Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  But this good Mrs. O’Donagough’s manner used to be — however, there is no occasion to say anything more about that now; I am very thankful, Nora, very thankful, indeed, that it is quite changed. I really hope, my dear, from their dress and appearance altogether, that some considerable fortune has come to them. It must be on the husband’s side, for I am pretty sure there was no chance of such a thing on hers. Mrs. Elizabeth Compton certainly is a woman of good fortune — but I think I have understood — —”

  “Oh! yes, papa; Mrs. Elizabeth Compton’s fortune is disposed of elsewhere; none of the satins and laces come from her — I am really dying with curiosity to find out what it all means. By your leave, cher papa! I will ring the bell. I must positively make a few inquiries. Be so good as to send my page up stairs,” was the order given when a servant answered the bell.

  “Ah ça, Achille? Vous avez des yeux, mon enfant. Dites-moi un peu quelle sorte d’equipage était-il qui vient de partir?”

  “Superbe, Madame.”

  “Et les gens? les chevaux?”

  “Superbes, Madame; tout était superbe — parfaitement bien monté.”

  “C’est bon. Va-t-en.”

  “Now is not this most extraordinary, papa? Do you remember Mrs. O’Donagough’s style of trotting about Brighton? Oh! you must — for how often did she make you trot with her? And you hear what her present style is! Is it not mysterious?”

  “No, my dear; not if Mr. O’Donagough has got a fortune left him.”

  “That is true, certainly; and yet, in all cases of that kind, one is pretty sure to hear of the fortune first, and see the effect of it afterwards.”

  “That makes no great difference, Nora. They could not spend all this money if they had not got it; and I am certain nobody can feel more inclined to rejoice at their good fortune than I do.”

  “Did you observe what she said about Sir Henry Seymour, papa?”

  “Not very much, Nora; I was really selfish enough to be thinking of myself, and of the great comfort of her being more quiet in her manners,” replied the gentle Mr. Willoughby.

  “I shall visit her, papa, I am quite determined upon it.”

  “Do, my dear; it will be very good-natured of you.”

  “Perhaps not quite that,” said Mrs. Stephenson laughing; “nevertheless, my motive is not a bad one either — I cannot comprehend the thing at all — Seymour, of all men in the world! I must throw some light upon all this, papa, and I know not any mode of doing this, so effectual, as introducing my own radiant presence into the scene of action.”

  “If there be a mystery, Nora,” replied her father, “I certainly can name no better investigator than yourself; but I suspect you will find none. My good sister-in-law has by some means or other grown rich, and this, somehow or other, has rendered her less affectionate, or, at any rate, less demonstrative.

  “I do not think I should mind asking her to dinner now, if you and Agnes will arrange it all for me.”

  “Very well, papa; nous verrons. And now, good bye; I have a thousand things to think about and to do.”

  * * * * *

  So had Mrs. O’Donagough. On re-entering her carriage she seated herself with an energy of descent that severely tried the temper of the springs, and set the two Miss Perkinses swinging. “I have got that much out of her, at any rate, Patty, haven’t I, my dear?” said she, dismissing her extra chin, and recovering her voice.

  “About Miss Elizabeth’s going to court, mamma? Yes, I did want to get at that, and now we have it, safe and sure,” replied Patty, joyously. “I must say I shall enjoy going the same day that she does. She is such a quiz of a girl! and oh! so proud and stiff, Matilda! I am sure she would make you both sick if you could see her; she is ten times worse than she was at Brighton.”

  “The Lord forbid, Patty! for see her they shall, you may depend upon that. Upon my life, girls, she has no more colour than my pocket handkerchief, and though I won’t pretend to say that her features are bad, I give you my honour that she’s no more to be compared to Patty, than chalk to cheese. But here we are, girls — out with ye all! this is the court-dress maker’s, and now you shall see if I don’t make Donny’s shiners gallop: he told me to spare nothing in our court-dresses, and I don’t intend it. Dear Lady Susan! what should we do without her! I promised I would send her a plume exactly the same as my own — and that shall be one of the handsomest that ever was seen at St. James’s. She deserves it, dear kind soul! for if she had not offered to present us I should have had to ask some of my own nasty stiff-backed relations; and, after all, you know, there is not one of them that is the daughter of an earl. She shall have her feathers, dear old soul! she may depend upon it, and her table too, every night if she likes it, with her own stakes and her own party.”

  This grateful effusion was confidentially uttered in the ear of Miss Louisa Perkins (now promoted to the regular, but by no means sinecure place of Mrs. O’Donagough’s toady) as they walked together up the stairs which led to Madame Bonéton’s splendid show-rooms.

  “Oh! what a sight! did you ever!” exclaimed Patty, as she entered this fairy-land of woman’s wishes, and of woman’s dreams, embodied and tangible.

  “Dear me! how beautiful!” cried Miss Louisa.

  “Oh! goodness! how lovely!” sighed Miss Matilda.

  “Can you fancy any woman looking quite ugly in that angelic bonnet?” demanded Patty.

  “Let me see Madame Bonéton herself,” commanded Mrs. O’Donagough.

  These last words were not spoken in a tone to be neglected, not to mention that the elegant young lady who replied to them had seen the splendid equipage from which the speaker descended.

  “Madame will be here immediately,” said the elegant young lady. “She is at this moment engaged with the Duchess of Liddesdale respecting her only daughter, the beautiful Lady Isabella’s presentation dress. But she must have nearly finished, for they have been here a long time.”

  “Isn’t it lucky, Louisa?” whispered Mrs. O’Donagough; “now we shall be able to find out exactly the right thing. One beautiful only daughter going to be presented, especially as she seems to be of suitable rank, may safely serve as a pattern for another. Let us sit down here, Louisa, while we wait. Isn’t it all lovely?”

  “Lovely indeed!” responded Miss Louisa.

  “To be sure I do sometimes think,” said Mrs. O’Donagough with a fulness of satisfaction which for the moment banished all reserve, and made her almost think aloud, “I do sometimes think, Louisa, that great abilities, thorough real cleverness I mean, is a better fortune for a girl, that is supposing she is tolerably well-looking, than almost any money in the world. You know I open my heart to you about everything, and therefore I don’t mind telling you that my father and mother, notwithstanding their high birth, and great gentility, had no more right to expect that I should ever be in such a place as this, ordering court-dresses for myself and my daughter, than you have to be queen of England. Oh! dear! — how well I remember going shopping in our little town, where my father was the rector. It was a very fine living, and a magnificent parsonage-house; but I do so well remember my contrivances to get handsome ball-dresses for myself and my sister Sophy — ha! ha! ha! — I can’t contrive to make you exactly understand all about it, but to be sure I have managed, from that time to this, to get on monstrous well.”

  A movement in an inner room, and then the stately march of three ladies out of it, followed by Madame Bonéton, announced that the consultation was broken up; and in another minute, the elegant young lady having whispered something in the ear of the imperial-looking mistress of the establishment, Mrs. O’Donagough’s highest state of felicity began, by seeing that august personage approach her, and hearing the enticing words, “What may I have the honour of showing you, ma’am?”

  “I wish to see whatever you have of the very best and highest style, by way of court-dress. Presentation dresses — that is, I mean, for my daughter; of course I do not mean that I have never been pre
sented — that would be a good joke, Louisa, wouldn’t it? But nevertheless I wish that my own dress should be superb, and that of my daughter something nearly equal to it. By the way, what did the Duchess of Liddesdale order for Lady Isabella?”

  This was said in Mrs. O’Donagough’s best manner, and if overheard by her husband would unquestionably have won from him the cordial exclamation of “Well done, my Barnaby!” Its effect on Madame Bonéton was just what she intended.

  “You know her grace, madam?”

  “We meet at every party throughout the season, but I won’t tell you that we are great friends, which I dare say you saw as she passed. But the fact is, my daughter has stood in the way of Lady Isabella more than once, and the foolish duchess cannot forgive it. I don’t care a straw for that, however, it only piques me to keep up the rivalship. I often say that the duchess’s jealousy of my daughter will make the fortune of my dressmakers. What has been ordered? you must positively tell me, Madame Bonéton, what has been ordered to-day for Lady Isabella?”

  Madame Bonéton was almost as clever a woman as Mrs. Barnaby, and immediately gave such a description of the noble young lady’s dress as enabled her to dispose of various articles for which she was rather particularly anxious to obtain a sale, and the business ended by a dress being ordered for Miss Patty, and for her mamma likewise, both of which were ingeniously contrived in such a manner as to accommodate more embroidery, more flowers, more fringe, more tassels, more spangles, and more lace, than any two dresses ever carried before into a royal presence.

  It would be too difficult to describe justly the swelling joy, the broadly-smiling contentment, the swimming ecstasy of Mrs. O’Donagough, as she made her last congé to Madame Bonéton, for any wise pen to attempt it. She hardly felt the ground beneath her feet as she descended to her carriage, though had the ground beneath her feet been sentient, the unconsciousness could not have been reciprocal, for not only did the high consciousness of what she had been about dilate her majestic person to the eye, but it gave a firmness to her tread which might have rivalled the sublime march of an elephant.

  “Let this plume of feathers follow me to my carriage,” she said; “I mean it as a present to a friend, and will leave it as I go home; remember that every direction I have given be accurately followed. The slightest inaccuracy will be remarked; and as expense is no object, let every article be perfect, absolutely perfect in its kind.”

  The two Miss Perkinses, intimate as they were with Mrs. O’Donagough, had never seen her at anything like this degree of elevation before; there was a sort of sublime excitement in all her looks and words that almost made them tremble, and which, added to the orders they had heard her give, made them follow her down stairs, with feelings of veneration almost too profound to be pleasant. Even Patty herself was perhaps a little astonished, but she had too much inherited firmness of spirit to be overwhelmed by it.

  “Isn’t mamma a first-rate thorough-goer?” she said to her friend Matilda, while waiting for Mrs. O’Donagough’s not very easy introduction of herself into her carriage. “How she has wriggled papa out of his stingy ways, to be sure!”

  Between the dwelling of Mrs. Bonéton, which was in St. James’s-street, to that of Lady Susan Deerwell, which was situated in Green-street, Grosvenor-square, Mrs. O’Donagough never uttered a word; it is probable that her feelings were too big for utterance. When the servant’s inquiry for her ladyship was answered by the single word “Yes,” Mrs. O’Donagough broke this expressive silence by-earnestly ejaculating “Thank God!” and having, as usual on all visiting occasions, told the dear Perkinses to sit still and amuse themselves till she came back, she proceeded, followed by Patty and the plume, up the narrow staircase, to the dirty little drawing-room of her noble friend.

  Lady Susan was sitting, as was her wont, in an old-fashioned shabby-looking arm-chair, which, like all the rest of her furniture, had more of that sort of antiquity about it which results from long and constant use, than from the well-preserved, or well-imitated stateliness of the renaissance. Her ladyship’s cap was of exceedingly dirty blonde, and her ladyship’s gown of exceedingly long-worn satin. A cat, in better case than anything else in the apartment, was seated in a chair opposite to her, while on a perch close by it, all natural hostility between the parties appearing to be extinguished, screamed a magnificent cockatoo. The note of welcome uttered by this amiable creature rendered all other greetings for some time inaudible, but at length it betook itself to silently nodding its head, and then her ladyship was heard to say, “Never mind, never mind the bird. There, sit down, sit down both of you, but don’t disturb the cat. Take that chair, my girl, that one out there; I can’t have my cat disturbed.”

  “How are you, my dearest Lady Susan?” said Mrs. O’Donagough, in an accent of deferential affection; “is that abominable rheumatism that tormented you so last night, more quiet to-day?”

  “I don’t know, I am sure, anything about it just now, for I’ve been busy — I’ve been making out my card account for the last month. But I tell you what, Mrs. O’Donagough, the tea you gave me last night was most abominable — so weak, I mean. You must recollect, if you please, that if I come to your house to play cards, I do it out of pure kindness, of course, to give a good style to your rooms, you know — but then I must have tea that will keep me awake, remember. I positively will not play without it.”

  “To be sure not, my dearest Lady Susan! Good heaven! of course! I am so very much obliged to you for naming it! it’s so like you! such kindness! so very friendly! I am sure I can never thank you enough!”

  This series of exclamations acted much as her ladyship’s own hand did upon the back of her ladyship’s own oat, which, jealous it may be, of the near and passing approach of the visitor, was come to look after her own interest, and now sat in the venerable spinster’s lap. In short, Mrs. O’Donagough’s gentle touches so far rubbed down the temper of the old lady, that she said with rather unusual civility, “Well! and what do you come for now?”

  “Give me that box, Patty!” said Mrs. O’Donagough, without making any direct reply. “Here, my dearest Lady Susan, is the real object of my coming. May I flatter myself that these feathers suit your taste?”

  “They are well enough for feathers,” replied the noble, but very sour-looking maiden; “but it is quite nonsense, and out of the question, if you suppose I can stick them on by way of a head-dress to go to court. That may do all very well for a young girl, like your blowsy miss there, with a cart-load of curls on her head, but you know well enough it won’t do for me; I must have a cap to wear with them, if they are to be of any use.”

  “Of course, my dearest Lady Susan, I never dreamt of anything else; but as I observed to Patty, as we drove along to Madame Bonéton’s, it would not do at all for me to take the liberty of buying your ladyship a cap, till your ladyship had been kind enough to tell me what sort of one your ladyship would like.”

  “Why, for that matter, there’s no such great variety, Mrs. O’Donagough. The only question is between Brussels point and blonde, and I like the Brussels point best.”

  “And Brussels point it shall be, my dearest Lady Susan. And now about the day, you know. The next drawing-room is fixed, Madame Bonéton tells me, for the 29th — I hope that will suit your ladyship?”

  “Suit? humph! I can’t very well say it suits me Mrs. O’Donagough, for the plain truth is, I have got no suit at all.

  It’s years and years since I last went to court, and I thought you knew that I should never have dreamed of going now, with no earthly motive but just to present you and your daughter. I should never have dreamed of going, if you had not promised that I should have no trouble at all about it, and what’s more, I won’t neither. Really I have no notion of it, it is quite too bad.”

  “My dearest Lady Susan!” began the frightened Mrs. O’Donagough, “you have only to say exactly what you want and wish, and Madame Bonéton shall send it in without your having the least trouble in the world. Will yo
ur ladyship have the great kindness to give me a little list of everything you would like to have, and I will see to it, without giving your ladyship the least atom of trouble in the world”?

  “There is no need of a list, Mrs. O’Donagough,’’ replied the old lady, taking a long pinch of snuff; “I only want a proper dress to go to court in. The train must be black velvet, and the petticoat’ satin; I don’t care twopence about the colour. Only don’t forget the gloves and shoes, you know.”

  “I will forget nothing, dearest Lady Susan! You will go with us, then, on the 29th?”

  “Yes, if all my things are sent in properly, without my having any trouble about it, I will.”

  “Good morning, then, dearest Lady Susan! I will take care that everything shall be right. Good morning.”

  “Take the plume back with you, for mercy’s sake. I can’t think how you could be so thoughtless! How do you suppose my old Alice would like to have the plague of fastening it in?”

  “To be sure! what a fool I am! so very thoughtless! Take the box again, Patty, — Good morning, dearest Lady Susan!”

  “Good bye. There, that will do — I hate shaking hands. Take care that I get some good tea this evening, Mrs. O’Donagough; don’t go and forget that.”

  “Depend upon it, dearest Lady Susan! depend upon it;” and with these words Mrs. O’Donagough at length tore herself from her most valued friend.

  “To be sure nothing ever was more kind and flattering than dear Lady Susan Deerwell’s behaviour to Patty and me. People may call it illiberal, or affected if they will, but I do like the nobility, and it is no good to deny it,” said Mrs. O’Donagough as soon as she was re-seated in her carriage; and she then added, “I hope you won’t be tired with a little more driving — you two I mean, Louisa and Matilda — for you will have to get home to Brompton, you know; but I really must go down to Madame Bonéton’s again.”