Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  ‘That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world, Would not offend thee!’

  But can you wonder that, after all I have suffered, my heart and soul thirsts for an assurance of your love? What might well suffice another, Agnes, ought not to suffice me.... I am so much older....”

  “I cannot help it, Montague ... nor could I help it when you took me out of the clutches of Major Allen, upon the Windmill-hill, nor when you were pleased to be so gracious as to approve my singing ... nor upon a great many other occasions, when it would have been wise for me to remember it, perhaps. But if I love you, and you love me, I cannot see how your age or mine either need interfere to prevent it.”

  Perhaps at last Colonel Hubert arrived at the same satisfactory conclusion, for the conversation was a long one; and before it was ended, some little sketchings of his feelings during the early part of their acquaintance brought to Agnes’ mind the soothing belief, that after the evening of the Clifton ball her image had never forsaken his fancy more, though it was by slow degrees that it had grown into what he called such “terrible strength” there, as to conquer every other feeling.

  Agnes listened to him as he stated this with most humble-minded and unfeigned astonishment, but also with most willing belief, and then, following his example, he quoted Shakspeare, exclaiming —

  “And if an angel should have come to me And told me thus, I would have believed no tongue but Hubert’s.”

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  A RETROSPECT AND CONCLUSION.

  Mr. Willoughby was little less punctual to his appointment than Colonel Hubert; and as the young Nora, weary with her journey, and exhausted from the excitement of the scenes which followed it, had not yet left her bed, he too, had the advantage of a tête-à-tête.

  It is needless to enter upon any minute repetition of a narrative which had, in fact, little or no connexion with the personages of our drama. It was evident that Mr. Willoughby had suffered much, both from the early loss of his fair young wife, and the continued hostility, or, more properly speaking, the continued neglect of his family. He had exchanged into a regiment sent on a dangerous and, disagreeable service, and with broken spirits and failing health, might very likely have perished before it was ended, had not his “good gifts” very suddenly made captive the affections of a young girl almost as pretty as poor Sophia Compton, and quite as rich as she was the contrary.

  This marriage converted him into the only son and heir of a wealthy merchant; all his new family required of him, in exchange for their daughter and their wealth, was, that he should live amongst them. This he consented to do, but his life was not a happy one. With the prospect of great possessions before him, he was kept in almost penniless dependence upon his father-in-law; all his wants, indeed, profusely supplied, but with no more power to assist in the maintenance of the child he had left in England, than if he had been a slave chained to the oar.

  For sixteen years he had led this painful life of penniless splendour, in the course of which he was again left a widower with one little girl; but though his existence in his father-in-law’s family had lost its only charm by this event, he was prevented from making any effort to change it, as much by his total inability to support himself elsewhere, as by consideration for the interest of his child. As she grew up, he began once more to feel that life was not altogether a bore and a burden, and at length his passive submission to years of wearying annoyance was rewarded by finding himself, at the death of the generous but tyrannical Mr. Grafton, the possessor of a handsome life income, and the sole guardian of the young heiress his daughter.

  It was then that, for the first time, he felt disposed to recall himself to the memory of those he had left behind him in England; and the desire to do so became so strong, that he lost no time in finally arranging his affairs in the country of his exile, and taking his departure for Europe. For the sake of having a friend as commander of the ship in which he sailed, he took his passage for Havre, and, once landed on the coast of France, he yielded to Nora’s entreaties that they should pass a few weeks at Paris before they left it. His accidental meeting with Mr. Stephenson there was then related, and its consequences as it respected his daughter, and their journey home together, concluded his narration.

  “Your romance, Mr. Willoughby,” replied Miss Compton, “appears likely to come to a very happy conclusion ... but I confess I wonder that never during your sixteen years of what appears to have been very perfect leisure, you could never have found time to make any single inquiry about your little Agnes.”

  “And I wonder at it too, Miss Compton ... but it is more easy to recal the feelings that led to this, than to explain them. I believe that the total impossibility of my transmitting any share of the wealth amidst which I lived to a child whom I had great reason to fear might want it, was the primary cause of it ... and then came the hope that at no very distant day my inquiries for her might be made in a manner less torturing to my feelings than by acknowledging myself to be alive, in circumstances of high-fed pauperism, without the power of relieving any wants, however pressing, with which my inquiries might happen to make me acquainted. Had I known that you, Miss Compton, had adopted my little girl, I should not so long have suffered her to believe me dead, because I had not the power of making my being alive a source of joy to her.”

  Whether Miss Compton thought this apology a good one, or the reverse, does not appear; for all the branches of the party who so unexpectedly met together at the house of Lady Elizabeth Norris, continued from that time forward to live on terms of the most agreeable amity together; and perhaps the only symptom by which some little feeling of disapprobation might have been perceived, was Miss Compton’s begging to decline, on the part of all interested, Mr. Willoughby’s proposal of insuring his life for ten thousand pounds, as a portion for his eldest daughter.

  “I do assure you, sir, there is no occasion for it,” said the little spinster, with great good-humour, but also with a very evident intention of having her own way.... “I believe that if you will mention the subject to Colonel Hubert, or to Lady Elizabeth Norris, his aunt, you will find that they both agree with me in thinking such a sacrifice of income on your part quite unnecessary, and decidedly unwise. Your sisters have not behaved to you kindly, but they have connected themselves well, and I believe we all think it would be more advantageous to both your daughters that their favour should be propitiated by your appearing before them in a style which may show you have no need of their assistance, than by anything else you can do for them. The young ladies are both about to marry well, and with fortunes very fairly proportioned to those of their respective husbands, and any family coolness with such near relations as Lady Eastcombe and the honourable Mrs. Nivett would be both disadvantageous and disagreeable.”

  “My noble sisters will be vastly well disposed to welcome me now, Miss Compton, I have little doubt,” replied Mr. Willoughby, with as much asperity as he was capable of feeling for any offence committed against him; “and I confess to you that the reconciliation would be particularly agreeable to me, from the power your generous adoption of my poor girl gives me now of proving to them that my marriage with Sophia Compton was not such a connexion as to merit the severity with which they have treated it.”

  “I have no sort of objection to your proving this to them in any manner that you please,” replied Miss Compton; “and I rather think the most effectual mode of doing so will be, by permitting the portion of Agnes to be furnished by Sophia Compton’s aunt.”

  “Five thousand, then, let it be, Miss Compton; five thousand settled upon younger children,” said Mr. Willoughby.

  “No, sir,” persisted the old lady, “it must not be, if you please. The property of Compton Basett, with the name, and a sum of money withal sufficient considerably to add to and improve the estate, will be settled by me on the second son of your daughter Agnes. Lady Elizabeth, on the part of her nephew, adds ten thousand pounds to the settlement on younger children, which, together with my property,
will of course belong to Agnes for her life. I hope, sir, this statement will satisfy you repsecting the provision to be made for Miss Willoughby, and prevent your feeling any further anxiety on the subject.”

  It was impossible Mr. Willoughby could declare himself dissatisfied, and from this time he ventured no further allusion to the scheme of insuring his life.

  Preparations for the two marriages now immediately began; and the interval necessary to the completion of settlements, and the building of carriages and dresses, was, at the earnest request of Agnes, to be spent at Clifton. She loved the place, for it was identified in her memory with the first sight of Hubert, and she often declared that there was no spot on the earth’s surface she should ever love so well as that little esplanade behind the windmill on which Colonel Hubert first offered her his arm, without deeming it necessary to utter a word of explanation for doing so. The vicinity of Mary Peters, too, was another reason, and no trifling one, for this partiality; and as not one of the party had any point of reunion to plead for in preference, it was there that several weeks of present enjoyment and happy anticipation were passed.

  It was about midway between the time at which everything was settled between the lovers, their beloveds, and all parents, friends, and guardians interested therein, and the happy day on which the double espousals were celebrated, that Mr. and Mrs. Peters invited the whole party to dinner. No strangers were permitted to disturb the freedom of the society thus assembled at dinner, though, to gratify Lady Elizabeth’s love of music, one or two proficients in that science were invited for the evening. The gentlemen, who probably thought the society in the drawing-room more agreeable than that of good Mr. Peters, even though backed by his excellent wine, were already partaking coffee with the ladies, when a reduplicated knocking announced the arrival of visiters.

  “The Chamberlains, I suppose,” said Mrs. Peters. “How very early they are!”

  But she was mistaken, it was not the Chamberlains; for a footman threw wide the drawing-room door, and announced “Mr. and Mrs. O’Donagough!”

  “Mr. and Mrs. who?” said Mrs. Peters to Mary.

  “Mr. and Mrs. what?” said Elizabeth to Lucy.

  But before the parties thus questioned could have found time to answer, even had they been possessed of the information required, a lady in sober coloured silk, with little rouge and no ringlets, followed by a handsome young man in black, entered the room, and considerably before many who had seen that lady before could recall the name by which they had known her, or reconcile her much changed appearance to their puzzled recollections, Mrs. Peters was enfolded in her arms.

  “My dear sister Peters!” said Mrs. O’Donagough, “you are surrounded by so large a party, that I fear these last moments which I meant to dedicate to the affection of my kinsfolk, may be more inconvenient than pleasurable to you. But you cannot, I am sure, refuse me some portion of your society this evening, as it is probably the last one we shall ever pass together. Give me leave, sister Peters, to introduce you to my husband, the Reverend Mr. O’Donagough. Mr. Peters, Mr. O’Donagough; Mr. James Peters, Mr. O’Donagough; Mr. O’Donagough, my dear Mary; my husband, young ladies; Mr. O’Donagough, my dear Elizabeth and Lucy! Good Heaven! Agnes here? and my aunt Compton, too!... Well, so much the better, my dear Patrick; I shall now have the pleasure of presenting you to more relations, and as I should be proud to introduce you to all the world, this can only be an increase of pleasure to me. Agnes Willoughby, my dear, I can’t say you behaved very well to me when the cheerful sort of life I indulged in, solely on your account, was changed for sorrow and imprisonment; but, nevertheless, my religious principles, which are stronger, my dear, than even when you knew me, lead me to forgive you, and, better still, they lead me to introduce you to your excellent and exemplary uncle, the Reverend Mr. O’Donagough.”

  During the whole course of these speeches not a single voice had been heard to pronounce a syllable in reply, excepting that of Mr. Peters, who put his heels together and made a bow when she paused, husband in hand, before him, and said, “Your servant, sir!”

  But Agnes, when her turn came, though colouring most painfully at being so addressed, and with her heart sinking under the unexampled annoyance of this intrusion, contrived to say, “I hope I see you well, aunt.”

  “Yes, Miss Agnes; well, and happy too, I promise you; and I wish you were likely to be as well settled, child, as I am. But I should like to know who it is has come forward with money to dress you up so?... You have not been singing on the stage, I hope?... Your uncle would be dreadfully shocked at such a thing; for he says that stage-plays are an abomination.... And upon my word, aunt Compton, you are grown mighty smart too in your old age. Mercy on me!... Vanity of vanities!... all is vanity!”... And then looking into the inner room, and perceiving that she had several more acquaintances there, she again took her husband by the hand and led him into it, presenting him to Lady Elizabeth, her niece, Colonel Hubert, and the two Stephensons. But when she came to Mr. Willoughby, who was standing with his youngest daughter at a window, she stopped, and looking at him very earnestly, seemed puzzled.

  He bowed, though evidently without knowing her, and then, turning from her unpleasantly curious scrutiny, resumed his conversation with Nora.

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” said Mrs. O’Donagough ... “but I should really be very much obliged if you would tell me your name.”

  “My name, madam, is Willoughby.”

  “Gracious heaven!” exclaimed the bride, “O’Donagough, dearest, this is an eventful day indeed.... Behold your brother!”

  The two gentlemen stared at each other with an expression of countenance more indicative of surprise than of fraternal affection ... Mr. Willoughby, indeed, looked very much as if he suspected that the poor lady, be she who she would, was decidedly not in her right mind; while her husband, rather weary, perhaps, of such a continuity of introductions, escaped from her side, and stationed himself at another window.

  “Willoughby!... dearest Willoughby!... Is it possible that you can have forgotten me?... Can you, indeed, have forgotten the sister of your wife?”

  “Miss Martha?... Is it possible?... I beg your pardon, Mrs. Donagough ... I certainly did not recollect you. I hope that I have the pleasure of seeing you well?”

  “My dearest Willoughby!... You have no idea how exceedingly delighted I am to see you.... What has become of you all this time?... I always supposed that you had been sold for a slave on the coast of Barbary ... and I thank God, and my excellent husband ... where is he?... I am sure the Reverend Mr. O’Donagough will thank God for your escape.... And who is that pretty young lady?... Dear me, she looks very much as if she was the daughter of your cruel master, and had fallen in love with you, and set you at liberty.... Poor Sophy!... one could not expect you should remember her for ever ... even I, you see, have forced myself to forget my poor dear Mr. Barnaby.... But now I think of it, you can’t know anything about Mr. Barnaby.... Do, my dear Willoughby, sit down with me on this sofa, and let us have a talk.”

  It was impossible for Mr. Willoughby to refuse, even had he wished it, which he really did not; and the perfect security of being welcome, which Mrs. O’Donagough displayed in her manner of establishing herself, in some sort obliged Mrs. Peters to act as if she were so.... The different groups which had been deranged by her entrance, resumed their conversation; coffee and tea included the intruders in its round, and everybody excepting Miss Compton seemed once more tolerably at their ease. She could not affect to recover her equanimity like the rest, but placing a low chair immediately behind the sofa on which Lady Elizabeth’s tall figure was placed, she sat down so as to be completely concealed by her, saying, “Will your ladyship have the great kindness to let me hide myself here?... That horrible woman is, I confess it, my own brother’s daughter, but she is ... no matter what she is.... I am much to blame, no doubt, ... but I hate to look upon her.”

  “Put yourself quite at your ease, Miss Compton,” replied Lady E
lizabeth, laughing; “I have not the least difficulty in the world in comprehending your feelings. In you she has conquered the feeling of relationship; in me, an instinct stronger still perhaps, namely, that of finding amusement in absurdity. But I almost think she has cured me of my menagerie caprice for ever. Yet it is difficult, too, not to enjoy the spectacle she offers with her young husband in her hand. But I don’t mean to lose my music for her.... Miss Peters, my dear — pray set your pianoforte going.”

  This hint was immediately obeyed, and proved extremely conducive to the general ease. Good-natured Mr. Peters entered into conversation with the reverend missionary, and soon learnt both his destination, and the interesting fact that he and his bride were to sail from the port of Bristol the day but one following. This he judiciously took an opportunity of speedily communicating to his lady, who took care that it should not long remain a secret to any individual present, excepting Mr. Willoughby, who continued in too close conversation with his sister-in-law to permit his being made a sharer in the general feeling of satisfaction which this information produced. Even Miss Compton, on hearing it, declared, that if the bride were really going to set off immediately for Botany Bay, there to remain for the term of her natural life, she thought she should be able to look at her for the rest of the evening with great philosophy. And, in proof of her sincerity, she moved her place, and seated herself beside her friend Lady Elizabeth, more than half inclined to share in the amusement, which, notwithstanding her good resolutions, that facetious lady seemed inclined to take in contemplating the newly-married pair.

  The conversation, meanwhile, between the two old acquaintances, went on with considerable interest on both sides. Mr. Willoughby again related his adventures, and introduced his pretty daughter, and then, recurring once more to Silverton, Mrs. O’Donagough said, in an accent that betokened considerable interest in the question— “Willoughby! — can you tell me anything about your old friend Tate?”