Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  “Oh, yes, Matilda — he never missed a day. Papa and he are thicker friends than ever. You’ll be sure to see him at our house — that is, you know, when we have got one in town, of our own.”

  “What a delicious idea! It positively takes my breath away. But tell me, dearest, for pity’s sake, tell me, did he ever speak of me?”

  “Lots. He asked more questions, I promise you, than we could answer, about your family and fortune, and whether you had any mother, father, uncles, aunts, brothers, and the Lord knows what. It certainly does look rather particular. But I say, Matilda, is this great large bed all for you? Because if it is, you might give me half of it, you know, some day when papa and mamma were gone down to — what’s the name of the place?”

  “I wish to goodness it was, dearest! But, unfortunately, it is the only bed-room we have. We just take what is called in London the drawing-room floor, and no more,” replied her friend.

  “So then I suppose that’s no go,” observed the disappointed Patty, rather gloomily. “However, I have got hundreds of things to say to you, and somehow or other we must contrive to be together. Oh, Matilda! we have got such a man in our house! The house, I mean, where papa has taken the rooms for us to sleep, you know. Such a man, Matilda, as I never saw in all my born days. Not that he is one quarter as beautiful as my dear Jack; for, in the first place, he is as yellow as a guinea, and his face is almost entirely covered with coal-black hair. But then he has such a beautiful nose, and such a pair of eyes! If I can’t show him to you, I shall die.”

  “Alas, dearest Patty! there is but one I care for now. Talk to me of my poor Foxcroft, if you love me! Tell me how he looks?”

  “Looks, my dear? Why he looks much as usual, I believe. Don’t be angry, Matilda; but I can’t, for the life of me, think how you came to fall in love with such a red nose as he has got, and ever so much gray in his hair besides.”

  Miss Matilda Perkins coloured violently, and, for one moment, there was danger that the wounded spirit might burst forth, and utter words which would have smothered and destroyed the friendship which united them — for ever! But better, calmer, wiser, thoughts succeeded, and ere Patty could be quite sure that her dear Matilda was in a passion, that tender-hearted creature had so far conquered her emotion, as to produce a little nervous titter, and reply, “What is one man’s meat, you know, my dear, is another man’s poison. It would be very dreadful, Patty, if we all thought alike about people. Good gracious! what would have become of me if all men saw with young Mr. Compton Hubert’s eyes, for instance? In that ease, poor dear Foxcroft’s eyes would never have been turned my way; and yet you must allow, my darling girl, that he seemed to admire me most?” There was upon the very little table which stood in the window of the Miss Perkinses’ bed-room a very little looking-glass, and upon this Patty silently turned a sidelong glance before she answered her friend’s appeal, and then, with all the good-humour which a broad grin could convey, she replied, “Oh! to be sure, Matilda. How could he help it?”

  But ere this was uttered, the rapid action of thought had restored to Matilda the entire possession of her senses. She

  — found her fair soul,

  And so to find, of necessity rendered it impossible to quarrel with her friend.

  “Ah! you beautiful wicked little creature,” she said, playfully laying a forefinger on each of Patty’s rosy cheeks; “you know well enough that as for beauty, there is not one girl in ten thousand that can be compared to you; but the goodness of Providence is too great, Patty, to let all men fix their hearts on one, let her be ever so beautiful, and that is the reason why, as they say, every Jack can find his Gill. Such as you, Patty, to be sure, may pick and choose; but a poor good sort of a warmhearted girl like me, ought to, and always does, receive gratefully the love of a generous and affectionate man, even if he does happen to have a large nose, and a few gray hairs into the bargain. But don’t let us talk any more of me. Tell me, darling, all that has happened to you since we parted. Did you go on with the three walks every day upon the pier?”

  “Good gracious! no, Matilda. How could I, with nobody on earth to walk with? That’s the plague of it now, you see. Papa talks of London being empty — but lor-a-mercy! I only wish that I could get acquainted with just one out of every twenty of the well-dressed, elegant-looking people I meet; I could get up a ball in no time. Will you believe it, Matilda, I have never danced a step, so fond as I am of it, since I came to England? and I did think when we got to London, I should get a dance now and then. But one might just as well be in the woods for anything I see.”

  “It is a dreadful dull season, my dear, just now,” replied her friend; “but when you get into your fine new house in London, Patty, you will have dancing enough, I’ll engage for it. Do you waltz, dearest?”

  “No, I never learned — but mamma says I shall,” replied Patty.

  “I dote upon waltzing!” resumed the animated Matilda. “I would not confess as much to all the world, Patty; but I have been taking lessons since — since I was grown up, and I should so delight in teaching you!”

  “Oh! I am to have a man-master, mamma says; but I should like well enough to practise the steps with you first. How hard it is that we cannot be together!” observed Patty.

  “And what walks we could have together!” responded her friend. “Have you been to hear the band play at the Horse Guards yet, my dear?”

  “My goodness, no! I have heard nothing, and seen nothing, either, except my beautiful black and yellow man in the drawing-room,” said Patty, mournfully.

  “How we could enjoy ourselves, to be sure!” resumed Matilda. “There are a hundred and fifty things that we could do and see together. I wonder if Louisa—” she added, musingly; but there she stopped, and Patty stood anxiously watching her lips, to catch what might pass them next; for she guessed in a moment that her friend was revolving the possibility of turning her elder sister out of bed to make room for her.

  “Dearest Matilda! tell me what you are thinking of?” burst from her at last — for Matilda still pondered silently on the difficulties of the case.

  “Come back into the drawing-room, Patty,” she said at length, in a voice that betokened doubt and agitation, “and let me bring Louisa in here, to speak to her for one minute;” and as she spoke, she made her way round the bed-post, Patty following in silence.

  “There is somebody wants to speak to you, Louisa; will you step out for a moment?” said the younger to the elder sister: and though she meant to speak in a tone of great indifference and composure, there was something in her manner which made Miss Louisa instantly jump up, though Mrs. O’Donagough was in the midst of a most interesting description of the splendour of the Peters’ family, and exclaim as she left the room, “Goodness, Matilda! what is the matter?”

  “Matter, my dear! How foolish you are! There is nothing at all the matter; only I wanted to ask you, Louisa, if you thought it possible that you could “sleep for a night or two on the little sofa in the drawing-room. This dear girl is so longing to come to us! and! I know the connection to be so immensely important to us both; but, of course, particularly to me, Louisa, because of their great intimacy with poor dear Foxcroft. Do you think you could manage it? Patty says she is certain that he will be continually with them, for he is going to be quartered close to London. Oh, Louisa, think what I must feel! Tell me, do you think it possible?”

  “The sofa is so very small,” said the gentle Louisa, piteously, “that I certainly don’t think I could lie down upon it in any way whatever; but I’m sure I would not stand in your way for the world about Captain Foxcroft; only you know he is not in town yet, and I am so very apt to catch cold if I don’t he warm and comfortable.”

  “You don’t understand my object,” returned the vexed Matilda. “I know he is not in town yet, and may not be for months to come: but it is cultivating the intimacy with the O’Donagoughs that ought to be our great object now, and I see as plain as possible that for some reason or othe
r it would be convenient for Patty to be left here for a day or two. Think, Louisa, what it will be when they have a house in town for them to feel that they have been under an obligation to us!”

  “I would sooner put them under an obligation in any other way rather than have no bed to lie on,” replied poor Louisa, with a sort of prophetic shiver.

  “Very well, then, that matter’s settled, and I dare say I shall never set my eyes on Foxcroft again!” cried Matilda, with strong emotion.

  “Go back to them, Louisa, and say that I am not quite well. I cannot bear to meet the disappointed looks of poor Patty.”

  “Oh, dear! oh, dear! what a sad business it always is about a bed to be sure! I wish with all my heart that my poor legs were not so long, and then I should not mind it,” returned Louisa, with a melancholy aspect. “You are a good bit shorter than me, Matilda,” she added, with sudden animation, “and as your heart is so much in it, perhaps you would not mind sleeping upon the little sofa yourself.”

  “Not the least in the world, Louisa. I am sure I would do that, or anything else, to please such Mends as the O’Donagoughs; but to tell you the truth, I did not think that Patty would like to sleep with you so well as with me. You know you have never been on the same sort of footing with her, and I thought she would like to have all her little gossip out with me, before we get up of a morning.”

  “That’s very likely, sister; but I don’t think it is quite fair to lay such store upon it. Beggars can’t always be choosers, you know,” said Louisa, with a little approach to asperity.

  “Beggars! beggars! Louisa!” ejaculated the greatly-shocked Matilda, in a sort of whispered scream, for she trembled at the idea of such a phrase being overheard by the aristocratic and high-minded Mrs. O’Donagough. “How can you use such frightful, such ungrateful language?”

  “Well, my dear, say no more about it; ask your young Mend to come, and we will manage with her as well as we can. Perhaps you can let me have the mattress out, Matilda, and one of the blankets, and then I could sleep very well, I dare say, on the drawing-room carpet. I am sure I would not stand in your way for the world, my dear, especially if you think it would make any difference about Captain Foxcroft.”

  This was said with the revulsion of feeling which good-natured people often show, when thinking that they have been rather cross, and it was received by the younger sister with a rapture of gratitude.

  “That is just like yourself, Louisa! You are a perfect angel in temper, and I am sure you might have your choice among captains and majors too, if the men did but know their own interest. But if I do succeed this time, and I feel as if something whispered me that I should, if I do become Mrs. Foxcroft, you will have a brother who will be ready to repay all your kindness, and if I did not know that, I am sure I would never think of him.”

  The sisters then returned with all speed to the drawing-room, where Mrs. O’Donagough and Patty had been employed in looking out of the window and in muttering to each other their hopes and their fears concerning the result of the consultation; Patty having communicated her convictions respecting its subject to her mamma, concluding with a remark, that, if she were asked, she should certainly stay, whether her papa liked it or not.

  “He did not say a word when you mentioned it, I marked that,” said she; “but I’ll make him say yes, if he’s asked, or I’ll know the reason why.”

  “My dearest Mrs. O’Donagough!” said Matilda, passing her sister at the door of the room and approaching the majestic lady she addressed with clasped hands and beseeching eyes, “My dearest Mrs. O’Donagough! I have the very greatest favour in the world to beg of you, and if you will but grant it, I shall be grateful to you for ever and for ever!”

  “And what may that be, Miss Matilda?” said Miss. O’Donagough, with a condescending and very gracious smile.

  “I hope you will not think me too bold and presuming,” replied the fair spinster; “but my sister and I should be so delighted if you would let Miss O’Donagough pass a few days with us. Will you grant us this great pleasure, my dear ma’am? We will take the best possible care of her, you may depend upon it.”

  “You are very kind, I am sure,” replied Mrs. O’Donagough, with a little laugh that seemed to say that the proposal was very droll and very unexpected. “What do you say to it, Patty?”

  “Oh, mamma, I should like it of all things!” replied the young lady, hanging herself in her usual affectionate manner on the arm of her friend. “There is nobody in the world that I love so well as Matilda Perkins, and I shall dote upon staying with her.” —

  “Well, then, I suppose we must go home and ask papa,” rejoined her mother.

  “What, my dear madam, go home to Richmond, and take dear Patty too, before we can get your answer! Oh, dear me, that will make it so long!”

  “No, no, my dear Matilda, I do not mean that at all,” replied Mrs. O’Donagough, laughing. “I have got such a trick of calling every place home, which I am going hack to, if it is only for five minutes. But I’ll tell you, my dear, how you may be very useful and get an answer about Patty, and, perhaps, take possession of her, all under one. The truth is, that Mr. O’Donagough brought us to your door, but was obliged to run away directly on account of having Lord — Lord — mercy on me! — I forget the name. But he had Lord somebody or other to meet. It is certain that he gave me the most exact directions possible how to find the way back to the rooms, where we put up when we come from Richmond; but if you’ll believe me, I don’t remember a single word of it. So I shall be monstrously glad, Matilda, if you will walk back with us.”

  “To be sure I will, with the very greatest pleasure,” replied the delighted Matilda.

  “And then, you know, if Donny is at home, we can ask for Patty’s leave of absence, and if it is granted, why she may go back with you at once. I will take care to send her things after her.”

  This plan seemed to give universal satisfaction; for Miss Louisa, though invited to join the walking party, declined it, from feeling that she should thereby lose an excellent opportunity for making all domestic preparations; and Mrs. O’Donagough, her daughter, and her daughter’s friend, set off for the incongruous purlieus of majestic Regent-street together.

  In happy conformity to their wishes, they found that Mr. O’Donagough had just entered the house. No time was lost in making their petition, no time was lost in granting it; and within a minute afterwards, Patty was dragging her friend up the narrow stairs, in order, as she said, that she might help her to put up the things that were to be sent after her. But after mounting about a dozen stairs, the young lady paused, and whispered in her friend’s ear, “Now, Matilda, if my blackbird is in his cage, I will show you what I can do by a song. Cherry ripe, cherry ripe, ripe, ripe cherry,” carolled Patty in very audible notes as she slowly mounted the last stairs leading to the drawing-room; and, as she expected, the door opened, and the apparition of the black head and yellow face was again visible at it. Patty started, ceased her song, and dropped the parasol she held in her hand.

  “Permettez moi,” said the Spaniard, darting forward, and speaking in the universal jargon by which all nations seem to fancy they can be best understood, “charmante donzella! per mettez moi;” and picking up the parasol, he presented it to her with a fascinating bow, at the same time permitting his great-eyes to “look their fill,” both at herself and her friend.

  “Thank you, sir. You are very polite,” said Patty, colouring; and having received her parasol with more than one smiling bow, she galloped up stairs, followed by her friend.

  “Well, Matilda?” said she, closing the door as soon as they bad entered her room.

  “Oh, Patty! he is yellow to be sure. You don’t mean to say that he is as well-looking as Foxcroft?” was the unsatisfactory reply to this eager appeal.

  “Well, then, you are in love,” said the disappointed Patty; “but at any rate, Matilda, you can tell me if you think he is a real gentleman?”

  “Why, my dear girl, if
I was you, I would not make any further acquaintance with him, unknown to your papa and mamma. I have lived in London so long, that I am rather used to see those kind of people, and I don’t believe they are always gentlemen of rank and fortune,” replied the discreet Matilda.

  “Oh! as to that, I have made no acquaintance with him at all, as yet, please to observe — and there’s no likelihood I should, if I am going to stay with you. But as to handsomeness, he’s beautiful enough for a king, and that I’ll stand to, say what you will. But come along — that’s all the finery I shall want, and mamma can put out the other things. I long for you and I to be walking by ourselves, and then we can talk and look about as much as we like.”

  “Won’t you rest yourselves before you set out again?” said Mr. O’Donagough, upon their re-entering the parlour to say adieu.

  “Oh no, thank ye, papa. We are not the least tired; are we, Matilda?” replied Patty.

  “No, not the least,” added her acquiescent friend; and after a few words between the mother and daughter respecting the packet of clothes which was to follow, and a proper proportion of kissing and hand-shaking, the young ladies set off on their walk back to Brompton.

  “Are you quite sure you are not tired, Patty?” inquired Matilda, as soon as they got into Regent-street.

  “Not a bit,” replied Patty, sturdily.

  “Then let us cross Piccadilly, and walk down St. James’s street,” said her friend. “I never come to this part of the town, if I can help it, without just taking a peep at that dear St. James’s Park. I really think it is the most beautiful place upon earth.”

  The well-assorted friends had proceeded about halfway down St. James’s-street, when their four eyes were pleasantly struck by the appearance of two young guardsmen in full regimentals, who issued from the coffee-house at the bottom of the street, and walked up the pavement towards them. A silent pressure of the arm, given and returned between the two ladies, did all, and perhaps more than all that was necessary for directing each other’s attention to the interesting spectacle; and they walked on together with a step, perhaps rather more dignified and measured than usual, but with great decorum, and without exchanging a word.