, but it was one upon which such perfect sympathy as was manifested by Mrs. Mathews could not fail of being welcome.

  “And she will really let me come to her,” said she “ — and she will really let me bring my little Janet too? The child is absolutely pining to see her.”

  “And is Miss Anderson quite well?” rejoined Herbert quietly. “It is a long time since we last met.”

  “Long! Everything seems long that has happened lately! And yet Heaven knows we cannot say of anything that has happened that it has any resemblance to a twice-told tale! The elopement of your fiancée, for instance, my dear Sir Herbert! That was altogether most perfectly original, — was it not?”

  “At any rate it was most perfectly unexpected,” he replied, laughing. “But do you not think my philosophy under it is quite as original as the event itself?” he added.

  “No,” was her reply. “For that I was perfectly well prepared. How long, do you think, has her tender heart preferred Mr. William Price to all other men?”

  “A difficult question, my dear friend,” was his reply “But I assure you that I think she has chosen very well at last. I never in my life heard any harm of William Price, and I certainly never saw anything in him that was not amiable and kind-hearted. Will you forgive me if I say that I am very glad Mr. Mathews’ grandson did not get her? I am very glad he is not your grandson instead; f
or in truth I dislike him extremely.”

  “You are a bold man to make such a confession to a grandmother,” she replied, “or even to a grandmother-in-law.”

  “Is that correction correct?” said he, laughing.

  “Perhaps not,” said she; “but you are a bolder man still, to refer to such delicate family secrets. I have a thousand blessings, my dear, Sir Herbert, that I ought to be, and am thankful for, one of which is that you have escaped marrying the beautiful heiress. But I have my trials too, as the grumblers say, and the worst of them is the having to associate with a thing I like so little as Mr. Stephen Cornington.”

  “I confess I do not like him,” replied Herbert. “He puzzled me, and I do not like to be puzzled, unless it be by a professional juggler. I cannot make him out, Mrs. Mathews. He dances, and sings, and plays billiards, and talks French like a native. But” — and there he stopped.

  “But -what, Sir Herbert?” said Mrs. Mathews.

  “I was going to add, — only it seems almost impertinent, considering that this honoured house is his residence; but I was going to add that I very much doubt his having been reared among gentlemen.”

  “The severity of that remark, my good friend, rests rather upon the place whence he came than upon that where he now is,” said she. “But tell me seriously, my young old friend, do you really suspect me of having mistaken Master Stephen Cornington for a gentleman?”

  “No, no, no!” he replied, laughing; “if I had, I should not have hinted at my own suspicions on the subject, you may depend upon it.”

  “That sounds very like the truth, and so I will accept it, by way of an apology,” said she.

  “When may I tell my mother that you will come to her?” said Sir Herbert, rising.