Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  “Mercy on me! It can’t be, can it? It is not possible, to be sure!” were the sentences he uttered rapidly, but with every appearance of satisfaction, in place of his late displeasure. As soon as the last words were spoken, Patty, who watched him narrowly, placed herself in an attitude similar to that of her mother, upon his other arm, and taking upon herself to answer his wondering inquiries, said, “Yes, but it is possible, papa; and what is more, it is true. It is our own dear Jack, and no other, you may take my word for it.”

  “And pray, Miss Patty, how did you find him out?” demanded her father, turning his eyes abruptly from the face of his old acquaintance to that of his daughter, with a look which, though no longer so fierce as before, seemed to express some curiosity, to say the least of it, for a satisfactory explanation. But the forbidden discovery being made, and that without any agency of hers, Miss Patty’s difficulties were quite at an end, and without affecting any further mystery, she replied, “How did I find him out? Why, in the street to be sure; and never was there such a piece of luck! Wasn’t it lucky, Jack? Wasn’t you delighted to see me?”

  It may be remembered that Mrs. O’Donagough herself had never formed any great intimacy with the young shipmate who now stood before her in a guise so wholly different from any in which she had hitherto seen him, yet so precisely accordant to the imaginings which her shrewd suspicions had suggested; her feelings, therefore, upon this unexpected rencounter, were simply those of triumphant sagacity: and it was with a chuckling merriment, very little agreeable to the object of it, that she continued to gaze upon him from top to toe. Mr. O’Donagough was perhaps even better pleased still; for not only had the discovery removed some exceedingly disagreeable suspicions from his mind, in which his fair daughter was concerned, but, with the keenness of a professional eye, he discerned at a glance, that whatever might have been the cause of the masquerading carried on amongst the crew and passengers of the Atalanta, the young man was decidedly of that class of society among which he particularly desired to increase his acquaintance, and this unexpected accident seemed to offer a very excellent opportunity for doing so. Thus the only person in the group who felt not perfectly and pleasantly at ease, was poor Jack himself, and he would gladly have given a joint of his little finger to escape answering Patty’s affectionate query, and two, perhaps, might the sacrifice have placed him clear of the adventure altogether.

  “Wasn’t it lucky, Jack?” reiterated Patty, “and ain’t we famously caught out with our locks of hair exchanged?” And the young lady held up to view the shining trophy she had won, while her eyes directed those of her observant papa and mamma to the now considerably-deranged curl which the unfortunate youth still held between his fingers. Luckily for him the necessity of immediately replying to Patty’s tough query was obviated by Mr. O’Donagough’s saying, as if in consequence of the intelligence conveyed by the tell-tale locks of hair, “You will not be surprised, sir, if I now think it right to request you will inform me what your real name may fee?”

  “Jack is perfectly dumfoundered, poor, dear fellow!” exclaimed Patty, laughing; “but I can tell you his name, papa, without plaguing him to speak, if he had rather let it alone. His name is Steady, Mr. John Steady, and that answers to the fork, don’t it, mamma?”

  “Mr. O’Donagough!” said the young man, appearing suddenly to rouse himself with the energy of a newly-formed resolution, “will you give me leave to speak with you alone for five minutes?”

  “Gracious goodness! Can it he about marrying her?” thought Mrs. O’Donagough.

  “He is going to pop the question as sure as my name’s Patty!” inwardly murmured he? daughter, unconsciously clapping her hands in the ecstasy of her heart. Mr. O’Donagough himself, however, felt convinced in a moment, from the tone of voice in which the request was made, that the object of it was not his daughter; yet, nevertheless, he had enough of interest and curiosity in the business to answer readily, “I shall be very happy to hear, sir, whatever you may he pleased to communicate to me;” which assurance was given in Mr. O’Donagough’s most respectful and gentlemanlike manner.

  “May I attend you to another room, sir?” said the young man.

  “Is there any room here, Patty, into which I can show this gentleman?” inquired her father.

  “No, that there isn’t papa, except the Perkinses’ bedroom, and that’s all in a litter, I’ll be bound.”

  “Then we will take a turn in the park, Mr. O’Donagough, if not disagreeable to you,” said the young man, taking up his hat, and deliberately laying down poor Patty’s ringlet in its place.

  Mr. O’Donagough replied only by a bow, and they left the room together.

  As the subject matter of the conversation between Patty and her mother may be easily guessed, it is unnecessary to repeat it, and we will therefore follow the two gentlemen into Hyde Park, where, as by mutual consent, they chose a path the least liable to interruption, when the following conversation took place: —

  “It can hardly be necessary for me to inform you, Mr. O’Donagough,” began the young man, “that folly and frolic must be pleaded in excuse for my having made your acquaintance under false colours.”

  “I am very glad to hear, my dear sir, that there was no worse cause for it,” said the elder gentleman.

  “SIR?” — in very haughty accents, was the rejoinder of the younger one.

  “I feared it possible,” resumed Mr. O’Donagough, in his best manner, “that some’ unfortunate affair of honour might have rendered a distant expedition necessary, or at least prudent.”

  “No, sir. Thank heaven I have nothing so irreparable on my conscience. The history is briefly this: — I was left without father, mother, or any near relative, except a sister still younger than myself, with a large fortune, and a personal guardian, for whom I had conceived a very unjust, but very strong dislike. For a few years I pursued my studies at Eton, with tolerable propriety I believe; but at the end of that time, my guardian wished me to go to college, while I insisted upon immediately entering the Guards, which produced a quarrel, all the faultiness, and all the violence of which belonged wholly to myself. I am sorry to confess, that it was in the mere wantonness of intentionally giving this excellent friend as much pain and anxiety as I could well devise, that I set off for Australia without communicating to him the slightest intimation of my intending to leave England at all; and aware that if I went under my own name, he would be likely to get the intelligence from the newspapers, I had the folly to go out in one ship in the character of a mechanic about to seek my fortune in a new world, and return in another, under the semblance, as you know, of a common sailor belonging to the crew. In the latter case, however, I confided a portion of the truth to the captain and crow — partly because I felt it would be impossible to keep up my assumed character with them, on account of my nautical ignorance, and partly, I own, for the sake of arranging the minor particulars of my passage on a more agreeable footing than I had thought it necessary to do in going out. My name, however, it was not necessary to disclose, and I believe I left the ship at Sheerness, without anything more being known of me than that I was a lad with a good deal of money, and a roving sort of disposition, which had led me to take a trip that I did not wish to have known. And this, in fact, was the exact truth. I had one confidant, and one only, to this thoughtless frolic; my sister knew where I was gone, and from her I received one letter, directed to me according to my instructions, under a feigned name, to the care of a merchant at Sydney. This letter produced a total revolution in all my feelings respecting my guardian. It described his sufferings on my account, as so much more blended with affection than I had ever believed possible, that my heart was softened, and my spirit sobered at once. But it had never occurred to him that I could have committed any greater folly than the merely keeping myself concealed near London; and as my sister, faithful to the promise I had extorted from her, never betrayed her knowledge of my having quitted England, his regret and his sufferings were wholl
y occasioned by the idea that he had wounded a too sensitive temper by the assumption of more severe authority than he ought to have shown. ‘Come back instantly,’ wrote my sister, ‘and never let him know the whole extent of your folly.’ It was from a wish to follow strictly this advice, that I so cautiously concealed my name and station; and as he has never since my return asked me a single question respecting my absence, I have never yet recurred to the subject. We are, I am happy to say, on the best possible terms; and though I have been for some months of age, I would have been perfectly willing to atone for past rebellion, by entering myself at Oxford. But of this he would not hear; and convinced, as he kindly says, that my former opposition proceeded from a genuine and decided preference for the profession I was so eager to enter, he himself arranged everything respecting my commission; and I am now, with much better luck than I deserve, in precisely the position I desired, without the mortification of having my boyish escapade bruited from one end of the country to the other. You will perceive, therefore, Mr. O’Donagough, that I have very strong reasons for not wishing to have our meeting on board the Atalanta made known; and I shall hold myself greatly indebted to your courtesy, if you will never, under any circumstances, allude to it, and shall be grateful, also, if you will use your influence with the ladies of your family to the same effect.”

  “Depend upon it, my young friend,” replied Mr. O’Donagough, in an accent of much kindness, “depend upon it, your secret is perfectly safe with me; nor do I fear the discretion of either my wife or daughter. Patty is as good a girl as ever lived, and with all her high spirits, is as gentle and obedient as a lamb to every wish that either her mother or I seriously express to her — and for you, dear Jack! — But this familiar appellation must be used no longer. May I ask, sir, if your name be really Steady?”

  “No, sir, it is not,” replied the young man, colouring.

  Mr. O’Donagough said no more, and the silence which ensued was rather awkward. It was the young incognito who broke it, by saying, with a good-humoured smile, “I tax your kindness severely perhaps, Mr. O’Donagough, both by my confidence, and by my want of it. I am, I believe, absurdly anxious about this concealment, but the fact is, some of the friends whose good opinion I most highly value, fancy that the interval of my absence has left some traces of improvement with me; and my sister assures me that the general belief is, that I have passed my time in profitable reading, whereas, in truth, I have done nothing, save finding a little leisure to reflect. And though I would not, were I questioned, falsify a single passage in my history, I would rather, at least for the present, that things remained as they are. Therefore, Mr. O’Donagough, if you will have the kindness not to urge the disclosure of my name, I shall really feel it as a great obligation.”

  “Is it your wish, then, that we should still call you Mr. Steady?” demanded Mr. O’Donagough, gravely.

  This was a trying question; for had the young man answered it sincerely, he could only have said that he trusted no circumstances were likely to occur in which there would be any necessity for his being addressed by him or his family at all. But to utter this, was of course impossible; and after a moment’s hesitation, he replied, “Yes, sir.”

  Another silence followed, which, like the former one, was at length broken by “Jack.”

  “I believe, Mr. O’Donagough, that we may now turn back again,” said he; “and I beg you to accept my thanks for your obliging attention to my foolish story.”

  Mr. O’Donagough followed the movement made by his companion, and turned about to retrace his steps to Brompton; but he was not fully satisfied with the manner in which the conference appeared likely to conclude, and ere he had taken many steps, he said, “Will you, before we part, permit me to make one observation, my dear sir?”

  The young man bowed his willingness to hear it.

  “It is never wise,” resumed Mr. O’Donagough, “believe me, sir, it is never wise to repose a half-confidence in any man. I will not charge myself with any greater infirmity of curiosity than I believe affects all the rest of us; but neither will I attempt to deny that I do feel, and shall feel a desire, perfectly idle, as I am ready to confess, to learn your real name. You must be aware that the generality of men might feel this without confessing it; but I have still a very fresh remembrance of the amiable manner in which your gay spirits beguiled the tedium of our long voyage, and I cannot resist the friendly feeling which prompts me to advise your trusting me with a name, which I will tell you frankly, cannot be long hidden from me. You will, perhaps, as the season advances, be likely to meet me more frequently in London society than you may expect. Though I have no secrets to keep me silent, I am not much given to talk of my own family and connections, or you would probably know by this time, that I am highly connected, as well as my wife, who you may perhaps have heard mention her family.”

  “No, sir, never,” replied the young man, drily, and with a feeling, not, perhaps, very carefully concealed, that he did not feel any great interest on the subject.

  “I think you told me you were in the army?” said Mr. O’Donagough.

  “I did, sir,” replied the ci-devant Jack, with some haughtiness; “but I did not imagine the information could give you any right to cross-question me.”

  “Believe me, I have no such intention; I was about to convey information, not to seek it; and if you will judge me fairly, you must, I think, perceive that my only possible motive for pursuing this conversation, is to prevent your fancying yourself more secure from all chance of my discovering what you wish to conceal than you really are. I alluded to your profession, sir, because I conceive that it renders it almost certain you must know the name of General Hubert.”

  “Know the name of General Hubert?” repeated the young man, suddenly standing still, and looking earnestly in the face of his companion, “most assuredly I know his name. May I inquire your reason for asking the question?”

  “The general’s lady is my wife’s niece,” quietly replied Mr. O’Donagough.

  The effect of this announcement, which was made at random, without the slightest idea that the general’s name was better known to his companion than that of any other officer of equal rank, was sufficiently strong to convince the speaker that his young listener was, at least, in some degree in his power. The youth changed colour, began to speak, then suddenly checked himself, and, at length, ejaculated more as if thinking aloud than with the purpose of making any communication, “This is, indeed, a most unexpected coincidence!”

  “Are you acquainted with the general?” said Mr. O’Donagough, without appearing to notice his agitation.

  “Very well — very much — I am very much acquainted with him,” stammered the young man in reply, and then added rapidly, and as if from the impulse of a sudden determination, “It must, indeed, be in vain for me to attempt any further concealment from you, Mr. O’Donagough. May I hope that in giving you my full confidence, I am giving it to a friend who will kindly seek to assist rather than to thwart me?”

  With an air of candour and sincere good-will that was really touching, Mr. O’Donagough stood still for a moment, and extending both his hands received that of his companion between them.

  “Be very sure of it, my dear young friend!” said he, cordially shaking and pressing the hand he held. “Be very sure of it — I can have no motive on earth for betraying a confidence that does me both honour and pleasure. Tell me your real name, ‘dear Jack,’ and it shall be henceforth numbered among those of the friends whom I most desire to serve.”

  “I am Sir Henry Seymour,” said the young man, and so saying, he withdrew his hand as if by a movement that was involuntary, yet at the same moment declared himself much obliged, and quite confident that Mr. O’Donagough would faithfully keep the promise he had given him.

  “Now, then, let us return to the ladies, my dear Sir Henry,” said the well-pleased Mr. Allen O’Donagough.

  “You are very good, but I must beg you to excuse me,” replied his comp
anion; “I have, in fact, business which obliges me to visit the Horse-guards immediately. Pray make my compliments to the ladies. Good morning!”

  “But for God’s sake don’t go, my dear Sir Henry, till you tell me where I can find you again! Besides, I have fifty things to say to you. I will walk a little way towards the Horse-guards with you. I want you to tell me beyond all things, how such a gay young fellow as you are, ever came to be so very much acquainted with my stiff nephew-in-law General Hubert?” —

  “Sir Edward Stephenson was my guardian,” replied Sir Henry Seymour, with ill-concealed reluctance.

  “Ay, ay, that explains it — Lady Stephenson is Hubert’s sister, I don’t know Sir Edward as yet; but what a capital good fellow his brother Frederic is! We have just parted from him at Brighton. Did you ever visit him there, Sir Henry? The fine fellow has found out the only good house in the place, and famous feeds he gives there, I promise you. What a pretty little toy his wife is, isn’t she? So like a wax doll — but she is a nice little creature too, so friendly where she takes a fancy! Patty was a prodigious favourite, and though she is too young to go out much without her mother, I did not quite like to refuse, because it was such a near connection, and I saw so plainly that she meant to he kind and hoped to be an advantage to our young exotic. But to tell you the truth, my dear fellow, she was a little too good-natured to our dear Agnes’s second son Compton, who, entre nous be it spoken, was much sweeter upon his cousin Patty than I quite approved. I don’t like love-making between such very near relations; and though it was as clear as light that my girl had no particular fancy for him — in fact, she always seemed to be thinking of something else, God knows what — though it was most perfectly clear that Patty did not very much like it, the good-natured Nora would constantly ask him every evening that we were there, and that, in fact, was constantly. However, he is young enough to forget it, and we must trust to that.”