“I wish, with all my soul,” cried Patty, “that every one of the Hubert family had been packed off for Botany Bay the day we left it! I see as plain as daylight that you and papa both mean to lead me the life of a dog about ’em. You will make me run away, if you do, I’ll tell you that, for I know I can’t bear it.”
“Don’t put yourself in such a fuss, Patty, for heaven’s sake!” said her mother, but more coaxingly than scoldingly; for she still stood in very considerable dread of a final and positive-refusal. “Think, my dear girl, before you say so, of the beautiful fine parties, and the beaux, and the dances you’ll be sure to come in for in Berkeley-square, if you do but play your cards well now. Think of all this, Patty, and do your very best to get thick with Elizabeth Hubert.”
“Patty, your mother’s right this time,” said Mr. O’Donagough, “so go at the time fixed, and say no more about it. I’ll take you into a box at the playhouse the night after, if you’ll be a good girl.”
Miss O’Donagough had a phrase which will explain the effect these words produced upon her, namely —
“When papa’s in earnest he is in earnest.” The promised play, too, undoubtedly helped her decision; and altogether she was induced, after distorting her much-admired beauty by more than one grimace, to reply, “Well, if I must, I must; but it is as bad as being whipped, I can tell you that.”
The subject was then judiciously permitted to drop, and the far future of next winter in London, with all the joys it might bring, took its place; effectually arming the mind of Patty for the endurance of whatever present annoyance might arise, which, acting like catholic penances, should lead to such a paradise!
Meanwhile, General Hubert, his lady and daughter, pursued their way homeward. It was, probably, not altogether from lack of a subject that they walked on so silently; but instead of words, Mrs. Hubert only pressed her husband’s arm, to which he replied by somewhat of a more caressing pressure in return, and the quietly-smiling pronunciation of the word “Well?” Neither did their daughter say much, continuing to hold her mother’s hand in silence till the door-bell of their own mansion had been rung; and then smiling a little, and colouring a good deal, she said, “Is not my cousin older than I am, mamma?”
“She looks a vast deal older, certainly,” was the reply.
“Do you think she will like to play at looking for shells among the shingles, with Emily and me?”
“Perhaps, not, my dear. You must endeavour to entertain her by rational conversation,” said Mrs. Hubert, entering the house, and not sorry, perhaps, to interrupt the discussion, by desiring her daughter immediately to get ready for our dinner, which was waiting for her. It was tête-à-tête, therefore, that General Hubert and his wife entered the drawing-room, and there was something whimsical enough in the manner in which their eyes encountered after silently seating themselves in two arm-chairs, which faced each other.
Agnes pursed up her beautiful mouth, and endeavoured to look grave; but the moment her eyes met those of her husband, they both laughed. This movement of the muscles, however, was quite involuntary on the part of the lady, and speedily mastering it, she said, “Pray don’t, General Hubert, pray don’t laugh at it! What can we do?”
“I cannot choose but laugh, Agnes,” replied her husband, “if you look so comically dismayed. And after all, my dear, I cannot say that we have seen anything that ought greatly to surprise us. Your Aunt Barnaby is as little altered as it is possible she could be in the time, I think. Of Mr. O’Donagough I have no remembrance, but he appears to me quite as well-looking and respectable a personage as we could reasonably hope for. Rather evangelical, I suspect; but under the circumstances I see no reason to object to this. And as for their daughter, I cannot but think that she is as precisely what Mrs. Barnaby’s daughter, might be expected to be, as it is possible to imagine. Wherefore, dear wife, look not so despondingly, but thank the gods that matters are no worse.”
All this was said lightly and gaily, but Mrs. Hubert seemed to have lost all inclination to laugh.
“I would not be ungrateful to the gods, Montague,” said she, “but I must own I feel the arrival of the O’Donagoughs to be a very great misfortune.”
“No, no, not so,” returned her husband; “not a very great misfortune, Agnes. You must not class it so. Aunt Betsy will be a little outrageous, perhaps, but we must contrive to soothe her; and for the rest, be quite sure that a little good management to prevent our meeting often, and a little quiet, patient civility when we do meet, will suffice to prevent any very serious annoyance.”
“But our girl, Hubert? You take the thing so admirably en philosophe, that I will cease to torment myself about you. But is it not grievous that Elizabeth should—”
“Find a cousin more bright and blooming than herself? We must bear this, Agnes,” said the general; “but this is all. Miss O’Donagough will do Elizabeth no harm, you may depend upon it.”
Soothed, if not satisfied, Mrs. Hubert indulged in no more repinings for the present; and feeling something like self-reproach at having experienced so much more vehement a distaste for her relations than her noble husband appeared to do, she determined as far as possible to conquer, or at any rate to conceal it. To Elizabeth she said little more on the subject; but to Miss Wilmot, the daughter of her own early friend and instructress, she ventured to speak with entire freedom. The peculiarities of her “Aunt Barnaby” were already perfectly well known to this lady; and, therefore, without scruple of any kind, she ventured to confess to her, that although she wished every possible attention and kindness to be shown to Miss O’Donagough, she did not wish the intercourse between the young ladies to grow into intimacy.
“Elizabeth is so childish, Miss Wilmot,” continued Mrs. Hubert, “that though I do not greatly fear her catching the singular manners of this poor girl, I think she may not be capable of — of disliking them, I believe is the only honest word, as much as I wish her to do.”
“Not having yet seen the young lady,” replied Miss Wilmot, smiling, “I can give no opinion upon this; but, if Miss O’Donagough be like what Mrs. Compton describes her mother to have been, Elizabeth will not like her too well.”
Very punctually at two o’clock Mr. O’Donagough himself conducted his young daughter to the door of General Hubert, and there took leave of her till the evening — his parting words being, “Now, Patty, mind your p’s and q’s. I know your mother often plagues you with a monstrous deal of preaching about one thing and another, and you know I never scold you for laughing at it. But she’s right this time about making the very best of yourself with those stiff disagreeable people — mind that, Patty.”
“Don’t you trouble yourself about my turning ’em all to good account, if anything’s to be got out of ’em,” replied the young lady with an expressive wink of the left eye; “and if I mind my hits that way, I expect you’ll let me hate ’em as much as I please. That is fair, isn’t it?”
The house-door opened as she finished the sentence, and her father departed, replying to it only by an acquiescent nod.
Miss O’Donagough was immediately ushered into the back-parlour, where the table was already spread for dinner, and her two cousins seated on either side of their governess, who was reading to them Miss Edgeworth’s tale of the Prussian Vase. All three rose to receive her. The little Emily, as well as Miss Wilmot was properly introduced by Elizabeth, and the necessary quantity of hand-shaking performed, while Miss Wilmot, laying aside the splendid pink bonnet and scarf of the gaily-dressed visitor, smiled furtively aside, as she remembered Mrs. Hubert’s anxiety lest her pupil should be incapable of judging fitly of the peculiar graces she displayed.
There was, however, in Elizabeth’s behaviour to her cousin, no symptom of her having as yet formed any judgment of her at all, for her manner spoke only the most perfect good humour and civility, a little blended with embarrassment.
“Do you like the sea, cousin Martha?” was the first attempt at the “rational conversation” her mo
ther had recommended.
“What, sailing upon it?” rejoined Miss Martha.
“No, I meant walking near it, and looking at it,” replied Elizabeth. “But I should like you to tell me all about sailing too. You have sailed a great way, have you not? And I have never been on the sea at all, except between Dover and Calais; and even that, you know, is not sailing. Did you like your voyage?”
“Like it! yes, to be sure I did. It’s monstrous good fun!”
“I think I should like it too,” said Elizabeth. “I never see any large ship passing up and down the channel, without wishing to be aboard her.”
“I don’t know about your liking it,” replied Miss Martha.
“I think you seem too young to take such pleasure in it as. I did. And besides, I don’t believe — There’s no fun I mean on board ship — at least I should think so — unless people are nearly grown up. I don’t think children would be taken so much notice of.”
“Do you think so?” said Elizabeth, innocently. “I should fancy children might be very well amused. Don’t you think, Emily, that you should like to run up and down the deck of a great, large ship?”
“Yes, I should,” said the little one, stoutly; “and I should not care if anybody noticed me or not.”
“I suppose not, indeed, you little thing!” said Martha, laughing.
“Did the sea disagree with you at all, Miss O’Donagough?” inquired Miss Wilmot.
“Oh, lor, yes; I was as sick as a cat for the first week!” replied the young lady. “You never saw anything like it in your life. No sooner did I swallow anything — you understand?” (with an appropriate grimace.) “But I had a good friend on board who took capital care of me, and always showed me which side of the ship to walk, and helped me up and down, and all that sort of thing, you know; and so by degrees it went off, and then I was as jolly as a tinker, and such an appetite! Oh, my! How I did eat! And then we got to famous fun with ship-billiards; and all the rest of the time, till we got to Sheerness, I liked it better than anything else in the whole world.”
“And after Sheerness, I suppose you felt impatient to get to land?” said Elizabeth.
“Yes, I did,” succinctly replied Miss O’Donagough.
“I do not wonder at that. I think you must have been so impatient to see England!”
“Oh no, not I! I did not care a straw about England just then. But we lost one of our best friends at Sheerness, and that spoilt everything.”
“Had you many passengers on board?”
“I am sure I hardly know anything about ’em. They were all nasty people.”
“All nasty people!” exclaimed little Emily.
“Yes, little one — all nasty people;” replied Martha, laughing. “I suppose she thinks I mean all dirty people. What a funny little soul! When you are as old as me, Miss Emmy, you’ll know what ladies mean, when they call people nasty. We don’t mean dirty clothes, nor dirty faces neither; but just everybody we don’t like.”
“If you don’t like me, will you say I am nasty?” demanded the little girl, looking at her rather reproachfully.
“To be sure I shall; but I won’t dislike you if you’ll give me a kiss, for I think you are very pretty.
“But if I was not very pretty, should you call me nasty?” persisted the child.
“Yes, I dare say I should; for I hate everybody that is not pretty,” replied Martha; at the same time making one of her father’s peculiar grimaces, in such a manner as to indicate that Miss Wilmot was in her thoughts. Without making any reply respecting the offered salute, the little Emily turned towards the governess, and after leaning against her knee for a minute or two, took an opportunity when she bent her head, of putting her arms round her neck, and giving her a kiss.
“Well now! if she isn’t kept in good order, I’ll wonder,” said Martha, chuckling. “She knows what a whipping is, or I’m much mistaken.” This was addressed in rather a low confidential voice to Elizabeth; but before she could reply to it, the door opened, and the dinner entered.
“That’s no bad sight, early as it is for dining. I am as hungry as a horse, Miss Elizabeth. Where am I to sit? What, here! — next to the old lady? Let me sit at the bottom and carve, shall I? You shall see if I don’t do it fit to be a married woman. La! what a nice dinner! What a pity it is we have got no beaux!”
No opposition being made to Miss O’Donagough’s placing herself at the bottom of the table, she sat down, and began vigorously to attack a leg of lamb, intended as the piece de résistance of the entertainment.
“Will you not take some fish, Miss O’Donagough?” demanded Miss Wilmot.
“Yes, if there is butter and sauce with it,” replied Martha,; “but some of you must have mutton, ‘cause I’ve cut this piece off. Here, little one, you shall have it.”
Emily looked into the face of her governess, but said nothing.
“Send it to me, my dear, if you please,” said Miss Wilmot; “but do not cut any more yet. The young ladies both take fish.” The dinner, sauce and all, being greatly to Miss O’Donagough’s satisfaction, her spirits rose as it proceeded, and she went on in a sort of crescendo movement, eating and talking, till she had got into the highest possible good humour.
“Well, after all, I think we shall be monstrous good friends, Elizabeth?” said she, putting a third glass of custard into her plate; “and I don’t know but what it may be better fun dining in this way, and eating as much as I like, than if I had come in my gauze frock, and sat up doing grand with the old fogrums in the dining-room. I do hate old people like poison — don’t you?”
To this appeal, Elizabeth answered nothing; but almost involuntarily gave such a look to her governess, as friends are apt to exchange when something striking occurs, upon which, for the moment, they can make no other commentary. Martha saw this look, and interpreting it her own way, shook her curls, gave a slight laugh, and said no more, persuaded that her cousin had intended to caution her against being too open-hearted in the presence of that first and foremost of fogrums, her governess.
But although this persuasion silenced her for the moment, it rather added to her good humour; and, on setting out for the promised walk by the sea-side, she took the arm of Miss Hubert with very cousinly familiarity, and drew her forward with a rapid step, in the hope of outwalking the governess and Emily, and thereby insuring “a little fun,” and a great deal of confidential communication.
Miss Wilmot, who knew her pupil well, and feared not any injury to her from the association beyond its present annoyance, made no effort to overtake them; and contented herself by answering as sedately and discreetly as she could, the speculations of the little Emily on their guest, which partook largely of that peculiar vein of observation in which children sometimes remark on what appears ridiculous to them, with a freshness and keenness of quizzing that might be sought for in vain in the sallies of the most practised proficients in the art.
On reaching the steps in the cliff, Miss O’Donagough had the extreme delight of perceiving that two gay-looking youths in regimentals had just descended them, and were walking slowly onward the way they were about to go.
“Make haste, Elizabeth, ain’t we lucky?” she exclaimed, on perceiving them, and setting the example of the speed she recommended, she placed her hand on the rail and ran down with extraordinary rapidity to the bottom of the flight. Though the fight movements of her young companion hardly permitted her being very slow, Martha chid her delay, and ere she had fairly reached the last step, seized on her arm, and by a vigorous pull, obliged her to clear it by a jump.
“What a slow fool you are, Elizabeth!’” she exclaimed, again taking her arm, and drawing her rapidly forward; “let us pass them directly, and I’ll bet a guinea that before we have made five steps, they will pass us.”
“Why do you wish them to pass us, Martha?” said her companion with perfect simplicity.
Miss O’Donagough looked back, thinking from these words that the governess must he within hearin
g; but, on the contrary, perceiving that she had stopped to fasten Emily’s shoe, she began laughing in a tone so loud, that the young men both turned round to reconnoitre.
The moment their eyes fell upon the young ladies, they stepped aside, and permitted them to pass, raising their hats at the same time in salutation. Miss Hubert bowed, and walked on.
“Well done you, Elizabeth!” said her companion, strongly compressing her arm, and tittering very audibly. “How beautiful they look! don’t they? But they are only ensigns, both of them, I can tell you that. I wish to goodness I knew their names.”
“Do not speak so loud, cousin Martha, or they will hear you,” said Elizabeth, innocently. “It is Lord William Southwood and Mr. Templeton.”
“A lord!” cried the startled Martha, instantly turning round her head to look at them. “You don’t say so? And be bowing to us so politely! Don’t you think we had better sit down upon that stone? They must pass by it, you see, ‘cause of the water coming in so. Isn’t this capital fun?”
Miss Hubert was by no means a stupid girl, but she no more comprehended her cousin’s exclamations, than if they had been uttered in Hebrew, and replied very simply, “No, don’t sit there, Martha, there is a much better place a little farther on, where Miss Wilmot almost always lets us sit down, and if you did like looking for shells, you would find plenty there, such as they are.”
“Looking for shells!” exclaimed Martha, bursting into loud laughter. “Oh, my! what a fool you are! or is it only put on, Elizabeth? That’s it, I see through it, I’ll be hanged if I don’t. You are a deep one, with your bowings, and knowing so well what their names are, and all.”
“What do you mean, cousin Martha? How can I help knowing the names of those two gentlemen, if it is of them you are speaking?” replied Miss Hubert. “They both dined at our house yesterday.”
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 239
