Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  “You must make the best of it, my dear, that is all I can say,” replied her friend. “But step quicker, Matilda! There they are, as I live, just going upon the pier now! They must have stopped somewhere or other since I first saw them.”

  The eyes of Patty had not deceived her: on reaching the pier they found the two gentlemen she had named, beguiling their superabundant leisure by leaning over the wall, and watching a distant ship or two through the haze. Of course the young ladies expressed some surprise at seeing them. “So, then, you are no more afraid of a Scotch mist than we are?” said Patty, giving her parasol to Mr. Willis, while she tightened the strings of her too fragile bonnet.

  “Anything is better than staying boxed up at home,” replied the young man; “and I suppose that’s your idea, Miss Patty, as well as ours?”

  “I suppose it is,” answered Patty. “But I don’t intend to stand still, shivering like this — I shall walk up and down just as fast as I can trot.”

  “Well, then, you had better give me your arm, or upon my life you will be blown over,” said Mr. Willis, while Mr. Foxcroft offered his to her companion in the most touching of manners, namely, without saying a word; which always seems to indicate that protection on the one side, and dependence on the other, is a matter of course between the parties.

  Patty and her companion chattered away at a great rate; but Mr. Foxcroft and Miss Matilda Perkins walked on for several paces without exchanging a word. The lady’s heart was beating violently, and the gentleman’s head was at work.

  When an unmarried officer of the line is very hard up, it is by no means an unusual thing that he should turn his thoughts towards matrimony; but when conscious that his last birthday left him within a lustre of half a hundred, and that his hair is a dapple, between red and gray, he confines himself, if he be wise, to the minor prizes in the market, takes especial care that there be no fathers or brothers in the way, and is particular about nothing, save the certainty that the lady has got something, and that this something is at her own disposal. At the moment above mentioned, Lieutenant Foxcroft was turning in his head all the facts which had reached his knowledge tending to throw light on the financial concerns of his fair friend. Mr. O’Donagough had shown himself perfectly ready to give all the information he could, to which friendly openness he was perhaps in some degree prompted by the fact, that Mr. Foxcroft owed him a debt of honour, amounting to seventy-three pounds — but in truth, his knowledge of the Miss Perkinses’ concerns was not sufficient to justify giving advice on so important a point, and the brave lieutenant felt that he must be his own pioneer. This naturally gave something of restraint to his conversation, while on the other hand the collected tenderness of thirty-six fears, in a bosom peculiarly prone to receive soft impressions, produced a swelling fulness in the heart of Miss Matilda, which for a considerable time rendered it impossible for her to speak a word.

  At length Lieutenant Foxcroft became fully aware that there was something dangerous in this protracted silence, and preluding the words by a slight cough, he said, “What a very unpleasant day for the seaside it is.”

  It was with a sigh which an actress might have taken as a model, that Miss Matilda replied “Very.”

  Again they were both silent; when the lady, perceiving by the green drops that trickled from her parasol upon her bosom, that it would probably soon rain too hard for even Patty to continue her promenade, determined that the precious moments which were passing, should not pass in vain, and struggling to subdue the vehemence of her feelings, that she might speak distinctly, she said, “Captain Foxcroft, this is, I suppose, the last walk that we shall take together at Brighton. My sister and myself return to our London home on Monday.”

  They had just reached that end of the pier which abuts upon the sea, as this annunciation concluded; upon which the Lieutenant stood stock-still; and though the barrier against which the waves were rudely breaking was cold and wet, the agitated Matilda gladly availed herself of the support it offered; and, regardless of the smart silk-scarf that perished in the act, she placed both her arms upon it, and remained with her eyes intently fixed upon the ocean.

  The news she had thus communicated considerably startled Mr. Foxcroft, and plunged him in a very disagreeable dilemma; for he was by no means ready to act upon it in any way. He would, indeed, have been vastly imprudent had he committed himself either by declaring a passion or pronouncing a farewell. For while, on the one hand, the lady’s evident independence, and equally evident partiality, urged him forward, his ignorance of the amount of what he might gain by proceeding, kept him back. His conduct, under the circumstances, was in every way judicious; being, in fact, the result of great experience, and a thorough acquaintance with all such matters. After a pause, which told Matilda quite as plainly as any words could have done, that her news had almost annihilated him, he said, “Is it possible?”

  “It is indeed!” she replied, with expressive emphasis.

  Another pause followed.

  “In what part of that vast wilderness will you be hid, my dear Miss Matilda?” said the Lieutenant, with a truly military sigh.

  “We live at Brompton,” was the softly-whispered reply.

  “Of course, our friends, the O’Donagoughs, will always know where you are?”

  “Oh! yes,” she answered, while her heart was torn by conflicting joy at this proof that he meant to inquire for her, and grief at perceiving that whatever might be his future intentions, there was for the present no hope whatever of a declaration.

  Such being too clearly the case, and the rain now falling in such torrents that Patty and Mr. Willis had taken to their heels and ran home (not without a little joking upon the tête-a-tête at the pier-head) — such being the case, Miss Matilda Perkins made up her mind to turn round and walk home likewise. But even, in that wet, dirty, dismal moment, hope lingered at her heart, and she determined to try what one honest, open, unmitigated look of tenderness might produce. The circumstances of her position were favourable to the experiment, for the “plentiful moisture” which encumbered her hair gave her face a sort of forlorn and melancholy look, of which she was not wholly unconscious, and which she thought might serve her better at such a moment than the tightest curls. But, alas! there are some natures upon which the innocent little trickeries and pearly tears of tender woman fall like soft dew-drops on the sturdy oak. They may glitter about it; nay, sometimes shine almost like a glory around its lofty crest, but not a fibre is moved thereby.

  Nothing could he more expressive, more intelligible, more heart-searching than was this look of Matilda Perkins — but it was in vain. As well might cannon be expected to startle a well-trained charger, as suck a look to shake the firmness of Lieutenant Foxcroft.

  This is a subject painful to dwell upon; and it is enough to say that the two sisters departed by the stage on the morning appointed, without carrying with them any consolation whatever for the imprudent purchase of the blue silk-gown.

  CHAPTER XIX.

  ANOTHER six weeks completed the period for which Mr. O’Donagough considered it advisable to remain at Brighton, and due notice was given to his lady and daughter that they were to pack up their faded finery and be ready for starting. The O’Donagough policy as to the most advantageous mode of performing a journey, had not undergone any alteration since their arrival, and therefore, exactly the same process was gone through to restore them to the metropolis as that which had brought them from it. Having chosen rather a late coach, they reached the renowned White Bear in very proper time for dinner; but Mr. O’Donagough, for reasons of his own, preferred ordering luncheon, after which he once more set out in quest of a home for himself and his family. His absence upon this occasion was very short, for it being the latter end of October, lodgings were not difficult to find; and in less time than it would have taken most people to think about it, he had packed himself, his lady, his daughter, and all their baggage into a hackney-coach.

  “You must neither grunt nor grumble, t
urn sulky nor look cross,” said Mr. O’Donagough, as soon as the vehicle drove off, “if you don’t happen to like the lodgings I have got for you.

  They are cheap, and that’s the reason I take them. I don’t intend that you should either see or be seen much for the next two months or so, and I desire that you will make up your minds to it at once.”

  “What does he say, mamma?” inquired the terrified Patty, turning to her mother; for what with the wheels, and the steps, and the windows, she had heard this speech but very imperfectly. “What does papa say about our not being seen?”

  “Hold your tongue, Patty,” being the only answer she received, the young lady turned to the window, let down the glass, and for the next five minutes found great consolation from meditating on the impossibility of not being seen, if she lived in a place where such throngs filled the streets as were then jostling each other before her eyes. At the end of that time, the equipage stopped at the door of a small private house in one of the narrow streets that steal away and hide themselves right and left of the splendours of Regent-street. The aspect of the dwelling was not very inviting from without, nor was the prospect greatly improved when the door opened and displayed its size, colour, and various other properties within. But Mrs. O’Donagough entered, and neither “grunted nor grumbled, turned sulky nor looked cross.” Her whole manner and appearance indicated the triumph of reflection over impulse, and of wisdom over weakness. She quietly followed the dirty little maid who opened for her the front-parlour door and permitted her eye to take a catalogue of all it contained, without suffering her tongue to utter a syllable of commentary thereon.

  Not so Miss Patty. The contrast between this dwelling and that she had left at Brighton was “too much for her strength,” and she exclaimed, in no whispered accents —

  “Mercy upon us, mamma! You don’t mean that we should live here?”

  Fortunately, Mr. O’Donagough was at that moment wholly occupied in assisting the coachman to drag their trunks and boxes into the narrow passage, which they so completely filled that he was induced to offer the man an additional sixpence upon condition of his “giving him a hand” to get them up stairs to their sleeping apartments at once, a promptitude of arrangement which was rendered expedient from the total impossibility that any animal more bulky than the dirty little maid should get in or out of the house without climbing over them.

  The interval thus occupied gave Mrs. O’Donagough an opportunity of bestowing a few words of very excellent advice upon her daughter.

  “My dear Patty,” said she, “there is no doubt in the world that this is the very horridest den that ever man brought a wife and daughter to. And I, too, with such relations as I have! But you see how I bear it; and take my word for it, there is no good in contradicting him just at this time; I am quite sure he has got something or other working in his head that makes it convenient. I don’t mean to say but what if he would trust the whole management of everything to me, I might have contrived to do all he wants done, and kept something like comfort about us besides; but men will be men, Patty, all the world over, worse luck!”

  To all this Patty made no other reply than a grunt.

  The evening passed, as such evenings generally do. A family group placed in lodgings of which females greatly disapprove, but which, being chosen by the male, must be endured, seldom manifest any striking symptoms of hilarity.

  Fortunately, however, Patty was very sleepy; and fortunately too, perhaps, Mrs. O’Donagough remembered that she had more than one box to open before all the nightcaps could be found; so it did not last long, and before ten o’clock the eyes of the whole party were closed in sleep, as sound as the circumstances of their location were likely to permit.

  Poor Patty’s boasted beauty did not show to advantage the next morning, and, to do Mr. Allen O’Donagough justice, it must be confessed that he looked at her with some concern. But as his wife had very correctly observed, he had something working in his head which rendered their remaining in obscurity for a month or two exceedingly convenient; and, therefore, being a man of considerable firmness of purpose, he had not the slightest intention of altering his plans, though he perceived that one of the bright eyes he so much admired was almost hid by the swelling which distressed her cheek, and the other as dull, dim, and heavy as if the fight which usually blazed within it had been suddenly put out.

  But, notwithstanding the steadiness with which he retained his resolution of keeping the ladies of his family in this perfect retirement, he yet felt good-humouredly disposed to support the young lady’s spirits under it if he could, and therefore, while her mother was engaged in the rooms above, he drew a chair towards the recess beside the fire-place, where, in a slippery, tall, horsehair arm-chair, poor Patty sat ensconced, and thus addressed her: —

  “You don’t like this so well as our gay lodgings at Brighton, do you, darling?”

  “What d’ye ask that for, papa?” replied the young lady; “I should think you might guess, without my telling you.”

  “And so I can, Patty. But you can’t guess, I’ll bet a guinea you can’t, what’s going to happen to you next.”

  The telling such a young lady as Patty that “something is going to happen to her,” almost invariably suggests the idea that she is about to be married; and so it was in the present case. The swelling on her cheek did not — for, alas! it could not — disappear in a moment, but all other obscurations of her beauty vanished, as she exclaimed, “Good gracious, papa! what can you mean?”

  “What have you got in your head now, Patty?” replied her father, laughing. “You don’t think I’m going to give you a husband, do you?”

  “How should I know?” returned the pouting Patty.

  “No, my darling, it is not that yet,” said he, assuming a more serious air; “I wouldn’t, for more than I’ll say, that my girl should be mated before she has got her best feathers on. You shall be something, and somebody, I can tell you, before I have done. But then you must let me manage matters my own way, my dear. I have had great misfortunes in my time, Patty, or I might have been as rich and as grand as Mr. Stephenson, and that was the reason why I went over to such a cheap and prosperous country as Australia. But things are going better with me now again, and if you’ll be a good girl, and wait patiently, without any expense, till the proper season for gaiety begins, you shall see what I will do for you; and it is not giving up much, either, for there is not a single soul in London now.”

  “My goodness, papa, how you do talk!” replied the indignant Patty, more affected by this last statement than by anything which had preceded it. “Why, ’twas a perfect crowd that we drove through last night; and if you would but take lodgings in some street where I could look out of the window and see the people, I should not care for anything, almost.”

  “You are too humble-minded by half, my darling,” replied Mr. O’Donagough, chucking her under the chin. “Yousban’t only look at the people, but all the people shall look at you, if you’ll let me have my way without grumbling. The people you saw last night, Patty, were nothing but a parcel of clerks and milliners’ girls, who have no longer anything to do in their shops, because all the fine folks are out of town.”

  “I don’t care what they were,” replied his daughter, with great animation; “I am sure they were as handsome and elegant-looking as possible; and at any rate it must he better to see them than that nasty old dustman there, with his horrid bell.”

  “Patty!” said her father, gravely, “you are not half so quick and clever as I fancied you were. I thought I had made you understand how being careful and saving at one time, could enable one to be grand and gay at another.

  But you talk now like a mere child, and if you go on so I must treat you as such. I suppose you really are not old enough yet to comprehend the advantage of this sort of management.”

  “Yes, but I am, though,” replied Patty, tartly; “and I’ll be hound for it, if you would tell me, just once for all, what you will give us to spe
nd in a year, I’d manage to show off with it quite as well as you, and never set us down in such a nasty, dark, dull place as this, neither.”

  “Just once for all, Patty, won’t do for me. There is no need to enter with you into any long explanation concerning my affairs. Girls can’t possibly understand the subject, nor women either, for that matter, because they are never brought up to it. So I hope neither your mother nor you will torment me with any questions, but be contented with what you can get, and thankful that you belong to a man who never leaves a stone unturned if he thinks he can find money under it.”

  “But I suppose I may walkout, sir?” said the little-pleased Patty, almost blubbering.

  “Yes, you may walk, but I should very strongly recommend you both not to show yourselves now, pranked out just as I hope you will appear when I am receiving lords and baronets at my house — you will do yourselves a monstrous deal of harm by it, I can tell you. But I believe it is easier to stop the wind from blowing, than a woman’s ribbons from flapping.”

  At this moment Mrs. O’Donagough entered the room, and instantly perceiving from the countenance of the young lady that something was wrong, she ventured to say in an accent which did not manifest any decided determination to take part with either, “What’s the matter now?”

  “I have only been giving Miss Patty a hint or two as to the patient endurance of a cheap lodging, till I see right and fit to put her into a dear one,” said Mr. O’Donagough.

  “You had better leave her to me, Donny,” replied his lady; “whatever I tell her is right, that she will do.”

  “That’s more than I’ll promise, unless I happen to like it,” said Patty, recovering her vivacity, and giving so saucy a wink with the eyelid still under her command, as to throw her father into an ecstasy of laughter.