Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  There was so much apparent sincerity, as well as tenderness, in what the young man uttered, that a feeling of conviction at once found its way to the understanding of Mrs. Barnaby; and little doubt, if any, remained on her mind as to the efficacy of her prayers.... “Indeed, Mr. O’Donagough, I will pray for you then, ... and I’m sure I should be a very wicked wretch if I did not.... But is there nothing else I could do to comfort you?”

  Mr. O’Donagough had often found his handsome and expressive countenance of great service to him, and so he did now. No answer he could have given in words to this kind question, could have produced so great effect as the look with which he received it. Mrs. Barnaby was fluttered, agitated, and did not quite know what to do or say next: but Mr. O’Donagough did. He rose from his chair, and raising his arms above his head to their utmost length, he passionately clasped his hands, and stood thus, — his fine eyes communing with the ceiling, — just long enough to give the widow time to be aware that he certainly was the very handsomest young man in the world; ... and then ... he drew his chair close beside her, took her hand, and fixed those fine eyes very particularly upon hers.

  “Comfort me!...” he murmured in a soft whisper, which, had it not been breathed very close to her ear, would probably have been lost.... “Comfort me!... you ask if you could comfort me?... Oh! earth, Oh! heaven, bear witness as I swear, that to trace one single movement of pity on that lovely face, would go farther towards healing every sorrow of my soul, than all the wealth that Plutus could pour on me, though it should come in ingots of gold heavy enough to break the chains that hold me!”

  “Oh! Mr. O’Donagough!...” was all Mrs. Barnaby could utter; but she turned her face away, nor was the fascinating prisoner again indulged with a full view of it, though he endeavoured to make his eyes follow the way hers led, till he dropped down on his knees before her, and by taking possession of both her hands, enabled himself to pursue his interesting speculations upon its expression, in spite of all she could do to prevent it. This brought the business for which Mrs. Barnaby came, ... namely, the inquiry into what she could do to be serviceable to Mr. O’Donagough, before she left London, ... to a very speedy termination; for with this fair index of what he MIGHT say before his eyes, the enterprising prisoner ventured to hint, that nothing would so effectually soothe his sorrows as the love of the charming being who had already expressed such melting pity for him. He moreover made it manifest that if she would, with the noble confidence which he was sure made a part of her admirable character, lend him wherewithal to liquidate the paltry debt for which he had been so treacherously arrested, he could find means again to interest his noble father in his behalf, and by giving him such a guarantee for his future steadiness as an honourable attachment was always sure to offer, he should easily induce him to renew his intention of fitting him out handsomely for an expedition to Australia, to which, as he confessed, he was more strongly inclined than even to persevere in listening to the call he had received to the ministry.

  Notwithstanding the tender agitation into which such a conversation must inevitably throw every lady who would listen to it, Mrs. Barnaby did not so completely lose her presence of mind, as not to remember that it would be better to look about her a little before she positively promised to marry and accompany to Australia the captivating young man who knelt at her feet. But this praiseworthy degree of caution did not prevent her from immediately deciding upon granting him the loan he desired; nay, with thoughtful kindness, she herself suggested that it might be more convenient to make the sum lent 40l. instead of 37l. 9s. 8d.; and having said this with a look and manner the most touching, she at length induced Mr. O’Donagough to rise; and after a few such expressions of tender gratitude as the occasion called for, they parted, the widow promising to deliver to him with her own fair hands on the morrow the sum necessary for his release; while he, as he fervently kissed her hand, declared, that deeply as he felt this generous kindness, he should wish it had never been extended to him, unless the freedom thus regained were rendered dear to his soul by her sharing it with him.

  “Give me time, dear O’Donagough!... Give me time to think of this startling proposal, ... and to-morrow we will meet again,” were the words in which she replied to him; and then, permitting herself for one moment to return the tender glances he threw after her, she opened the room-door and passed through it, too much engrossed by her own thoughts, hopes, wishes, and speculations, to heed the variety of amusing grimaces by which the various turnkeys hailed her regress through them.

  It would be unreasonable for any one to “desire better sympathy” than that which existed between my heroine and Mr. O’Donagough when they thus tore themselves asunder; he remaining in durance vile till such time as fate or love should release him, and she to throw herself into a hackney coach, there to meditate on the pleasures and the pains either promised or threatened by the proposal she had just received.

  The sympathy lay in this, ... that both parties were determined to inform themselves very particularly of the worldly condition of the other, before they advanced one step farther towards matrimony, for which state, though the gentleman had spoken with rapture, and the lady had listened with softness, both had too proper a respect to think of entering upon it unadvisedly.

  CHAPTER X.

  GIVES SOME ACCOUNT OF COLONEL HUBERT’S RETURN TO CHELTENHAM.

  We must now follow Colonel Hubert to Cheltenham, to which place he returned in a state of mind not particularly easy to be described. The barrier he had placed before his heart, the heavy pressure of which he had sometimes felt to be intolerable, was now broken down; and it was a relief to him to remember that Agnes knew of his love. But, excepting this relief, there was little that could be felt as consolatory, and much that was decidedly painful in his state of mind. He knew but too well that not all the partial affection, esteem, and admiration entertained for him by his aunt, would prevent her feeling and expressing the most violent aversion to his marrying the niece of Mrs. Barnaby; he knew, too, what sort of reception the avowal of such an intention was likely to meet from his amiable but proud brother-in-law, and remembered, with feelings not very closely allied to satisfaction, the charge he had commissioned Lady Stephenson to give him, that he should keep watch over his thoughtless younger brother, in order to guard him, if possible, from bringing upon them the greatest misfortune that could befall a family such as theirs — namely, the introducing an inferior connexion into it.... Neither could he forget the influence he had used, in consequence of this injunction, to crush the ardent, generous, uncalculating attachment of his confiding friend Frederick for her whom, in defiance of the wishes of his whole family, he was now fully determined to make his wife. All this gave materials for very painful meditation; and when, in addition to it, he recalled those fearful words of Agnes, “I will never be your wife!” it required all the power of that master passion which had seized upon his heart to keep him steady to his resolution of communicating his wishes and intentions to Lady Elizabeth, and to sustain his hopes of engaging her actively to assist him in obtaining what he felt very sure she would earnestly desire that he should never possess.

  With all these heavy thoughts working within him, he entered the drawing-room of his aunt, and rejoiced to find her tête-à-tête with his sister, Sir Edward being absent at a dinner-party of gentlemen. They both welcomed him with eager inquiries concerning their young favourite, the tone of which at once determined him to enter immediately upon the tremendous subject of his hopes and wishes; and the affectionate interest expressed for her, warmed him into a degree of confidence which he was far from feeling when he entered the room.

  “Pretty creature!” exclaimed Lady Elizabeth; “and that wretched woman has actually left her alone in London lodgings?... Why did you not make her return with you, Montague?... It was surely no time to stand upon etiquette.”

  “I dared not even ask it,” replied Colonel Hubert, his voice faltering, and his manner such as to make the two lad
ies exchange a hasty glance with each other.

  “You dared not ask Agnes Willoughby, poor little thing, to come down with you to my house, Colonel Hubert?” said the old lady. “You surely forget that you went up to London with an invitation for her in your pocket?”

  “My dear aunt,” replied Colonel Hubert, hesitating in his speech, as neither of his auditors had ever before heard him hesitate, “I have much to tell you respecting both Agnes Willoughby ... and myself....”

  “Then tell it, in Heaven’s name!” said Lady Elizabeth sharply. “Let it be what it may, I would rather hear it than be kept hanging thus by the ears between the possible and impossible.”

  Colonel Hubert moved his chair; and seating himself beside Lady Stephenson, took her hand, as if to shew that she too was to listen to what he was about to say, though it was their aunt to whom he addressed himself. “From suspense, at least, I can relieve you, Lady Elizabeth, and you too, my dear Emily, who look at me so anxiously without saying a word ... at least I can relieve you from suspense.... I love Miss Willoughby; and I hope, with as little delay as possible, to make her my wife.”

  Lady Stephenson pressed his hand, and said nothing; but a deep sigh escaped her. Lady Elizabeth, who was not accustomed to manifest her feelings so gently, rose from her seat on the sofa, and placing herself immediately before him, said, with great vehemence, “Montague Hubert, son of my dead sister, you are come to years of discretion, and a trifle beyond.... Your magnificent estate of thirteen hundred a year, and ... I beg your pardon ... some odd pounds, shillings, and pence over, is all your own, and you may marry Mrs. Barnaby herself, if you please, and settle it upon her. No one living that I know of has any power to prevent it.... But, sir, if you expect that Lady Elizabeth Norris will ever receive as her niece a girl artful enough to conceal from me and from your sister the fact that she was engaged to you, and that, too, while receiving from both of us the most flattering attention ... nay, such affection as might have opened any heart not made of brass and steel ... if you expect this, you will find yourself altogether mistaken.”

  This harangue, which her ladyship intended to be overpoweringly severe, was, in fact, very nearly the most agreeable one that Colonel Hubert could have listened to, for it touched only on a subject of offence that he was perfectly able to remove. All embarrassment immediately disappeared from his manner; and springing up to place himself between his aunt and the door, to which she was approaching with stately steps, he said, in a voice almost of exultation, “My dearest aunt!... How like your noble self it is to have made this objection before every other!... And this objection, which would indeed have been fatal to every hope of happiness, I can remove by a single word.... Agnes was as ignorant of my love for her as you and Emily could be till last night ... I have loved her ... longer, it may be, than I have known it myself ... perhaps I might date it from the first hour I saw her, but she knew nothing of it.... Last night, for the first time, I confessed to her my love.... And what think you, Lady Elizabeth, was her answer?”

  “Nay, Mr. Benedict, I know not.... ‘I thank you, sir,’ and a low courtesy, I suppose.”

  “I was less happy, Lady Elizabeth,” he replied, half smiling; adding a moment after, however, with a countenance from which all trace of gaiety had passed away, “The answer of Miss Willoughby to my offer of marriage was ... Colonel Hubert, I can never be your wife.”

  “Indeed!... Then how comes it, Montague, that you still talk of making her so?”

  “Because, before I left her, I thought I saw some ground for hope that her refusal was not caused by any personal dislike to me.”

  “Really!...” interrupted Lady Elizabeth.

  “Nay, my dear aunt!” resumed Hubert, “you may in your kind and long-enduring partiality fancy this impossible; but, unhappily for my peace at that moment, I remembered that I was more than five-and-thirty, and she not quite eighteen.”

  “But she told you I suppose that you were still a very handsome fellow.... Only she had some other objection, — and pray, what was it, sir?”

  “She feared the connexion would be displeasing to you and Lady Stephenson.”

  “And you assured her most earnestly, perhaps that she was mistaken?”

  “No, Lady Elizabeth, I did not. There are circumstances in her position that MUST make my marrying her appear objectionable to my family; and though my little independence is, as your ladyship observes, my own, I would not wish to share it with any woman who would be indifferent to their reception of her. All my hope, therefore, rests in the confidence I feel that, when the first unpleasing surprise of this avowal shall have passed away, you ... both of you ... for there is no one else whose approbation I should wait for ... you will suffer your hearts and heads to strike a fair and reasonable balance between all that my sweet Agnes has in her favour and all she has against her. Do this, Lady Elizabeth, but do it as kindly as you can.... Emily will help you ... to-morrow morning you shall tell me your decision.... I can resolve on nothing till I hear it.”

  Colonel Hubert, as soon as he had said this left the room, nor did they see him again that night.

  The morning came, and he met Lady Stephenson at the breakfast table, but Lady Elizabeth did not appear, sending down word, as was not unusual with her, that she should take her chocolate in her own room. Sir Edward was not in the room when he entered, and he seized the opportunity to utter a hasty and abrupt inquiry as to the answer he might expect from herself and their aunt.

  “From me, Montague,” she replied, “you cannot fear to hear anything very harshly disagreeable. In truth, I have been so long accustomed to believe that whatever my brother did, or wished to do, was wisest — best, that it would be very difficult for me to think otherwise now; besides, I cannot deny, though perhaps it hardly ought to be taken into the account, that I too am very much in love with Agnes Willoughby, and that ... though I would give my little finger she had no aunt Barnaby belonging to her ... I never saw any woman in any rank whom I could so cordially love and welcome as a sister.”

  In reply to this, Colonel Hubert clasped the lovely speaker to his heart; and before he had released her from his embrace, or repeated his inquiry concerning Lady Elizabeth, Sir Edward Stephenson entered, and the conversation became general.

  For many hours of that irksome morning Colonel Hubert was kept in the most tantalizing state of suspense by the prolonged absence of the old lady from the drawing-room. But at length, after Sir Edward and his lady had set off for their second morning ramble without him, he was cheered by the appearance of the ancient maiden, who was his aunt’s tirewoman, bringing in her lap-dog, and the velvet cushion that was its appendage; which having placed reverently before the fire, she moved the favourite fauteuil an inch one way, and the little table that ever stood beside it an inch the other, and was retiring, when Colonel Hubert said, ... “Is my aunt coming immediately, Mitchel?”

  “My lady will not be long, Colonel.... But her ladyship is very poorly this morning,” and with a graceful swinging courtesy she withdrew.

  The Colonel trembled all over, “very poorly,” as applied to Lady Elizabeth Norris, having from his earliest recollection always been considered as synonymous to “very cross.”

  “She will refuse to see her!” thought he, pacing the room in violent agitation.... “and in that case she will keep her word.... She will never be my wife!”

  “Bless me!... How you do shake the room, Colonel Hubert,” said a very crabbed voice behind him, just after he had passed the door in his perturbed promenade. “If you took such a fancy early in the morning, when the house maid might sweep up the dust you had raised, I should not object to it, for it is very like having one’s carpet beat;... but just as I am coming to sit down here, it is very disagreeable indeed.”

  This grumble lasted just long enough to allow the old lady (who looked as if she had been eating crab apples, and walked as if she had suddenly been seized with the gout in all her joints,) to place herself in her easy chair as she co
ncluded it, during which time the Colonel stood still upon the hearth-rug with his eyes anxiously fixed upon the venerable but very hostile features that were approaching him. A moment’s silence followed, during which the old Lady looked up in his face with the most provoking expression imaginable; for cross as it was, there was a glance of playful malice in it that seemed to say, —

  “You look as if you were going to cry, Colonel.”

  He felt provoked with her, and this gave him courage.— “May I beg of you, Lady Elizabeth, to tell me what I may hope from your kindness on the subject I mentioned to you last night?” said he.

  “Pray, sir, do you remember your grandfather?” was her reply.

  “The Earl of Archdale?... Yes, madam, perfectly.”

  “You do.... Humph!... And your paternal grandfather, with his pedigree from Duke Nigel of Normandy; did you ever hear of him?”

  “Yes, Lady Elizabeth,” replied the Colonel in a tone of indifference; “I have heard of him; but he died, you know, when I was very young.”

  There was a minute’s silence, which was broken by another question from Lady Elizabeth.

  “And pray, sir, will you do me the favour to tell me who was the grandfather of Miss Willoughby?”

  “I have little, or indeed no doubt, Lady Elizabeth, that Miss Willoughby is the granddaughter of that Mr. Willoughby, of Greatfield Park, in Warwickshire, who lost the tremendous stake at piquet that you have heard of, and two of whose daughters married the twin sons of Lord Eastcombe.... I think you cannot have forgotten the circumstances.”

  Lady Elizabeth drew herself forward in her chair, and fixing her eyes stedfastly on the face of her nephew, said, in a voice of great severity, “Do you mean to assert to me, Colonel Montague Hubert, that Agnes Willoughby is niece to Lady Eastcombe and the Honourable Mrs. Nivett?”